| Title | Category | Style | Composed/Performed | Documentation | Media |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|
|
Style: dróttkvœtt The clarion call is Coaxed strongly to song-words Melody flows freely Finding ears awaiting Our banter abates Even the sun listens Night's-watch wanes for thane to Wield blade in his sword dance Honored friend's word-fame now Faithfully shared boldly This beloved bards name is Don Brian O'hUilliam Thunder cheers for thane skald So Thor, this roar, envies Echo o'er the Bifrost So Aesir notice here |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2015-02-01 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Calontir sheds tears fresh Talons in wood's bane lost Freya's cloak-kin flying Feathers shadow Hel's road Blood song sung days before Brought Calontir honor But her hearts laid low by Light of fire's darkness Cinnamon, red-reaver R'an, the noble ripple-wing Winter's ivory allure Artemis hunts Hel's Hall Weeps the Sable Star for Soar no more these falcons This skald's tongue now silent Sorrow has reaped his words. |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2015-03-28 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Draw nigh! Focus faces For this tale is needed! Singers gale of greatness Glories won by bold sons Sing now, daughter's song for Splendor knows no gender. Laud this Honored Lady Let our calls fill mead halls Scrawlings this ink-slinger Shines align others walls Service given sweetly Star and Crane gained justly Scottish flower flourished Finding honors flowing Bjornsborg's greatest gathered Great Bear she was blazoned Dearest love devoted Decades four and more wife Husband keeps her heart Held as sweetest danegeld Freya's gift she gave her Great the fate for three cubs Lords and Ladies born to Loving caring mother Stand you tall and strong so She can see you smiling Hold now hands with horns up High to sky and cheer her! |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2014-10-17 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: Prose From the wellspring of Simon and Tessa by the hands of Tivar Moondragon was the gift of the slender blade brought forth to the Society. Here in the Barony of Bryn Gwlad, the cradle of rapier combat throughout the Known World, comes forth His Excellency, freshly rested from the rigors of baronial fiefdom to stand before the Crown of the Stable Star. The precision of his blade has earned him the Queen’s Rapier of Ansteorra, the Sable Talon, Vanessa II’s Queen’s Blade of Honor, a Sable Thistle for Italian Rapier, and companionship to the Order of the White Scarf of Ansteorra. He has earned the Sable Crane of Ansteorra and has been welcomed into the Order of the Dreigiau Bryn for his selfless service. If we as a Society are to grow, it is not enough to do - we must also teach and Baron Ceallach has excelled in this area, harnessing talent both young and old to a keen edge and they in turn carry on that legacy. This man speaks with a soft voice, for his deeds in combat and in service to his Kingdom and his Barony speak volumes for him. Your Majesties, your excellencies, members of the populace, I present to you Baron Ceallach mac Domhnailll! |
Special Occasions | Prose | 2017-09-26 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: Sonnet Oh hope, I beg of thee to bring me peace To still rough sea and right my wayward course Bring solace forth till stinging woes surcease And sing of love till dark despair’s divorce That you could make a long enduring bliss Would see my heart to lift in pure delight Alas, your joy is but a fleeting kiss To forfeit soon in bitter cold of night Oh, damn this blade with deadly poisoned edge Alluring calls as lover sweet doth ply If oath of loyalty would I but pledge Forswearing hope and here my life deny Its promise made to soothe this wretched pain Embrace then sleep and ne’er to wake again. |
Poems | Sonnet | 2017-07-29 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Gather close my kith and Kin for tales regaling Deeds of the great Dietrich -Dauntless the stag braggart!-
His faith was the fire that Surpassed only by his Tell your tales, wild, true, or Tall! Drink deep to Dietrich! |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2017-09-28 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Bear witness and behold Before you come the siblings Kazimierz and Katheryn Called the eagle and bat! United in oath to Ansteorra’s Crown, to Elfsea, and the honored Earth of Dragonsfire Tor Comets do they carry Cupped in each hand brightly Shine upon the shield that Shelters chosen family The sword-father’s service Sings that he is worthy Found true he is trusted Tending the Nautilus Throne The horde-feeder’s heart’s a Hymn unto her virtues Found true she is trusted Tending Nautilus Throne Honored, both as equals Invested here today Bound to serve the Sable Star of Ansteorra |
Special Occasions | dróttkvœtt | 2018-09-01 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Hearken close and hear of Heroes’ stories soaring. Ellisif finds Fáolán; Forming bonds by orm’s bites.
