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Special: The Song of the Witani
Toward the end of Episode 64, Tira, Bash, and Peter were dining in the great mead hall of Beorhtmedu with the Marchioness when they heard singing coming from outside. This special episode shares the contents of that song, which Rhett has patterned after the style of Old English poetry.
The format may be a bit odd for most of us, since this style relies more on repeated initial sounds instead of shared ending sounds, but we hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.
Here's the text in a standalone format for easy reference:
The Song of the Witani
Lo! May we, the many-numbered approach the all-giving mother
of our kin, the open-handed, giver of bright gifts of gold
to the brave and bold warriors of the wind-swept plains.
Of old our horses roamed to the rising-home,
the sun’s sweet hall where Dawn drinks deep of day to come.
Of old our horses strode to the setting-home,
where the wings of night press in upon the pale.
Of old our horses made us master of all between,
and lords of a land that sprang with sweetest gifts.
Once our will ran right and true,
a single sense that burned bright—
three threads today that once were one—
we, the Witani, knew defeat as does
the east the west. No foe might fight us and win;
in the great grass lands, where horse-bands' blade
fell fiercely on those who tried to take from us.
Many woeful learned to wail, sad for all the empty seats
in their halls of honor when our warriors rode:
Glory-filled days gone with the whisper of the wind.
Then came the crows, feasting with raven feathers
on us, talons tearing us brother from brother,
rending and riving and driving deep
the cracks that cut our folk far from love for itself.
May gods give grace to heal the hurts that have
torn us, tell us how we might mend
and not needlessly drive hatred deeper.
For now, fair gods, our need is nearer than ever,
as dark hosts stand at our door, their swords swift and sure.
Our gift-giver, the Fair Lady who sits in the honey-sweet hall,
leads us to light, makes haven for the hungry
and helps the helpless with a wall in the wasteland,
a firm friend with all-shielding arms.
Her hands hold no gold but let it freely flow
to those who love the land that remains ours by right.
Yet up climbs the cost as days drag on to months.
Too many horses run home with no warrior
holding high the blooded blade and battered shield.
They lie in the long hills made by man’s hands,
cold arms crossed below the blood-soaked earth.
And still the slaughter makes its way to where
both hearth and heart once dwelt. Here, we wail for them.
But bold horse-bands still ride and bite the black-clad foe,
guiding them with wounds too great to seek softer lands.
In this great work the will of our Lady leads,
for of herself she helps— her own child, strong and steady,
rides to rid the land of the fearsome foe.
How can we lose heart when so many work for our good?
Time fails us to tell of storied names and steeds
Who work as one in sun’s harsh heat,
or moon’s glow, in grey of winter’s snow or spring’s sky-tears.
Of Ecgferth, Ealdraed’s son, or Totholt the life-taker
our songs once sang, and still will, should gods’ smiles stay on us.
While they ride forth for us, our heads may rest under roofs
where careless dreams come. Our songs and words to gods hasten their feet.
But though the tide of Witan care creeps high,
new hope hastens to us, unseen by all but
the wisest ones we have. For do our songs not say
that from the sun may sail hope from on high?
And lo, again, may we know our hope anew,
for on this day, when dread has seemed as black as it could be,
a wondrous sight, when from the gathered gloom
five friends came from a ship that sails the clouds.
Without a sea, this water-horse has led the light
to bring to bold Beorhtmedu a way to wage new war.
The first is full of craft, wise Esymires, whose wingéd
steed sails the sky. He led to Stedingas the band.
Then comes Radiance of the sun, a worthy warrior
blessed with the aura of Ardan. Her arm shall awe the darkness.
Bold Peter walks worthily in the name of life and light,
a land-living one who walks with Vasham.
A doughty dwarf with axes keen and cruel
is Tira, eldest daughter of the earth. A fool is he who raises her wrath.
And last but not the least, wild Wamberbash, who wears
the smell of snarling beasts as most might wear a skin.
These all have sailed swiftly from the morning’s meadows,
leaving the heated halls of the rising red sun
to bring to truth the words that fill sorrowful souls
with fire and flame rekindled to scorch and slay
those who would claim our lives and lands.
So sing we now, and shall sing, Witani all!
-----
We used an excellent Battlebards music track. If you like what you hear, check them out at battlebards.com. If you sign up for a Prime account, be sure to use our special code, stack, and you'll get a 20% discount on your subscription.
Here are the sound effects we used in this episode:
- Downtime - Fantasy Ambience - Score Music, by Alexander Nakarada
And now, on with the show-- we're excited to tell a story with you.
