Tankards clink and throaty cheers rebound off the ceiling, filling the hall with double the good will and merriment. Plates never clear and cups never empty. Each joke encourages more laughter than the last, and not a single ill sentiment poisons the air. These worthy men and women have earned their rest by feats of valor, loyalty, and heart. The only dissonant chord echoes through the rafters when the shield-maidens of Odin rise from their seats—a scuff of a heavy boot, the hiss of a sword emerging from its sheath: signs that new company will soon arrive. Choosers of the Slain, the Valkyrior, depart with stoic eyes softened by warm smiles. Their work, unlike they whom feast before them, is never done.