I

Sing O goddess,

Sing of the son of Stavros,

I will recount the famous deeds of Bessarion

Who at the behest of Basileus Anicius IV fought the worst of the north’s barbarians

Further north than the Herakleian-Mountains in the Dragon of the field

Didst his fine armies make the enemy yield

Such was the vanity of Ragimmund the Old,

So that of all men he was the most bold,

Heavy was the doom laid upon him,

Scornful of those whom would send him to his tomb

Thereon the fields of the Dragon,

Therapon’s oracle, he did madden.

Thus upon the Drake horn’s call,

He would thus fall,

No long time after,

A banquet he would share,

His vast kin without compare,

Few to none did despair.

Slow was his son’s son to lower his gaze,

Ever watchful if never dazed,

Romanus was he named,

Roma his father’s spirit had enflamed,

Unfettered by wickedness,

Unmatched in goodness,

Valorous in deeds as in nature,

To anger as a glacier,

Yet swift to prayer,

Thus have I described the greatest raider,

Of a line of mighty raiders,

O how the gods did bless his ancestors.

Blazen haired Romanus breaker of horses alone did consider her words.

Thus was the nature of Romanus Steel Arm,

That he sought to shield his kin from harm,

The heir as former bards relate,

By the favour of Zisa, destined to be great

Now I shall sing of the line of Ragimmund,

From the valley of Gormfiata,

Came Theomund, who of old held the favour of Feronia,

Who begat him in the land of mount Gormfiata,

Great were the many deeds wrought in their wanderings,

May the muses aid me in the capturing of their glory.

II

Bold as Mars was Theomund,

Swift as Mercury fleet-foot,

Clever as Odysseus who did much endure,

Great as a dragon, In days of olde,

when men were of same worth to gold,

From his first steps he was hounded,

As one who has astounded all with some grave crime

Thus did he survive in the grime

Deprived of dignity and sire,

Whom the goddess did so desire.

Born amidst snow and grief,

Discarded as might a thief,

An unwelcome false bauble,

Neither did he crawl nor hobble,

But since earliest days didst leap and stride

Left at mountain’s foot

Where none hold themselves aloof

Thereupon high stone near where the lions abode,

Dost stand to his lip she bestowed

Leonine milk and love

All whilst sweet Farona, in shape of dove,

Didst observe,

Many a songs he dost deserve

Such was the majesty upon which he built

 name and fortune without guilt.

Long was his voyage

O’er land and hill

So that he didst forage

Til he had his fill

Of his father’s men, both savage and loyal

Many of the slavers he didst kill

From Menelay the Proud, the joyous

Slayer of infants, this he didst delight and thrill

The unworthy king of Jarnmund ere the royal

Theomund didst in his hall, amidst marble gild

Gold bejeweled that left all joyous

There Theomund by water most mild, didst kill.

