Frá dauða Börga

The Charge of the Pigless

Told by Grond/Hefnd, at the Burning Boar, with many rounds of drink

At the well’s end, the World-Tree’s root.
Three warriors stand, with weapons out.
Warg the One-armed, woe in his eye
By the Druid cursed, Grond draws blade high

Fair and fierce, pigless, dauntless
Bereaved Borga, without her Boar
The magic brew, clutched to her breast,
Paid at dear price, from perverse Ivar

Dark wights ‘round him, Dreki slumbers
Nidhogg’s taint spreads, spawned from Nilfheim
Soon he’ll succumb, and spell great doom
For this island, all it harbors

Face the heroes, a fearsome horde
Of shades twisted, sinister foe
With black magic, they blind and curse
And ragged claws, they reach at us

One-arm and Grond, march to greet them
With spell to hold, and sword to strike
Two pale figures, to push them back
While to the side, their true hope lies.

For Brave Borga, bold and agile
Dashes deftly, for Dreki’s maw
To deliver, while there’s still time
To purge the taint, the potent brew.

But with a snarl, and sudden leap
A dreadful wolf, Dreki’s summon
Charges at Grond, to maul her down
First blood is shed, its fangs cut deep

The warrior’s hurt, but not helpless
Draws on her sword, in her distress
To mend her wound, and wash away
The snake’s shadow, hold it at bay.

Mighty One-arm, with magic runes
Shrugs off the spells, of shades impure
And wills them back, by wind and fire
They surround him, but still he smiles.

By now Borga, ‘spite baleful foe
Draws near her goal, the great wyrm’s maw
But by the shades, her strength is leeched
Eyes unseeing, her will sundered.

As she staggers, her final step
With hand trembling, she holds up high
The druidic brew, Dreki’s last hope
Drink for Borga, for Death draws nigh!

So close, so far, now she falters,
For on her neck, the wolf’s maw shuts
As her last cry, is drowned in blood
Falls on her eyes, a deathly shroud

But in her breast, beats valiant heart
In her death still, ever stalwart
In stubborn rage, she reaches out
To drop the drink, in Dreki’s mouth

Drink for Borga, for by her hand
She has brought hope, to heal this land
And with her life, and sacrifice
Freed the Vaettir, to watch o’er us.

Now from her ash, I forge my sword
May it keep me, as brave and bold
This is my blade, we’re one and the same
Valiant our heart, vengeance our name.


Note: This is an attempt to emulate the style of Old Norse skaldic poetry, as found in the poetic Edda, which mostly relies on alliteration rather than rhyme or a fixed meter like modern English poetry. But made it rhyme where I could anyway because it sounded better.

Note 2: Grond’s reforged blade is named Borga’s Vengeance, and Grond will now introduce herself (in her female form) as Hefnd (Vengeance).

Note 3: Yes, we told Magnus we’d keep silent about our mission to the mines. Fuck ’im right in his greedy arse.

Frá dauða Börga

Wow, 3 wyrd bonus….4 if you can now do it all in old icelandic :-)

Frá dauða Börga

Indeed. Well deserved. And happy birthday as well. ;)

Frá dauða Börga

P.S. Is Warg going going to be the snake armed, the false armed, the wood armed or still the one armed. LoL :P

Frá dauða Börga

Yeah I had to call him one-arm several times because I needed two syllables, and worked well with alliterations.

Frá dauða Börga

I'm sorry, but we no longer support this web browser. Please upgrade your browser or install Chrome or Firefox to enjoy the full functionality of this site.