Fenrir’s stalking sons pad Westward bore the beasts and Brought the dawning autumn. For Sif’s hair and hoarfrost Have the havoc reavers - Strong and brave bringing Blood eels for the shield flood - Set sail o’er the seal plains Sword song and word fame craved. Felling Aegir’s ale head Elli’s courage swelled much. Fat the crow then flew with Feathers o’er the heather, While the windswept whale road Whisked away the fray sweat. Dreadful warning words did Wind southward by mouthfuls, Filling conroicht Fáolán’s Fiery eyes with ire dark. Cearbhall’s wind fish whirling Wildly styled the Boiling Serpents near Blackstairs and Summoned Fáolán’s steel fangs. The crow feeders cawed and Clamored damning north men! Ranging for An Ruirtech Rovers covered much earth. Finally meeting fighters From the eastern sea, the Ire-fueled men of Eirinn, Eager for spear tears of Band of White and Boneless, Bellowed vows, beat bodhráns, Hefted shields and shafts so Sharp, were sharks in frenzy. The cold storm of swords was Savage. Fáolán’s steel had Hewn many foes. Howling He fed the war corbies. Ell the steel-eye all but Equaled - for the corbies - His fare and best feasting. - Fearless the spear maiden - Raised swords, face to face they Till ring givers granted Gore marked the war shearing. Ellisif found Fáolán Fully matched her passion In blade dance and bed rolls Blessed him with handfasting. Weeper of gold welcomed Wedding with a bed seed Sprouting white crowned son in Summer warm and stormy. Father kenned him Fionn but Flame eye kenned his fame. With Honeyed waves the wanderer Wet his lips with sip-fulls. |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2017-02-02 | View | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Freyja’s season saw the Sea wolves stalking over Death of the nine daughters Daring men to greatness Cold the storm of spears did Sweep across Gleann Abhann Fierce were the steel fangs of Fire-eyed Haldr Thorsson Belt-son of Duke Seth was Savage as a blizzard Freezing hearts of foes less Fearless on the death field Mighty the crow meal was Made by sword song ringing Let Rising Stone revel Raising horns for hero |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2017-05-30 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Blood starling of Steppes, the Stormborn of Hrist’s blizzard, Plumed often in pitch and Powder inspires many. Steel talons have torn the Triskel-sons that dared to Stalk the fields and strike the Star of jet he keeps well. Drums he beats and drinks for Dreamers brewed most strongly, Rouse voices to revel Reaching late to night’s end Seek the battle-swan and Set your brow orbs skyward High over the oaks his Ebon wings are soaring. |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2017-12-19 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Silver Lion, skalds sing Songs both loud and proud for Man called Master, axe-bill, Mead-Slayer! Deed-Shouter! Wisdom wielded swordwise Weak and meek are safe kept. Dream he defends dauntless Daring we to glory! Crownless kings, his kith, are Kin in warmest presence. We know this Norseman as Name-giver! Fame-Teller! Rouse soft voice to roar now Roar for oarman Ivar! Let Valhalla hear us Honor favored friend now! |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2014-10-18 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: Mixed Heill dagrinn! Heill várinn ok upphafsnyr! Heilir Blakkstjarnu synir ok daetr! Hǫggormrinn kemr til þess at krefja tignarstól hans! Hail the day Hail the spring and new beginnings Hail the sons and daughters of the Black Star The Striking Serpent has come to claim his throne! The wind sings his song to Swell our mast-cloths vastly The land spreads his splendor Sprouting fame for stout men The fire burns to bear his Banner soaring forward The waves ken his wonder Weighing fray-lord’s measure Headless the crown hangs on Hallowed seats of sable Ebon throne sits empty Oathbound wait to challenge My Jarl’s right to rule as Rightful king here today Wait no longer warriors Witness Jason’s answer |
Special Occasions | Mixed | 2018-04-09 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: Prose The ground beneath our feet is firm, like the resolve of Riddari Drysdale. He is the dancer to the sword song, the feeder of ravens, the herald of the blizzard of Hrist, and the name on the tongue of the norns as the bringer of the long sleep to all foes this day. Gathered here on this noble hill are many who deem themselves worthy of the crown of Ansteorra and would see themselves as successor to our glorious and exalted ring-giver, Gabriel. Riddari Drysdale comes before your impressive majesty this day to prove he has the courage of the One-Handed, the strength of the Anvil-Striker, the fortitude of the Frozen-Storm, and the prowess of the All-Father. He will honor you, his king, with blood and victory. |