Of Agretius, none now sing

Because he is no longer King

Many a screams Theomund didst wring

Within his halls, whilst courting

The Queen who in preceding

Days had by needle and thread spent her days decorating,

Of his myriad weeks indulging

In food and affairs, many are the tales that ring

His story in those cruel days,

Thurius from the Northern Plains didst spring

His gaze fierce as a blaze,

Giver of many a ring,

Ne’er one to stand in a daze,

None were more daring

Into the Persean Plains he didst raid

As was his wont dispensing

Treachery and butchery, that his name might ne’er fade

O how Thurius the most slathering

Of his father’s killers, flames barely did abate

This be why, of his evil we do still sing,

In these lands, Theomund of fond memory,

Many a-century

Before, who didst make many a-enemy,

Swept into camp amidst flame, Lo! He broke all serenity,

Therein the dead of night, neither incrementally

Nor didst he appear coincidentally,

Thus, by blade that he didst wield cleverly,

He laid many a men into lowly

filth and earth, made of them but a memory,

Thurius who trapped by reverie

Who by sombrely

Cast slumber, slept whilst his enemy fought betterly

Than son and brothers to Thurius who cast such a disparity

All broke to fly, no matter their hereditary

Chieftain who in prior years slew every enemy,

One and all, until nary

A one could wield blade ordinarily

Or extraordinarily,

Lo! Theomund the most exemplary,

Of warriors by now accustomed to regularly

fought wars and feuds, due to filial fidelity

At last laid into lowly

earth and filth, Thurius who slew Fallronus by reason of jealousy,

Thirty years priorly,

At present with valour,

To house-ruins of dour,

Memories that induced fury

in days of yore,

Such was Theomund’s inheritance that yearly,

Weighed heavy upon more

Than simply his shoulders made weary

By age that didst bury

Many, and hour by hour,

Greater and greater glory,

Was made Theomund’s who in vigour

Remain’d tested yearly,

All while his wisdom in old lore,

Grew and grew alongside his glory,

This was his lot,

All while worldly flesh began to rot,

When an evil thought,

Came to men whom the evil knot

That bound them to him, wished undone,

‘It has indeed run

Full course so that now what fear belongs to far-flung

Past, and courage must now be wrung

From us, as might from a she-wolf draw milk,

Just as from a tape-worm silk

Is drawn, and made in bulk

In northern Lyonesse, where brick upon brick,

Éluan built his myriad palaces,

He of the many gold chalices,

So sayeth the sons of Thurius who gave way to fallacies

Of the maddest sort, to repay the damages

That Theomund inflicted upon them,

In olden days when the stem

Had been planted, and Theomund took their realm,

And the frontier didst o’erwhelm,

III

Brief was his kingdom,

That he garnered by wisdom

As by valour,

And his people’s rigour,

Steel tipped blades aplenty,

Used by many men who succumbed to war-frenzy,

That they might sleep

Bellies full and ne’er leap

From bed to sword

Thereby the northern sward,

In fear as in apprehension

And that they might grow in comprehension,

Of all things natural,

And break from pure pastoral

Livings, in favour of wooden-keeps,

That took many weeks

To build, from foundations to roof

Built as much by men’s backs as horse hoof,

At night as by secrecy,

Each of them sharing equally

In the crime, though none felt guilty,

To barbarous minds this sneakily

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Done misdeed be the most naturally

