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The dwarves are smiling exitedly and rubbing their hands. Odin acts

rashly and behaves quite giddy. Mimer stares at him with a look of

surprise.

Textbox: All of a sudden, it ocurred to me that Fjalar and Galar had

been treated in a quite unfair way.

Fjalar: So, does that mean we have a deal old boy?

Galar: Or do we have a deal?

Odin: (Of course, my dear friends. I'll see to that we get that barrel

of mead from that sluggish giant Suttung!)

The dwarves are quite satisfied and relax in a laidback way. Odin is

lost in selfabsorption. Galar points at Mimer, whom he hasn't noticed

untill now.

Fjalar: All right then, shall we say 48 hours to get the job done?

Odin: (Sure-sure, but whence the outstanding poetry?)

Galar: Cool paperweight you got there. We could sure use one of..

Mimer sputters indignantly and Galar is frightened.

Mimer: Paperweight! Do you mind!

Galar: Yuck! It's alive!

The dwarves leave the office in a hurry. Odin looks at the leatherbottle.

Fjalar: Don't forget it now, old boy!

Galar: 48 hours!

Odin:(Now I got it! The poetry is caused by the Mead of Poetry!) - (Per,

it's important to get this name in the verse. Last part of the verse should switch to prose)

Odin leans heavily forwards on his elbows with a serious stare. He¥s no

longer speaking in verses.

Mimer is sarcastic and mad.

T.B: I felt the intoxication wear off in time with the storm outside.

Odin: I got to have that barrel, Mimer! You should have tasted that mead!

Mimer: Humpff! That stuff runs straight through me!