[me=me thing]
(I was given "Rosa, Runeclaws and Tubthumping" by wayfarers_lodge in a me-me thing and thought i'd post it here in case any are interested - this is a Runeclaws possible future post, pray no offence is taken by any!)
We'll be singing
When we're winning
We'll be singing
With a small sigh the man who was once Runeclaws and now was plain Dave Gunnarson stretched, years ago he’d have had no problems with his back no matter how long he’d spent hunched over doing delicate scrollwork in steel. He grinned as he pulled the glasses from his face and put them back in the case, then started doing the same for his tools. A craftsman cares for his tools first.
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never going to
Keep me down
Of course, years ago he’d not have had problems with the eyes either, and whilst decoration was something he always added in times past it was to weapons or armour rather than to a gate for the local primary school - though he had to admit that not even his irascible old uncle would have thought sea-monsters particularly appropriate for kids.
Pissing the night away
Pissing the night away
Walking towards the house he went through to the spare room and opened the large wooden chest, taking a heavy axe from its suede wrappings and going to sit on the rocking chair where he could see the sunset. He knew that his lady, the ring on his left hand still a source of amazement to him after these years, would be back soon from her painting. With oil and a soft cloth Dave started to examine the blade for any sign of rust or wear, caring for the axe he’d once carried a weekly ritual - a time to think on the old days of blood and battle, and to honour those who’d gone to the lands of the ancestors.
He drinks a whisky drink
He drinks a vodka drink
He drinks a lager drink
He drinks a cider drink
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the good times
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the better times:
It was still amazing to Dave that he’d made it through - countless nights he’d sat and thought of those who hadn’t, considered himself and wondered if he’d been weak, if he’d held back so that he’d survived when others had not. Countless nights and one as that thought came to him again - a question with no answer. A constellation of names and faces run through his mind, reflected in the gleam of steel as he finishes his careful cleaning and reaches for a whetstone. With the schnick-schnick of the stone on metal the faces resolve and revolve till one comes to the fore as it has so many times before.
Oh Danny boy
Danny boy
Danny boy...
Its not a true face, more an impression of one. A strong face with clear blue eyes, long hair pulled back in a braid - a reddish-brown today - under a simple helm. A staff in hand and a shirt of gleaming mail. Rosa Annasdottir. A voice from the past, a face from the other side of the world. A face belonging to a warrior who lived and died Fenrir, no matter what else may have gone on.
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never going to
Keep me down
Dave smiled as he remembered the first few conversations they’d had - a call for aid, help from the Battlerealm voice carrying concern but determination too, for advice filled with pride and self-worth. Successes hard earned and failures which spurred her to more and greater things. With a shake of his head for the ghosts of his past he forced himself to think further.
Pissing the night away
Pissing the night away
Died a Fenrir though no longer one of Fenris’ children - she was one who knew the price of victory, and knew that the weregeld needs be paid no matter its cost. The fact that she’d offered herself as Chiminage to the lost tribes - she’d become Bunyip - no longer amazed him. He accepted it as he knew he would have given himself for the greater whole. She was a talesinger and knew the past, and learnt those lessons well. He was a truthspeaker, and knew justice.
He drinks a whisky drink
He drinks a vodka drink
He drinks a lager drink
He drinks a cider drink
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the good times
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the better times:
He smiled as he recalled a great howl brought by another, but with Rosa’s pride ringing through. A howl telling not of a great sacrifice as many had died, but of victory as the Eater-of-Souls was defeated. A howl which named so many and their deeds, and which missed off her own great deeds.
Not that the howler had let that happen.
Don’t cry for me
Next door neighbour...
Such pride there was, such strength, to struggle to the one place she knew she might find people - the Glade of Unicorn - and there to pass word of this battle even as she lay dying. Without thought that she might save herself, or that she might perhaps live with care, duty before rest.
Silent in the night a single tear fell from the eye of the smith as he held the axe to the light, ensuring all is clean and sharp.
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never going to
Keep me down
He remembered a message to him too; ‘tell Dad I love him, and that i'm sorry' she had said. Never understanding that she had nothing to be sorry for - and that he was proud of her, the way she lived and the way she died. As Dave climbed to his feet, a click in the back which even 5 years ago would never have been heard, he smiled sadly at the moon above then raised the new-clean axe above his head.
“Rosa Annasdottir, Hunts-the-Tale, Sings-of-Past-Sorrrows, Cleansed-by-the-Winds-of-Fimbulwinter, Carries the Price of Victory-yuf. Born of the Fenrir, become of the Bunyip as were, Howling moon, Skald and Galliard, Adren living and Athro-dead. This old man remembers and honours your memory” he howled to the uncaring moon, and then softer “and I hope its Valhalla you found, as there are many there as would care to share meat and mead with you girl.”
