Þór einn þar vó
þrunginn móði,
hann sjaldan situr
er hann slíkt um fregn.
Á gengust eiðar,
orð og særi,
mál öll meginleg
er á meðal fóru.
And my thoughts on Scandanavia before their eventual returning to the old ways.
Bræður munu berjast
og að bönum verðast,
munu systrungar
sifjum spilla;
hart er í heimi,
hórdómur mikill,
skeggöld, skálmöld,
skildir eru klofnir,
vindöld, vargöld,
áður veröld steypist,
mun engi maður
öðrum þyrma.
Þórgrímr
Last edited by Thorgrimm; 13-08-2007 at 18:42.
"Gone now, dispersed by the brutal destruction of this one day, was the belief that the Darkman and his army of the dead were so superior as to be invincible. By attempting to destroy the morale of the Marines, the Darkman had restored it to full vigor. Dia De La Muerto had failed in its objectives."
The Gunny: Stand of the 300
Dont spoil:P
Geyr nú Garmr mjök
fyr Gnípahelli;
festr man slitna,
en freki renna.
Vituđ ér enn eđa hvat?
Anyways, update tomorrow or today.
Midnattssol
It was very warm for summer, making Þorri sweat almost twice as much as he used to. He parred the stab of his enemys pike, then proceded to cut down the pike woth his battle axe while stopping his sword an inch short of the throat of his adversary. Then, he let the sword down, patted the opponents back, and kicked him into the groin. These weakling better learn some discipline.
But still, from what he saw, fighting changed a lot during the last five hundred years. Men were now fighting in very tightly packed ranks, and he had some doubts about the effectiveness of individual courage against such a man-porcupine made up of these pikeman.
And then, there was this new invention, the musket. Loud, smelly, could not hit a thing closely. But again, he saw the drills of the royals. He saw what thrre-houndred musketeers could do to those dummy targets arrayed a days walk away from Uppsala. And so, he and Yngve ordered the warriors to drill with this new, ugly weapon as well. They did not like it one bit, not even when they saw its power. Where was the glory and honour in fighting such a way, they asked? They were all familiar with arrow and bow, but that was still a matter of honour, aiming, darwing, watching your own arrow land in the foe. But this? More than a dozen loud bangs, and someone you shot at might die, but no telling from who the bullet came. Bah!
And where the nether depth of Helheim is Yngve? His troop was supposed to finish shooting trials and hour ago!
Ygnve was still on the shooting range, half an hours walk away from the practice range behind the House of The Wolf and The Bear, trying out new formations for the musketeers. In the end, he had to more or less conclude that the tactics the royals already used were simply put, the best. Or at least, against other pike and musket formations. He had a vague idea of a formation from the old days that could easily break these man if the muskets were not firing. But it was only a fleeting thought, and he hoped to catch onto it long enough to put it down unto paper. It was a strange thought, as if it originated not from him, but from somewhere else. Maybe, it was divine inspiration? The loud bang of a salvo put him out of his day-dreaming, and, looking at the shadows, he realised that they were already late. He ordered his man to pack up and get going to the House
Inside the House, two hours later
Yngve, where in all of Midgard have you been? - Þorri thundered at him, as he entered.
Forgive me, brother, time is fleeting. Tell me, how are our man faring as the new guards of our King?
Þorri wanted to yell once again at his borther for being this late, but then, he smiled. Straight to the point, this was better.
They are groumbling, they are complaining about their dresses, but they do their duty with honour. May the Bear protect them.
And the Wolf, brother. I hear you have made an acquaintance from among the cityfolk - Yngve smiled. He was happy that his borther had found a woman. He needed a caring bossom more than he dared to admit in late-night feasts. He knew that sooner or later, they all would have to find mates from the cityfolk, if they wanted to preserve their traditions and konwledge, let alone if they wanted to spread the Old Faith. It made its way into the hearts of some of the trained guards already, but very slowly.
Ah, I see gossip spreads quickly. Yes, and she is a very fine looking woman, and very interested in the Old Ways. From what I hear as well, I am not alone with having found a possible mate.
