sarahoakes32 avatar


The skald sits down, on the gilded chair, his thick black furred cloak rippling. He strokes his black beard, those storm blue eyes twinkling as he raises his tankard of mead, knowing we all wait in anticipation. And soon, he begins to speak, hands weaving words from the air. We listen, transfixed by every word, as he tells tales of ancient gods and wonders untold. The stanzas of the sagas unravel on his tongue in a timeless verse. I wish it would last forever. But the skald owns a secret hoard of a thousand tales, and there is always another.

2 comments add one below

  • avatar

    Neville Hunt almost 3 years ago

    Nice one Sarah! (I now feel that I want to hear all the Skald’s stories!)

  • avatar

    VerityAlways almost 3 years ago


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