Thorns of War!

     An old school, text style MUD, with an interactive map, only much more. A world built by people, forged by people. Thular and Gaeldor struggling to survive in a dynamic world of thieves  orcs, rats, and a plethora of mythical beasts.
     The Thular have left Thule and sailed up the great river to a new land called The Gelod. A small settlement has been established on the banks of the river and named Brygga. Far to the north, the Gaeldor, a native people, eye the small number of stout adventurers with ever growing concern. Dozens of small holdings have been established by the lingering populace. Stone-bridge in the North, the Gaeldor stronghold, and the small village of Brygga in the south dominate the map. An uneasy truce compels the hardy settlers and the Lords of the Gaeldor to co-operate with one another....In the western land. To the east lies the Ost-lag, or East-Law. It the Ostlag a Thular may slay a Gaeldor, or likewise be killed in turn. The comfortable existence in the west becomes strained in the east where several springs yield Mithril silver, and rivers flow with gold, silver, and jewels, and rampant rumor of precious wood yielding trees. Lords and thralls, mercenaries and woodsmen struggle to glean these valuable resources.
    It takes a patient soul to carve a place in the Gelod, land is abundant, anything a traveler might need can be bought in the local shops, or crafted through diligence. Ware the beasts of the wild and the thiefs in the caves. Don't go near the goblins or try to feed the trolls. Remember the Talywood nut saves. Watch out for the bows of the gnolls. The dragon will put you in your grave. Remember that Mithril-Armour does not always win the  day.                                
  
                                    Thorns of War
                                             http://www.thornsofwar.com/Play.aspx
                             

For R.

I long for your return with each stifling hour.
Natures most precious gift.
My Dianic angel, oh shinning flower.
What ever lies between us,
Let us breech this rift.
To the higher places so we'll travel.
As this Mortal coil, swiftly  we unravel.

You are my sun and moon and stars.
Fly with me upon theses dangerous stairs
As we wend our way unto the place
That Holy Peter gaurds.
The crown of heaven waits
Wilst we stumble through this race.
My friend, my lover, my companion fair.
Calm thy worried fear.
There is no treachery here.

A. R. Forsgren - Google+

A. R. Forsgren - Google+:

'via Blog this'

Spear-Theign Voromund
     Stout Ovars-son,
     Biar the Young and Grenden.
     Grumm of Lund
     And some men from Skane.
     Sixteen stout hearts
     I too was one.

     With Rans-breath thick on morning sun
     The hearty men a madness met.
     An ax-dance worth the spear-grooms price.
     A gruesome beast from out the ice.
    
     Huge Grumm, with ax blade singing
    Gave a blow to split the skull
    A war song in his throat was ringing
    The Troll-kin lost a toe.

    Three men of Skane, mothers-shame
    Ran for the bobbing ships
    One is dead and two lie lame
    With troll-bite for their  fame.

   A Greedy fist now bearing down
   Towards the Jarls silver crown
   Oh monstrous hammer of whoa!

   Voromund held his ground.

   A cold bright gleam his spear ran clean
   He pierced it through the lean.
   When it forward bent
   Grumms' ax came through its neck.

   Yet still it lived!
   A fearsome beast struggling with nine toes.
   Then Ovars'-son took his blow
   The bloody strike that cracks the spine
   And the Troll-wives were filled with whoa.

Missing Rachelle

Remember we sleep under the same moon.
When old Sol sets fire to the clouds 
and paints a glorious view.
I am thinking of you.
Every bird winging south 
or looking for a dinner mouse
Lefts my heart on wings to you.
I miss you.
And all you do.

Think of me as go to sleep
And do not cry out in your dreams
Though far away
I am dancing in your arms
Whirling with you to this beat
Out of step 
But in tune
And soon we shall feel the heat
Of our embrace
And I'll kiss the smile 
That is on your face.

Another part involving some Welsh- men.

     North men are wild.
     Welsh -men are savage.
     Avoid the folk of the isles
     And oh how the Irish rage
     No hope for the heathen
     But in hell's own burning fires
     Or in Je-su returned from the grave.

