Still fuming, Viglar nonetheless complies without question, leading them up the winding path to the oak-wood gates, which are heaved open by grunting warriors in dull mail. Grimbeorn and Hathcyn are ushered through a low door into the longhouse, where the air is thick with lingering smoke and the smell of Men living closely together. The banked hearth seems to fill the room more with shadows than with light, but the gleam of firelight on cold iron is unmistakable. Clad in mail of his own, Viglund sits on a throne on which are mounted the antlers of a great elk, and regards the pair through narrowed eyes. Nearby, on a plain wooden chair, sits Rorin, one eye swollen shut beneath a dark bruise. Despite his obvious discomfort, though, his countenance fairly beams when he recognises Grimbeorn.
As the pair approach the throne, a maiden, her dark hair bound in a tight braid and her gaze raised to meet the guests emerges from behind the throne. The servant she leads, the Beornings initially take for a deformed cripple, but it becomes clear as it approaches, bearing three drinking horns on a crudely-carved tray, that it is a goblin very much akin to those that fought, and fell, in the skirmish not a week ago. With a deep curtsey, the maiden passes the first, and largest, horn to Viglund before offering the other two to Grimbeorn and Hathcyn. Within them sits a dark ale, thick as soup.
