Fragments from the lost epic Kalethulu
In the ocean the Pacific
In the Southern Sea the endless
Lies the sunken city R'lyeh
Lies the city of the Old One
R'lyeh's roads are lightless gorges
Rays of sunshine never go there
Filled with gloom the streets and alleys
Darkness seeps from ev'ry window
Architecture cyclopean
Of geometry inhuman
Euclid would not know the angles
Could not measure lay or length there
All the lanes lead up the mountain
Meet all at the city's center
Where the dreaded door is looming
Where the master's house is standing
In the house lies Old Cthulhu
Ancient Star-Spawn dead but dreaming
Waiting for the stars returning
Thirsting for the souls of mortals
Closed the portal, deep the darkness
Age-old evil ever brooding
Like a pressure vessel boiling/ Like a putrid plague boil fest'ring
That may burst at any moment
Elder Signs they seal the portal
For/In/Through strange eons never broken
Lock him in the foe unyielding
Keep us safe while they are holding
Deep Ones guard the mausoleum
Keep the watch while he is sleeping
Though their gods are Dagon, Hydra
They still serve the Great Cthulhu
Now that fateful stars are moving
Forming fatal constellations
Dark R'lyeh comes near the surface
Stays no longer at sea's bottom
In his house Cthulhu's stirring
Soon he'll wake from death-like slumber
Even with the seals still holding
They can't stop the dreams he sends now
Water will no longer hem them
Won't prevent them from escaping
Out they go in search of cultists
Far they fly in search of victims
In the madhouse breaks out chaos
No asylum not affected
Who is weak of mind he senses
Who is psychic recognizes
They all hear Cthulhu calling
Feel his presence drawing nearer
See the ancient city rising
Think they stand before the portal
Bended minds reach for the paintbrush
Fill the canvass with vile visions
Half mad sculptors hew the marble
From the rock release forms hellish/ghoulish
Erich Zann now finds companions
Wild go strings and eldritch woodwinds
Fill the air with strange vibrations/harmonics
That no healthy brain can fathom
They see clear that/who know him coming
That/Who have waited through the ages
Long before Man came to power
Or first mammal's tepid footstep
Since the Old One went to slumber
When R'lyeh sank to the bottom
Were/Are prepared his loathsome cultists
For his future resurrection
Races rising, races falling
Never got/was his cult neglected
Be it amphib, reptile, mammal
Never lacked the Star-Spawn servants
In the swamp the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, scum and sailors
Stamp (Stump?) the ground beside the bayou
Round the idol carved from green stone/rock
In the ice the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, raw-meat eaters
Bow-legged seal-men, fur-clad shamans
And the idol carved from whale bone/tusk
Up on Leng the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, slant-eyed monkids1) 1) monk-like beings with allusion to monkeys
Yellow-robed the lowly servants
Yellow-masked the unnamed High-Priest
In the bush the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, ebonapid(s)2) 2) black and ape-like, a 'cultured' racial slur
Pygmies, giants intermingling/ed
Hewn of iron wood the idol
Far South-East the cult assembles
Low-bred mongrels, swarthy Kanaks
Bones and feathers mar their faces
Coral-cut their hideous idol
Fires mark each cult assembly
And the cries of helpless victims
Rise above the endless drumbeat
Add their voice to cultist howling
Round each place of cult assembly
Can be heard the same words chanted
Far and wide sounds "wgah'nagl"
Far and wide too sounds "fhtagn"
[Gap of unknown length]
Slowly does the portal open
Huge stone slab is moving inwards
Smoke-like darkness flowing outwards
And a foul stench overwhelming
Hell has no mephitic vapors
Nor miasmas so abhorrent
As now streams out of the entrance
Now escapes into the open
From in there a sound is coming
In the dark there is commotion
Hear the horrid footfalls nearing
Something dreadful is approaching
Star-Spawn steps out through the doorway
Human words cannot describe him
Mountain walking, mountain stumbling
Giant, foul abomination
Living proof no god's in heaven
Thing blaspheming against nature
That what is although it shouldn't
Magnum id/hoc innominandum
Unrelenting body-mangler
Prejudicial mind-destroyer
Never-ceasing soul devourer
Omnicidal murd'rous monster
[following stanzas missing;
They likely contained the rest
of the total 169 (13*13) names of
Cthulhu]
Once again submerges R'lyeh
Ocean covers tombs and temples
Hides once more the Thing's sepulchre
Back to sleep goes Old Cthulhu
Ev'rywhere the cult is cursing
Them that spoiled the master's coming
Swears an oath the deed to punish
The prevented him returning
They will follow to the Earth's end
Seek and slay the sad survivor
Maim and maul the mate who half-mad
Has returned to tell the tale here
Those who hear it must die also
No one may the cult make public
Show to mankind them in hiding
Who in secret serve the Star-Spawn
Be it soon or be it later
Be it when the sun is fading
And the oceans wildly boiling
One day will the world be ready
May the Earth all lie in ruins
With no mammal still there breathing
Still the cult will be there waiting
Knowing that Cthulhu's coming
Stars will show correct formation
Spell the doom of all creation
Usher in the devastation
And the Old One's elevation
Finally he will be ruler
Where the throne so long stood empty
Wield at last alone the scepter
Crown and orb be his forever
Come destroy us, Great Cthulhu
Wake and make an end of mankind
Suck our souls and break our bodies
You the once and future master/monster
[Another fragment]
Worse than even Great Cthulhu
Is his son Ghatanothoa
Those who do not fear the father
Will not dare to face the offspring
Hidden in his mountain fortress
That now too lies under water
Deep inside the stronghold's dungeons
Lurks the ultimate of horrors
There's no need for him to touch you
Lay his claws upon your body
He will not rip you to pieces
Grant the mercy of oblivion
He is worse than any Gorgon
Makes a basilisk seem pleasant
They may petrify forever
But will kill you in the process
If on him your gaze is falling
It will mummify your body
Soul and mind they will stay intact
Badly scarred but never dying
Soul and mind entrapped forever
Through the agony of ages
Closed-in syndrome without ending
Cause your shell will never perish
Never will decay destroy it
Free the soul from earthly bondage
And with Him a constant presence
Rescue cannot reach you ever
Never sleeps Ghanatothoa
In his halls upon high mountain
So whoever will there enter
He must face the son of Star-Spawn
Pray he always will stay in there
Does not come into the open
Does not come down from the mountain
To the steads of sentient beings
Should a victim's body ever
Come before the eyes of mortals
Out of prudence and of mercy
Hack it instantly to pieces
Do not check the victim's eyeballs
If you do, you'll likely join it
In the orb is fixed the image
Of the petrifying horror
So much power has the monster
With his ghoulish, vile appearance
That such image is sufficient
Too to work the spell so dreadful
[to be continued]
For those interested:
Kalethulu is a contraction of Kall ef Thulu or Kalli Thulu and is derived from Islandic Kall (= Call, Calling, Vocation) and either Þulur (=Speaker, Narrator) or Þula (=song, verse). So it means either Call of the Story-Teller or The Call of Poetry (in very free translation maybe even Siren Song).
No allusion to a certain Finnish piece of literature or the fevered imagination of a Providencial pulp-writer ;)
Eek! Very impressive epic, Swato.
I love these! Keep them coming.
Good stuff, Swato!
Quote from: Rambling Syd RumpoA tale so spine-chilling that it will make the bogles on your possets stand on end.
Let's have some more.
Here is a stanza in Icelandic (in fornyrðislag metre)
þađ er Cþul(h)u
þursa drottnari
Skrímsli stjörnur
Skelfing hann er manna
Dauður en dreymandi
Sinn dagur mun koma
Rikir brjálædi
En birta er ekki
That is Cthulhu
Lord of Giants (or evil powers in general)
Monster/Spawn of stars
Enemy (he is) of mankind
Dead but dreaming
His day will come
Madness rules
But there is no light
You never cease to amaze! :)
At the center of the cosmos
Where the primal chaos triumphs
Stands a seat of polished ether
Stands a throne not made of matter
In the seat the mindless master
On the throne the king of chaos
Azathoth the Demon Sultan
Azathoth the Idiot Inca
He the chief of all creation
He they doyen of destruction
Has no brain a thought to process
Has no senses he could feel with
Chaos knows no rule or logic
It defies all laws and custom
From it come all things existing
In it dies what it/is created
But not Azathoth the ageless
Not the One who was and will be
He was there ere clocks were ticking
He'll be there when all has perished
How does rule a being senseless?
