While singing, Rostskur quite unexpectedly happened to touch the subject of Cold War espionage in Eastern Europe. Eerie numbers conquer the radio waves and severely mess up Rostskur's thoughts.

Helheimin asukkaat ovat aina olleet kestävän kehityksen ja uusiokäytön puolesta: esimerkiksi kuolleiden sormen- ja varpaankynnet ovat erinomaista laivanrakennusmateriaalia. Haudattavilta pyritään aina leikkaamaan ja siistimään kaikki kynnet, mutta silloin tällöin jokunen päätyy Naglfarin runkoon. Lopun aikojen koittaessa kuolleet ja heidän kapteeninsa Hrym purjehtivat valtavaksi kasvaneella kynsilaivallaan sotaan. Rostskurilta ei tarvitsisi leikata kuin varpaankynnet, sillä hän syö sormenpäänsä verille hermostuneena.

Rostskur's first rune song ever. He hardly ever plays it in public anymore, but it still is one of his most dearest compositions and full of magical potential of the runes.

No modern Gore-Tex®-coated winter coats and shoes can be found in Rostskur's armoire - the best course of action to survive the relentless winter is to cover oneself with furs. Losing a toe or two is not unusual, and fingers are prone to freeze and fall off, too. Fortunately, when the temperature dives, hunger clawing at one's insides doesn't feel that bad anymore. Should I really call that fortunate?

Rostskur dreams of the strangest things. This time immensely fast seacraft ploughed the sea of his dreams, blue-tinted magic crackling around their mechanical oars.

The morning fog is at its thickest and visibility is low. A guard at the shore is on the verge of falling asleep, leaning heavily on his spear. The village behind him is sleeping unsuspectingly. A flote of dragonheaded longboats silently reaches the shore. Only the clinking of mail shirts and swords breaks the utter silence as men disembark and in large groups begin to make for the village. Only carnage and chaos follows.

This song tells the story of a young woman who was taken as a thrall and wed to his captor. In the gloom of dawn she was taken from her father's house, carried on strong shoulders like a stolen calf and screaming as much. After coming to, it dawned to her: she was now a wife of a young and cold-eyed warrior, and only ashes remained of her village.

She rebelled for some time but eventually realized she had fallen deeply in love with her captor. The shame drove her to take her own life.

Valhalla is Odin's grand hall where the valkyries carry the brave warriors who have died in battle. Seemingly eternal feast is held to honor these guests - Einherjar. Valhalla has over half a thousand doors and its roof high in the sky is adorned with glimmering, golden shields. When the end draws near and the final battle begins, almost an infinite number of Einherjar will march through the doors to fight alongside with Odin.

Rostskur thinks it's obnoxious that every skald must have a song about Valhalla. It kills the originality of the trade!

An unlucky viking can face such disaster that his passage to Valhalla is denied due to something unavoidable such as dying of old age or by accident. If this is the case, then the poor viking is sent to Helheim instead of Valhalla and the feast in the darkly gallows of the House of Hel is not one to look forward to. Instead of endless streams of mead Helheim offers neoclassical poems recited in a monotonous voice and starvingly long speeches.

A better idea than to die naturally is to strike an ax through your chest and come up with a story to tell to the valkyries.

Being as lazy as he is, monotonous and heavy farming work doesn't suit Rostskur at all. His unnecessarily loud opinion on the subject is that farming is for women. Unfortunately the barren and frozen land doesn't offer an abundant harvest and society only feeds its most prolific members. One song a month is not considered prolific but downright slacking off, so time to get your hands dirty, Rostskur!

After a filling feast sailing is not recommended at all, but whereas our skald's travel companions merely retch over the sides of the longboat, Rostskur screams at the top of his lungs. In his dreams he together with leek soup comprises the menu of 15 feet tall monsters. Never again kæstur hákarl after sunset. Actually, it's not wise to eat that garbage at all!

Not all participants return safely after forays and raids. Bitterly Rostskur sees his good friend Bjarni offshore as a downpour batters his bare back, almost suffocating the dancing flames that caress the ceremonially painted hull of the burial boat.

The elder refused to surrender his village to the usurpers. He was almost four ells tall and broad-shouldered as if he was one of the æsir - his name was Ung.

Ung drove his spear through Bjarni's chest, breaking his rib cage and impaling his heart, thus stopping the viking invasion and saving his village.

Why did Bjarni have to go so soon? When will my time come? These are questions the vikings hardly ever waste their time asking. From time to time, however, they stop to honor those who have gone beforehand.

Secretly they hope that their hoggish cousin hasn't emptied the whole Valhalla of mead and meat.

Our lovable hero Rostskur's dragonheaded boat glides on the serene surface of the sea with the sun spreading warmth on his weather-beaten visage. He plucks the strings of his harplike excuse of an instrument while blowing coils of smoke from the end of his pipe.

One of Rostskur's more exaggerating stories in which he himself acts as the hero and saves the day, gets the ladies and seizes all the treasures.