Lord Conqueror Viktyr Baeyrd, by Sylvain Droin, TA 2203
The Volodreth
Haer all, and tarrie not in vain to heede
the tale of woe and valliante gallantry
hwer evile Twergalle twrenhed* alle the weste
'til manne and womanne ran of feere impraessede
and fiere maelded men dearthin* theyr halles
and naughte but fewe remained, Haeldwynnen* spalles
The evile wyrme lae fast in Ghennendurme*
and aet drovinnen* baebes in luncheone terme
'til naught but Aerdenvaelle, in Baeyrden heighte
did daere to grappele withe the wyrms deep meighte.
His teethe like spaeres paerced flesh, his claws crushede bone,
and fearesome gaze turned alle his foes to stoene.
The sonne of Daervenn, Viktyr gaeve his worde
that manne and wommane naerdnte* take theyr swordes
and mountede his own maere, Haergavanasse
and stoewaede his righteous blade, Queltalatas
His faether wepte and kissed his bravest sonne
who only thene was Manne at Halavonne*
but bowed his heade, and let his young manne passe
who boundede in his younge heroic chasse.
But Tuuluras, his faethers ailing Yaul*
did stoppe the boy ere he could thru the walle,
and nointede him with oilen yaulek staffe*
his saddenede cries yette turned into a laughe:
"To alle haere who yet wondere, know you this:
our misrie may yet reshaepe into bliss
If Viktyr Baeyrd can braeve the fearsomme fiere,
and not fromme Twergalles wretched gaze expiere,
Oure people will yet find a home alwayye
and righteouse bounty fromme our lande will staye."
Yette with a bounde, younge Viktyr set abroade
and seven tryches* eastwarde he corrawde*
'til soone the Shaedow mounts above did loome
and cold the winds did blowe, cold as his tombe.
"well met!" a strangere criede from cliffs above,
and beckonede to younge Viktyr, haerde thereof
A slovene beggare