By Ozymandius

Truly this required an avengement of the dishonor visited upon him. For hours he had contemplated his sword: its edge, its blade geometry, its song as it cut sharply through the crisp air of Visby. Air that had been crisp and cold for at least 100 generations. When he claimed victory, the city and all of its holdings would be his; this is the law as set down in the 13th century by his Viking ancestors. A law which has never been repealed. A law which has never been questioned by men.

Now is the time for Holmgang. Now is the time for trial by combat; avenging the dishonor of both his own name: Nels Hrothgar, and the name of his steed: Saab. A steed which had carried him into battle for many years, with only an occasional snort or halting pace.

As he walked to the arena, sword in hand, to the weakly-named Visby Traffic Court that had levied his six tickets, his iPhone rang annoyingly.