Indeed not - Ygnve's smile was a bit dark. Sadly, I have not found one.
Brother, I hear that the cityfolk still celebrate Midsommer. Lets invite them to join our festival. Maybe you will find a mate there.
Yngve nodded, and felt joy spread trough him. Midsommer was near. It was always a very special day for him, even by the standards of his folk. He went outside. It was already night, but the sun still hung at the edge of the horizon, a sign of the coming festival. Staring into the great ball of cold orange light, he felt happy, maybe really happy for the first time since he entered the city. Things seemed to turn into their favour. The Norns were generous, at last.
It is only spoiled if they can read Old Norse.Originally Posted by Herbert West
Is that the Icelandic version of this stanza?
Loud bays Garm before
the Gnupa-cave,
his bonds he rends asunder;
and the wolf runs.
My Old Norse version looks like this:
Geyr Garmur mjög
fyr Gnipahelli,
festur mun slitna
en freki renna.
Minn fróðleikr aldinn Norse er armr.Just in case I have it wrong.
If I got it right you asked if I either read or have the Eddas, and yes to both, I have them in Old Norse and English.
Cheers, Þórgrímr
"Gone now, dispersed by the brutal destruction of this one day, was the belief that the Darkman and his army of the dead were so superior as to be invincible. By attempting to destroy the morale of the Marines, the Darkman had restored it to full vigor. Dia De La Muerto had failed in its objectives."
The Gunny: Stand of the 300
Dunno, learning old norse is a long-time project, now, I'm getting familiar with bokmal first. I took the stanzas from the this link in the wikipedia arctile.
Sometimes I use these dictio naries , but, as I alas cant sepak any norse dialect, theyare pretty much rudimentary.
So, my old norse is even poorer:P
Last edited by Herbert West; 13-08-2007 at 23:00.
Lol, yeah I think that is the Icelandic version, but since Icelandic is a modern version of Norse, they are pretty similar. Living in Minnesota I was blessed with befriending a University of Minnesota teacher of Languages, and Old Norse was one of them. So every now and then we get together and he gives me a lesson in Old Norse.
BTW I love your aar so far. I look forward to this endeavor.
Servant of Þórr, Þórgrímr
"Gone now, dispersed by the brutal destruction of this one day, was the belief that the Darkman and his army of the dead were so superior as to be invincible. By attempting to destroy the morale of the Marines, the Darkman had restored it to full vigor. Dia De La Muerto had failed in its objectives."
The Gunny: Stand of the 300
Þórr
Those that word, mean Thor?
Yup, its the third rune of the "futhark" runes, the "th" rune, to be voiced something like "th" "thief". Of course, this is only a reconstruction, as even Islandenska has moved away from Old Norse voicing (waht the terminus technicus?).
I'll try to use the Þ character whenever possible, it ads to the feeling, IMHO.
Yes it does. I know a lot of the 'modern' Norse are moving away from Old Norse, but I prefer the old ways myself.
@Herbert West, I agree, thats why I like to use the Norse spelling for their gods to, like Óðinn, Þórr, Freyr, Freyja as examples.
EDIT: The word I think you are looking for is pronunciation.
Cheers, Þórgrímr
Last edited by Thorgrimm; 15-08-2007 at 19:20.
"Gone now, dispersed by the brutal destruction of this one day, was the belief that the Darkman and his army of the dead were so superior as to be invincible. By attempting to destroy the morale of the Marines, the Darkman had restored it to full vigor. Dia De La Muerto had failed in its objectives."
The Gunny: Stand of the 300
So, any new update?
Cheers, Þórgrímr
"Gone now, dispersed by the brutal destruction of this one day, was the belief that the Darkman and his army of the dead were so superior as to be invincible. By attempting to destroy the morale of the Marines, the Darkman had restored it to full vigor. Dia De La Muerto had failed in its objectives."
The Gunny: Stand of the 300
Be patient, you. Update today, hopefully. I suppose you all know this MMORPG called "real life":P
Anyways, from now on, I will use the Old Norse versions for gods and "supernatural, as found here. Or, if Old Norse is not available, then (Old) Icelandic.
