Þarmarmal

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"Away from his arms in the open field A man should fare not a foot; For never he knows when the need for a spear Shall arise on the distant road."

These are the words of the wisest god. Safe from most harm will Hangi keep you. But unseen are some who seek your end. I speak these spells, to spare your guts.

In the yard-hawk and haste-dragon lurks a loathsome monster. It wants a meal of white metal and belches out brimstone.

Deep the ash-roots Deeper is Hell Deepest the mind of Mimir. But not too deep digs another foe, hiding from air and eyes.

A thief I caught, Caged like a beast, his trouble trapped with him. But Egil's kin the cage will seek, and feast on farm's bounty.

The Hanging One wishes to breathe - a corpse craving the wind. I know another that never breathes, and bloats from breath hidden.

To Thyng we ride, to think and rule and feast with friends scattered. An enemy waits, winding through hands, till feast is famine-stricken.

Hear the spear-clash Heed the battle-cry Ruin the rowan of warfare. Lop off his head - still Loptr is plotting, laying a trap for travelers.

These words I weave, warning of danger. A man should be mighty - as much we know - but strength is fleeting, and favor also. Keep wits always, and keep your life.