Performed crime in history,

Up the stairway they creakily

Went, up the fort their hypocrisy

Took them, they went in utmost secrecy,

Few they crossed, for many had drunk equally

To the other, little knowing that they had drunkenly

Imbibed wine drugged most unnaturally,

Lo! How they began their butchery

Whilst noble Theomund slept the dreamy

Sleep of the righteous, His reverie

Shared by his granddaughter who fearfully

Clung to him, for fear of her nightmares that had cheekily

Taunted her, to her grandmother’s irritation, she in full leniency

Welcomed her, and awoke in supremely

Disturbed horror that greedily

Ate and devoured her every

Tear and scream, which ceaselessly

Echoed across myriad halls, ere her fearfully

Screamed cries echoed weepily,

Of their butchery, many do still whisper,

Of Theomund many fond speeches still linger,

His goodness many crimes didst hinder,

Such his wisdom most barbarians and Dorians do remember,

In manner most tender,

Such be the love they still bear with such ardour

That his name shall ring forever

Down through the centuries, and through the winter

Of Theodosianople and her every tower,

Many the armies he didst render

To naught forever,

And feed to the crows whether in summer

Or in autumn, ne’er to linger

Thereupon battlefields where tears shower

From feminine cheeks to water each flower

That grows by every corpse, many an hour

Ago, When men didst not cower,

Such be their courage they didst tower

High o’er their children of dour

Mood and mien most sour,

Hereupon his pyre, Cyneberht didst shower

Coin and plum-peddles that the flames didst devour,

From high walls to bower,

The hungry fire in equanimity didst devour,

Ne’er to return home to mother

Or dearly beloved father,

Ragimmund turn’d away his grief in full flower,

IV

Of Cyneberht son of Eadberht much be to tell,

The poets and bards do still yell,

And pray tell

O Singers of Olde, of the doer of many deeds most fell,

Of he who left Bruno in his death-knell,

The butcher who didst most excel

In days of yore all who dwell

In north-flung lands, in the most fell

Of misdeeds, all save Cyneberht who last bid him farewell

By the mountain Nymph’s well,

Vóreia was her name she who cast such a spell

Upon Karlmund, and who gave him love and bell,

Ere he was made to repel

Old Karlmund, ere the other man didst quell

His band, wherefore Cyneberht all still tell

Sent him down to Queen Hel,

Whereupon Cyneberht was struck by such a spell,

That he didst all other men excel

And in her eyes above all others seem to swell

In deeds most brave and fell,

That men will tell

A thousand years hence, when all shalt dwell

In ethereal lands, of many fields and many a well

Of Theomund’s loss, minstrels weep

Until tears an ocean deep,

Hath been shed and sorrow high as the greatest heap

Or Mountain, All while his son didst so leap

From field to field away from the keep,

That didst once guard him from all that dost creep

In darkest and foulest night, those guards who once didst sweep

From shade to shade, to keep

Safe the sons of Theomund, that he might not reap

Savage harvest of steel and none may sneak

From barbarous outlands, into solid keep,

Greatly Theomund once wander’d from valley to farm full of sheep,

That none may weep

Or lack for protection, and be lain onto a heap

Of dirt before his time, and may only sleep

When ready by own volition to sleep

And to in his own bed reap,

All that he should wish sweep

To himself and retain more than solely sleep,

V

Away to the wild,

Went Cyneberht, the child

In his arms away from defiled

Halls great and wide,

Ruined by those most reviled,

By the good for these be men bedeviled

By wicked hearts most unmild

In nature, for by evil they be beguiled,

And thus they beguiled,

Men strong and of mild

Character, such be the mind

Of those sworn to the enemy, who appalled

All other men, both civil and wild,

Cyneberht though no less mild

Than those he loved, and with whom he once lived,

Out into the wilderness they arrived,

Near where many men once died,

By the river Vóreia beside

The Mountain that once surprised

That warrior Cyneberht, who full of pride

Didst challenge wild

Nymph’s wits for the fate of the child,

This she agreed and smiled,

‘By what means might men

Claim that which is not their own,

And that dost bend

Them to its whims ere they be thrown

From reason that they might lend

Themselves their children and all else they own,’

‘That which ye speak be coin,’

The captain Cyneberht didst rejoin,

This ere he was to disappoint

Her high hopes, when he didst not refrain

His own query, ‘What do men anoint,

that they might appoint,

Those who half shalt disappoint,

And the other half enjoin

And bathe them in glory, and give them a voice

Before those who appoint

And offer them no choice,’

Bewildered by this query,

Alarmed by this merry

Guard, consumed by the weary

Duty laid upon him, she of the vast prairie

In the valley of the mountain valley,

Gave way to his victory

Though it ran contrary

To her innermost desire which she didst marry

Though it weigh’d heavy

Upon her, already

By this time weary

And angry,

They in spite of being wary,

Took up this most wondrous victory

In the most merry

Of mood, relieved even as she refused to ferry

Them across her waves, so that they paid for her to ferry,

And thus it was that they fled in a most unmerry

Of mood, properly chastened and wary

Of what she might demand of them after she didst ferry

Them o’er waves fierce, strong and unwieldy,

As they reached the shore

They looked back on days of yore

Recall’d ancient lore,

Fearful that she might bore

Into their bones and recall them to the fore

Of her watery depths, both prepared for war,

Their innermost core

Deep and strong, they as always didst ignore

Fear which is that which dost pour

Itself upon the core

Of all men, and weaken them more

Than all else might, Knowing this, for

He was no fool, he was to once upon the shore

Turn to Ragimmund ne’er one to ignore

Now the chance to teach him,

‘Observe and learn this lesson

Learn the manly arts that ye dost not lessen

In this he didst give expression,

To that most manly profession,

That which requires the utmost aggression,’

