Grim up North

Pft. I dursn't see what Gyth is seeing in 'em. Wealas men. She's fluttering her eyes at them like there's no good men in the Mearc. iffen I was Bawde I'd give her a good slap. Heh... put Wine's nose out o' joint though. He's looking as pale as a greensick lass seein' Gyth swooning at these bloody northerners. Oh they're good lookin' men these northerners, tall, big too, most o' them. Sourfaced though. Gyth says they look noble... like... what was it she said... like 'statues of old, of Men that were once alive and now lost to dreams'. But then, 's what she WOULD say, eh? Good for the tales around the fire and for a grand song... but... I prefer a proper man, one who can hold his ale, sit his horse, a gift giver, with a laugh that could waken the dead and a smile as golden as the sunlight on the autumn grass of the Mearc. And aint too proud to kiss a lass just fer the joy o' bein' alive.