The longfire was banked up high the night death came to Skapti’s hall. Outside, winter had come to the world; the snow was falling, thick and silent in the darkness. In the cauldron, salt beef boiled and bubbled. The drinking-horns were filled, and filled again, and we raised them in one toast after another. The benches were crowded, one man alongside another, tightly wedged; for Osvif Wordweaver had come to Langrisdal, and many were the men of the dale who had come to hear his stories.
Osvif had been given the high seat of the hall; there he sat, between the pillars, his cheeks ruddy in the fire’s red glow. He had a horn in his right hand, heavy with foaming ale. He lifted it high.