This he didst whilst he held him in an expression

Of such paternal tenderness, as to convey the essence

Of all he felt, all while he gave myriad suggestion

To the boy who didst offer up in confession,

No less an expression

Of affection,

Lo! He said ne’er wouldst their bond lessen

No matter what aggression,

They might summon

Against those who might sow division,

Theirs was a most sacred bond of utmost affection,

VI

By love as by duty,

They were noosed,

Many the years truly

Wherein their foes wert loosed

Upon the land where he explored fully,

Land which he perused,

In the most unruly

Manner imaginable, that doomed

Many before him, and which he truly

Didst inherit from Theomund,

Just as he pass’d it to his unruly

Sons, by whom his foes fumed

At and didst fully

Consider no less

Vicious than their utterly

Indomitable sire, whom they wert no less fearless

Than, such was their truly

Great fame for valour and nobility,

Thrice sworn,

To just cause and hard-bitten road,

One by age greatly worn,

The other his shoulders’ still broad,

That shall ne’er be shorn

Of strength or slow’d

By illness nor the thorn,

Men dub age, that other men showed

Whether high or low born,

That in ancient and new days slowed

One and all, be they in the world’s dusk or morn’

Such be mortality that leaves all bowed,

Lo! Didst the youth shorn

Of hearth and home vow’d

That he might someday return, whether young or worn,

This oath he roared

That the heavens that had borne

Witness to countless dauntless deeds and men unbow’d

Might see his deeds in dusk and morn’

That he vow’d

To undertake that of courage he might ne’er be shorn,

VII

In youth, as in dotage he ne’er wept,

And ne’er he slept

Always he crept

That he might the enemy’s home wreck,

And make certain they hath fled

From hearth and home, and prove himself adept

In war, as his ancestors against the inept,

Thus he leapt,

From battlements high, while others slept,

And still many others crept,

This they didst under his banner, that leapt

With the wind, and swept

O’er the battlements that many had once wept

O’er, and which had been kept

Well-preserved in good memory of incredible depth

As in actual fact, Such be their greatness, yet still the theft

Of Theomund’s fort many decades before, when all wert fed

Well and truly, Such that bereft

Of good times, only misery spread

Now throughout the lands, as butter upon bread,

Bread the masses unfed

In sleep as in waking hours many wert left

Utterly to the warlords’, bereft

Of mercy and pity that those left

To the utter dread

Of those they dubbed lords, spread

Throughout darkened lands, keen to spread

Death to those guilty of theft

Of their lord’s lands, he who lost his head

By unjust blades, to Hraban the Red

And his wicked brothers, whom lay abed

Unknowing of the thread

Of destiny they had bred,

Yet still Ragimmund from battle ne’er fled,

So that though he ensured they bled,

Right honourably he fought the Red,

Lo! All wert left

Neither whole but dead,

And to the flames he fed

The keep of that which Theomund once held,

Of his mother Ragimmund knew precious little,

Lesser than his father, yet of nobler blood

By far, she ne’er didst whittle

At his reason or noble deeds that wert the root

Of which many women choose to fiddle,

That they might weaken a child’s mind’s food,

Just as might their fathers’, those whom fate dost riddle

With flaws aplenty, and dost loot

Of all sense, leaving children with naught but spittle

In them that the gods might exclude

Them from Elysium realm of the most beneficial

Men and peoples, lo! long didst she brood,

All while she spun clothe by fingers most virile,

In the keep thereupon the hill that didst include

A moat of flames one that didst so bristle

At men of good nature, and held a sorrowful-mood,

Such that men of the most little

Valour not of the line of Hrambert the Good,

Didst quaver and swivel

Upon their steeds though she was the least rude

Of the northern lines, that which

Dominated the north and didst feud

With a great many of the witch’s

Line and didst much to root

Out the sons of Hrambert, and filch

Them of all they had in lewd

Spirits unjustly stolen from those less rich,

Wealthy and good,

They won this by the slaying of the witch

And her brood,

Ne’er valorous, ne’er loyal,

She didst thus defile,

All that is sacred,

When her sons’ fates she refused

To share, and left them to suffer,

This she didst and ne’er didst utter

Other than curses,

And a great many verses

Against those Ingram call’d kin,

Ere their ranks she didst thin,

Thus she didst foil

Their victory, and leave them to boil

In defeat,

His tale one replete

With such heroism,

That he achieved by way of wisdom,

Of his many wars,

Against scores

Of Ingram’s sons,

along northern shores,

Against they and Dwarves

Most fell, he didst lunge,

He whom their father abhors,

Many implores

Time and again, under the sons’,

For she that adores,

Justice and wars,

He show’d little pity before the walls,

Of their cities,

This fathers

And sons’