    Biar had heard a drunken man at a market in Hedeby repeating this rhyme.  Grenden said the man was from  Burgundi.  He was dressed in a woolen tunic with bits of armour on his shoulders and large silver cross on a chain around his neck.  Biar thought it was silly display so much silver like that, but Grenden pointed out that the man looked ready for a fight and the rough men around him were dressed in a similar fashion.
    Biar did not see his people as savage what did Romans know any way?  They didn't believe in things like giants, or trolls, dismissing them as myth and story, fit to scare children in to behaving, their own heathen gods had lost lost there sway, and when a man with a bit of giant blood presented himself in one of their own stories they put him off  as an evil godless anomaly.   In battle warriors could be savage especially when the berserk took them,  and all men could act like beasts when blood lust was upon them.  He had heard stories from many places of the battle rage and the terrible things that desperation could drive a person to.  Gundred said it was important not to let anger be a dominant factor when one was in the grip of the war god.  Biar had killed a few men in his thirteen year old span.  His first one in defense, and another in anger as revenge was sought on the neighboring tribe both were terrible and had made him sick. Once he had helped to slay a troll that had wandered down from the far far north and had eaten some ponies and badly injured a child.
    The men that were swarming over the hill now, they were barbaric or so it seemed to Biar though not as savage as the troll had been. "The Cymru" Gundred quickly explained as he snatched up his shield and spear, motioning for Grenden to follow. These warriors were clothed in rough boiled leather painted green and blue and hung about with fur.  Some had stag antlers on there helm or heads and mottled war paint covered any exposed skin.   Biar had been told to stay with the supply along with a hand full of the rough men who sailed the merchant knorr.   He had mixed feelings about this. The goods he would guard could keep one hundred and eighty sailors alive for as long as it would take to build a long house with a burg. But  his adrenaline was high and his stomach turned as Jarl Voromund rumbled by on his great war horse a brown stallion that was trained to bite you, a horse from somewhere in Iberia, Biar knew.  In truth Biar did not like the ax-dance, it was always a few moments of terror desperately trying to avoid being chopped down or hacked apart. The insides of a man when exposed to air smelled most vile, and the pain that followed any fight was terrible to him, but his friends and companions were in danger and here he was with an important job but a dull one.    They would win this fight. Biar could plainly see, the opposing force now numbered around fifty or so, and Voromund had three ships worth of seasoned men from all over the north.
    Two shield walls were forming now. Grumm the Dane stood in the small space between them. His dull yellow shield almost six feet across and his axe nine feet tall, giant blood there was no mistaking it.  Grenden scrambled up behind him with a sack of throwing axes that he would hand to the huge blond man until they were gone or the frey surged around him. Biar saw him glance around making sure that Gundred was there with his long spear and solid iron hammer.  Voromund and the other members of the noble party drew there horses up in the small space between the walls along with Ovarson who was flying the Earls banner, a helm of power painted pale blue on foreign silk waving above his own eagle talon a jagged black rune that took the form of an upside down protective tree on a field of costly red.  Biar climbed up on one of the carts to get a better view of the initial clash. It came with a brutal clash and screaming war cries. the two sides came together, the Cymru leaping high as if they would fly over the stout lines of round shields. Grumm let fly two axes, one of them hurting a fierce tribes man and stopping his forward charge. Most of the Cymru were flung back into there brothers behind them, a few stuck to the wall for an instant before the northern spears were yanked back and they twitched to the ground gouting bright blood. Their intial charge checked the Cymru paused to reasses the stout lines of shield men. They formed into a ragged line of their own, clashing spears and bronze swords against a few shields of their own. Vorumund rode forward and issued a challenge, the Skald hurrying forward as well to offer translation.
    "We have no fight with you. We are not here to savage your land. We but seek council with the Lady of this isle. We also offer iron and silver, I have fur and oil that burns. If we fight,  hardy men will die and your'e Oak-King will weep tonight."  He tried to keep it short and too a point.  Invoking the Oak-king was a bold move, yet Voromund was not afraid to call upon the local deities and often did so in order to avoid blood shed.  In truth Voromund did not like war and raiding as much as legends said.  It was the exploring that was in his blood.  Of necessity he had learned to fight, to gain the respect of his men, to earn gold  for adventures, to keep his name upon the lips of as many folk as he could and most important to secure the well being of his people and aide his brother in preserving the clan and country they were charged with keeping safe.
     An old man used a gnarled staff to make his way forward. A druid priest and by the gold circle about his crown  "Who are you to invoke the ancient one?"
    The old mans eye were sharp and his speach clear and full of rich power but his nose was clearly Roman and he seemed to be short like the men of Italia. Strange for a priest of the oak king, but all knew the legions had been here for along time. Grenden had spotted a  broken down watch tower on a small island to the west called Caer Y Twr  that was clearly marked on Gundred's map. The old magician spoke Norse with a strange accent and his staff bore a golden sun burst like the one beneath the Roman Eagle. Biar and Grenden had seen a likeness of one hanging in the hall of Se-ax lord.  He shuffled forward approaching Voromund with an open palm.  "I see you are not Irish raiders which is what our warriors thought you were.  Though North Folk have a fierce reputation and more than one has played mercenary to the Irish."  His sharp eyes flitted to Ovarson and the banners then  beyond to Biar and the few men of the knorr. "You say you are unwilling to fight?  That is strange, you seem well equipped for it, and I see the evidence before me."  He swept his golden staff in an arc over the three dead Cymru his sharp eyes sad.  "Men are ever quick to the blade and ever to their sorrow."
 