How does reign one lacking reason?
Who will carry out the orders
Of the king who can't them utter?
Through the One called Crawling Chaos
Vicious vile Nyarlathotep
He's the messenger and envoy
Speaking for the master speechless
He is cunning, even charming
Closest of the Old to humans
Taking shape in ancient Egypt
Phar'oh's guise his fav'rite cover
[Another fragment]
Pray, oh pray to Shub-Niggurath
Fertile mother of a thousand
Iä! black goat from the woodland
Iä! black ram from the forest
In a world of murd'rous monsters
In a cosmos hating humans
She's the One not wholly hostile
She alone provides protection
[Another fragment]
That is Glaaki, lurking liar
In this lake his lair is hidden
That his body made when coming
Down to Earth from distant places.
Lured by the mendacious monster
Drawn by dreams of life and wisdom
Foolish mortals will approach him
Will believe his lies and promise
Those who travel past the goatwood
Those who near the lake in error
They all fall to his spell victim
Cannot turn their step(s) to flee him
Some who search for Shub-Niggurath
But then miss the gloomy goatwood
Come to where Great Glaaki's hiding
Get entrapped, become his victim
On his back the great wolf's footprint (=iron)
Sticking out are spikes of iron
Hollow tipped like stinging nettle
Like harpoons of angry hornets
Through them he injects his poison
Greenish slime of gruesome power
Turns his victims into zombies
That must serve the guileful Glaaki
Break the spike before injection
After it has pierced your body
You will die but find salvation
You'll be spared eternal serfdom
They indeed become immortal
Those who fall for Glaaki's promise
But it is as undead servant
Mind and body taken over
And with sixty summers passing
Sixty winters in his service
Green Decay will ache/plague the servants
Green Rot threaten their survival
Those by Green Decay afflicted
Must avoid all light exposure
Undead flesh will fall apart then
If a single sunray hits it
They must hide in utter darkness
May not come out during daytime
Serve their master under starlight
Or they risk annihilation.
Only when the master sleepeth
Can the servant's mind move freely
Is aware of doom and thralldom
Can lament his fate and status
When the master lies in slumber
Will the servants scratch/carve the tablets
Write down Glaaki's revelations
Tell the tale in many volumes
[Another fragment]
At a time by few remembered
In an age by most forgotten
Held an ancient race dominion
This our Earth was ruled by others
Long before Cthulhu's Star-Spawn
Or the Old himself arrived here
Undisputed through the ages
Elder Things controlled this planet
They were master of all nature
Could rise life from lifeless matter
Rose a race of migthy servants
That would work, obey their bidding
Giant protoplasmic bubbles
Without shape but with great power
Not endowed with mind or reason
But with strength out of proportion
These are called by us the shoggoths
Feared like few things in creation
Like immense amoebas sliding
To all living things a horror
What became of ancient masters
That created them as workers?
How could tool that built the cities
Conquer them that gave the orders?
(to be continued)
When from up came Great Cthulhu
When Mi-Go came down from Yuggoth
War broke out between the races
Strife and slaughter, wild and vicious
Elder Things sent out the shoggoths
Sent their servants as their proxies
They should fight the Great Cthulhu
The should crush the crustaceans
But the fought a losing battle
Lost their cities on the surface
Were confined to ocean's bottom
Were holed up in cold Antarctic
This was not their only problem
There were other consequences
They had sent to war their servants
Sent the shoggoths into battle
Slaves that had till then been mindless
And had stayed below the surface
Were now fighting out of water
And began to grow self-conscious
Elder Things made now concessions
Ceded land to Great Cthulhu
Gave access to ore to Mi-Go
Signed the peace to end the slaughter
Then they fought their former servants
Once again subdued the shoggoths
Those that had not joined Cthulhu
Or had fled to hidden places
But no spell can last forever
And the slaves again grew restless
After ages of suppression
Shoggoths rose up in rebellion
Now all cities were abandoned
In the sea and the Antarctic
Elder Things sought final refuge
In the bowels of the planet
Deep below the Madness Mountains
Deep below the Southern Ice-shield
Where no human ever ventured
Elder Things may still be living
Are they still there in the darkness
Building cities in the caverns?
Have they reenslaved the shoggots
There to serve them as their minions?
Or has protoplasmic monster
Put an end to former master?
Who will go to find the answer
And return alive to tell us?
(to be continued)
In the graveyards ghouls are meeting
In the graves the ghouls are feasting
Gouge themselves on human corpses
Eating what's no longer living
Yes their habits are disgusting
Table manners not their strong point
They won't serve the rotten carcass
On fine dinnerware of silver/china
Fork and knife they cannot handle
Cutlery they will use never
They have claws to cut the portions
Have strong hands the food to handle
[two stanzas unconnected to the rest]
Habt verschrieben euch dem Bösen
Wollt ihn aus den Banden lösen
Die so lange ihn gehalten
Schützten uns vor den Gewalten
Schwere Strafe sollt ihr spüren
Arme Seelen zu entführen
Sie dem Unhold hinzuschlachten
Ist gewesen euer Trachten
[standard text resumes here]
Don't believe they eat small children
That they rob from tearful parents
They abduct but don't devour
Toddlers take but not for dinner
Any child they have abducted
They will feed with special corpse meat
Teach them all their ghoulish habits
Make them members of their species
Many ghouls you may encounter
Meet where meat of man is eaten/dead man's meat is eaten
They began as human children
Nurture made them what they are now
Small kids stolen from the cradle
Torn away from tearful parents
Strengthen now the growing ghouldom
Not as slaves but as true siblings
Though they will not harm the wee ones
Hurt those they intend to join them
Don't approach them unless called for
Don't go near them uninvited
They will deal with the intruder
Show no mercy to the meddler
Better torn by dogs to pieces
Than do what the ghoul displeases
Gruesome, sticky is the ending
Of him who the ghoul offendeth
The disturber of their dinner
Will not see another morning
But with proper introduction
One will find these fiends quite friendly
One can forge with them a friendship
Stronger than with most of mortals
You can join them as an adult
Although few will take the offer
Most prefer for their nutition
Other things than rotten corpses
Of these few one is quite famous
While he walked among the living
He was known as Richard Pickmann
Great among perverted painters
Though his talent was/got acknowledged
As a well/most accomplished artist
In revulsion turned the critics
What he put upon the canvas
Scenes of horror unimagined
Worse than any common nightmare
Nothing what the sane could stomach
Or allow in exhibitions
Of a fever(ed) mind the figments
Bubbling from a brain all sickened
That's what critics claim is fountain
Source and spring of Pickmann's paintings
They know nothing of his methods
Could not grasp a truth so gory
That from life is drawn the loathsome
That he witnessed what his work shows
His detractors he derided
Taunted those with taste, 'distinction'
Drew from them perverted pleasure
Felt rewarded by their furor
What he loathed were his admirers
Hate he had for those who loved him
Could not stand their praise insipid
Pseudodecadents he called them
For he knew at least the critics
Sensed the real behind the rotten
Fear it fueled their condemnation
Horror nourished their nausea
And now for something completely different:
A fake fairy-tale based on even more fake medieval events and heroic songs.
Owl-Terry and the Red Bull
(no allusion to that dreadful drink intended)
There lived in a village by a river a young lad by the name of Terry. He was not very bright and many considered him to be candidate for the position of village idiot once the sitting one would die. But he was always frienddly ans smiling and never had an unkind word for anyone. He was also a friend to all wild animals, especially birds. His favorite was a large gray owl living in a tree at the edge of the forest. Thus people began to call him Owl-Terry. Thsi friendship grew so close that one calm autumn evening the owl suddenly opened his beak and whispered into Terry's ear. "you are different from the other boys. You don't plunder our nests, you don't ever throw rocks at us and if any bird is hurt you take care and nurse it back to health. For all the good you have done to us we will take you into our confidence and ahre with you some vital secrets. Very soon the old village idiot will die. The people will cry that the king has died and that they need a new one. They will say that that you alone have the wisdom to fill his shoes and they will mock-crown you with straw, an apple and a leek. You will pretend to take them at their word. Now listen carefully what you must do. Remove the lintel of your hut's door and extend the doorframe up to the roof. Tie your father's plough to the roof beam above the door with the shaft pointing downward. When people ask you what you are doing there, explain to them that it is to teach them respect. 'He who enters my palace not bowing his head will run against the shaft and the ploughshare will go through his neck.' They will praise your ingenuity and firm hand and will leave it at that. Otherwise act as always, although maybe a bit more aloof. Three days afer the hay harvest there will be a great commotion in the village and everyone will run down to the river. Do not join them but come here quickly and bring me into your hut without anybody noticing."