Ne’er didst forget nor could ignore,

VIII

Of Ingunn’s father, men also speak well,

For him many art the bells’ that toll still,

Therein the far north where the Valtherii dwell,

They for whom life depends on will,

By steel and fury they thrive,

They whom drink fine wine and swill,

In eager spirits, that which dost revive

Even the least lively

Of folks, and whom far and wide

Hath all hear’d his finely

Woven tales which abound even in fair Doria,

He of the most lightly

Disposition that ne’er inspired nausea

In his foes, as he rightly

Lived therein the north, away from arboreal

Civilization that didst eradicate dishonesty,

Many the dread beasts they in memorial

Of blood most innocently

And unjustly slain, that they might on manorial

Earth and those wildly

Untamed that they might by primordial

Sense of right, lay in lowly

Manner those monsters forged by bestial

And unearthly

Hands, those sons of Hydra

That Herakles didst not justly

Lay low, they slew and after the Hydra’s

Brood the mightiest of wickedly

Wrought cubs of multi-faced wolves,

Those many they slew decidedly,

As easily by arrows that pierce doves,

Of his son’s claims to fame,

He who none couldst tame,

Nor seize and take,

Ingomar was his name,

Father and son, whose glory ne’er didst wane,

Both brought to shame,

By the bitter flame

Of Kunibert who didst defame

The son and his bride, that most famed dame

Leutgard, of renown’d beauty, that all didst proclaim

The fairest dame

In all of the land, she of unlimit’d fame,

She whom Kunibert didst profane,

That he might slake

His hunger for her mane

As he didst for her name,

Lo! The untold pain

He didst inflict upon her, why none couldst explain,

Though he had little to gain,

Such was his profane

Nature that he didst so maim

Her in spirit and fame,

Ingomar didst venture

To seize in northron forests,

The shadow’d King,

Who by his seizure

Of the dainty lady who in abhorrence

Of him, didst cry and sing

In a flurry of tears of how he didst censure

Her by word as by actions,

And whom had by dint

Of these sacrilegious errors

Won for himself, the abhorrence

Of Ingomar and his father the King,

That they might thus spread terror

To he who unleash’d evil in torrents,

Lo! The vast number of those he didst fling,

To their doom out of fervour

For cruelty such be the way of tyrants,

By strangulation as by swordsmanship,

He didst demonstrate refusal to worship

He who sought to steer the ship

Of tribal states, away from steady waters

To murky places ere he falters

Between wicked glee, and uncertainty to please his daughters,

They whom didst seize command,

Ere they made endless demands

Of men and beasts, through the land,

Aflame came he, to hearth and home,

Ere he set aflame, after years wherein he didst roam,

He and his father, aid’d by many a gnome,

Those Elves that didst love always blade

And slaughter, and didst bade

Lord and daughters farewell, ere they set them aflame,

IX

Lo! The glories of the line of Kings,

Who didst precede Theomund King

They who as he didst give over many rings,

They that glittered in spite of the many sins

Countless in nature,

Due to the rupture