For the down on earth happenings, I will use swedish names.
Last edited by Herbert West; 16-08-2007 at 23:26.
Middansumar
Ásgarðr
Great was the cocomotion on the Field of The Gods. Andhrímnir was preparing the fireplace, for soon, the first flames would have to lick the underside of Eldhrímnir many a time, for not only would Sæhrímnir be cooked today, but a long list of other fine meals was to be served. Not far from the soon-t-be great fire, a series of other fires burned, cooking fine stews, delicious soups, vegetables, meat, and in some, even more exotic things, like honey and cane syrup and mead and honey-wine and almost all delicacies in the Nine Worlds.
On other fires, great boars, oxes, cows and sheep roasted to finely-crusted, sweet meals, potatoes and other vegetables from the western edge of Miðgarðr among them. In huge boxes, spices from the eastermost lands of Middle-Earth stood, ready to enchance the taste of any meal.
Not far away, the Keep On Fólkvangr bristled with activity as well. The fallen ones were decorating the Great Hall Of Freyja with golden and silver shields, with age-old, finely crafted weapons of war, and with many a thread of thick, earth-smelling, green moss. Valhöll did not remain behind Sessrúmnir in decoration, thought the Hall Of Odin had a more rustic way, with most new and festive decoration made out of wood and stone carvings, and elaborate patterns of weapons arrayed on the walls and floors.
Týr and Þórr, the two great warriors of the gods, were entertaining the Einherjar and the warriors of Freyja, and of course, themselves, with a mighty and elusive battle, parring, charging, roaring, laughing all the time.
Frigg and Óðinn were observing all this happy activity smiling. And indeed, they had all reason to smile. It was the fest of Middansumar, after all. Iðunn had given them two apples this day, something she does only once or twice a century.
Slowly, the couple wlaked down from their thrones, and settled in the midst of the Great Field, the gods, warriors, servants, and each and every soul, mortal or divine, in Ásgarðr and Vanaheimr, even Heimdallr, who had been relieved of his duty for this day, for not even the Jötnar would attack on such a day.
The Gods raised a pole of pulsing energy, covered with the very essence of nature itself, with golden, silver, green and blue and red and black and white leave-strings hanging from its top, and slowly, a procession began to dance around the maypole, each member, be he or she mortal or other, took one of the strings and thus, at the end, the pole was covered in all colours from top to bottom.
As this was finished, Þórr took one of the greates couldrons filled with mead, and began to drink it empty, then banged in onto the earth, and shouted to everyone to eat, drink, and be merry, or leave at an instant into the darkest depth of Hel. The guests needed no further invitation, and soon, all of the Crown of The Ash was aloud from the sound of a merry meal.
Uppsala, House Of The Wolf And The Bear
The festivities below mirrored the festivities above. Days earlier, the cityfolk learned of a very great fest of Midsommar that the newly arrived woodsman would give. Many of them were very curious, mainly becouse these man looked so different, so out of place, yet somehow, deep down, familiar. They were drawn to them. They had already adimired their expertise in wood and stonecrafts as they watched them renovate their house. They awed at the finely crafted jewles these warriors wore. The woman were enchanted by their masculinity, the man honoured by their strong, adherent behaviour.
But mostly it was simple curiosity that bought more than two thousand of the cityfolk to the field behind the House. The maypole was already standing, and the warriors, and many of those woman they courted, were already arranging finest roeasted meals and great jugs of mead onto the tables. Bureus, on the faraway edge, was observing the building of the huge pile of wood that would be the bonfire. Also, a little later, he carried a small, finely carved wooden statue of Óðinn near to the maypole, then, be went back for more statues. They crowd payed little attention to the bearded old man, the rich food and good company keeping them all too preoccupied. Half an hour later, Bureus had arranged all the god-statues around the maypole, and unveild its head, displaying the head of the Great Ash.