Another boy might have been surprised and frightened that an owl spoke to him but Owl-Terry had always believed that anomals could understand and talk like humans do but did not usually see the need since so much can be said without words. He went home and truly by the end of the week the old village idiot had died and our boy became Fool-Terry I.
As he had been he heightened the door and tied the plough above it. Great was the praise to his face and great the laughter behind his back. The autumn proceeded and hay was made. All barns got filled up to the roof. Only Terry who had no horse or cow did not store any. He even emptied his mattrass and threw the straw away when a bird flew by and told him so. Three days after the harvest he woke up early in the morning and heard a great commotion outside. People shouted "To the river, to the river!" but Terry remembered what the owl had said to him. He sneaked out the back door and ran to the edge of the forest. The old owl awaited him. "Here, take my bag of mice and let's go before He sees you." Terry did not ask who He was but hid his friend under a piece of cloth, took the bag of mice and went back to his hut unseen.
"Do not leave the hut and don't make any noise until I tell you! HIs eye is keen, His ears are sharp and He can smell the smallest peice of hay or straw from afar.". But the hut was clean and Terry took seat in a dark corner without a word or question.
Meanwhile the villagers had assembled at the river bank to see the great miracle. A huge red bull with golden horns and iron hooves swam up the river towards them. His eyes were fire. his breath steam and his hooves threw sparks when they hit a stone. He was almost twice as high as a man at the shoulders. The ground shook under his step. "I am hungry!", he bellowed, "Bring me hay!". They ran to bring him some but the more he ate the more he demanded. And when the first barn was emptied he gored the owner and trampled him into the dust.
"I am thirsty!", he belloeed, "Bring me water!". But the more water they brought to him from the well the more he demanded. And when the well ran dry he gored the first whose bucket was empty and trampled him into the dust. The he went to the river, pissed into it and muddied the water with his hooves, so nobody could drink from it without getting sick.
During the night some tried to flee but the bull's eye was keen, his ears sharp and not a single one got even a hundred paces away before He gored them and trampled them into the dust.
On the second day he emptied two barns, on the third three, and for each that he emptied he gored the owner and trampled him into the dust. No one dared to attack the bull and some ended under his hooves for merely letting their eyes rest on a scythe or pitchfork.
When the fourth day broke the owl spoke to Terry. "Now it is your turn. Climb into the chimney as far as you can get. I'll go before you and spy around. Btw, I hope there is nothing in this hut your heart is too closely attached to.". "No, there isn't.", said Terry and began to climb. As an orphan he was naturally slim and if the owl had not stopped him, he would have gone up all they way and onto the roof. "Keep your head down!", the owl said, "You are to be heard, not seen.". "In here you sound so different, much deeper and hollow like a ghost.". "I hope so, for we will need that. Listen, when I say 'Now!', shout as loud as you can these words: 'Skinka, stinka, springa'!". "Skinka, stinka, springa?". "Yes, it means 'jump, you stinking piece of ham' in the old tongue. Now let me look. Yes, the bull is in the village square and looking for someone to gore and trample into the dust. We will give him what he wants. NOW!".
The bull bellowed. "Bring me hay! Bring me water! I need to piss! I need to gore and trample!"
Sudddenly he heard a deep and hollow voice. "Skiiinkaaa! Stiiinkaaa! Spriiingaaa!"
"Whoooo dareth?", bellowed the bull, "How do you call me?"
"Skiiinkaaa!"
"What do you call me?"
"Stiiinkaaa!"
"And you dare to command me what to do?"
"Spriiingaaa!"
"I will jump very well. I'll gore you. I'll trample you into the dust! Then I'll gore you again!"
"Skinka, stinka, springa!"
"I hear you, I know where you are. You hide in that hut with the high door."
"Skinka, stinka, springa!"
"Wait, this instant you will be on my horns and beneath my hooves!"
The bull's eye was fire from hell, his breath steam from a vent, his hooves threw sparks as he ran, blinded by fury, to Terry's hut. The door splintered without slowing him down the least. His head crashed into the heavy shaft of the plough pushing it forward like a a large lever. On the other side of the pivot the ploghshare swung down with the same force the bull pushed the shaft with and went deep into his neck. In pain the bull's hwad went up and his bellow blew the walls down but it drove the ploughsahre even deeper in. In agony he tore the hut to pieces so that only the chimney remained standing. the at last he fell down dead and the light vanished from his eye. It took some time before Terry dared to climb out of the chimney and even longer before the surviving villagers found the courage to come out of their houses. "What has happened that the mighty bull lies down dead, he that no one could touch, he that gored and trampled into the dust with impunity? Who slew him and how?". "He slew himself. He was not humble and would not bow his head entering the hut, so the ploughshare pierced his neck. He fell before the fool, the foul fell to the feeble. And, not to forget, he left us with a lot of meat."
"Fool you may be but fair is your speech. We owe you our lives. How can we repay you?". "that one is easy. Whenever you butcher, share some with the fool. A piece of the hindleg seems proper to me.". "So be it, for you and those that come after. the fool shall not go hungry when there is meat around!"
And the villagers kept their word. they aslo helped him to rebuild his hut and insisted that the plough would again be hung above the door. Owl-Terry reached a ripe old age and personally handed his status over to another young not-so-bright-but-friendly-to-every-living-creature lad. And to this very day the custom is kept that the elected fool would get a piece from the hindleg of every butchered bull, pig, or sheep. And parents tell their kids the story of Owl-Terry and the Red Bull as I have now told it to you. Now, let's all call out loudly: Skinka! Stinka! Springa!
I'm slowly working my way through the Cthulhu epics, but they are worthy of Lovecraft himself (and the Old Ones, of course ;) ).
Here's the prologue for the Óltheresmál/Hristarismál
Should of course be in Old Norse or Old English but I am not well-versed enough in either
Moved to post below
Heerfahrt besing ich des herrischen Jarls
Uxavaði des Edlen des Jógvans Sohn
Heldische Werke herrlicher Recken
Doch Neidingstat auch werd nicht ich verhehlen
Im Holmgang maßen der Männer sich zweie
Sie traten zum Tanz an den Tyr zu ehren
Einer ein Sachse der andre von Franken
Schützer der Scholle und Schild-Than des Wikings
Graubart stand grimmig den Ger da schwang er
Erwartet den Ansturm des Ungestümen
Nicht krümmt das Alter des Kampfbaums Rücken
Nicht Stütze des Schwachen ist Schwarzkittels Zähmer
Helm von Spangen und schuppichter Panzer
Hüllen den Jungen herrlich zu schauen
Tapfer der treue Träger der Waffen
Schild stets des Schenkers schimmernder Ringe
Wie diese beiden Waffen hier kreuzten
Skinka von Franken von Sachsen Ólthere
Will ich in Versen würdig des Fürsten
Künden den Kühnen in Königs Halle
Of the campaign I will sing of the lordly Jarl
Uxavaði the noble son of Jógvar
Heroic deeds of splendid warriors
But villanous deeds I will not conceal either
In single combat two men competed
They took to the dance to honour Tyr
One a Saxon the other from Francia
The furrow's protector and the Viking's sword thane
Graybeard stood fierce, the spear he shook
Awaiting the onslaught of the boisterous
Not did (his) old age bend the battle-tree's (=warrior) back
No weakling's support is blackmantle's (=wild boar) tamer (=the spear)
A spangenhelm and scale armor
Cover(ed) the young one, a marvel to behold
Brave the faithful carrier of arms
Always the shield of the donor of shimmering rings
How these two crossed weapons
Skinka of Francia, of Saxony Ólthere
I will in verses worthy of the prince
Tell to the bold in the king's hall
Another fragment from the first part.
A singer in the Jarl's hall addresses the assembled men at the feast
Moved to post below
Wir sind Schmarotzer beim Schenker der Ringe
Mindern das Gut des mildesten Herren
Wann habt zuletzt ihr Waffen geführet
Im blutigen Strauße beschirmt den Fürsten?