That didst occur

Betwixt they and Doria, which sought to nurture

Peaceable bonds and good cheer,

That they might rear

That which men hold most dear,

And be kept away from the leer

Of vicious, cruel war and her grasping hands,

That might tear apart countless lands,

This was the line of Ingunn’s kin,

Thick was their blood,

And their heroics ne’er didst thin,

Their ways rude,

Wert to rule

O’er all the Valtherii, mightiest of the tribes,

Alone they refused Dorian bribes,

By dint of strength,

As by their lives’ length,

They wert most revered,

Yet ne’er didst they endear

Themselves amongst their neighbours,

Such was their labours,

In days previous,

That they fulfill’d by devious

Means, that they might lord o’er northern woods,

That neither hurricane nor floods,

May o’er take and destroy,

Just as no god may disrupt their joy

Or so they didst claim,

And ne’er to reclaim

That which they held dearest,

And which lay nearest,

Of these great deeds,

None of them destined to mislead

In judgment or in act those they freed,

Of a far greater breed

Than most, they wert ne’er to lead to the weeds,

Or into the fens, nor make bleed

Their own, such be their creed,

As Kings of olde, that they sought to exceed

One another in deed

As in songs told o’er mead

And hallow’d halls, such be their creed,

That they had need

To do so, this none disagreed,

For all agreed,

That their shared glory didst supersede

That of the individual’s greed,

And profaned need

To be heard

Above the voices of the rest, that they might mislead

Their kindred and all those of shared breed,

Such be the northern barbarians creed,

And magnificent ways, Lo! They ne’er be weak-kneed,

Nor didst they revealed

In high and lowly acts, ill-conceived

Glories, but rather well achieved,

And ne’er keen to hath review’d

Their own actions, such be their high-achieved

And highly agreed,

Yet all such deeds

Wert acclaimed

All throughout the most wide

Of lands of Doria also, and thus they wert widely well-received,

X

Much affect’d wert the warrior’s

Line that claim’d a hero’s

Fame, won by many wars,

As by heroes

Of olde, who more than courtiers,

That so awed the victorious

Champions’ who won glories

Untold and unheard of to noble Dorians,

Treacherous as praetorians

Noble as champions,

Such be the honour of barbarians,

Along the north’s coasts,

They didst toast

And roast,

Pigs and cows, and boast

Of wealth unequalled, gotten by they and their devotees,

The finest of hosts,

None dared to suggests,

They be the worst

Of men and lords that exist

In the north, greatest of north-folks,

Barbarous as beasts,

Lo! The vastness of Ragimmund’s tribe,

That didst in war didst thrive,

All whilst they strive

East that they might contrive

Always to seek to derive

Glory and satisfaction from war and strife,

That their enemies might describe

Their peoples and deride

Them as barbarous, ne’er didst deprive

Them of their own opinion, or leave them cover’d in hives,

Such be their indifference and glory, their design,

Where might they thrive?

Why in the wilderness, where all must survive,

And what be their wilderness where they strive?