    Vorumund, seeing no immediate threat from the native defenders threw down his spear. All along the shield  walls of the north spears clattered to the verdant forest floor. Though axes and swords were kept ready.
    The aged speaker for the Cymru turned to the ragged line and spoke them in their local dialect. Voromunds Skald only knew Latin, Briton, and a common German tongue which they used for trading along the Rhine and conversing with the hoards of Sax Lords along the coast of the
 
     
    

Aelfheim....465 C.E./A.D.

WARNING!!.....This is a Long, long story that I am working on...it will change often.


    They had dragged the boats up on the beach and turned them over, excepting the round bellied merchant knorr. It was left with its anchor stone a few hundred yard off shore, for she held valuable commodities and enough supplies to sustain the three ship loads of hungry men.
     "Stay awake Biar! You're not in Sig-tun any more boy." Gundred a shaggy brown haired man growled the words like bear-cat even as he looked around in wonder.
    This place didn't seem much different than the deep forests of the Uppland.  Thick under growth climbed a steep slope, blue and emerald fir trees dripped an early morning dew.  Rans-breath he liked to call it. But it felt different here, like another world. Gundred sensed a palpable energy to this place as if he could reach out and take a hand full of it. Kneeling he took a stone from the forest floor, it spoke to him,  he could hear the ages pass,  he knew how it came from the highlands,  born down an ancient tumbling river to rest for a time under its ancient flow, when the land shifted under prim-ordeal forces  it came to rest on a small grassy plain for awhile, and  when the sea rushed in it was pushed up onto this small island. He cast the stone away startled, and slightly confused.
    Ahead of them a hundred yards or so, Jarl Voromund had called a halt, The  secondAthelinga of Uppland his dark hair starting to turn blue ever so slightly but his large frame still straight and solid.   His men were raising his sail cloth tent and preparing oil lamps against the oncoming night. They would make an encampment here, and there would be a day or two of discussion while the bones where read and minds were spoken. Jarl Voromund commanded three ships, two long dragon-ships and a round merchant vessel he used for supplies, to keep his warriors well fed and sated.  He always sailed with a quantity of sweet mead that his old vater fermented each year.
   Gundred raised a ham fist and the small group of men trooping behind him came to halt.  He was not their leader  but as usual theign Ovarsen was already at Voromunds' heels, no doubt kneeling and offering to clean his royal beard, but the men listened to him and if there was a second in command of the Orn it was Gundred.
     "Biar! Grenden!" Gundred barked at the two barely grown men. "You boys see about some dinner. And remember Voromunds order. No burning the wood of this place, where we are is sacred to some. It's whale oil if it's heat you need.
     The Serpents Tongue was flying now, a red flag faded to orange and a bit tattered on the wind-edge, made of some fine cloth from the far side of the world, Voromunds standard, a single rune stood out on its surface, a cool pale blue.
   The witches shelter was up too, leather hides stitched together and stretched over an A-frame,  a cauldron hung at the entrance end, three whale oil lamps arranged beneath it, heating water for her divine purpose and the traditional animal bones hung from the oar poles rattling as the old mother moved within.
    Biar busied himself lighting his own oil lamps. Fish would be the fair for this night, it would fry in whale fat with a bit of shriveled onion and they would have mead from the ship and Aldgar would bring milk from the cow Voromund kept on the Cork, his round merchant vessel.
     It was not long and the smell of other fishes frying began to drift through the mostly set up camp. They were to cut no wood, so a palisade would not be built and they were told it was just as unwise to dig a ditch.
    Grenden had the small canvas wedge tent that he, Gundred and Biar would share and he was gazing at the Jarls' small circle of tents, ten wedges arranged so that the openings were facing out and toward the center. Sail cloth had been fastened between them forming a wall of triangle shapes and providing shelter from sun and rain in the spaces between. There were three tents for the Karls. Ovarsen had his next to Voromunds son Ingwe, The Jarl had two tents of his own, and his friend the Skald slept in another, that left one for supplies or whatever the Jarl traveled with.  The witch emerged from her temporary abode and Grenden stared harder trying to catch a glimpse of the mysterious old woman. As usual she was draped in a hooded brown cloak and all he could see were the runes sewn into the thick wool.  They were done in red, Grenden recognized Odin's eight and Freja's eight around the neck line, the rest were combinations of those same letters, bind runes, and he didn't care to know their secrets.  She was tall and didn't seem to be stooped like he thought an ancient soothsayer should be, and neither her cloak or her tent showed any sign of dirt or raggedness, in fact their seemed to be a certain neatness about her that was unsettling to a rough boy like him.