Ihr habt gefüttert den Fresser des Eisens
Nicht wie es sein soll Siegvaters Möwen
Weich sind die Hände die hart sein sollten
Heben die Hörner der Helmwolf muß fasten
Praßt ihr noch lange in prächtiger Halle
Schickt der Feind Weiber den Weichling zu ducken
Was braucht es Männer die Memmen zu würgen
Die sich gemästet die Muskeln verloren?
Reizet den Herrn doch zur Heerfahrt zu rüsten
Sonnab zu segeln zum Sachsenlande
Anglias Ufer wo oft von den Vätern
Blut ward vergossen und Beute gewonnen
Stoßet vom Strande den Steven des Langschiffs
Es pflüge Njords Acker das Pferd der Wogen
Trage die Recken dem Ruhm entgegen
Eilig durch Ägirs unstetes Lehen
We are parasites at (the court of) the ring-giver
Diminish the goods of the most generous lord
When have you last wielded weapons
In the bloody strife shielded the prince?
You have fed the eater of iron (=rust)
Not as it should be the gulls of the father of victory (=Odin's birds = ravens)
Soft are the hands that should be hard
(They) lift but the (drinking) horns, the helmet wolf (=axe) has to go hungry
Splurge you much longer in the splendid hall
The foe will send females to duck/cow the weakling
Who would need men to kill the cowards
That have fattened themselves but lost their muscles?
Incite the Lord to go on campaign
To sail sun-down (=westward) to the land of the Saxon
Anglia's coast where often by our fathers
Blood was shed and booty won
Push off the beach the stem of the longship
Let Njord's fields be plowed by the wave horse
To carry the warriors towards glory
Swiftly through Aegir's unsteady realm
I made some extra verses that fit in-between the already posted.
So I better put the full prologue and first scene here again and erase it in the above posts
I'll put the epilogue behind that
Prologue
Heerfahrt besing ich des herrischen Jarls
Uxavaði des Edlen des Jógvans Sohn
Heldische Werke herrlicher Recken
Doch Neidingstat auch werd nicht ich verhehlen
Im Holmgang maßen der Männer sich zweie
Sie traten zum Tanz an den Tyr zu ehren
Einer ein Sachse der andre von Franken
Schützer der Scholle und Schwert-Than des Wikings
Graubart stand grimmig den Ger da schwang er
Erwartet den Ansturm des Ungestümen
Nicht krümmt das Alter des Kampfbaums Rücken
Nicht Stütze des Schwachen ist Schwarzkittels Zähmer
Helm von Spangen und schuppichter Panzer
Hüllen den Jungen herrlich zu schauen
Tapfer der treue Träger der Waffen
Schild stets des Schenkers schimmernder Ringe
Wie diese beiden Waffen hier kreuzten
Skinka von Franken von Sachsen Ólthere
Will ich in Versen würdig des Fürsten
Künden den Kühnen in Königs Halle
First scene
Fest ward gefeiert beim Feinde des Goldes
Es saß auf der Metbank die Menge der Krieger
Die Hörner zu heben dem Herren zum Preise
Das Mahl zu morden dem mildesten Fürsten
Der Herr der Halle vom Hochsitz ruft er
Den Wirker der Worte wünscht er zu hören
Heißt ihn zu spenden von Suttungs Met
Und so wie geheißen der hebt an zum Liede
Wir sind Schmarotzer beim Schenker der Ringe
Mindern das Gut des mildesten Herren
Wann habt zuletzt ihr Waffen geführet
Im blutigen Strauße beschirmt den Fürsten?
Ihr habt gefüttert den Fresser des Eisens
Nicht wie es sein soll Siegvaters Möwen
Weich sind die Hände die hart sein sollten
Heben die Hörner der Helmwolf muß fasten
Praßt ihr noch lange in prächtiger Halle
Schickt der Feind Weiber den Weichling zu ducken
Was braucht es Männer die Memmen zu würgen
Die sich gemästet die Muskeln verloren?
Reizet den Herrn doch zur Heerfahrt zu rüsten
Sonnab zu segeln zum Sachsenlande
Anglias Ufer wo oft von den Vätern
Blut ward vergossen und Beute gewonnen
Stoßet vom Strande den Steven des Langschiffs
Es pflüge Njords Acker das Pferd der Wogen
Trage die Recken dem Ruhm entgegen
Eilig durch Ägirs unstetes Lehen
Auf sprang der Edle Uxavaðis Haupt
Der glänzende Jarl Jógvans Sohn
Herab vom Hochsitz der Halle Zierde
Und ruft in die Runde der reisigen/rüstigen Mannen
Es stachelt zum Streite die Stolzen am Tische
Der Künder der Kühnheit des Kampfmuts Besinger
Doch wahr sind die Worte und weise gesprochen
Zu rütteln die Recken aus ruhmlosem Nichtstun
Nicht ziemt es zu zehren zu lang von den Gütern
Die Väter erkämpften mit kräftigem Arme
Eh Fettsucht und Faulheit uns fesseln zur Unzeit
Ist's besser die Brünnen mit Blut frisch zu netzen
Schleifet die Schwerter die Schilde neu buckelt
Laßt blitzen die Beile die Brecher der Fischhaut
Stoßt aus den Ställen die sturmfesten Renner
Auf Bolsis Bank bringt die Schäumer
Westwärts soll wiehern der Wogentrotzer
Und südwärts halb segeln zum Sachsenlande
Die Küste ist kahl schon kaum was zu holen
Laßt stürmen die Stätten die stromaufwärts liegen
Epilogue
Ein Schiff alleine nach Osten nun/nur steuert
Die Hälfte der Helden zur Halle kehrt wieder
Ruhm sie und Reichtum dem Raubzug verdanken
Fehlt auf der Metbank auch mancher Genosse
Der lebt im Liede den Lehm nun zudeckt
Fiel er im Felde vom Feinde getroffen
Empfing er also ehrbare Wunde
Die Walküre weist ihn zu Walhallas Tür
Steht auch dem Starken nicht Skinka mehr bei nun
Der Franke gefallen am Flusse im Zweikampf
Noch traf ihn der Tod nicht wo Tyr bringt man Opfer
Fürchtet den Feind nicht der Fäller Óltheres
Oft noch zog aus Uxavaðis Jarl
Jógvans Sohn Schenker der Ringe
Es singen im Saale die Sänger der Edlen
Vom Wütrich der Walstatt vom watenden Stier
Rough translation (and some minimum explanations)
Prologue
Of the campaign I will sing of the lordly Jarl
Of Uxavað the noble son of Jógvan
Heroic deeds of splendid warriors
But villanous deeds I will not conceal either
In single combat two men competed
They took to the dance to honour Tyr (the war god)
One a Saxon the other from Francia
The furrow's protector and the Viking's sword thane
Graybeard stood fierce, the spear he shook
Awaiting the onslaught of the boisterous
Not did (his) old age bend the battle-tree's (=warrior) back
No weakling's support is blackmantle's (=wild boar) tamer (=the spear)
A spangenhelm and scale armor
Cover(ed) the young one, a marvel to behold
Brave the faithful carrier of arms
Always the shield of the donor of shimmering rings
How these two crossed weapons
Skinka of Francia, of Saxony Ólthere
I will in verses worthy of the prince
Tell to the bold in the king's hall
First scene
Feast there was at the gold-foe (=generous master) ('s house)
There sat on the mead-bench the lot of the warriors
To lift the (drinking) horns to praise the master
To murder the meal of the most generous prince
The hall's master from the high seat he calls
He wants to hear the wordsmith
Asks him to share the mead of Suttung (=poetry)
And as requested he begins his song
We are parasites at (the court of) the ring-giver
Diminish the goods of the most generous lord
When have you last wielded weapons
In the bloody strife shielded the prince?
You have fed the eater of iron (=rust)
Not as it should be the gulls of the father of victory (=Odin's birds = ravens)
Soft are the hands that should be hard
(They) lift but the (drinking) horns, the helmet wolf (=axe) has to go hungry
Splurge you much longer in the splendid hall
The foe will send females to duck/cow the weakling
Who would need men to kill the cowards
That have fattened themselves but lost their muscles?