Special Occasions | Prose | 2016-07-08 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Bear witness and behold The Beast of Mann comes forth To reap the field of foes And follow Creppin’s crown |
Special Occasions | dróttkvœtt | 2016-01-15 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: Old Norse Translation Hann er riddari. Hann er stallari. Hann er hring-brjótr. Hann er góðan drengr. Hon er bogmaðr. Hon er skapari. Hon er fagr rós. Hon er góðan skǫrungr. Þera stórverka eru kunnum. Konungr ok Kona vitnið yðar skaparfar, Jason ok Margherita. |
Special Occasions | Old Norse Translation | 2017-07-08 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: Old Norse Translation Konungr ok dróttning hlýð orðum mínum um dýr tignarstóls Mananans, kappi mánaskugga. Hǫggormrinn kemr til þess at verja tignarstólinn fyrir falskonungum. Fagra Rós herðir dóminn hans með náð sinni ok styrkir ráð hans. Valdar Einstjarnas, vitnið yðar skaparfar Jason ok Margherita. |
Special Occasions | Old Norse Translation | 2018-01-08 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt The Beast of Mann bore the Burden well for kingdom My Jarl kens the crown way Kinsmen’s triumphs honored. In peace and war, prince and Peerless king his fame grew. Great are my Jarl’s glories Garnered for the star land. Those deeds fail and falter Faced with grander titles. We measure this man with Meaning as a husband, Father, steadfast friend, and Faithful to his maker. By his heart and his hands He lifts us all higher. |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2017-04-10 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: Prose Throughout Ansteorra and the Known World there are names spoken with whispered reverence. Queens and kings, knights, dons, pelicans, laurels, lions and legends. Men and women that embody the dream; whose valor and prowess on the field of battle, extraordinary works of arts and science, or heroic deeds of sacrifice and service have etched forever their legacy in our storied history. A name, a single name, bearing such significance that its mention can fan the embers of a waning dream or kindle the fire of a new one. Riccardo, Rowan, Ragnar, Pendaran, Iago, Ivarr, and you. Each and every one of you has within you a greatness awaiting release. Believe and accept that you are incredible! Let the flame of your dream ignite in those around you so that together our light will shine as a beacon to those still lost in the darkness! Embrace your excellence and let your name be spoken with whispered reverence. |
Songs and Stories | Prose | 2014-09-20 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: Old Norse Translation Heill Konungur! Heill Dróttning! Heill Blástjarnas synir ok daetr! Hlýð yðar höfuðskálds orð! Micolay ok Uliana eru virðuligar Þeir eru vitar ok réttlátar Sverð hanns fyllir gilinn með blóð ór synir frá Óðinns horn Fegrð hannar gerir Baldr afbryða Dróttnings mínn, vitnið yðar skaparfar Micolay ok Uliana! |
Special Occasions | Old Norse Translation | 2018-07-04 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Many are the men who Deeply has the dreamer Silver tongue that sings of You measure this man by |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2019-03-11 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Dawn broke in the Bear Lands Freya's resplendent form Feyr himself took the field Staking claim to heroes Odin was elusive Flew to join us this day The Jotnär came yelling Gained great fame for the cubs The skulls of the slain were Then did Loki's luck find By Madylyne's magic Remembering Ragnar Vast the feast that came forth Baron and Baroness The Great Horn then hefted All claimed by drink or day |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2015-10-17 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt People speak of spirits Spinning tales of legend Warrior brave from Bear Lands Brought song of Battleskald He spoke wise, the words of War Counsel to his king Sigmund's glories spoken Song of Reavers echoes Stories stand time's test with Tales told of Dragon's Gold Bragi favored bold skald and Brought him to Valhalla There he heralds heroes Honored friends yet to come Revel and remember Ragnar the Lion-Skald |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2015-10-16 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Horn I raise is heavy Heart is also weighted Sad and joyful stories Songs to hero now passed Fortune seemed to favor Friend that lived so fiercely Pennsic Point is plaintive Pouring mournful mead toasts Peerless without Peerage Present ever in recall Countess' father, friend and Farer, no more travels Hearken Aesir! Hear us Herald his arrival Voices shouting “Vivat Valhalla's Oxhandler!” |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2015-07-13 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: Prose The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Known World The Known World - Some Information to Help You