This tale was told by Wulf Grofsmid to Rionna Declan on the 18th day of September in the year 311. May the Lord of Stones bear witness to this history and its transcription so the names of the dead will not be forgotten.
-x-
This is the tale of Clan Grey-Eye, artists of gem,
Who flourished long, before their shine grew dim.
Of Throdin the Hammer I sing, a smith once of Grannaf,
Whose namesake was not for war, but for craft.
But when the Drakkar came, even storied warriors grew grim,
And counseled sensible retreat, all but him.
"Where can we go," cried he, "But there they will find?
Fleeing like prey, and still we will die.
Let us stay and fight, even if we fall,
Until we stand in the gods' storied hall."
Many listened and some were swayed,
And while others retreated, there they stayed,
With Throdin out front, striking left and right,
While skulls rang out like his anvil each night.
When the blood-mist cleared, the Drakkar were slain,
But the cavern echoed with groans of dwarven pain.
Throdin limped his way home and there he found
All his retreated kinsmen, safe and sound.
But though glad to find their safety bought,
He resented their flight while artisans fought.
So he took his battle-brothers by the arm,
And spoke of craftsmen saving warriors from harm,
Until they agreed to strike for truer stone,
And form a new clan of their own,
Clan Grey-Eye, whose deeds of future fame,
Would be of artists and warriors the same.
Long Throdin lived, gaining strength and renown,
But had only one son to take his crown.
Kirem the Delver, a bold and brash young lad,
Whose thirst for adventure drove his father mad.
"How can you be so reckless?", he would ask.
He had long forgotten his words of the past,
Or perhaps he had, in the silver wisdom of age,
Grown to understand foolish pride as a cage.
But like his father before, Kirem did not listen,
As far below, shining silver did glisten.
Alone he went, full of hunger for fame,
And sought for himself all the glory to claim.
Silver and gold was not all he found,
But swarms of cursed demons far underground.
Like his storied father, Kirem made his final fight,
While shadowed demons turned torches to night,
And would have snuffed out his life too,
But for the love of Lodi, loyal and true.
She followed him in his misguided delve,
And returned with warriors three times twelve.
While he recovered, she was always by his side,
And when he was strong, she became his bride.
Though still brave, Kirem grew wise
And dearly loved those brave brown eyes,
Whose light shone like Leif's bright sun
In three strong daughters and three kind sons.
A century and more did pass,
Until Kirem's breath faded at last,
And leadership passed onto his eldest,
One known to us as Barridora the Blessed.
But such was not her name at this time,
Rather, she was known as a weaver fine.
Long prepared, she took up the cloak,
And brought prosperity to the Deep-Folk.
But far below, yet unknown to her,
Ancient vengeful foes began to stir.
Bloodied Dakkar, stinging still of defeat,
Gathered together, their assault to repeat,
But now with aid of the Betrayer Rand,
They summoned hateful demons throughout the land.
When Barridora learned of this, it was too late.
Already the hordes of Hel were summoned at the gate.
She fought the hordes, though caked with gore,
Just as her father and grandfather before,
But no help came in form of love or kin,
Until the warrior-weaver prepared for the end.
The largest of demons struck his claws across her back,
Before the air was rent with a mighty crack,
Like the falling of stone and Sunlight deep below,
And demons fled before antler's bright glow.
Silently, Snowfall stampeded and all the demons fled,
But above, the archers shook their heads.
For to them, there was no godly sight,
Only the forms of demons fleeing into the night.
But Barridora told all of what she had seen,
And the people believed her, for her mind was keen.
They rejoiced to know that the gods cared for their plight,
And called her Blessed to honor that fateful night.
-x-
The story ended abruptly here, as the final records of Clan Grey-Eye were lost to history, at least for now.
((Credit to @rimacutem for the basis of this poem, which I wrote expanding on his story. I would like to do more of these in the future as part of Rionna's priestly work, so feel free to reach out if you have an ancestral story you'd like her to put to poem! I'm a bit rusty at writing poetry, so hopefully I'll improve with more practice.))-x-
This is the tale of Clan Grey-Eye, artists of gem,
Who flourished long, before their shine grew dim.
Of Throdin the Hammer I sing, a smith once of Grannaf,
Whose namesake was not for war, but for craft.
But when the Drakkar came, even storied warriors grew grim,
And counseled sensible retreat, all but him.
"Where can we go," cried he, "But there they will find?
Fleeing like prey, and still we will die.
Let us stay and fight, even if we fall,
Until we stand in the gods' storied hall."
Many listened and some were swayed,
And while others retreated, there they stayed,
With Throdin out front, striking left and right,
While skulls rang out like his anvil each night.
When the blood-mist cleared, the Drakkar were slain,
But the cavern echoed with groans of dwarven pain.
Throdin limped his way home and there he found
All his retreated kinsmen, safe and sound.
But though glad to find their safety bought,
He resented their flight while artisans fought.
So he took his battle-brothers by the arm,
And spoke of craftsmen saving warriors from harm,
Until they agreed to strike for truer stone,
And form a new clan of their own,
Clan Grey-Eye, whose deeds of future fame,
Would be of artists and warriors the same.
Long Throdin lived, gaining strength and renown,
But had only one son to take his crown.
Kirem the Delver, a bold and brash young lad,
Whose thirst for adventure drove his father mad.
"How can you be so reckless?", he would ask.
He had long forgotten his words of the past,
Or perhaps he had, in the silver wisdom of age,
Grown to understand foolish pride as a cage.
But like his father before, Kirem did not listen,
As far below, shining silver did glisten.
Alone he went, full of hunger for fame,
And sought for himself all the glory to claim.
Silver and gold was not all he found,
But swarms of cursed demons far underground.
Like his storied father, Kirem made his final fight,
While shadowed demons turned torches to night,
And would have snuffed out his life too,
But for the love of Lodi, loyal and true.
She followed him in his misguided delve,
And returned with warriors three times twelve.
While he recovered, she was always by his side,
And when he was strong, she became his bride.
Though still brave, Kirem grew wise
And dearly loved those brave brown eyes,
Whose light shone like Leif's bright sun
In three strong daughters and three kind sons.
A century and more did pass,
Until Kirem's breath faded at last,
And leadership passed onto his eldest,
One known to us as Barridora the Blessed.
But such was not her name at this time,
Rather, she was known as a weaver fine.
Long prepared, she took up the cloak,
And brought prosperity to the Deep-Folk.
But far below, yet unknown to her,
Ancient vengeful foes began to stir.
Bloodied Dakkar, stinging still of defeat,
Gathered together, their assault to repeat,
But now with aid of the Betrayer Rand,
They summoned hateful demons throughout the land.
When Barridora learned of this, it was too late.
Already the hordes of Hel were summoned at the gate.
She fought the hordes, though caked with gore,
Just as her father and grandfather before,
But no help came in form of love or kin,
Until the warrior-weaver prepared for the end.
The largest of demons struck his claws across her back,
Before the air was rent with a mighty crack,
Like the falling of stone and Sunlight deep below,
And demons fled before antler's bright glow.
Silently, Snowfall stampeded and all the demons fled,
But above, the archers shook their heads.
For to them, there was no godly sight,
Only the forms of demons fleeing into the night.
But Barridora told all of what she had seen,
And the people believed her, for her mind was keen.
They rejoiced to know that the gods cared for their plight,
And called her Blessed to honor that fateful night.
-x-
The story ended abruptly here, as the final records of Clan Grey-Eye were lost to history, at least for now.