Incite the Lord to go on campaign
To sail sun-down (=westward) to the land of the Saxon
Anglia's coast where often by our fathers
Blood was shed and booty won
Push off the beach the stem of the longship
Let Njord's fields (=the sea) be plowed by the wave horse (=ship)
To carry the warriors towards glory
Swiftly through Aegir's unsteady realm (=the sea)
Up jumps the noble, head of Uxavað
The splendid jarl the son of Jógvan
Down from the high seat, the hall's adornement
And loudly calls into the assembly of warlike men
He incites to strife the pride ones at the table
The teller of daring, the singer of bravery
But true are the words and wisely spoken
To shake the warriors from inglorious idleness
It misbecomes to feed too long from the goods
That fathers eked out with strong arm
Ere obesity and laziness untimely chain us
It's better to wet the mailcoats afresh with blood
Sharpen the swords and put new bosses on the shields
Let sparkle the battle axes the breakers of fish skin (scale armor)
Push from the stables the storm-safe runners (=ships from the ship-houses)
To Bolsi's bench (=the sea) lead the foamers
Westwards shall whinny the wave-braver
And sail half southwards to Saxon land
The coast is bare already, not much to get there
Let's storm the steads that lie upstream
Epilogue
A single ship now/only stears eastward
Half the heroes to the hall return
Glory and Riches the owe to the raid
Even while many comrades are missing on the mead bench
He lives in song whom loam now covers
If he fell on the battlefield struck by the foe
If he received a honourable wound
The Valkyrie sends him to the doors of Valhalla
Although Skinka stands no longer at the strong one's side
The Frank who fell by the river in single combat
Not met his death where sacrifices to Tyr are made (=battlefield)
Not fears the foe the feller of Ólthere
Often yet went out (to war) the jarl of Uxavað
Jógvan's son giver of rings
In the hall the singers of the nobles sing
Of the rager on the battlefield, the wading bull (Uxavað = river crossing of bulls)
Update: the song, now on the verge of becoming an epic, has by now 171 stanzas á 4 long lines.
There are still a few gaps in it that I think I can fill with about 10-20 more stanzas.
And then I have to translate it into English, so the siblings without proficiency in German can enjoy it (Hah! :o ::) :o) too.
And all of that to give a basis to some scienific/literary hoax :-\
Yes, but it's a great project. ;D
OK, First German version completed (not yet proofread).
If I have not miscounted: 184 German stanzas + 2 Icelandic 'originals'
Our spidey-cthulu sense are tingling with anticipation! :cthulhu:
The Great Old One has not much to do there (although he is possibly mentioned once and Ólthere is under suspicion of being a lapsed cultist)
Hvisla hvitnandi hvitlega Franki
Ærulaus Ohthere er Þessi, drottinn minn
Þegn þrælslegs Þular fyrrum
Stór í Þugela gandlands fróður
Þulur, also found in inscriptions as k(onungr) Þulur is under strong suspicion of being no one else than the Great Spawn of Stars.
It's very authentic, which is pretty good in modern (-ish) German. Very heroic. I love the bit where they burn the church and the bells fall from the tower.
Bald fliegen die Fackeln und Feuerbienen
Schon brennt das Gebälk der Beterhalle
Und taumelt vom Turm das tönende Erz
Nun Muspells Meute macht sich zu eigen
Was Heilands Herde mit Händen gebaut
I have just begun to proofread. I'll have to revise a number of verses because I violated the metre (and a few modernisms have to go*). Doing the commentary and the translation will take a while.
*not the product placements :mrgreen: Did you notice them?
No. I did think Flotille was a bit of a misfit, though.
I will throw out a few of those 'modern' words (Schmarotzer has to go anyway since I forgot that it does not alliterate with sch but r since the emphasis is on the second syllable).
Edit: the flotilla does not even qualify as 'modernist'. The Icelandic word for fleet is floti, a small fleet (flotilla) would be a smáfloti or (by analogy) a flotja.
As for product placement, I thought these would be obvious ;D
Aus heimischen Hölzern handgefertigt
Für Raubzug und Reise das richtige Fahrzeug
Für stolze Bestattung im Stil des Nordens
Auf Kamprads Kähne kann man trauen
-----
Der scharfe, erschmolzen aus schwedischem Erze
Getrieben, getempert von Thüringer Meistern
Suhler Ware zum wohlfeilen Preis
Verbürgte Güte sonst Geld zurück
It's actually less anachronistic than it might look. There was metal working in the area already in pre-Roman times and 'Suhala' is mentioned in medieval monastery records. The town has been famous for high quality weapons for many centuries. Since the Vikings imported most of their swords from Central Europe and the owner here is actually a Frank, it is by no means impossible that he would wield one with this origin. But definitely not made from Swedish iron ore.
I am working on a saga that connects all the parts. I call it the Örhandar Saga (Scarhand Saga)
Here are the main family trees
(http://toadfishmonastery.com/forum/index.php?action=dlattach;topic=2702.0;attach=1484)
On the right are the Jarls of Uxavað. Jáutvarður is the jarl who remained unnamed in the Óltheresmál. The saga begins with the death of the elder Jógvan and Þorgeir's service for the younger. Þorgeir the smith later travels north and settles in the Troms region (Hálogaland) where he marries the daughter of Harmoðr, a priest of Thor, and sister of the shipbuilder Hamðir. Their son Ottar learns both the crafts of smithing and shipbuilding and becomes a successful trader and voyager. He marries the völva (seeress) Åse and they later settle down in Anglia. They have a daughter named Gerðr. When Åse turns out to be a sorceress Ottar slays her while Gerðr is still a baby. He then marries Ása who a few years later dies giving birth to Olrik. Now follows the plot of the Óltheresmál. Gerðr seeks revenge for the death of her father and summons the spirit of Ása whom she mistakes for her mother. From her she receives the backstory previously kept from her. After preparations she summons and defeats the draugr of her real mother. Together with her halfbrother she travels first to Uxavað and then to Thugela. There she defeats the priestess of Þulur and sends the evil spirits packing. Having done that she reacquires her grandfather's homestead (peacefully) and dies at a very high age after making sure that the spirits of the past can never rise again.
I left out many crucial details concerning e.g. the scarred hands and a few very important items in the above summary. I have to leave a bit of suspense :mrgreen:
* eagerly awaits the next installment *
(http://forum.climbing.ie/Smileys/default/popcorn.gif)
Here is one chapter freshly written (not yet translated though).
Gerðr makes the weapon she will fight the Draugr with.
In der nächsten Nacht war Neumond. Gerðr sieht nach, daß Olrik wirklich schläft. Dann nimmt sie ihr Werkzeug und tritt vor die Tür. Es war so dunkel, daß man die Hand nicht vor Augen sah, aber sie schreitet ohne Lampe oder Fackel mit geschlossenen Augen in den Wald. Sie geht vorwärts und stößt sich nicht ein einziges Mal. Schließlich bleibt sie stehen und streckt die Hand vor. Sie umfaßt den Stamm einer jungen Esche. Manche sagen, es war eine Eibe, aber das ist nicht glaubhaft. Sie nimmt das Beil von der Schulter und haut den Stamm ab. Dann setzt sie sich nieder und beginnt ihn zu behauen. Eine Stunde vor Sonnenaufgang hält sie einen drei Ellen langen Stab in Händen, die Spitze zu einem kleinen Becher geformt. Mächtige Runen zieren den Schaft. Doch noch ist die Arbeit nicht getan. Gerðr stimmt den Galster an. Es beginnt mit erkennbaren Wörtern, auch wenn sie selbst sie nicht versteht. Aber bald verliert sich jede Spur menschlicher Sprache. Tierische Rufe mischen sich hinein, und schließlich steigert sich der Gesang ins nicht mehr Beschreibbare. Als der erste Strahl der Sonne die Wipfel trifft endet Gerðr mit einem Schrei zu hoch für das menschliche Ohr. Nur ihre Eule ruft empört und fliegt zu ihrem Schlafplatz. Das Werk ist getan, und erschöpft macht sich Gerðr auf den Heimweg. Sie verbirgt den Stab unter dem Giebel wo die Eule nistet. Dann legt sie sich schlafen.
