Twas the yule season in the icy Northlands, best known as Jól, a time for good Norsemen to cocoonthemselves in warm timber keeps over the dark winter months. Come the spring thaw, they would be offa-Viking once again.Animals had already been slaughtered...pigs, cattle, and such...so they would not have to be fed over thedark months. Vegetables had been preserved. Firewood cut. Mead brewed.'Twas a time for celebrating at leisure, with tuns of mead, both the pagan solstice and Christ's birth. And,of course, many a Viking child would be conceived in the bed furs by Viking men and women who werebored and lustsome.But not everyone was merry this yule season. Bolthor the Skald, for one, was not in the mood. Not forgood Jól. Not for the mead madness. Not for bedsport. Not for the exchange of manly boasts ofdaring adventures in far-off lands or betwixt a woman's thighs. And he was definitely not in the versemood, which was sad for a skald, but, truth be told, his brain was blocked for any new poems
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