Thou hast surely been on Odin's serving platter.
Thoust would not be even a table scrap for Odin.
Loki's dung in your teeth! And your breath reeks of his lies.
Her pride fled when Baldur left.
That she would take such a loathsome oaf, methinks she may be nymph.
Were they sons of mine that did so, I'd have them whipped; or sent to the High Temple to be thrice damned.
Brondheim is a den for dogs and trolls, and worthy of no man's treading.
He is but a Satyr! Rapacious and hairy.
Not even mighty Thor could bash out his brains, as he has none.
Hel her self must have kissed him, as his breath is so foul and stinks of rotting corpses.
Thou hast the manners of an Orc, and breath twice as foul.
He is like a loathsome dwarf, short of stature, humor, and generosity.
The only thing elf like about that one is his immortality, as he is eternally infuriating.
Dark Elf! If elf at all.
Thou art so short and queer! Surely a changeling.
He is... he is a thing to bad for bad report.
She looks at him with venom'd daggers.
I scorn thee and thy fashion, peevish boy.
Ambria, dear Ambria is strongest in bravery. your Darian, your Brondheim, your slack faced Irolon, are but mites to brave Ambria.
He's a most notorious coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly promise breaker. A small bark would send him fleeing.
He doth love his page too much methinks.
Lumber on you fat and greasy bastards! 'Tis apparently the fashion here.
An evening like this with you m'lady is more cheaply bought elsewhere.
Thou basest of things! Begone from my sight.
His face be so tart as to sour fresh grapes.
A whoreson, flap eared, beetle-headed knave!
Only for your heath and digestion's sake good sir. An after dinner mint?
Were you split open his liver, one could get a mug of spirits for free!
You play the mongrel sir. Thinking your wagging tongue to persuade me.
A plague upon thee! A pox to rot thy yellow teeth.
You must be deep in your cups, to be such a fool.
Your appearance goes much against my stomach.
There are no loose tongues about you dear lady. For all know of your whoring.
Thine advice is not worth a rotten egg.
He is like an overturned cup. Empty, loud, leaving a mess.
Your wits, are strongly encastled in a stone skull.
Bear not the effort. His wits are gone.
How now my weak hearted fop. What mischief are you upon today?
Thou rotted apple.. thou addle-witted fiend.. thou great noodle.
Impudent hopping flea! Thou hairy nothing.
Thou tripe encased rascal!
Oh arrant ass! Go shake thine ears elsewhere.
Thou whoreson assbreath, out with thee.
May Hel take your soul.
Such a ludicrous noise thou dost keep up.
How thy tongue does twang but ineffectually.
How thou talks your poor tongue and my poor ears weary.
You swagger your dull wit about like a clumsy hammer.
An over boiled wit, with no substance remaining.
His brains buttered would fill but a spoonful.
Sweet tickle brain, how cluttered thy poor head. Doth it ache thee?
Your lost mind is but a plague upon me!
Thou must itch sorely, as you are the most grievous scab on Harn!
Do thy wits be so fat and lazy as thy belly?
Aye, tough he looks. Undo his hauberk and his belly would tumble to his knees.
He does show some sparks that are like wit.
His wits, though not so fair, are lost like Baldur.
Your fair face cannot hide your foul grace.
His soul is black, as if besmeared in pitch.
'Tis a pleasure to see you hence from here.
Death and pain dog thee at the heels.
I'd rather burn my ears with flaming brands, than with you lies.
Have you a mighty bellows at the back of your head? You have endless breath, of only hot air.
I trust you like a coin from Irolo.