The Lay of Grim the Skald
From EastKingdomWiki
Written by Toki Redbeard in Kvithuhattr.
The true story of an Eastern peer who simply wanted a night’s sleep. Events here occured at Barony Wars in Aethelmearc’s Shire of Sterling Vale – June, A.S. 43
| Of spear-oaks | I’ll speak no praise, | |
| nor strong foes, | nor feats mighty. | |
| Learn instead | of lone tale-smith. | |
| I sing of | his sleepless night. | |
| Grim the Skald, | grinning poet, | |
| to strife went | in Sterling Vale. | |
| Before clash | camped in forest. | |
| Nap he sought | in small shelter. | |
| Of this booth | I bring you words. | |
| Woven cloth | covered framing, | |
| hasty-made | home for travelers— | |
| walls and floor | did fail to meet. | |
| Through this space | sputtered breezes, | |
| splashed the rains | in resting place. | |
| Not lordly, | the little hall. | |
| Weary skald | was worried not. | |
| Tired man, | a mat threw down, | |
| placed his bed | on bench narrow. | |
| Wide the mat, | on which he’d sleep. | |
| Cushion perched | poorly on bunk. | |
| Sleep he tried. | Tipped his bedding, | |
| balanced not | on bench so thin— | |
| flipped him up | and flung him down. | |
| This was not | the nap he sought. | |
| Down he fell | and fast tumbled. | |
| Floor striking. | Foreleg pounding; | |
| “That will make | a mark,” he said. | |
| Recall the cloth | came not to floor— | |
| out of tent | tumbled poet, | |
| landing face- | first on the ground. | |
| Nearby sat | a sage old man— | |
| Drinking ale, | archer Macsen | |
| Greybeard spoke, | spitting-up beer: | |
| “Greetings friend! | Forest’s mat is | |
| soft but yet | yonder cabin | |
| does possess | softer pillows.” | |
| Splayed was skald, | spilled in forest— | |
| moving not, | mouth contorted. | |
| Macs wondered | if wounds mortal. | |
| Just this once | his jokes he ceased. | |
| “Rude am I,” | he rambled, beery, | |
| “Is he whole | or hurt, the skald?” | |
| Verse-brewer, | bloody and scraped, | |
| From woods-floor | these words did speak: | |
| “Fort of brains | I fell upon. | |
| Hard I fell | on helm of thought. | |
| Though broke not | the bones within, | |
| bruises found | my fame of words.” | |
| Said Macsen, | sipping his beer: | |
| “Harm you missed? | Happy I am! | |
| I’ll not waste | my worry and | |
| mock instead, | mercy lacking. | |
| ‘As if drunk | you dropped on face. | |
| Amateurs | at ale drinking | |
| Bring us all | embarrassment. | |
| To seasoned | the swilling leave.” | |
| Macsen sang, | sending forth beer | |
| from his nose— | not demurely— | |
| and inquired, | “How do we sleep | |
| when the skalds | from sky do fall?” | |
| Grim arose, | gathered his wits. | |
| Macs took brands | of broken wood. | |
| The rune “G” | he wryly left, | |
| marking spot | where splattered Grim. | |
| Still are seen | in Sterling Vale | |
| slender sticks | set in forest, | |
| crossed so men | recall where once | |
| fell the bard | who face-planted. | |
| Song lingers, | loud from Macsen. | |
| We listen | and wear his beer, | |
| He inquires, | “How do we sleep | |
| when the skalds | from sky do fall?” |
© Michael Dixon
