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The games of such festivals are always of two kinds: the first, dispossessed of competitive spirit, as might be accessible to a child, a woman, an entertainer, or a person of advanced years. Among their rank are amusements which hardly deserve the appellation of contest or sport, such as dancing, music, poetry, the footrace, feats of astonishing dexterity as juggling, somersaults, vaulting, or the ever popular handspring, though indeed they are performed with the forethought of judgment (if only measured by the general cry of acclaim). You know of no one superior to Einar in certain of these recreations, especially in the application of the lyre, the flute, the voice, or the imagination in the spinning of verse or tune. Yet, despite his pride in, and the furious practice of, these faculties, he hides them as though they were his greatest faults. Only in the pursuit of some blushing cheek or the wonder or laughter of a child might he apply them. He possesses the restraint to let all other challenges go unchecked.
The second kind is another matter entirely. While the first falls short of true competition, the second lies perhaps beyond it, where victory signifies not merely the prize of the shield, the horn or the arm ring, but life and glory itself. And these, being the stakes and prize of battle, have no equal. Consequently, the lowly thrall does not often participate in this second kind of game, for he is seldom equipped with the necessary gifts (to say nothing of the courage) to play them, even if he has the invitation.
There are, of course, exceptions.
Among those who know you, you are called the Fálkr, the falcon, for in the Glima there is none faster and none have ever escaped your grip upon their brókabelti. Your sight too is of the bird, and your quarrels, after long training, obey this exacting master. Seldom do you ever miss a mark by more than a thumb's width. Among the entrants in today's tournament you have only two serious competitors, Bjorn the Mighty, who has gone undefeated in the stone-lift for the last four years on account of his monstrous strength, and Harald Halfhand, who is more accomplished with one hand (in so far as it always strikes true with the axe or the spear or the dagger) than most men are with two. Other than these, the rest are formalities, almost tedious in their routine dispatch.
Today, invigorated by the promise of destined combat, you are in a rare fighting form. You feel as though you could give Thor himself a challenge. Consequently, you decide, against your usual habit, to compete in all the main contests.
For the initial bouts you:
>Win, but take care not to extend yourself overmuch to avoid embarrassing others
>Play leisurely, saving your strength for the main event and your favorite: the Glima
>Attempt to crush everyone beneath your heel without the slightest apology or hesitation
>Write-in