Suddenly, drawn by the power of their original gods, the people, took some offerings, meat or mead, and smeared the statues with them. Then, they took the strings hanging from the pole, and, while some berserkers pounded an ever-quickening rythm, danced around the pole, energized by the warmth of the summer unnight, the mead, and the power of the Gods. Most of them would forget this act by the next day, or blame it on the sting of the mead, but some would recoginze their own Gods, and only pretend to pray in the churches of the Nameless God.
Filled with the same fervor, they all, all the two-three thousand, gathered around the huge bonfire, whose light would rival that of the Sun, not to speak of that of the Midnight Sun, and danced around it, their spirits lifted high adove the ground, closer to Ásgarðr then ever before. Freyja, godess of love, watched them with amusement. As the crowd slowly began to tire, she spreyed them with her magic, letting the power of affection and sex make its way into their hearts, minds and bodies.
The moans, cries, laughter, cheers and overall merriness could be heard miles away, and penetrated the darkened room of the kings study as well.
For it was darkened not only by the lack of light, but by the lack of mood, and the happiness disturbed him now. Dark winds were blowing form the South. Winds of War.
I must say, thats a damn good description of the midsummer's festival. bravo.
Cheers, Þórgrímr
"Gone now, dispersed by the brutal destruction of this one day, was the belief that the Darkman and his army of the dead were so superior as to be invincible. By attempting to destroy the morale of the Marines, the Darkman had restored it to full vigor. Dia De La Muerto had failed in its objectives."
The Gunny: Stand of the 300
An excellent read. I have been following along since the start and, as is normal, I have been lurking
My post is not only to compliment you on a well written AAR but is also to let you know that I have nominated your fine AAR as the The Weekly AAR Showcase.
Congratulations!
Don't forget to nominate someone in a weeks time as a successor.
Thank you!An excellent read. I have been following along since the start and, as is normal, I have been lurking
My post is not only to compliment you on a well written AAR but is also to let you know that I have nominated your fine AAR as the The Weekly AAR Showcase.
Congratulations!
Don't forget to nominate someone in a weeks time as a successor.
May Freyja bless you with her gifts!
A call to arms, repulsed
*King Christan IV of the danes, the meat-shield of Sweden
The festive weather of Midsommer soon gave way to an ugly, cloud filled, wet, soaked damp. The street became streams of mud, and one could find many a boot stuck in the thick of it when walking home from work in the afternoon, carefull not to lose a boot yourself. Even the rugged northeners became brooding and edgy.
Somehow, this suited discussing plans of war better than cheerfull sunshine, the King thought. His room was filled with representatives from his army, navy, his territories, and some advisors, diplomats, and the usual inter-courtly assortment of carrierist, bootlicking riff-raff. Ah, well, the Lion sighed, and turned, away from the windows, and to the others in this room.
An ambassador from the german protestants turned to speak:
Your majesty, Lion Of The North, Protector Of Protestants! We, the protestant nobles of Germany, ask you to join our fight for our right to live under the one and true faith and to erradicate the catholics from our land once and for all. We promise we will reward you richly, fill your coffers with gold from plunder, and ally with you untill the last of our days.
It took the King a while to decide what to say, and, in the night, when he surveyed the events of the day, he was not quite sure that only the state of Sweden delayed his answer, and his state of heart may have been involved. But, there was no time for introversion now.
With all due respect, noble ambassador, I have to decline.
But you have promised us support years for now! Are your words worth naught? Are the rumors true that you have lost your faith?!
Sensing the danger in that accusation, the King took a step forward, and pinned the ambassador down with his gaze.
I have lost nothing! But Sweden is tired now. We need rest.
Then all our alliances, exsisting, proposed, or only forming in mind, are terminated, and we will see that the protestants learn of your treachery!
Be silent, you fool. I understand your grief and despiration. I have long wanted to help you and your kind. My kind. Our kind. But as I have said, we need rest now.
I do understand, but while you are sleeping, we are dying.
Be patient, and do not dare to interrupt me again, or I shall have your head cut off. Sweden can not help you directly. But we will help you indirectly. The danes will be persuaded to help. I assure you that.
As you have assured us of your direct help? - the messenger spat.
