The sun setting on a lone piper,the sound of his pipes rolling across the green meadows.The muster,your friends grinning with anticipation of the comming battle,the sweet clanking and jingling of armour and the trappings of war.The breeze wafting the smell of steel,rust and sweat,as you gaze through the eye slots in your helm across the battlefield at the skjaldbjorg.The day turning to night,the smell of wood fires,the beat of drums,the exalted voices of comrades celebrating victory and lamenting losses.the bitter taste of strong brew and the winking smiles of perfumed and painted women...such is the stuff of happiness