Go get the bone, Eingar!
Beautiful Mare: tropical island paradise with a Gallic flavour. Vast expanse of white sandy beach fringed with coral resplendent, warm, clear waters. Arse bucket.
Brynhildr preened and pouted on the sand. She combed her lustrous blonde hair with long, sensuous strokes. Her large, but perfectly formed breasts, rose with every stroke of the brush. Eingar, my trusty wolf did caper in the sea chasing sun fish. Brynhildr complained that the sand did find its way into all her delicate nooks and crevices.
For jest, we buried Theobald, ‘The Thegn’ unto his neck in the sand. Eingar delighted us by cocking his leg and anointing the poor thegn, according to his wont. Good boy, Eingar! Afterward we quaffed mead, mightily. Much later, I woke to the gentle lapping of the waves; tides wax and wain according to lunar pull. Note to self: sun and sea compound the effects of alcohol; must drink less in future. Wise word indeed, oh Flaxen.
The thegn was nowhere to be found. Mayhap he decided to stay on this tropical paradise and consort/cavort with the local women. Mayhap he drowned in the delightful turquoise waters- we will never know. In truth, I was too hungover to put the island to the torch. So, we left the good people of Mare relatively unmolested and unsinged.
Life is full of arbitrary imponderables. Often the margin for success or failure; mayhem and death is slim. The good people of Mare owe their continued happiness, and good fortune, to a quart of mead.