Vosker gave a grunt of affirmation as he stood, dusting his hands-free of the soot of his pipe. "Wife will be done with breakfast soon." Was all the answer the man gave before entering his own home. Gwendolyn got a decent whiff of warming meat and fresh tea. The door, a slab of wood to keep out intruders,  with a screen of heavy fur within to keep the warmth inside the small house. Much like Gwendolyn's home all the villagers' homes, with the exception of the smithy or mead hall, were generally a single room with screens of reeds or wicker to create private spaces. The hearth located in the center of the room usually was where the cooking and the household would gather. There were a few larger houses in the village where larger extended families would live, but the extra work of caring for such a place and putting up with the irritation of a disapproving partner's relatives was a bit more than some couples wanted.

Behind the mead hall, an essentially better-built house with a long hearth and rows of tables and stools, Arn would find Dallen nodding in agreement. "Aye, leave it here and no one will bother it." Most likely because Dallen would be using any excuse to keep out of the mead hall until his wife and sister were done fighting. Within the hall, Mira found herself met with a scene of elaborately decorated pillars that held up what appeared to be an upside-down boat that was the roof of the mead hall. A common way of building in the North and true to the tested method of 'if it works'.  Frenn, the aging owner of the mead hall, was chipping away at a new cup or bowl he was making by the fire. The only sign of his irritation in his shaking hands and the sharp chips of wood that fed the low fire down the long hearth that commanded the center of the room. Yvenna was looking furious at Ryska and trying to sweep up a pile of rolag wool that was past the point of saving. The once pristine white now decorated with soot, ash, and what smelled like morning waste. Ryska, the large obesse woman, was sitting on a log that had been cut in half to form a bench. Her voice rising in irritation at the young woman.

"And I told you, you should have stored it away! Their boys! What do they know of spinning when it's women who'll do it?" Yvenna's curled lip made her reply, though muttered quite clear that Ryska's words did little to change her mind. "So what? You'd have your son weaving rather than taking a sword or bow and getting some proper reward?!" Ryska's husband had been a lover of the hunter and longed to go raiding on the Southern Kingdoms but his distance from the sea had denied that hope from him. So far his sons all idolized the thought of going raiding and boasted their prowess to any who would challenge them. Nevermind that the blacksmith, who had done just that thing, privately would admit out of Ryska's hearing that her boys would return as bones if they went West to the raiding ships.