      "Do you think there are dragons here?" Biar's voice was thin in the cool evening air, as he said it the witch turned and gazed their way but she did not seem to be looking at them, she stared above them and out toward the sea that was a thin ribbon seen only through one patch tall fir trees. Biar turned to look and saw that she gazed at a large sea-eagle rising above the tree line, silhouetting its self against an early half moon.  It fell  swiftly to disappear to it's smorgus-board.
    "Of course there are said Grenden. That's why we sailed here. Isn't it?"
     Biar Thought for a bit before saying. "But they say Wiglafs-theign slew the last one."
     At this Gundred, dropped his arm load of oar's which Grenden would use to build more a-frames for the rest of the tents and chuckled slightly.
    "Nooo boy." Gundred chuckled again. "There are no dragons here. "Yer bound to hear the men talking I expect.  But there are no dragons here.  We've only come to ask questions.  But I know Voromund and if we are after dragons I expect its the hoard he wants and not the dragon its self.   Now don't ye breathe a word of this to any one, you boys, or ye'll feel the flat side of my ax along side yer head."  Gundred didn't mean it but it paid to maintain a fierce attitude, not only when dealing with boys, but when handling the rough men that sailed the dragon-ships.
      So where are we?  Biar asked plopping a piece of fish into the hot whale oil. "I know by the sun that when we left Dublin we sailed mostly east. The forest around him was thick with a thousand shades of green.   As he gazed around forest animals peered back at him, or slipped through undergrowth on their hidden trails.
      Gundred took a seat, digging in a large pouch he had slung across his shoulder and produced a rough map that he had kept over the years.  The map was old passed down from his old-father.  It was Roman, and one could see where place names had been added or changed over the years.  He pointed to the coast of Britannica which they had been following, tracing an approximate coarse south eventually swinging west following the curve of the land,  his finger soon rested some where on an isle next to a place called Gwynned. The name Ongull's Island hand been written across it in Old Norse
     From behind them came a gentle but power full voice. "You are correct. We have landed in the realm of the Gwynned.  We are on an Island, but not Ongull's Island. While you slept we slipped around that island and have landed on another island simply call Holy Head."  It was the sooth-sayer, she had slipped up unnoticed behind them and now sat gracefully on the ground, joining their small circle.
     She was beautiful.  So fetching that Biar began to feel a strange things.  Odd sensations that he had never felt before. She had the pale iris that darkened at the outer-rim and there was indeed an other worldly quality to her gaze as if she were looking through you at something or someone that occupied the same space as you.
    Her garment was rich and of high quality, broidered with runes as Grenden had marked earlier. Her fiery hair was in a tight braid as one would expect a sea going maiden to do. And her lips were thin but they bowed in such an attractive way that it was hard for Biar not to stare at them.
    "We are in search of a faerie queen The Lady of Apples.  She holds power in the mortal world in these islands.  They are hers and are sacred, she is considered the voice of The Mother and is to be listened to in all  things.  Fortunately will not need to cross into Aelfheim to meet with her.  Even so eat or drink nothing of this place and take nothing you were not offered when we leave this place."  Inga's voice was power full and gentle, it held a certain magic and each word was formed with a smile as if she enjoyed the shape of the words she spoke.  Again Biar felt a tingle in his stomach, and it quickened when her gaze passed across his face. He felt it go hot and his mouth was suddenly dry.
     Grenden affected in much the same way stammered what was on his mind. This was Grendens way, never thinking before speaking. "But you...you...you're not old at all!"
     "Come on Grenden. Let's get these shelters set up. We'll need them for a few days." He let this out in a rush of breathe and stood rapidly.
     Gundred, twisting his long rusty beard around his fingers gave a warning about being cautious and keeping there eyes open. "There is magic in this place."  He said.
     At this Inga gave him a sharp look. She too arose with an elegant motion and drew her cape about her. "You will speak with me tomorrow Gundred from Sigtun.  Bring those two boys you're nephew is of interest to me."

