The door opens yet again. In comes a man carrying a spear, his thick long brown hair covered with little icicles. He is quick to close the door again, not allowing any of the freezing cold getting into the room.

He lets his eyes wander, wanting to get an impression of the place first of all. Seems he could not have chosen any better spot to get stranded. There is some sort of contest going on between several males, obviously all in heat from great intake of alcoholic beverages. And from the variety of women in their company. Very fine women indeed…

The man, frozen to his bones, is desperately in need of a hot drink himself. Isn't there anyone in charge of the service? Ah, there's a reddish blonde over there who, from her appearance might be responsible, but she is, at it seems, deep in conversation with some patron.

He cannot wait any longer. Lucky enough, he catches some or other maid at the sleeve.

Now would you please bring me a horn of meade? Very hot, and be quick about it!

The poor lass, intimidated, hurries to fulfill her task.

The horn being emptied, the man, seeking for company after a too long and lonely journey, turns to the group of males (there certainly will be time enough for the ladies later) and raises his voice:

Heilsa gentlemen. Will you accept a travel-weary stranger amongst you? My name is Skorageirr Spjótkasta, as I am noted amongst my kin for my skills with the spear. (Any kind of spear, he thinks by himself, a somewhat wicked grin curling his lips). Would you mind filling me in on the rules of your contest?