Date to be Announced

As the frost-tipped moons of late autumn gather above Vigra, the Skald returns to our hearth with another sextet of tales woven from the deep roots of our ancient lore. In this next cycle you will journey with the Æsir to Ægir’s magnificent feast, where gods and giants meet over overflowing horns; witness the clash of hammer and mountain in Thor and the giant Hrungnir, a duel of thunder and stone; stand with the valiant in The Last Stand of Týr, whose courage outshines even the fiercest odds. You will feel the tender strife of love and challenge in The Wooing of Gerðr Skírnismál, hear the sorrow and wonder in The Death of Kvasir, and ponder the fateful wisdom of Alvíss and the Doom of Knowing Too Much. Each tale carries the echo of the skald’s voice, calling us to sit closer, listen deeper, and remember that in every saga lie the seeds of courage, heartache, and immortal song.

Come closer.
The nights grow longer in Vigra.
The fire remembers old names.

Frost-bright moons over timber and stone,
Late-autumn shadows, the hearth our throne,
I lift my voice where the brave are known,
Six old stories… waiting.

Gods and giants share horn and glare,
Hammer meets mountain, blood meets dare,
Oaths are broken, truths laid bare.
(Listen… listen…listen)

Ohh — gather round the flame,
Hear the deeds, remember the names,
Courage stands though fate proclaims,
All shall fall… but rise again.
(…rise again… rise again… rise again... again.)

A feast where laughter cuts like steel,
Stone-hard hearts that refuse to kneel,
A hand is lost so the world may heal,
This is the price… this is the deal.

Love is won with words and threat,
Wisdom brewed… then spilled in debt,
Questions asked no dwarf should set.
(Know too much… know too much…)

Ohh — gather round the flame,
Hear the deeds, remember the names,
Giants fall and gods are maimed,
Yet the song… remains the same.
(…the same… the same…)

These are not tales for comfort alone,
They teach the cost of flesh and bone,
To stand when loss is overthrown,
And sing… though hope is thin. (Though hope is thin.)

Ohh — hear me now,
Six old stories, I swear this vow,
From feast to duel, from wit to wound.
The Skald of Vigra sings them to you!
(Sings them… sings them…)

Sit.
Listen.
Remember.