Why in battle, that be where they derive

Satisfaction and joy,

These be the ancestors

Of whom to this hour

All sing still,

Their ancient glories

Their lives incomparably dour

Neither farmers nor mills

Wert they, nor cowards,

Fierce as lions, ne’er didst they sour

And shake, or wear frills,

Such was their courageous

Disposition and valour,

XI

O Goddess let us sing now

Of the heroism of Ragimmund the Bold,

Of how in his youth

Ragimmund didst slay the most foul,

Ne’er one to fold

Before King, lord or duke,

Always didst he choose,

Fierce and bold, three ladies he didst woo,

Ne’er once didst he lead them to woe,

Save for the Lady of Demoé

She whom many sought to woo,

And who was most true

To Ragimmund, after he didst pursue

She and others, this she knew

Yet still she chose him, so that she didst subdue

Her own envy, and gave him not a few

Children, but a great many that didst dispute

Doria’s claim to northern lands all knew

To be true,

Of the Lady Rufiana, his mighty wife,

The Red Lady,

Who gave for him her life,

And ne’er gave way to lazy

Habits or lax morality, who gave in gift the knife

Of her father’s father, fond was his memory

Of that day, though it be rife

With strife and hazy

Peace, that bespoke to a poor life

One that he might regret and fight

To redeem from, and in this he was ne’er lazy,

XII

Many wert his heirs’,

And many their own heirs,

Not a one short of hair,

Ne’er fearful and always keen to dare

Where others might not fare

Half so well, and might despair,

First among them was the Fair-hair’d

Adalwin, whom he didst rear

To greatness and majesty, for he was heir,

Adalwin, mighty and fierce,

Didst father thrice

The sons of others; Stavros, Ælfstan and Bertrand, each one a prince

Of greatest virtue, who ne’er shirked from conflict,

Adalwin who’s spear didst pierce

Foe and villain, and hero alike, myth

And legend that he was, he who fill’d many with bliss

His bravery none e’er could dismiss

His spear like Gungnir, ne’er didst miss,

Always didst it pierce,

Not once but thrice,

All who didst oppose the mightiest of Ragimii’s princes,

Stavros came next,

Ne’er was he at rest,

Always he didst vex,

His wits such that he didst perplex,

Even the finest of generals, against

Whom he didst test,

Always didst he best,

Them no matter if from east or west,

His greatness many came to expect,

Always his nobility his prisoners didst express

Admiration for, and always didst respect,

Of his axe, none didst suggest

Was any less

Sharp, than that of his perfect

Brother, whom he ne’er didst object

To, or place himself against,

Such be the beauty of their brotherly bond, that they ne’er didst vex

Nor wish to see the other put to rest!

Of Theomund the third child,

The fiercest in battle and most wild,

Barbarous and long-bearded, yet mild

Of mood, yet easily the most beguil’d,

By womanly charms, as by gestures most kind,

Thus he didst depend upon Stavros, and required

His guidance, though of the reviled

It where women wert concerned, such was how he lived,

Of his sons, nine there wert! And well-defined

They all wert, each one derived

Their nature from their brave and kind

Father; of Ragimos the eldest and least kind,

Minstrels still whisper’d

When last in the north and west

Went I, and of Theowin of immense pride,

And quick to anger, his guide

And younger brother, Theomund the Younger, who didst ride

Far and very wide,

Both born of one mother, she who obliged

Her predecessor with poison, and whom all feared,

Next came Sugimmond the Kind,

All didst love him far and wide,

Ælfwin of the lovely bride,

Whom always didst quarrel and despised

Those who longed for his bride,

Sixth was the pride

Of the pack, and least despised,

Cynesige the seer, who revised

Always his father’s schemes, and advised,

Seventh was the mountain-sized

Chlodulf the Strong, fierce-eyed,

Eighth Burghead the most refined,

Always he longed for the south that he eyed

Wistfully, best of all musicians of those inscribed

In the lineage of Ragimmund, ne’er he lied,

Ninth Dunstan who thrived

In ill and misfortune of others, such be how he lived,

Next came Eadwig, always eager for a quarrel,

He of the most feral

Temper, and most foul strength that endures all peril,

Set before him, and left many sterile

Cadavers, such be his glory and more than several

Deeds of utmost heroism,

Thence came Eileifr the Devious,

Where the previous

Brothers good and true, Eileifr was lascivious,

Offering the least amount of obedience,

His daughter though easiest

To name, was also the least obsequious,

She of the kindliest

Of mien, and most ferocious of warriors,

The Lady Farahild, most beauteous

Of the shield-maidens of the north-west,

Faroald the youngest of all,

Who ne’er didst suffer the same fall,

Mighty in arms, and limbs tall,

The minstrels still do recall,

How he ne’er didst crawl,

But rather galloped, and raced, until the final

Days and hours stood before him, and he with a pall

O’er his head threw himself forward, no one’s thrall,

Of these mighty sons Ragimmund was utterly proud,

Ne’er didst he fall foul

To rage or to lay upon their women-folk their shrouds,

To leave their men bow’d,

Without reason or honour, such was his spirit made profound

By faith as by manly nature, even as he was foul

And cruel when enraged, and of untamed faith and quick to wound

Those around him, such was his nature proud,

For this as for much else, his women wouldst bear their shrouds,

And his sons’ would be left unproud,

Grandchildren to sorrow bound,

Such was the price of his greed that didst resound

To Doria as to heaven, and o’er the waves and mounts,