The King signaled the guards, and they took the ambassador away without a sound. The Lion then turned to the other german ambassador, and said the following words:
The Lion keeps what it promises. As soon as we can, we will help your struggle. - he did not know back then that this would mean more than ten years from now.
The foreign delegations quickly dispersed from the room, assured of eventual swedish help, and very concerned about their necks.
The moment they closed the door, the King wqas assaulted again, now, by his own advisors.
Your majesty! This is imposible, how can we hope to lull the danes into declaring war? And what of the Russians? And the poles? And all the other enemies that surround us?
The Lion sighed.
We will have to finally honour the Treaty of Knäred and give these damned danes Alvsborg. As for the Russians, they still honour Stolbovo, and I am sure that these "Romanovs" have more trouble with Rus than they ever wanted. - he grimmed, knowing that his northern flank was, at least for now, secure, with lakes and fortresses under swedish controll.
And what about the poles? Their armies are already preparing to march.
The truce still holds, and I am sure that they wont breach it. They are depleted as well, from att that bloodshed in Russia. Our borders are secure for now. Now, get me some pergamen! I must write a letter to the danes!
Hours later, surveying the eloquently written letter, that almost licked the boot of this Christian The Fourth. Giving up Alvsborg was a painfull thing, but he, as a king, knew that sometimes, great sacrifices have to be made in order to reap even greater harvests. Soon, this year, 1619, was to end, the peace with the polacks was to expire, and Sweden would once again, march to war.
When a thousand moons have circled
Bureus was a bit worried about the Kings plans. Noone had told him, or, his warriors, what these plans were, but anyone with half a head could see that Sweden was once again preparing for war. Troops exercised more, guns and cannons were cast in huge numbers, and the treasury was being adjusted to the preparations as well. He knew, however, that some of these founds were sent to the danes, so they may die and thin out the enemy as long as Sweden manouvers in for the killing strike.
Many a doubt sprang up in his mind, nevertheless. Sometimes, he even considered asking The Fates what they held in store for Sweden. It was a dangerous gambit, for the Norns never tell the whole truth, and their words and signs are as fickle and imaterial as the morning winds, never pointing into one direction.
Normally, these signs kept him back, but tonight, perhaps becouse of that one extra jug of mead he drank at supper with one of the warriors, he ruched up, into his tower.
Half an hour later, the room smelled heavily of slwoly-burned woods and very strange incenses, their smoke laying thickly upon the floor. The lone oil-lamp, a gift from the king, hung from the ceiling, its ever-flickering light dancing on and off the walls, evoking the arabesks around and above to life. The forces arrayed in the chamber were of great power, but now, the strenght of Fate itself was almost visibly flowing upwards from the Roots of Yggdrasill.
The small, flat container, filled with mercury, with the Moon's distilled light flwoing in great drops on its surface until it covered the whole, mirrored a much deeper well, the Well Of Urðr. The Norns looked back at the mortal runemaster, their half-smile gaze terrifying, seeing into the marrow of his bones. They knew what he was about to do, and, unspokenly, agreed amongst themselves, to grant him this wish. He shall see the future.
Bureus did not notice the the viciousness in their eyes, for he thought that mere mortals can get answers from The Fates, giving nothing in return.
The pendellum he held in one hand, filled with hot wax, and slowly coagulating, dark red blood, swung slowly, guided by unseen forces from The Well, from one side of the Moon-mirror, to the other. Then, with a painfull slownes, the searing hot red mixture began to drip from its lowermost spike. Drop for drop, swing for swing, the blood draw the fate of Sweden ito the mercuy. Strange, criss-crossed lines, breakings, jumps and huge spots of redness in the silver-white. In the next few hours, untill the blood ran out, and the wax hardened, the Fates revealed some of their knowledge to the poor mortal. Then, with the last drop, the whole picutre shook, the blod boiling in the liquid metal, and new patterns appeared beside the old ones.
Bureus looked at the now-complete picture with fear. He began to decipher it, but deep in his guts, he already knew its meaning. Half an hour later, he knew it all.