Live In It. The Known World itself implies that there is an Unknown World beyond that which is known. Knowing there is an unknown we can know that there is no way for us to know how much of the unknown we actually don't know. From this basic premise, we can surmise the size of the Unknown World to be infinite. The finite size of the Known World divided by the infinite size of the Unknown World is as near to nothing as makes no odds, so the average size of the Known World can be said to be zero. 2. Population - None The Society of the Known World is anachronistic, even within itself, wherein, a 14th century Teutonic knight may share a dinner table with a 9th century Danish viking and a 16th century Ottoman tailor. In order for the viking to travel forward in time, the tailor to the travel backwards and the tailor to both simultaneously time must be an amorphous thing with no clear beginning or end. This quantum superposition creates a sort of Schrodinger's Society within the Known World box wherein there exist both an infinite number of personas and none at all. Since you cannot fit an infinite number of personas into an area that doesn't exist, the population of the Known World must be zero and any people that you may meet from time to time are merely the products of a deranged imagination. 3. Heraldry - None The function of heraldry is to identify an individual and since there are no individuals to identify heraldry must also be the product of a deranged imagination. Given that the king of every kingdom got that way by beating his opponents about the head and shoulders with a sword would necessitate that there is quite an awful lot of this going about. And, since some kings believe that the Society exists solely for fighting we must assume they are correct, because they're the king, and we cannot contradict them. 5. Service - None Service is the act of helping or doing work for someone, and since we have proven the population of the Known World to be non-existent, service itself must also not exist because there is no one for which to do it. 6. Art - None Given that Laurels are considered experts on art and it is widely believed that the Laurels cannot wholly agree on anything, including what art is we must therefore assume that since it cannot be agreed upon by the experts nor documented as fact art must also not exist 7. Documentation - None THBPBPTHPT! 8. Sex - None Well, in fact, there is an awfully lot of this going about largely due to the total lack of heraldry, service, art, or anything else to keep the non-existent people of the Known World occupied when they're not fighting. This primer has barely scratched the surface of the information regarding the Known World. For more information see the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Known World Chapters 3, 5, 11, 17, 22 - 38 inclusive, and in fact most of the rest of the guide (or contact your local bard for the audio version). |
Songs and Stories | Prose | 2015-05-04 | Unavailable | Open |
|
Style: Prose A trotter is the foot of a pig, it was also fitting name for a squat little boy with a head too round for his body. He lived on a pig farm and was the son of a butcher, who was the son of a butcher who was the son of the butcher that started the pig farm. He could hear the stinging jeers of the other children in the village as they danced and played while he hoofed his way up the hill to his father's shop. “Trot away piggy!” “We'll invite you when we go play in the mud!” “What a boar!” They never did... invite him to play that is. He smelled of pig, day and night as if he too slept in the slop and filth. It permeated the pores of his pink flesh; he couldn't tell, but the other children wouldn't let him forget. His breeches bore the badge of the butcher, as did his shoes. The apron helped, but the faint coppery stench and crusted brown streaks of blood stayed with him every day when he went home. At work, his father would never take a risk with the choicest cuts, those needed a master's hand and Trotter was just an apprentice. He was made to work with the cheeks and jowls, intestines, and of course, the trotters (no part of the pig was wasted in this shop). It was Trotters job to slaughter the pig in the back and bring it through for his father. He would pretend it was Seamus, the biggest kid in the village and the loudest with his barbs. Some days it was Michael, who quietly egged on the other kids. But mostly, it was Claire and the look of revulsion she never thought to be kind enough to conceal when he passed. A methodical and vicarious affair. The squeals. The squirming. The squeals. The thrashing against the bindings. The squeals. The knowing look of fear in Claire's... in the pig's eyes. As the children grew older, the loathing in their voices and the malicious mistreatment of the maligned young man magnified. Jeers turned to shoves, words became fists, revulsion was