    The sun was mostly down and the three small camps were set and settled. Oil lamps burned as bright as any fire and the rude jokes and laughter of Jarl Voromunds fighting men carried across the small meadow where they had set there tents. Sometimes a forest creature would join the party, its animal voice chittering or howling in the night.
    Grenden was using a bone needle to stitch a rip in his trews.  Gundred had his book out and was scratching at the page. his 'Saga' he called it. He was often laughed at for carrying it around.  The men could find anything to joke about and most of them could not read beyond recognizing the pattern of certain runes.  But any time one of the men did something remarkable they looked to Gundred to see if he had paid attention, perhaps hoping there deed would be put down in the foreign runes he used.  Often they called on him to read from it, and a few of them were doing so now.  One offered a piece of silver and another a horn of mead. Gundred would have read for free, but he was not above accepting the gifts of givers.
      "Lets have the one about when we was in Hedeby."  This was Grumm a large Dane, blond, and  hugely strong.  He had Jotun blood in him there was no disputing that.  He was slow of speech but not a fool.  More than once Gundred along with two or three other men had sought him out in the shield wall were they would be best protected.  Grumm liked those pages because he was mentioned there.
     Gundred leafed through to a section that was made of vellum and began his diatribe. The sailors of the Orn gathered around filling each others horns and cups with mead. Thirty five battle hardened, explorers.

     So it was was that we came to Hedeby
     With the light of Sol Hard on our heels
     There to gather more grain and meat.
     Our empty barrels and skins to fill.

     Spear-Theign Voromund
     Stout Ovars-son,
     Biar the Young and Grenden.
     Grumm of Lund
     And some men from Skane.
     Sixteen stout hearts
     I too was one.

     With Rans-breath thick on morning sun
     The hearty men a madness met.
     An ax-dance worth the spear-grooms price.
     A gruesome beast from out the ice.
   
     Huge Grumm, with ax blade singing
    Gave a blow to split the skull
    A war song in his throat was ringing
    The Troll-kin lost a toe.

    Three men of Skane, mothers-shame
    Ran for the bobbing ships
    One is dead and two lie lame
    With troll-bite for their  fame.

   A Greedy fist now bearing down
   Towards the Jarls silver crown
   Oh monstrous hammer of whoa!

   Voromund held his ground.

   A cold bright gleam his spear ran clean
   He pierced it through the lean.
   Staggering forward it bent
   Grumms' ax came through its neck.

   Yet still it lived!
   A fearsome beast nine cold toes.
   Then Ovars'-son took his blow
   The bloody strike that cracks the spine
   And the Troll-wives filled with whoa.
 

     Forest creatures and laughing men were the background for Gundreds' snoring as the boys crawled into bed,  a pile of warm fur and wool blankets.  Trying to make him-self sleep Biar
 
   
   




   
   
    

Another One.

