The Lay of Thorpatrick: Difference between revisions
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''A true story of events that occured at Pennsic 37 (A.S. 43,) replete with lessons learned. Names have not been changed.'' | ''Written by [[Toki Redbeard]] in kvithuhattr. A true story of events that occured at Pennsic 37 (A.S. 43,) replete with lessons learned. Names have not been changed.'' | ||
Revision as of 12:47, 26 October 2010
Written by Toki Redbeard in kvithuhattr. A true story of events that occured at Pennsic 37 (A.S. 43,) replete with lessons learned. Names have not been changed.
Down in bog | drinking heavy, | |
pounding skulls | of skald and shirtless | |
North dweller | named just “Padruig”. | |
Blunt spoke skald, | “Bench-mate Northern, | |
“would that I | were you some days. | |
Wild you are | in woods of strife, | |
well-liked man | when maids pour ale.” | |
Padruig urged | Odin’s brewer, | |
“Keep your life, | kenning poet, | |
word-fame yours | for wit and skill.” | |
These two, when, | word-trade finished, | |
did seek food | from the merchants. | |
They left booth | both quite shirtless. | |
Mighty heat | like Muspell raged. | |
Modest skald, | man of red-beard, | |
tunic grabbed, | taking with him. | |
“Yet might cool | the August sky | |
and besides | I am,” he thought, | |
“not one who | wanders shirtless | |
into booths | where bread is sold.” | |
Padruig foiled | friend from donning | |
tunic fresh, | of fine linen. | |
Said he then, | “Some are shirtless | |
only in | August sky-fire. | |
‘Yet we few | fierce berserkers, | |
shirts leave home, | eschewing them; | |
proud we walk— | public heart-home. | |
Fine people | give piercing stares. | |
‘Ladies fair | and lords of court, | |
gawk upon | our grand display. | |
Not-pleased they | by nipples shown | |
in summer’s | sunlight tanning.” | |
Padruig said, | soft to word-friend, | |
“Modest skald, | man of red-beard,” | |
“You are man | met-well, refined. | |
Bare-sark go, | bear the staring.” | |
Loud they were, | these laughing men; | |
up the hill, | in heat wand’ring, | |
bare their chests. | Born by Padruig, | |
just in case, | comrade’s tunic. | |
Poet walked | passing fine-folk | |
in fair shirts, | shunning Northmen. | |
Coming soon | to crest of hill; | |
from bare-sark | he fast took smock. | |
Marketplace; | minstrels playing. | |
These two drunks | dallied briefly, | |
one shirted, | other bare-chest. | |
Slow at first, | sobered the skald. | |
Padruig bore | bottle low-slung; | |
strong the drink | he stored within— | |
Rus spirits | spiced with berries— | |
offered them | to all he met. | |
Bare-sark saw | singer winsome; | |
“Beloved girl,” | he grandly said. | |
Held her close, | hugged to bare-breast. | |
Wise skald asked | when friend met her. | |
“Here and now,” | half-bare one said, | |
released girl; | relieved was she. | |
Meal they sought | and marched they forth. | |
Food eaten, | free of trouble. | |
Padruig saw | small one walking | |
“Beloved girl,” | he grandly said. | |
“He’s a boy,” | Bairn’s mother snapped. | |
Pried skald ‘round | for place to hide. | |
Turning fast, | facing bright one, | |
Skald did see | his sage-friend, Unnr. | |
“Padruig, go | to greet do we.” | |
word-smith said— | wisely adding: | |
“One rule fast, | followed must be. | |
Let you not | your love profess. | |
Quiet elm | we’ve come upon | |
would shy from | shirtless Northmen.” | |
“Hello Unnr,” | hailed the word-friend, | |
meet you well | mate named Padruig. | |
“We have braved | warming sunlight, | |
questing food. | Found it, we did.” | |
Well did birch | welcome shirtless, | |
though if truth | be told she thought, | |
he stood close, | comfort risking. | |
Seldom she | such men observed. | |
“Padruig, tell | tunic have you? | |
Scarce your clothes.” | unscared, she said. | |