Am Abend erhebt sie sich und geht zum Verschlag neben der Schmiede. Dort lagern Holzkohle und Roheisen, die sie selbst hergestellt hat. Sie prüft die Luppen und sucht die besten Stücke heraus. Auch von der Holzkohle nimmt sie nur die beste. Gerðr bringt alles in die Schmiede und schließt die Tür hinter sich ab. Bald brennt das Feuer in der Esse und bringt die Luppen zum Glühen. Dann liegen sie auf dem Amboß, und der Hammer geht zu Werke. Die ganze Nacht wandern die Stücke zwischen Feuer und Amboß hin und her bis auch das letzte Stück Schlacke ausgetrieben ist. Erschöpft sinkt Gerðr in Schlaf und wacht erst auf als die Sonne erneut sinkt. Sie ißt nichts und trinkt nur etwas Wasser. Aus dem Versteck unter dem Giebel holt sie den Stab und aus dem Kasten das abgeschnittene Haar. Im Mörser zerstößt sie Eisenkraut. Zuletzt nimmt sie noch den Beutel mit ihren geschnittenen Fingernägeln und schließt sich erneut in der Schmiede ein. Und wieder tönt bis zum Morgengrauen der Hammer. Als es tagt hat Gerðr ein Speereisen geschmiedet, das dem ihres Vaters völlig gleicht. Lange Federn umschließen den Stab, den sie zu Neumond geschnitten hat, schützen den Schaft und verdecken die Runen. Ein passender Speerschuh umhüllt das untere Ende. Nur eins fehlt jetzt noch. Gerðr umwindet die Speerspitze mit einem goldenen, einem silbernen und einem bleiernen Band. Das Werk ist vollendet und sie spricht:
Ich fällte die Fichten zu füllen den Meiler
Ich schwelte zur Schwärze geschichtetes Holz
Erz im Ofen zu Eisen mir schmolz
Im Sumpf ich selbst sammelt' die Brocken
Ich läutert' die Luppen mit Lohe und Hammer
Mit Haar nicht Huhn gab Härte dem Stahle
Schärfe und Schuh den Schaft nun zieren
Zu schwerem Streit schreit ich zaglos
Sie verbirgt den Speer unter dem Giebel, räumt die Schmiede auf und schläft dann bis tief in die folgende Nacht.
Please notice that the use of the present tense and simple sentence structure is deliberate.
I cut down the spruce trees to fill the kiln
I smoldered to blackness the stacked wood (i.e. I made charcoal)
From ore in the furnace I melted iron for me
I myself collected in the swamp 'the chunks (of ore)
I refined the pig iron with fire and hammer
With hair not chicken I gave hardness to the steel (feeding iron to fowl was a way to refine and nitride iron. Gerðr uses her hair instead)
Sharpness and shoe now adorn the shaft
To severe strife I stride without fear
The essence here is that Gerðr does everything herself, so the weapon is 100% hers. This will become important in a later chapter.
It's certainly exciting, and seems to follow a very traditional type of story, which I like. There's magic, incest, murder, and the undead (drargr). When you say you miss out a few details so as not to spoil it, you missed the death of Ottar in the synopsis. I can't wait to find out how he dies.
The only question I have so far is about this passage:-
Quote from: The StorySchon wankt der Wall...
Really? :giggle:
Now you can believe me or not, but our
wank and German
wanken are straight reflexes of the same word, which long ago meant something like 'flap' or 'wobble'. There's a school of thought which would derive
wench from that root.
Quote from: The Great Book Of Wisdomwench
late 13c., wenche "girl or young woman," shortened from wenchel "child" (12c.), from O.E. wencel, probably related to wancol "unsteady, fickle, weak," and cognate with O.N. vakr "child, weak person," O.H.G. wanchal "fickle." The word degenerated through being used in ref. to servant girls, and by mid-14c. was being used in a sense of "woman of loose morals, mistress."
OK, now at last I have typed the first chapter written months ago. It begins the story of Thorgeir, Gerdr's grandfather.
Örhandar Saga
Erstes Kapitel
Thorgeir hieß ein Mann. Er lebte bei Byrkjedal in Norwegen auf dem vom Vater ererbten Hof. Der Hof war klein und der Boden schlecht. Selbst in guten Jahren warf er kaum genug ab, einen Mann geschweige denn eine Familie zu ernähren. Daher hatte Thorgeir wie sein Vater das Schmiede-handwerk erlernt und lebte mehr durch den Hammer als durch den Pflug. Sein Ruf war gut, und es brachten ihm sogar die Leute Sachen zum Reparieren, die es selbst hätten tun können. Aber es war etwas Ruheloses in seinem Wesen, und so entschloß er sich eines Tages fortzugehen. Er verkaufte den Erbhof für mehr als er wert war an einen Nachbarn, lud sein Werkzeug auf sein Pferd und verließ die Gegend für immer. Er sprach: ,,Ich will nach Uxavað gehen. Mein Onkel (väterlicherseits) war Gefolgsmann des Jarls, und es ist ihm gut ergangen. Selbst wenn der Jarl niemanden braucht, so gibt es an der Küste für einen Schmied immer Arbeit. Vielleicht rüstet jemand zur Fahrt in die Ferne. Alles ist besser als allein auf diesem Hungeracker zu bleiben." Als er nach Uxavað kam, hörte er, daß der alte Jarl gerade gestorben war und sein halbwüchsiger Sohn Mühe hatte, sein Erbe zu behaupten, denn viele Gefolgsleute wollten keinem halben Kind dienen. Dies mißfiel Thorgeir sehr und er sprach: ,,Das nenne ich dem Alten schlecht gedient, wenn man den Jungen im Stich läßt. Sie sollten erst sehen, ob er seines Vaters wert ist, und ihm helfen. Erweist er sich als unfähig, kann man immer noch gehen." Er ging zur Halle, wo sich der Jarl aufhielt, und trat ein. Der junge Mann stand selbst auf, kam ihm entgegen und bot ihm das gefüllte Horn dar. ,,Sei willkommen in meinem Haus, auch wenn es bessere Zeiten gesehen hat. Was führt dich hierher?" ,,Ich danke dir, edler Jógvan, Sohn Jógvan des Alten, Jarl von Uxavað. Ich kam, um Gefolgsmann deines Vaters zu werden wie meines Vaters Bruder. Nun höre ich, daß er gestorben ist und sein Sohn in Schwierigkeiten steckt. Ich bin Thorgeir, Sohn Thorleifs des Sohns Thormods aus Byrkjedal. Dein Vater war stets freigebig gegen die, die ihm treu folgten. Da sagte ich mir: Wenn der junge Jógvan seines Vaters Sohn ist, wird er sich behaupten und die ehren, die ihm beigestanden haben. Ist er aber unwürdig, so ist es nicht gegen die Ehre, wieder zu gehen, nachdem er es vor der Welt gezeigt hat. In jedem Falle glaube ich, daß du jeden fähigen Mann gebrauchen kannst. Ich kann die ebenso gut mit dem Hammer wie mit Schwert und Axt dienen." ,,Du sagst, du kommst aus Byrkjedal. War dein Onkel Thorkell, Sohn Thormods? Er gehörte zu den besten Männern meines Vaters. Lebte er noch, er säße auf dem Ehrenplatz. Sein Neffe ist mir hoch willkommen. Aber im Augenblick kann ich dir nicht einmal ein gutes Schwert bieten." ,,Das laß nur meine Sorge sein. Ich will dir die Rüstkammer bald wieder füllen."
Thorgeir hielt Wort, und für 3 Jahre schmiedete er Schwerter, Speerspitzen und Helme für den Jarl. Zwar saß in der Halle nur ein Viertel dessen, was unter dem Vater dort getafelt hatte, aber es waren Männer, auf deren Treue Verlaß war. Der erste unter ihnen war Hamdir der Schiffbauer, Sohn Harmods des Thorpriesters. Dieser hatte eine Schwester, die Thorbjörg hieß und für Ihre Klugheit noch mehr als für ihre Schönheit bekannt war. Weder ihr Bruder noch der Jarl schämten sich, in schwieriger Lage auch ihren Rat einzuholen. Sie hatte aber noch keinem Mann das Ja-Wort gegeben.
Jógvan war klug und geschickt über das Maß seiner Jahre hinaus. Zwei Jahre gelang es ihm, mögliche Rivalen gegeneinander auszuspielen, so daß keiner gegen Uxavað zog, denn jeder glaubte, die anderen stünden auf des jungen Jarls Seite. Erst im dritten Jahr erhielt man Nachricht, daß sich vier Hersen weiter nördlich verbündet hatten, um mit vier Schiffen Uxavað zu überfallen. Da ließ der Jarl Rat halten, was zu tun sei.
