/lit/ - Literature

As rises the rolling tide came the mist of night on Bredebojgd's vale. So too rose Zinklar. Not lightly fall his steps! His locks are rent by the blast. The traveler quakes in fear. To the Leavings of Fenrir the Northmen lift their spears!
They met, and amid the trees the strife of heroes raged. The souls of Northmen rose. Heavy fell the axes on Alba's sons, and fast fell the darts of Norway's bows.
On the moss Zinklar fell; he pulled an arrow from his side. Purple rolled his gore, as rolls the stream to the fjord! His sword faltered, and in the house of Death he saw his fathers.
"On, Northmen!" the herald cried. "On, favored of Aesir! We advance with the dawn! Our souls shine in war."
With dead flesh the ravens ate their fill. Over the foeman's blood that there did flow, the maids of Alba raised their song. They looked to the sea; but their heroes returned not.
A stone the Northmen raised at Kringen, and carved in runes thereon: "Hear, o foeman, and fear the Northman's steel! Here you fell, and fall you shall again! Remember when, before the dawn, over the heath they came!"
Oh, a song of other years!

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