Too far away to properly hear the chieftain—though it was something vaguely related to ships and sailing, Hrífa knew—he squinted, as if his hearing and his vision were somehow symbiotic; he leaned back and forth in his seat, trying to look past all the bare heads and skullcaps and bonnets, too. He decided he needed to get closer, and as he stood, he was the second person to do so, after a particular spunky farm-girl. But as there came a third, a fourth, a tenth, and beyond, it struck Hrífa as just [i]mildly[/i] odd.

I suppose the chieftain needs to speak louder, he thought; look at how many people couldn’t hear his speech! Even a few from the front!

The chatter of the crowd did not grant the chieftain any boons in that regard, naturally.

Hrífa was going to slip along the wall and catch the chieftain’s words from a sideline vantage, but as these children and ne’er-do-wells gathered in the center of the mead-hall, near the hearth, he realized he probably ought to fit in. Further, he feared the hound-like bloodthirst of that [i]huskarl[/i], who would suspect him perhaps of trying to get [i]too[/i] close.

As he joined the crowd he pushed along its side, hoping to be close enough, or else getting up at all was a damned waste, he knew. By happenstance Ásdís acknowledged his presence before he hers, and without having to turn around…