Great victories would await the Children Of The North, their armies would lay waste to Germany, Poland, Denmark, and Russia for a houndred years. Victorious in arms, coffers filled with gold. But, the price was to be horrible.
For when a thousand moons have circled Miðgarðr, great misfortune was to fall upon the Swedes. Their conquests stripped of them, their rightfull place taken, they will be reduced to a mere chess-piece on the board of history.
The court alchemist was stuck by the realisation of his foolish transgression. He tried to write down what he saw, but, as the Well drained away the mercury slowly, while he was trying to hold a pen, his hand did not follow his will. He felt a cold, iron grip on his heart, and realised that he will never be able to say, write, or even, loudly think what he has seen tonight. The clod kiss of the Norns would seal his lips tight forever on this matter. He was to become a Cassandra extraordinaire. Nobody would listen, not beocuse of their deafness, but becouse he was to be forever mute about Fate. He was to live his remaining days with this terrible knowledge buried in his heart and mind, no outlet, no escape from it.
For terrible is the Vengeance Of Fate.
This is really outstanding work.
*digs out Led Zeppelin IV and starts reading from the beginning again*
NEWEST!
The Popular Front- France and the Second World War. December, 1938: France has failed to topple Hitler's government by guile- and cannot yet resist through force...
Winds
Somewhere in the german lands
The sky was already beginnig to light up in the orange colours of the sunset, the smell of freshly-reaped hay lying heavyly in the late summer night. The pesants in the field were making the last of the preparations before returning home to their little hamlet, their wiwes waiting for them, stews cooking in great pots, homely fires illuminating the soon-t-be night from the shacks. A joyfull mood, that of a well done work, and a deserved evening meal to come, filled their hearts, and they began to sing one of their many, simple but powerfull melodies.
Suddenly, a strong wind began to blow from the north. It was still far away, visible only by the little load of dust, that it carried. As the wind made its way trough the already reaped fields, it took little bits of cut hay, and more dust, with it. The first gush of wind hit the peasnt, who shielded their eyes with their hands, and, then, feeling that the gush had passed, continued to work with the heaps of cuttings.
But the air is a tricky element, and so are the signs.
The youngest of them was the first to hear the faint rasping of the dirt, leaves, and hay carried by the huge storm. He warned his fellows, but they dismissed his warning as the mishearings of a too young and too impulsive mind, and besides, they had a job to get done, and sotmaches that needed urgent filling.
Then, they only onticed that their shadows grew even longer, and the light even dimmerr, very fast. Looking up, they all saw it.
A huge storm, a whirlwind of air and dust, obscuring the setting sun, like the bibilical plague they had all heard of from their pastor. Darkness followed in its wake, and the last rays of a sun dieing for one night illuminated otherwordly figures, drawing their shiluette strongly against the blackness of the strom.
Awed by the sight, none of the peasants moved. The images of long-forgotten warriors, men armed to their teeth, on huge horses, bred only for one thing. War. Images of old pilgrims, tearing at their own flesh with whips and chains, thier gohst-blood dripping blackly into the faraway land of this vision. Their eyes bloodshot-red, their bodies barely corporal. Their cries of fear, cries of anguish, and from the shadows that were once knights of Redbeard, cries of war, were all muted by the all-encompassing thunder of the strom, now making its way towards the peasants. As the blizzard reached them, it stopped, suddenly, directed by an otherwordly hand, and dissipated into nothing. The lukewarm breeze of a summer night returned into its place, but it could not warm the chill that froze the marrow in their bones. None of them knew what they saw, maybe a vision, maybe a trick of the Devil himself, but deep down, in their hearts, all felt its true meaning.
War was going to rear it ugly head again, and the fiery winged serpent of destruction was about to tear at the land again with its horrible maw, the slimy worms of pestilence and disease following in its wake.
Last edited by Herbert West; 24-08-2007 at 00:19.
Prufrock451: Thank you!
And yay for 3000+ views! (Approx 30 view/post, 115 views/update)
I appologize for the relative lack of quality in the last update, but I need some time to figure out how to conect the chapters already in my mind with eachother.
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