This one comes from Ben Powers, one of my compatriots at The Great and Secret Thing.

Title: Our Cup Runneth Over
Word: Indefatigable

A 200 word Norse cautionary tale:

The slam of a flagon full of mead roused Hriemnir from his drunken snoring. He found himself at a long table in a packed meadhall.

Last thing Hriemnir remembered was sneaking mead from the ship’s barrels, the night growing painfully cold.

His table mates were unknown to him, but he recognized their indefatigable love of drink.

Guzzling his mead, Hriemnir found the it to be the finest he’d ever tasted. “Surely we have found ourselves in Valhalla, brothers!” he exclaimed, hoisting his flagon in the air.

They did not speak, but a passing barmaid did.

“Goodly Hriemnir, drunken lout of the Nordlanders, this is no Valhalla. I am Hella, and this is my hall, Elivdnir – the Sleet Cold. The finest meadhall in all of Nifleheim.”

“Nifleheim? No!”

“Yes, Goodly Hriemnir, who died a drunkard’s, not a warrior’s, death. Now drink.”

Her eyes flashed with hateful fire, and Hriemnir found himself compelled to raise the suddenly filled flagon to his lips, draining it dry. And so it went for the next one, and the next, and the next.

And to this day Hriemnir still sits in Hella’s hall, drinking endless mead, but unable to drown his sorrow or quench his thirst.

I still need more suggestions!