Skald by Ravneskalle Sigurd Li Crozier
I’m a Skald, a Warrior-Poet, not to be confused with a Bard. For you see, a Bard is one who tells the stories of another’s tales and triumphs, but me? Oh, glorious gales ye must be kidding? To perpetuate such an undignifying claim is blasphemous in the least. I am a Skald!
Bards sing songs and play instruments with melodies strung together through their own hubris and egotistical disposition, mostly for fame and financial gain. But me? My stories are bellowed in tune with the beating of my enemies’ hearts in battle, shuttering voices, and collapsing breaths as they break from their lungs. My songs are brought to fruition from the inspiration obtained through shrieks of fear, in the hauntingly beautiful notes of blood curdling screams. I will smite thee and ring a fest of runes painted from the ichor of your cadaver.
I am a deeply sewn mystical combination of mixed profundities. Words lay wasted over creased spines as readers lick fingers, slowly turning pages to experience more of my language’s embrace. I bleed of heartsong; poetry spirited away coursing through my veins. I shan’t be tamed. Bowing my head to the crown of your certainties to yield what? A proposition of enduring light? I cast aside all your negligence and ignorant intellectual disembowelments for freedom – for the fruits of my labors. My smile is not a tool for the feeble to lay grace – misfortune cries in the shadows, and I am the one to turn every stone.
Likely not be your cup of tea, Hel, not even your horn of mead, but does one know what else I am not? Watered down; I am not permeated with fillers. My life hath not be a bakery, no sugar coating ye will find here. Re-creation is a task best suited for the gods, and even with their prowess, guaranteed to meet another alike is slim if not null. Tossed to the bark of burning dismay and forged in blood and tears, plated in ebony and the bone of dragon I drift in expedition to the summons of universal alignment.
Transcending this realm and beyond, I shatter all scripted notions of what once was and compel beyond this lackluster perception of reality. Graves plotted in mine name, dug deeper and troughed thoroughly to bleed, my sword arm strikes true, my aim forever noble. Choose your stride to pursue profoundly or fall victim to thine own maelstrom and discourse – for might thou erupt into a tempest, an effusion of glory, lest ye deliver self from pondering doubt. The roads may twist and wind like a labyrinth of decay whence mere navigation by moonstone and faith cannot track the true beauty in clairvoyance.
These shackles hath bored broken bones and poison, and thine cure is within reach. Open. Speak. Breathe. Keep steady – Stay sturdy. Flourish in the refinery, captivated by the hallowing of combat. Struggle breeds strength, yet offsets peace. Glory gains grace, while shredding the soul. A tear shed to fold shan’t bend its knee for simplicity. This twilight is a sepulcher of whom I once was and serves reminder of who I shall never be again. Perplexed I might add, and duly noted indeed, this curse is a truly inspiring and unfathomable blessing all the same. Such an opportunity to weigh heavily in wise, as the lotus grows we forget the triumphs: to stand and fight – to stare death in the face and deny his very existence whilst enveloping the air in mocking jests, the aroma of blood, and the taste of victory.
Dost thou not feel pain? Nay that burning disgust of shame? A relentless betrayal of kind and kin? Verily. Yet we wake. Indubitably we wake and live on. The breath pays homage to those loved and lost; every movement advancing is opportunity to begin anew. Look onward. Brazenly transmute oneself. Alas, it is the journey, the battles, the cries of woe, and blistering winds in sounding war that melted my flesh and encapsulated this living corpse in podium of steel and brand. ‘Tis love, compassion, understanding, and eloquence that cools the flames. Sharpened by mine desire to protect, teach, to love and to be loved authentically and unapologetically. A blade no bolder, presented to be, just as is and nothing more…
Weaponized in grief and imbued in art, this canvas has risen a temple, one with cracked walls, faded scripture, and an ambience bellowing an unwelcome. But deeper, behind the stone, once the dust settles, in the midst of its inner sanctum not only can one see but feel the joy, the gracious ferocity endowed upon it and all who seek refuge. There is an oasis of love and light. The chasmic abyss of ghostly halls compare not to the embrace of such beauty that lies beyond the surface. If only granted the time for the journey, ye will find that these roads lead to warm sands.
