Transcript provided by James Walker

Hi.

If you want a written copy of what I'm about to say, talk to that overworked reliever making notes. I can't write, so you'll have to get a copy from him. More importantly, I wasn't trained as a saga poet - if I had been, then you'd get something to remember! Still, maybe one of your skalds can knock my story into shape.

I'm Yves Ransom - no not YOUR Yves, a different one. Yves means 'archer', and Ransom is the new way of saying Ranulf's son. Everyone got that? Good.

I'm one of the Blessed, and a retired Einheriar. My retirement wasn't my idea - one of Hell's sorcerers managed to kick me up here. I brained a demon first, which is why I've the right to be here. Sure, coming here was a shock, but Jack & Tollers [indicates a pair of Blessed who are smoking pipes] explained things to me.

Now, the reason I'm going to talk about your war-ride is this: I was there, in both worlds. I'm a Saxon, and even once I'd loosed ever arrow, the Franks fell beneath my axe like wheat under a scythe, until one of your angels stood against me. There was a battle! When his sword finally cut me down, I rejoiced, for I knew that our epic battle had assured me of a fine seat in Woden's feasting hall. The long sleep claimed me, and I was in the hall- which was burning! A timber had fallen from the roof, crushing the long table, the women were screaming, and Woden's men strove to hold back your knights as they pushed in through holes they'd hacked in the hall. I was still gripped by battle rage, and rushed into the fray, burying my axe into a dark, gigantic knight. He lashed out with a blow that seared through my mind & soul as I twisted my axe deep in his body. No man could have survived that blow, but the knight still fought. The suddenly, he leapt back, ripping my axe from my hands, and in a voice as deep and cold as winter bade me depart the battlefield and seek my destiny elsewhere.

Abandon Woden? I was a guest in his mead hall! Had I been in the rudest cot of my fiercest enemy, I would not have abandoned my host! I cursed the knight, damning him for insulting me, for daring to imagine the dishonor of refusing a pledge, of denying the claims of hospitality. The knight, who had feared no blow of my axe, cringed in shame, and then was gone, vanquished by the pain of dishonorable words.

Alone I stood in the gap, blinded by smoke and the bright firelight, gulping up the star-touched air that rushed past my face into the hall. No foe stood before me. But then through the gap I held the women came, fleeing the flames, shielding their children with their bodies. Above them Woden's spirits flew through the smoke, behind them Woden and his warriors followed, guarding their retreat. Woden stopped before me, and as I knelt to pay homage he drew me to my feet and handed me a nobleman's sword, the hilt of gold studded with gems, the blade of fine steel, inlaid with silver and gleaming with powerful magics. I named the blade Brenris, and swore on the blade my loyalty to Woden.

Four score and five scores of years have passed since Woden took me into his service. Demons and angels, spirits & ghosts, living Sorcerers and undead monsters have all fallen to Brenris - the sword Woden gave me. Yet my pride is dulled by the pain that I feel for my noble lord. Once only the bravest, the boldest, the truest dared enter Woden's halls. Now the dregs of men slink into his halls, too feeble to serve the Risen Christ, they dare claim kinship with us. Do they strive to be noble, to be honorable, do they seek to out do one another with their hospitality, with their generous gifts? A scant few do. But we must hold our peace and listen as vermin seek to dictate to the All-Father when and how they will serve, or boast of the stingy gifts of Essence they bring. Once we would have butchered such scum, and left their bodies to the wolves as a warning to the honorless, but now we must watch as our lord, generous beyond the reach of kings, wise with the ages, his sworn word stronger than the finest steel, gathers the crumbs of worship from this rabble as if he was a broken beggar, rather than our king.

And I come here, and here you talk of 'justified', or 'right', or 'wrong' like a gaggle of peasants arguing over a pig. Did your thirst for honor die with Uriel? You choose the entire hosts of gods as your foes! You should shout of your courage to your God, and boast of your victories! Then the slain would rest easy, knowing that their final battles are remembered, that their names will live on as the worthiest foes to the mightiest of all warriors. When I entered this hall, where was the skald? Why did he not sing of the knight I felled? Was he not your knight?

But no. You are ashamed of yourselves! Bah! What twisted your minds into the ways of foxes? By denying the courage of your warriors, you insult the fallen. Do you think that Woden is honored by your shame? Had you boasted of your victory, he would rule his realm in pride. But instead you are ashamed! Shame? Had you struck a woman or child, you should feel shame. To strike the defenseless, to break your word, to fail to defend those under your care; these are the causes of shame. Your shame insults Woden; it says that you deem him as defenseless as a woman or a child, that you think that he could only exist under your protection, that his life was at the sufferance of your word. When did he swear allegiance to you? He did not. When did you exchange gifts with him, and swear brotherhood? You did not. No, he chooses to life and die by his own counsel, and will do so, whether you make amends or not.

Your shame is a curse, and it sullies your honor as well as ours. If you value your honor, make amends. Offer a good wergild for the insult to my lord's pride, and since the praises of the fallen. Then the feud will end. And then?

Should you still deem Woden your foe, then strike again! The skalds will sing of the mighty deed we shall perform, and our valor will be remembered throughout the ages. Should we fall, then we will still rejoice, knowing that our foes are mighty and true. If not, then raise the war banner against Hell, and the mightiest warriors of our peoples will stand together against the foe. We strive for Ragnarok, and as you strive for Armageddon. It is the warrior's way, as it always was, as it always must be.

But I must depart. I feel the cry of the Jacob's Ladder. Know that when I stand before your God, I will do so as a man, as a warrior. And as he bids me enter his Halls, I will remain true through the ages, true to my host. And when I meet Uriel, I will sing of his courage in withstanding the countless gods of the Marches, and he will recite the mighty warriors who fought beside me, and fell to his blade. But I say this; I will not speak of your whining tales of 'justified' or 'unprovoked' or worse the yapping slander that he was mad. Not yet; not until he has led us down to do battle in your Armageddon. Then he will know, that he may be avenged on those who sully his memory.

[Turning to the pair of pipe-smoking Blessed] Remember my deeds in your sagas my friends! And know that I will recount yours to your God.

Farewell!