View all episodes
By Stack o’ Dice
4.9
7777 ratings
Toward the end of Episode 64, Tira, Bash, and Peter were dining in the great mead hall of Beorhtmedu with the Marchioness when they heard singing coming from outside. This special episode shares the contents of that song, which Rhett has patterned after the style of Old English poetry.
The format may be a bit odd for most of us, since this style relies more on repeated initial sounds instead of shared ending sounds, but we hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.
Here's the text in a standalone format for easy reference:
The Song of the Witani
Lo! May we, the many-numbered approach the all-giving mother
of our kin, the open-handed, giver of bright gifts of gold
to the brave and bold warriors of the wind-swept plains.
Of old our horses roamed to the rising-home,
the sun’s sweet hall where Dawn drinks deep of day to come.
Of old our horses strode to the setting-home,
where the wings of night press in upon the pale.
Of old our horses made us master of all between,
and lords of a land that sprang with sweetest gifts.
Once our will ran right and true,
a single sense that burned bright—
three threads today that once were one—
we, the Witani, knew defeat as does
the east the west. No foe might fight us and win;
in the great grass lands, where horse-bands' blade
fell fiercely on those who tried to take from us.
Many woeful learned to wail, sad for all the empty seats
in their halls of honor when our warriors rode:
Glory-filled days gone with the whisper of the wind.
Then came the crows, feasting with raven feathers
on us, talons tearing us brother from brother,
rending and riving and driving deep
the cracks that cut our folk far from love for itself.
May gods give grace to heal the hurts that have
torn us, tell us how we might mend
and not needlessly drive hatred deeper.
For now, fair gods, our need is nearer than ever,
as dark hosts stand at our door, their swords swift and sure.
Our gift-giver, the Fair Lady who sits in the honey-sweet hall,
leads us to light, makes haven for the hungry
and helps the helpless with a wall in the wasteland,
a firm friend with all-shielding arms.
Her hands hold no gold but let it freely flow
to those who love the land that remains ours by right.
Yet up climbs the cost as days drag on to months.
Too many horses run home with no warrior
holding high the blooded blade and battered shield.
They lie in the long hills made by man’s hands,
cold arms crossed below the blood-soaked earth.
And still the slaughter makes its way to where
both hearth and heart once dwelt. Here, we wail for them.
But bold horse-bands still ride and bite the black-clad foe,
guiding them with wounds too great to seek softer lands.
In this great work the will of our Lady leads,
for of herself she helps— her own child, strong and steady,
rides to rid the land of the fearsome foe.
How can we lose heart when so many work for our good?
Time fails us to tell of storied names and steeds
Who work as one in sun’s harsh heat,
or moon’s glow, in grey of winter’s snow or spring’s sky-tears.
Of Ecgferth, Ealdraed’s son, or Totholt the life-taker
our songs once sang, and still will, should gods’ smiles stay on us.
While they ride forth for us, our heads may rest under roofs
where careless dreams come. Our songs and words to gods hasten their feet.
But though the tide of Witan care creeps high,
new hope hastens to us, unseen by all but
the wisest ones we have. For do our songs not say
that from the sun may sail hope from on high?
And lo, again, may we know our hope anew,
for on this day, when dread has seemed as black as it could be,
a wondrous sight, when from the gathered gloom
five friends came from a ship that sails the clouds.
Without a sea, this water-horse has led the light
to bring to bold Beorhtmedu a way to wage new war.
The first is full of craft, wise Esymires, whose wingéd
steed sails the sky. He led to Stedingas the band.
Then comes Radiance of the sun, a worthy warrior
blessed with the aura of Ardan. Her arm shall awe the darkness.
Bold Peter walks worthily in the name of life and light,
a land-living one who walks with Vasham.
A doughty dwarf with axes keen and cruel
is Tira, eldest daughter of the earth. A fool is he who raises her wrath.
And last but not the least, wild Wamberbash, who wears
the smell of snarling beasts as most might wear a skin.
These all have sailed swiftly from the morning’s meadows,
leaving the heated halls of the rising red sun
to bring to truth the words that fill sorrowful souls
with fire and flame rekindled to scorch and slay
those who would claim our lives and lands.
So sing we now, and shall sing, Witani all!
-----
We used an excellent Battlebards music track. If you like what you hear, check them out at battlebards.com. If you sign up for a Prime account, be sure to use our special code, stack, and you'll get a 20% discount on your subscription.
Here are the sound effects we used in this episode:
- Downtime - Fantasy Ambience - Score Music, by Alexander Nakarada
And now, on with the show-- we're excited to tell a story with you.
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