Fjalfar heard the minute mumblings, and to a degree had expected them. He let his eyes, like spring saplings shooting up from the melting snow, roll up toward the ceiling, the noises wearing on his patience which always was so threadbare. Of course, he had not gained a reputation as a ferocious raider just for calm, collected airs; for mercy and patience!

“The prevailing argument amongst you hushed whisperers—who once again, I see, lack the courage to come up here and say these things to my face, for all to behold—is that we should send our best soldiers, our seasoned [i]víkingar![/i] But now I ask you of cowardly whispers: should the winter thaw, who then will till and tend our fields, while our young, strong men are in Bretwalda or Frankia? Who shall push the plow and tame the aurochs? That’s right: the very people who you have set out to decry today. Whatever fate the [url=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Norns][i]nornir[/i][/url] have spun for us, they have called for us to place our faith in these, the forsaken of our people.”