We'll be singing
When we're winning
We'll be singing
We'll be singing
When we're winning
We'll be singing
With a small sigh the man who was once Runeclaws and now was plain Dave Gunnarson stretched, years ago he’d have had no problems with his back no matter how long he’d spent hunched over doing delicate scrollwork in steel. He grinned as he pulled the glasses from his face and put them back in the case, then started doing the same for his tools. A craftsman cares for his tools first.
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never going to
Keep me down
Of course, years ago he’d not have had problems with the eyes either, and whilst decoration was something he always added in times past it was to weapons or armour rather than to a gate for the local primary school - though he had to admit that not even his irascible old uncle would have thought sea-monsters particularly appropriate for kids.
Pissing the night away
Pissing the night away
Walking towards the house he went through to the spare room and opened the large wooden chest, taking a heavy axe from its suede wrappings and going to sit on the rocking chair where he could see the sunset. He knew that his lady, the ring on his left hand still a source of amazement to him after these years, would be back soon from her painting. With oil and a soft cloth Dave started to examine the blade for any sign of rust or wear, caring for the axe he’d once carried a weekly ritual - a time to think on the old days of blood and battle, and to honour those who’d gone to the lands of the ancestors.
He drinks a whisky drink
He drinks a vodka drink
He drinks a lager drink
He drinks a cider drink
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the good times
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the better times:
It was still amazing to Dave that he’d made it through - countless nights he’d sat and thought of those who hadn’t, considered himself and wondered if he’d been weak, if he’d held back so that he’d survived when others had not. Countless nights and one as that thought came to him again - a question with no answer. A constellation of names and faces run through his mind, reflected in the gleam of steel as he finishes his careful cleaning and reaches for a whetstone. With the schnick-schnick of the stone on metal the faces resolve and revolve till one comes to the fore as it has so many times before.
Oh Danny boy
Danny boy
Danny boy...
Its not a true face, more an impression of one. A strong face with clear blue eyes, long hair pulled back in a braid - a reddish-brown today - under a simple helm. A staff in hand and a shirt of gleaming mail. Rosa Annasdottir. A voice from the past, a face from the other side of the world. A face belonging to a warrior who lived and died Fenrir, no matter what else may have gone on.
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never going to
Keep me down
Dave smiled as he remembered the first few conversations they’d had - a call for aid, help from the Battlerealm voice carrying concern but determination too, for advice filled with pride and self-worth. Successes hard earned and failures which spurred her to more and greater things. With a shake of his head for the ghosts of his past he forced himself to think further.
Pissing the night away
Pissing the night away
Died a Fenrir though no longer one of Fenris’ children - she was one who knew the price of victory, and knew that the weregeld needs be paid no matter its cost. The fact that she’d offered herself as Chiminage to the lost tribes - she’d become Bunyip - no longer amazed him. He accepted it as he knew he would have given himself for the greater whole. She was a talesinger and knew the past, and learnt those lessons well. He was a truthspeaker, and knew justice.
He drinks a whisky drink
He drinks a vodka drink
He drinks a lager drink
He drinks a cider drink
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the good times
He sings the songs that
Remind him
Of the better times:
He smiled as he recalled a great howl brought by another, but with Rosa’s pride ringing through. A howl telling not of a great sacrifice as many had died, but of victory as the Eater-of-Souls was defeated. A howl which named so many and their deeds, and which missed off her own great deeds.
Not that the howler had let that happen.
Don’t cry for me
Next door neighbour...
Such pride there was, such strength, to struggle to the one place she knew she might find people - the Glade of Unicorn - and there to pass word of this battle even as she lay dying. Without thought that she might save herself, or that she might perhaps live with care, duty before rest.
Silent in the night a single tear fell from the eye of the smith as he held the axe to the light, ensuring all is clean and sharp.
I get knocked down
But I get up again
You’re never going to
Keep me down
He remembered a message to him too; ‘tell Dad I love him, and that i'm sorry' she had said. Never understanding that she had nothing to be sorry for - and that he was proud of her, the way she lived and the way she died. As Dave climbed to his feet, a click in the back which even 5 years ago would never have been heard, he smiled sadly at the moon above then raised the new-clean axe above his head.
“Rosa Annasdottir, Hunts-the-Tale, Sings-of-Past-Sorrrows, Cleansed-by-the-Winds-of-Fimbulwinter, Carries the Price of Victory-yuf. Born of the Fenrir, become of the Bunyip as were, Howling moon, Skald and Galliard, Adren living and Athro-dead. This old man remembers and honours your memory” he howled to the uncaring moon, and then softer “and I hope its Valhalla you found, as there are many there as would care to share meat and mead with you girl.”
We'll be singing
When we're winning
We'll be singing