a stick used to jab him as he tried to pick himself off the ground. The squeals weren't enough. The pigs were herded, locked in a chute, and bound before butchering. Trotter needed more, something that would require work, something to occupy the places in his mind that dwelt on painful reminders in his flesh. No one missed the strays, save his father, but he was glad to see the whining little beggars gone from the proximity of his shop. A bagged cat could be taken away and given the proper attention it deserved; as could a small dog. But, it wasn't long before the streets were clear and Trotter was left with the lingering lilt of loathing laughter in his little pink ears. That year, Trotter received the greatest gift he'd ever been given for his birthday. It was a damp Saturday in October and his father had given him leave to gather hazelnuts, for his mother, from a grove outside the village. These moments of solitude were normally filled with the echoing silence that continued to scream the curses of his peers. But not today. Today, the scream was much different. Today, it was a sobbing voice, deep, yet pitched awkwardly through puberty and pain. Trotter inched carefully closer, lest this be another ruse to lure him to a ruthless beating. He'd fallen prey to that one before, Claire laying on the ground, clutching an ankle, asking for help and soon as Trotter was close enough to reach out his hand, she slapped it away and the little huns descended upon him as if he were the gates of Rome. Oh, but this time, it was no ruse. Trotter could see the blood and bone protruding from Seamus's injured leg. His horse had thrown him, and he'd taken the fall all wrong. Trotter, emptied the gathered hazelnuts from his cloth sack and began to fold it along its length. He inched closer, cautious, reluctant, frightened and exhilarated. He knelt beside Seamus, cloth sack readied in his hands and looked deeply in the battered boy's brindled brown eyes. He saw a genuine thankfulness there, which made their shift to uncomprehending panic like sweetest clover honey when he used the sack to gag him. He struggled and fought, but every time Seamus's superior strength pried at Trotter's hands and the cloth, Trotter's foot kicked at his exposed bone. He succumbed to the abyss of unconsciousness after the third kick. Trotter spent the entire afternoon with Seamus, an apprentice was becoming a master that day; a true test of his skill, he began with the trotters. Teeth were tossed to chatter in the creek, hair flitted away in the breeze and the pigs ate well that night. |
Songs and Stories | Prose | 2015-10-31 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: Mixed Hail the King! Hail the Queen! Hail the Lords and Ladies! Hail the Gods! Hail the Goddesses! Hail the Honored Sable Star! Look upon this day with favored eyes And good fortune for all that witness. Listen closely Lords and Ladies to recounts of Virtues of the völva, Vigdis the seiðr-spinner! Well she kens the wool-ways Weaving brilliant patterns No cords from any creature Could she not turn spiral Ware to any warrior Wanting easy spoils for Ash is bent to bring the Bow-mother’s hail of reeds! Mother of two talented Talon-storms, Jurgen and Hilda, Now does Danr’s wife near Knowing love surrounds her Twice belted to bay-wreathed, Beatrix and The Spinner Bonded by the Bifrost Band the Thistle-bearer Comes to answer crown and Covey of the wreath-guard |
Special Occasions | Mixed | 2017-10-06 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: Old Norse Translation Konungur ok Dróttning, ek kominn heim Einstjarnum. Heyrið mín orð: Einstjarna eiga mín sverð hlífa þeim vanmáttiga ok bera réttindi dróttinns. Einstjarna eiga mín skǫld hlífa hennar rǫndi frá víkingar Einstjarna eiga mín óð gefa góðráðr sem ᚦurfið Einstjarna eiga mín líf. Einstjarna eiga mín hjarta. Ek heiti Riddari Vilhjalmr ᚦursasprengir ok ek er trúmennska |
Special Occasions | Old Norse Translation | 2017-11-14 | Unavailable | Unavailable |
|
Style: dróttkvœtt Many are the men who Make their name in battle, Giants crowned by cleaving Calves led to their slaughter. Rare the winter warrior With heart beyond stature. So, the giant-slayer Soared as Sable Falcon. His entry well earned to Ansteorra’s Eagles. Sharp, the talon, showed his Shield protects his homeland. White-hand’s belt-son brought a Bounty of service to Any in need. Earnest Effort toiled in gladness. With deeds mounting daily Duke asked his horsemen if Their Riddari ring was Ready for this soldier. At the crow-feast, Crown then Claimed his chain was well earned! Belt and spurs then bound the Brave son of the Black Star! Longer grows his legend Learning the blade dance of Alfheim’s slender serpents Soared to be Queen’s Champion! His ebony aegis Earned in greatest measure Valkyries saw his victories and Valhöll awaits this hero |
Poems | dróttkvœtt | 2017-11-23 | Unavailable | Open |