"May Thor's hammer fall on your thick head!"

She made to rise from the Goth's lap. Then she thought about her curse. What would happen to the world if Thor's hammer broke? That it would do, she was certain.

"Never mind," she hrrrrumphed, "it would only shatter on that thick skull of yours, and then where would we be..."

A thickly muscled arm closed around her waist, drawing her closer to the big Goth's broad chest. Forgetting her brother's teasing, the flaxen-haired lass listened contentedly to the deep rumble from Widimir's chest.

"Mmmmmmmmmmhhhh."

"What was that you said, Widimir?" said Ingvoldr softly.

"Mmmmmmmmmmhhhh."

"That's nice, dear," said the Frisian lass and yawned. "I can't think why I'm so tired after that long sleep we had after the party."

"Mmmmmmmmmmhhhh."

"This feels so good, sitting here in your lap, Widimir. You're such a comfy man." Ingvoldr wiggled her bottom on his broad thighs, making herself more comfortable.

"Mmmmmmmmmmhhhh."

"Widimir, would you think me too forward if I were to invite you to my house?" she asked as she laid her head on his shoulder.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmhhhh."

"I promise you that you will not be sorry," she whispered into his ear.

"Snorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre."