Special: The Song of the Witani

Toward the end of Episode 64, Tira, Bash, and Peter were dining in the great mead hall of Beorhtmedu with the Marchioness when they heard singing coming from outside. This special episode shares the contents of that song, which Rhett has patterned after the style of Old English poetry.

The format may be a bit odd for most of us, since this style relies more on repeated initial sounds instead of shared ending sounds, but we hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

Here's the text in a standalone format for easy reference:

The Song of the Witani

Lo! May we, the many-numbered     approach the all-giving mother 
of our kin, the open-handed,    giver of bright gifts of gold 
to the brave and bold     warriors of the wind-swept plains. 
Of old our horses     roamed to the rising-home, 
the sun’s sweet hall     where Dawn drinks deep of day to come. 
Of old our horses     strode to the setting-home, 
where the wings of night     press in upon the pale. 
Of old our horses     made us master of all between, 
and lords of a land     that sprang with sweetest gifts. 

Once our will     ran right and true,
a single sense     that burned bright— 
three threads today that     once were one— 
we, the Witani,     knew defeat as does 
the east the west.     No foe might fight us and win; 
in the great grass lands,     where horse-bands' blade 
fell fiercely on those     who tried to take from us. 
Many woeful learned to wail,     sad for all the empty seats 
in their halls of honor     when our warriors rode: 
Glory-filled days gone     with the whisper of the wind. 

Then came the crows,     feasting with raven feathers
on us, talons tearing     us brother from brother, 
rending and riving     and driving deep 
the cracks that cut     our folk far from love for itself. 
May gods give grace     to heal the hurts that have 
torn us, tell us     how we might mend 
and not needlessly     drive hatred deeper. 

For now, fair gods,     our need is nearer than ever, 
as dark hosts stand at our door,     their swords swift and sure. 
Our gift-giver, the Fair Lady     who sits in the honey-sweet hall, 
leads us to light,     makes haven for the hungry
and helps the helpless     with a wall in the wasteland, 
a firm friend     with all-shielding arms. 
Her hands hold no gold     but let it freely flow 
to those who love the land     that remains ours by right. 

Yet up climbs the cost     as days drag on to months. 
Too many horses run home     with no warrior 
holding high the     blooded blade and battered shield. 
They lie in the long hills     made by man’s hands, 
cold arms crossed     below the blood-soaked earth. 
And still the slaughter     makes its way to where
both hearth and heart once dwelt.     Here, we wail for them. 

But bold horse-bands still ride     and bite the black-clad foe, 
guiding them with wounds too great     to seek softer lands. 
In this great work the will     of our Lady leads, 
for of herself she helps—     her own child, strong and steady, 
rides to rid the land     of the fearsome foe. 
How can we lose heart     when so many work for our good? 
Time fails us to tell     of storied names and steeds 
Who work as one     in sun’s harsh heat, 
or moon’s glow,     in grey of winter’s snow or spring’s sky-tears.
Of Ecgferth, Ealdraed’s son,     or Totholt the life-taker 
our songs once sang,     and still will, should gods’ smiles stay on us. 
While they ride forth for us,     our heads may rest under roofs 
where careless dreams come.     Our songs and words to gods hasten their feet.  

But though the tide     of Witan care creeps high, 
new hope hastens to us,     unseen by all but 
the wisest ones we have.     For do our songs not say 
that from the sun may sail     hope from on high? 
And lo, again,     may we know our hope anew, 
for on this day, when dread     has seemed as black as it could be,
a wondrous sight, when     from the gathered gloom 
five friends came from     a ship that sails the clouds. 
Without a sea, this water-horse     has led the light 
to bring to bold Beorhtmedu     a way to wage new war. 

The first is full of craft,     wise Esymires, whose wingéd 
steed sails the sky.     He led to Stedingas the band. 

Then comes Radiance of the sun,     a worthy warrior 
blessed with the aura of Ardan.     Her arm shall awe the darkness. 

Bold Peter walks worthily     in the name of life and light, 
a land-living one     who walks with Vasham.

A doughty dwarf     with axes keen and cruel 
is Tira, eldest daughter of the earth.     A fool is he who raises her wrath. 

And last but not the least,     wild Wamberbash, who wears 
the smell of snarling beasts     as most might wear a skin. 

These all have sailed swiftly     from the morning’s meadows, 
leaving the heated halls     of the rising red sun 
to bring to truth the words     that fill sorrowful souls 
with fire and flame rekindled     to scorch and slay 
those who would claim     our lives and lands. 

So sing we now,     and shall sing, Witani all!

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We used an excellent Battlebards music track. If you like what you hear, check them out at battlebards.com. If you sign up for a Prime account, be sure to use our special code, stack, and you'll get a 20% discount on your subscription.

Here are the sound effects we used in this episode:

Downtime - Fantasy Ambience - Score Music, by Alexander Nakarada

And now, on with the show-- we're excited to tell a story with you.