Purple becomes you.
But I love you most in black.
Blue is very nice too.
Of yellow there seems to be a lack.
Brown is good like the trees in winter.
And red so sets you on fire.
Green is ok if I could remember a time.
Oh you are a rainbow of desire.
You color my world of dingy grey.
The answer to for what I pray.
As I hold you tight
The world fades away
Oh sunshine on my rainy day.

Hallowed Evening Prayer 2011

Another turn of the fate filled wheel.
Skuld please stay thy hand.
May thy weave be neat
Thy barley gleaned
And thy mead ferment so sweet.

Fires a light 'gainst winters night.
Oh keep us warm inside.
Verdandi be thou kind
Wilst cold thy children sleep so deep
To awake with mornings light.

Blessed be thy Urd twined threads
As we honor the Noble-dead
The ancestors rest at Odins breast
So be not filled with dread.
Now color thy skien a pleasnt hue
For thy earth bound wyrd is set.

Untitled

Oh there once was a pig with one leg.
The Lords all said "Stay away.
It is fat and pathetic and likes to complain.
And only wants what others have got.
 Having let its own grain rot!"

Green Dragon Books and Things

http://thegreendragonalehouse.ecrater.com/

Of The Witch

She was beautiful.  So fetching that Biar began to feel a strange things.  Odd sensations that he had never felt before. She had the pale iris that darkened at the outer-rim and there was indeed an other worldly quality to her gaze as if she were looking through you at something or someone that occupied the same space as you.
    Her garment was rich and of high quality, broidered with runes as Grenden had marked earlier. Her fiery hair was in a tight braid as one would expect a sea going maiden to do. And her lips were thin but they bowed in such an attractive way that it was hard for Biar not to stare at them.

Fornsigtuna - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Fornsigtuna - Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia:

'via Blog this'

This is the Wikipedia entry describing the place where Odin and the Aesir first settled in Sweden.

Roses for Rachelle

Seraph

Tunnel of Love

Green Dragon

More Fjords

Light House

Elf

Gnome

Is he a friendly gnome or an unfriendly gnome?

Mushrooms

With Some Black Ink

In progress (just messing around)

In The Beginning

Here is the creation story. This is a modern retelling from 1912. Notice how similar it is to Grecian stories.
http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/tml/tml06.htm

Arthur Rackham

One of my all time favorite artists.

    Arthur Rackham was an english man and he worked in the early 1900s, leaving us in 1939.
                                                http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arthur_Rackham#Gallery

Beowulf.

http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/tsb/tsb02.htm

The Story of Beowulf.

Forget about the movies you have seen, read the story for your self. 

This is a nice version from 1933. 

It is in the public domain so feel free to spread it around.

Beowulf was one of the very first stories to be written down in the Old English language, and many things historical can be gleaned even from the various translations that are out there.

Enjoy.

http://www.sacred-texts.com/neu/eng/tsb/tsb02.htm

                                                      (This is a picture of Chronos, or Saturn by Goya)

Lughnasadh prayer.

Lord of light,

Lady of love

The wheel turns ever according to thy will.

For the ripened grain and fragrant herb of the field

We praise thee and give thanks.

For the blessings of thy earth and bounty of thy yield

We offer up our grace.

Sun-king, warm us in thy final days

As the bitter voice of winter calls

And we wend our way unto the grave.

Fill these waiting hallowed halls

With love to light this maze

Lead us through this thorn torn way

Away from the garden of pain

And bring us again unto that place,

Where our laughing kindred wait

Our smiles upon their face

That we may share with them again

Your immortal divine embrace

Lord of light,

Lady of love

The wheel turns ever according to thy will.

For the ripened grain and fragrant herb of the field

We praise thee and give thanks.

For the blessings of thy earth and bounty of thy yield

We offer up our grace.

One more for Rachelle

Oh how mere words do pale

When used to describe how lovely you are

Or to impart how much I care.

Indeed they are frail

Their opulence wanes, loses flair

And I at a loss

Just wish you were here

That I might explain

With burning kisses

And gentle caresses

How much I miss us

And the simple joy I feel

Just having you near.