Here the condensed contents of the saga in (as of yet not checked by native speaker) Icelandic:
Örhandar Saga – innihaldlýsing
Þórgeir er járnsmiður í Byrkjedal. Hann selur býlið sitt og gengur til Uxavaðs. Þarna verður hann fylgismaður ungs jarls sem heitir Jógvan. Fjórir hersar skippuleggja að ráðast Uxavað. Þó að jarl er færri að tölu vinnur hann bardagann. Þórgeir verður sært á hendi og tekur upp gælunafn Örhönd. Hann giftir Þórbjörgu systur Hamðis bátasmiðs. Þeir flytja á Málang í norðri og fá són sem Þeir kalla Óttar. Óttarr verður kaupmaður og skipseigandi. Hann ferðast til fjarlægra lönd, giftir völvuna Aasu og setjast í Englandi. Þeir fá dóttur sem Þeir kalla Gerði.
En Aasa er ekki bara völva heldur líka vond seiðkona. Óttarr drepur hana til að bjarga dótturina frá henni. Hann giftir aftur konu sem heitir Ása. Þeir fá són sem hann kallar Ólrik en Ása deyr víð fæðingu.
Vikingar ráðast bæ og Óttarr verður drepið í einvígi með svikum. Gerður aetla að hefna sín á morðingjunum. Hún vekjur upp drauginn Ásu sem hún heldur að vera móðurinn sin. Ása útskýrir henni sannleikann. Gerður smiður vopn og drepur draugurinn Aasu en sál seiðkonu hefur tekið líkamann Ólriks. Gerður ferðast tíl Noregs með bróðurinn sina. Hún finnir gyðju (prestinn) Þúlarins (guðdómur vont) sem er sálutvíburinn Aasu og drepur hana. Guðdómur vont sækur sálarnar sínar. Gerður gengur til býlisins föðurforeldranar sinna. Hún deyr barnlaus kerling.
OK, here it is again after my Icelandic teacher checked it for errors.
Örhandar Saga – innihaldlýsing
Þórgeir er járnsmiður í Byrkjedal. Hann selur býlið sitt og gengur til Uxavaðs. Þar verður hann fylgismaður ungs jarls sem heitir Jógvan. Fjórir hersar skipuleggja að ráðast á Uxavað. Þó að jarl sé færri að tölu vinnur hann bardagann. Þórgeir særist á hendi og tekur upp gælunafnið Örhönd. Hann giftist Þórbjörgu systur Hamðis bátasmiðs. Þau flytja á Málang í norðri og eignast son sem þau kalla Óttar. Óttarr verður kaupmaður og skipseigandi. Hann ferðast til fjarlægra landa, giftist völvunni Aasu og setjast þau að í Englandi. Þau eignast dóttur sem þau kalla Gerði.
En Aasa er ekki bara völva heldur líka vond seiðkona. Óttarr drepur hana til að bjarga dótturinni frá henni. Hann giftist aftur konu sem heitir Ása. Þau eignast son sem hann kallar Ólrik en Ása deyr víð fæðingu.
Vikingar ráðast bæinn og Óttarr verður drepinn í einvígi með svikum. Gerður ætlar að hefna sín á morðingjunum. Hún vekur upp draug Ásu sem hún heldur að sé móður sín. Ása útskýrir fyrir henni sannleikann. Gerður smíðar vopn og drepur draug Aasu en sál seiðkonunnar hefur tekið yfir líkama Ólriks. Gerður ferðast til Noregs með bróður sínum. Hún finnur gyðju (prestinn) Þúlarins (vondur guðdómur) sem er sálutvíburi Aasu og drepur hana. Guðdómur vont sækir sálirnar sínar. Gerður gengur til býlis föðurforeldra sinna. Hún deyr barnlaus kerling.
Thorgeir ist Schmied in Byrkjedal. Er verkauft seinen Hof und geht nach Uxavað [auf Stavanger-Halbinsel in Westnorwegen]. Dort wird er Gefolgsmann des jungen Jarls, der Jógvan heißt. Vier Hersen planen, Uxavað zu überfallen. Obwohl der Jarl zahlenmäßig unterlegen ist, gewinnt er die Schlacht. Thorgeir wird an der Hand verwundet und nimmt den Spitznamen Narbenhand an. Er heiratet Thorbjörg die Schwester des Schiffsbauers Hamdir. Sie ziehen nach Malangen im Norden [in Troms-Provinz in Nordnorwegen, im Mittelalter Teil von Hålogaland] und bekommen einen Sohn, den sie Ottar nennen. Ottar wird Kaufmann und Schiffseigner. Er reist in ferne Länder, heiratet die Seherin Åse und läßt sich in England nieder [an der Themse im Raum Oxford]. Sie bekommen eine Tochter, die sie Gerdr nennen. Aber Åse ist nicht nur eine Seherin sondern auch eine böse Hexe. Ottar erschlägt sie, um die Tochter vor ihr zu retten. Er heiratet wieder (und zwar) eine Frau, die Ása heißt. Sie bekommen einen Sohn, den er Olrik nennt, aber Ása stirbt während der Geburt.
Wikinger überfallen den Ort, und Ottar wird im Zweikampf durch Verrat getötet. Gerdr will an den Mördern Rache nehmen. Sie beschwört den Draugr (Toten-Geist) Ásas, die sie für ihre Mutter hält. Ása erzählt ihr die Wahrheit. Gerdr schmiedet eine Waffe und tötet den Draugr Åses, aber die Seele der Hexe hat den Körper Olriks übernommen. Gerdr reist mit ihrem Bruder nach Norwegen. Sie findet die Priesterin Thulurs (eine böse Gottheit)[in Thugela am Kilpisjärvi-See], die der Seelenzwilling Åses ist, und tötet sie. Die böse Gottheit holt ihre Seelen ab. Gerdr geht zum Hof ihrer Großeltern. Sie stirbt kinderlos in hohem Alter/als alte Frau.
Here is the list of major characters with approximate life span. I may have to add a few minor ones* for which I lack birth an/or death dates because those are irrelevant to the story. The four characters at the bottom are contemporary real persons that either appear in or otherwise influence the story (time on throne marked by different colour.
In the case of Aase and the Thulargydja dates of birth are naturally unknown, for Aase estimated time of first recorded appearance is marked.
*Aelfthryd(born ~884), Andswaru(born ~908), Cearo(born 910)
(http://toadfishmonastery.com/forum/index.php?action=dlattach;topic=2702.0;attach=1554)
And here (http://toadfishmonastery.com/forum/index.php?action=dlattach;topic=2702.0;attach=1556) I have the provisional cast of characters.
Not perfect in all cases. I especially wish I had found a better Ottar.
In some cases the type is right but not the age (Játvarður should be about ten years older and Haförn about 5).
I left out two characters that are named but do not appear personally (due to being dead at the time they are mentioned first), Jógvan the Elder and Hrækráka.
Start of the year report:
I managed to type all the stuff I had already written by hand.
Current state: 1500 lines of text, close to 21000 words.
No end in sight. Actually, the end(s) have been written but huge chunks in-between are still not even on paper, and extra episodes pop up regularly.
But as far as I can see, no new important characters will have to be introduced*, so the casting list attached to the previous post (with pictures!!!!) looks complete.
New Year's Resolution: finish by next New Year
*not that all got their introductory texts already written
Current state: 2222 lines of text. Still no end in sight.
I have crossed 3000 lines of text (typed).
Already there are several new handwritten pages not yet typed.
For those interested (and versed in German) here is the current state
Wow -- 60 pages!
And there are still large gaps. There were a lot of elements I did not plan originally or otherwise got out of hand. E.g. I had no idea that I would send a character originally introduced as a mere in-joke round the Barents Sea (and over several pages) just to give him credentials as a skilled sailor and establishing his principled loyalty.
Again I have fallen way behind with typing the handwritten stuff. The plot is still expanding and I had to come up with some more backstory (unlikely to be told) just to get personal relations sorted out in my head.
I have updated the family trees. Due to Aase's repeated soul transfers the direct blood tie to the (unaging) Thúlargydhja does not show anymore because it would be many generations in the past and it would be futile to come up with names. The family tree connecting Gizur and Hrafn has a deliberate bird theme, fit for the seafaring and (sometimes shady) trading traditions.
