Windfall, part two
(continued from here)
Sven had just polished off his apple when he heard drunken music in the distance. Continuing along the road, he soon came to a bard sitting against a stump, strumming clumsily at a lute and singing Villeman Og Magnhild at the top of his lungs.
Intrigued by the Norwegian song, Sven strode over to the sloshed singer. "Góðan daginn, skaald!" He hailed in his native tongue, "Do you too come from the northlands?"
"Eh? Nah, shust know sumuvda langijj... langwuj... language! Now bahk off or I, my dog'll attack! Shic 'im boy!"
Sven looked around for a dog. His search was unsuccessful.
"Uh..." speaking in English now, "There is no hound here."
"What? It'shoo! I'm shorry Shilkbeard... wait, you're not Shilkbeard. He'sh dead. Killed 'im. What d'you do wiff my dog?!"
Looking up at the sky, the bard shouted angrily as if at an unseen watcher. "I gottim bahk! In da... tombsh of Macgraff! Bloody narrartor, you 'aven't told that partchyet, 'ave you?!"
Sven was taken aback. Clearly the bard was not only drunk but also somewhat insane. "Ah... I... must take my leave, good skaald. Fare ye-"
"Wait!" The bard cried out. "I'm outta ale... gotshany for me?"
"Can't say that I do. Perhaps you should be looking for something more wholesome, like water..."
"Wholeshome?! Thish ish... wash... a Shtromness Shtout! From the northlandsh, like shyou!"
Sven nodded politely and began inching backwards. The bard tutted and began playing again, and the alarmed norseman turned around and walked quickly away.