Thought for the day :"My friends have told me I should not join Slimming World, but I have to go with my gut."
Dry
From the Viking Halls - Athelstan - The Preamble
To be told as a story
- The chill of the evening air clings to your cloak as you approach
the timbered hall, its roof rising like a dark crown against the winter
sky. Torches flare at the doorway, casting long shadows across the packed
earth. A horn sounds—a
deep, resonant note that rolls through the valley—and the murmuring crowd
stirs. The feast is about to begin.
- You step
forward, past the
door-wardens who nod gravely, their spears gleaming in the
firelight. Inside, the hall is alive with warmth and color: tapestries hang from the
walls, their threads telling stories of kings and saints; the
central hearth blazes, sending sparks spiraling into the smoke-thick
rafters. The scent of roasting meat mingles with honey and herbs, a
promise of abundance.
- Before
you take your place, a
servant offers a bronze basin. You dip your hands into the cool water,
washing away the dust of the road—a ritual of purity and respect.
Then you move toward the trestle tables, where ranks of benches stretch
like rivers toward the high table at the far end. There sits Æthelstan /
or Grand Master himself, crowned in gold, his cloak heavy with embroidery,
flanked by his closest thegns. Their swords rest against the walls, gleaming like silent
sentinels.
- You find
your seat among warriors and traders, the hum of voices rising as
trenchers of barley bread and platters of meat are carried in by
dish-bearers. The meat glistens with honey glaze, and aromatic curry
steams in great bowls, thick with spices and wild herbs. More Mead,
dessert, and more wine follow, each dish a testament to the wealth and
reach of the king’s realm.
- A
cup-bearer approaches, bearing
a horn brimming with mead. He bows slightly before passing it to
the high table, where Æthelstan lifts it high. His voice carries through
the hall: a toast to fellowship, to loyalty, to the strength of England.
The horn passes from hand to hand, each guest drinking deeply, sealing
bonds with every sip.
- Music begins—a harp’s
silver notes threading through the roar of laughter. A scop rises, his
voice weaving tales of battles fought and kingdoms won, of ancestors whose
names still echo in the stones. You listen, the fire painting gold across
his face, and feel the weight of centuries pressing close.
- The feast stretches into the night. Horns are emptied and refilled,
honey cakes appear, and apples roll across the tables like small suns.
Outside, the wind howls against the walls, but inside, the hall is a world
of light and loyalty, of ritual and revelry—a kingdom bound together by
bread, by mead or wine, and by the word of its king or Grand Master.
Meanwhile - back on the reservation
Cheers
Cheers
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