Spoke he truth, | spare-dressed Northman, | |
“Pennsic shirts | ne’er press on me.” | |
Rus spirits | spiced with berries— | |
offered he | to elm’s own lips. | |
But the flask, | bottle low-slung, | |
didn’t move | from mounting place. | |
Spirits’ fire | she fast declined, | |
backing from | bare-skinned stranger. | |
Wondered she | from whence they came, | |
Poet-man | and mate, shirtless. | |
Bare-one moved | e’en much closer; | |
“Beloved girl,” | he grandly said. | |
Held his ground, | and hugged her not. | |
Great the eyes | of glaring skald. | |
Much elm thought | `bout Thor-like oak, | |
bright his hair, | bosom naked, | |
tall and strong, | standing closely. | |
Thought she not | of Thor’s hammer. | |
Unnr than spoke, | offered word-fame: | |
“You I name | now Thorpatrik. | |
By this ken | be bare-sark called. | |
Better this | than the old name.” | |
Brought skald words, | “Better know you | |
than give name | while gift keeping. | |
Giver blessed | best when present | |
given out | to honor name.” | |
“Wrong was I,” | then Unnr said, “but | |
have I naught | for name gifting, | |
save sewing’s | silver needle. | |
With it sew | sore-needed shirt.” | |
Northman bare | bristled at this; | |
spooked by words, | spoken power. | |
Did mighty | magic give she? | |
Did she cause | crafty charming? | |
“Wise to take,” | whispered red-beard, | |
“Gift sits well | with ways of old. | |
Use this name | you’ll be famous. | |
Travelled well | this tale shall be.” | |
Taking pin, | tipsy Viking, | |
elm’s name-gift | acknowledged then: | |
“Think of me | as Thorpatrik | |
Well am I | at war re-named.” | |
Still was he | by strong drink swayed. | |
and his hand, | held the needle | |
Plunged it hard | in heart’s castle. | |
Bare, his chest, | bore the skewer. | |
Brow did flinch, | but fast he smiled. | |
“Beloved gift,” | he grandly said, | |
“Have I not | needle sticking?” | |
“Home,” thought skald | “I’ll hie us there.” | |
Fare-wells made | fast they left there | |
back down hill | to bog they walked. | |
Pain did come, | plaguing bare-sark. | |
“Breast does hurt, | “bears wound,” he said. | |
Whined he not | when in public, | |
but instead | bragged of piercing. | |
Each war-friend | was thus treated, | |
spike they saw | speared in bosom. | |
“How far in?” | he was asked then, | |
by the skald, | scanning steel-spike, | |
unknowing | of needles length. | |
Proud tall one | said, “Pretty deep. | |
‘I feel point | poking muscle, | |
arrowhead | entered my breast. | |
We should pull | piercer from me, | |
Lest sleep drives | it deeper in.” | |
Skald agreed | skin-dart needed | |
to come out | early rather | |
than linger | to light of morn, | |
but not his | burden was that. | |
Saw they friends | several dozen. | |
Pin-sharp stayed | standing proudly.
Beloved gift,” || he’d grandly say, | |
“Have I not | needle sticking?” | |
Then at long | last arrived they | |
home to booths | in bog arrayed, | |
where Norse birch | boldly plucked him; | |
pricker short | she pulled, and said, | |
“Small piercing | you proudly showed, | |
as lance heaved | to heart’s-home deep? | |
Not lethal | this little pin; | |
more you whined | than might of steel.” | |
Yet bare-sark, | bragged through revels, | |
blood-red spot | boldly showing. | |
“Beloved gift,” | he’d grandly say, | |
“Now you see | where name-gift stuck.” | |
Here we leave | happy brothers, | |
bare-sark true; | brewer dwarven. | |
All learning | ample lessons. | |
Hearken now | Har-like wisdom: | |
Wisely drink | your draughts of ale. | |
Never love | loudly profess. | |
Strangers’ ways | welcome gladly. | |
Always give | gift at naming. | |
Never prick | your place of heart. | |
Envy not | other’s life-thread. | |
Come to like | your life unpierced. | |
Slumber not, | while needle sticks. |
© Michael Dixon