An impressive undertaking!
And the family trees are again incomplete because I have added Haförns ancestry on his mother's side. That became necessary since I had to add another full double episode to the Saga. I made the mistake of watching a documentary about the Lofoten islands which gave me the info about a large chieftain hall discovered in Borg on Vestvaagoy. This gets unfortunately dated to the exact time period my sage takes place in the same region, so I had to fit it in. Enter the chieftains of Borg and their rivalry with Vágar leading to a marital relationship but also a nasty intra-family feud a generation later.
Here are the current state of the saga and the updated family trees
I have temporarily postponed work on the Örhandar Saga and started doing an epic version of Gerðrs part in it in Nibelungen stanzas
As with the saga I don't do it just from strat to end but in parts that slowly grow together.
Here is the current state (230 stanzas). The PDF Maker totally changed the layout, so it's not 21 as in the .doc but 35 pages.
And it's German naturally :oops:.
QuoteFragments from the lost epic Kalethulu
DO WANT
Closed the portal, deep the darkness
Age-old evil ever brooding
Like a pressure vessel boiling/ Like a putrid plague boil fest'ring
That may burst at any moment
Elder Signs they seal the portal
For/In/Through strange eons never broken
Lock him in the foe unyielding
Keep us safe while they are holdingI love how you include alternate ways of translating the verses, showing how your work, like real translations, doesn't have a One True Way to read it (and the general ambiguity in some words when you try to translate them).
For those interested:Interested!
QuoteKalethulu is a contraction of Kall ef Thulu or Kalli Thulu and is derived from Islandic Kall (= Call, Calling, Vocation) and either Þulur (=Speaker, Narrator) or Þula (=song, verse). So it means either Call of the Story-Teller or The Call of Poetry (in very free translation maybe even Siren Song).
No allusion to a certain Finnish piece of literature or the fevered imagination of a Providencial pulp-writer ;)
I like that you include a faux etymology.
Especially since, until I read it, I totally didn't think about the Kalevala and was wondering what this had to do with a Cthulhu made out of kale.
Quote from: Swatopluk on November 08, 2011, 09:11:56 AM
That is Cthulhu
Lord of Giants (or evil powers in general)
Monster/Spawn of stars
Enemy (he is) of mankind
Dead but dreaming
His day will come
Madness rules
But there is no light
I like that you show the writers having to express things outside of their understanding with words that, naturally enough, are designed to express only concepts that exist in their usual paradigm. They don't have anything to convey what Cthulhu and his kind are so they have to go with the closest possible equivalent, giants.
QuoteOwl-Terry and the Red Bull
When I have children this is going to be one of their bedtime stories. I'm not joking.
QuoteNew Year's Resolution: finish by next New Year
Lol.
When you're done with your epic (or even before) I would love to be able to reference it (just name-dropping and/or including excerpts*) as an in-universe work in some of my Lovecraftian stories, if you're interested.
*Just popped into my head that there's an awesome story waiting to be told about the epic being discovered and translated, and what happens after. Some people think that it's a hoax, some people think that it's authentic but a baseless myth, and other people think that it's authentic and with a grain of truth to it. And they go looking for the truth beneath the myths (in part to prove that the epic isn't a hoax).
AND THEN THE SCARY HAPPENED.
Or, alternately, play it straight as a story about scholars battling it out over a newly-discovered epic and the efforts of some to prove it to be true. I mean, not
every investigation into some Lovecraftian has to end with the people involved coming across mind-gibbering horrors. Seems to me like it's a combination of determination and (bad) luck that's responsible.
You want some discovery? Since I can't find the thread where I previously linked to it, here it is again: Sketches of the large rune picture stone discovered in Lake Kilpisjärvi* (that's near where Finland, Sweden and Norway have their border triangle).
(http://i183.photobucket.com/albums/x97/Swatopluk/Kilpisjaervisteinen_C_1.jpg)(http://i183.photobucket.com/albums/x97/Swatopluk/Kilpisjaervisteinen_B_1.png)(http://i183.photobucket.com/albums/x97/Swatopluk/Kilpisjaervisteinen_A_2.png)
http://i183.photobucket.com/albums/x97/Swatopluk/Kilpisjaervisteinen_C_1.jpg
http://i183.photobucket.com/albums/x97/Swatopluk/Kilpisjaervisteinen_B_1.png
http://i183.photobucket.com/albums/x97/Swatopluk/Kilpisjaervisteinen_A_2.png
Yes, the writing is non random but the long one has to be decrypted first. The encryption is one that was in actual use for runic inscriptions btw. Iirc the text is in (modern) Norwegian (bokmaal not nynorsk).
*Here is the Salmivaara peninsula in that lake near which the stone was discovered
(http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2261/2126597758_7af28b57f4_z.jpg?zz=1)
http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2261/2126597758_7af28b57f4_z.jpg?zz=1
The most recent update on the Örhandar Saga.
As far as I can see there is one major scene still missing (Játvarður finds out who Ottar really is) but several others need completion or connections to those before and after them. Plus the whole complex of Gerðr after the battle of Oxford needs reordering (not fully sure which exact order the events should follow).
Difficult to do the way I did most of the writing, i.e. in public transport vehicles or sitting in waiting rooms. That caused a lot of lack in continuity (and doubling of some scenes).
Maybe a little bit of subtle doubling (even subtle, inconsistent doubling?) and such might be good, as a way to hint at different traditions that grew out of a single original story over the generations and someone later tried to revise and blend into each other, but not so perfectly?
I'm obviously saying this without any idea how well those rugged Northmen did or did not keep their sagas from mutating over time, and what later generations would or would not do when confronted with several stories that may have been or definitely were different versions of the same story. Did they choose one over the others? Consider them all equally valid? Ignore the problem? Splice them, as I describe here?
The Gerdalied now has reached 500 stanzas (á 4 lines). No end in sight
Edit: now 614 stanzas
Unholy digestive final semisolid product!
666 stanzas (plus a half for safety)
Holy Mark of the Beast, Swatman!
Now at 809 stanzas and no end in sight
I attach a copy of the current state for safekeeping and for those who may be interested in the progress
Since I may have use again for Latin in the not too distant future (if it is my fate to become a chemistry and Latin teacher) I thought about dusting my rusted knowledge a bit off by writing something. I remembered that the legend of St.Ulufer still needed a treatment and here are the first results (from this afternoon).
Just two unconnected stanzas yet
To be sung to the tune of Hiemali tempore (Carmen Buranum 203)
Proximis sub tenebris
Britannia in vinculis
Diaboli captata
Usque ad venit Ulufer
Omnipotentis armiger
Deinde liberata
Ipse olim paganus
Serviens ululae
Cepit coronam martyrum
aemulans Ursulae
Misit bovem sub iugum
Qui fefellit longe totum populum
Est idolum iste bos
Deus punivit Hebraeos
Cum sacrificaverunt
Christum qui accipiunt
Ab infernis salvati sunt
Idola deleverunt
Baptisma necesse est
Ad animam salvandam
Solum stultus sperneret
Fortunam tam tantam
Hei veni popule
Libenter quis manet in perditione
Under still recent darkness
Britain was in chains
Of the Devil captured
Until Ulufer came
Arms carrier of the Almighty
Then she got liberated
He was once himself a pagan
Serving the owl
He took the crown of martyrs
emulating (St.)Ursula
He yoked the bull
That so long had deceived all the people
An idol is that bull
God punished the Hebrews
When they sacrificed (to it)
Those who accept Christ
They are saved from hell
(cause) They have destroyed the idols
Baptism is necessary
In order to save the soul
Only a fool would reject
Such a great chance
Hey, come ye people
Who prefers to remain in (the state) of perdition?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ANHvaqzK81g
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5u6_GVxehHc
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dn7djVhT3pw
Are you going to teach chemistry in Latin, or Latin Chemistry? (that way you could cut down your hours but still earn the same amount).
Well, the latter would reduce the number of elements to 4, making it easier to comprehend ;)
OK, I now have passed 1000 stanzas on the Gerdalied, so it's time for an update upload.
Already 20 extra stanzas handwritten that have yet to by typed.
The epic has now reached 1225 stanzas, i.e. 4900 lines.