Ragnar licked his lips and squinted one wrinkling eye as he leaned foreward and peered into the web of small copper piping that was his latest creation. The pressure gaugue was beginning to stir.
He grinned, rubbing his hands together in anticipation, He had the mixture right this time, he KNEW it. It even smelled right....well except for that strange ....garbage...like odor that seemed to waff thru from somewhere. Sword and Leaped would be impressed. Wait and see!
*snapp* the soft sound of a twig snapping.
Crouching, looking anxiously Left, right, there, and back...nothing. He pirouetted as only a large viking could, scanning the surroundings.
He couldn't be too careful, why else would he bother to lug all this stuff out into the forsaken boonies. It wouldn't do for the ladies to find his newest still before he had the brew perfected. Punch o doom was an artwork after all.
He looked around once again. Not that he could actually see much thru the thick brush and trees. He'd picked this little secluded clearing for just such reasons. Still....
He peered back at the pressure guague...oooo a tiny surge of anticipation. Better stoke the fire a little more. The mash had to be heated just right.
Then it was a matter of picking out his favorite jug.
One happy viking began whistling a happy tune.