Ragna teases me whenever we drink. "You do it so carefully, Wurmsbearer." She'd down a keg just to make a point, if she weren't carrying. A daughter, she thinks. Eir sent a number of herbal mixtures that aided her ahead of young Braham's birth, but Na misses ale. Sejm and I are getting ready to travel far north to Saldistead once spring arrives; the storm is too brutal to cross now (and more importantly, I'd rather not encounter those beasts with cold feet). They've grown apart from us, our people. Knut is worried what they'll do in isolation. For now, we fortify. Come winter, we'll have one more belly to keep full. A smaller one, but game is less bountiful on this side of the Shiverpeaks nonetheless. We all miss Hoelbrak.