Edit, 5/30/04: Thanks to the HaloFrosh, I've finally been able to work around the infamous Wiki single-carriage-return flaw, and I've typeset the song differently. A question; does this make it more or less readable? What would you suggest I do to delineate between chorus and verses, or enhance its legibility?
We hail bright the light, we sing down the night!
Oh, we ride out from Clivesdale with no end in sight . . .
In Clivesdale's annals, they laud their youth with pride
For one such band of yearlings proved their courage burned inside!
We met and we routed a fearsome Orcish band
And so our quest was seeded, that day we were as men.
So with ascension coming, we met then as before:
The bard was shamed and failing, the fighters home from war,
The baker's apprentice crafting recipies arcane,
The druid, wolf-companioned, the ward of wood and plain.
We hail bright the light, we sing down the night!
Oh, we ride out from Clivesdale with no end in sight.
By spell, stone, and steel, the weapons we wield
Oh, we strive for our glory, our story to reveal . . .
Now Jeb runs before us, the front line of the band,
And vast the ranks of foeman have fallen by his hand!
His greatsword is doubled, as reaper and as shield,
His arm, trained in warfare, will quickly clear the field.
Though facile in battle, in peace his strength declines;
An idle man, a drinking man, with glory in his mind.
You search for drunken revels, and you will find him there,
But back into the country, he fights no worse for wear.
Beside him stands Ethan, an archer without peer,
He fights for fair Olivia, who smiles when he is near.
A shaft flown from Bow-Boy will find its mark indeed,
No matter long it travels to set his foes to bleed.
But our archer's wisdom lies far below his years,
Indeed, his curiosity has driven us to tears!
A close rein on fancy would do poor Ethan well,
And keep him from pianos enchanted full of spells!
Then loping around us runs Ellen and her pack,
To scent and sound the trampled ground, and set us on the track.
'Gainst Shadow and Silver, our quarry cannot spar--
And even when they scatter, they never make it far.
Enamoured of the wildlands, she cannot stand a town,
And paths that meet society will detour far around.
We've seen her in her shaping, our worries cannot mend;
What will portend for Ellen, if she makes wolves her kin?
The strong voice of Belman next rises in a song,
Now sounding out a melody to sweep our hopes along.
His mind always troubled by evil's growing knell,
His art always trying to keep his foes bespelled.
But when the talent fails him, he draws a blade too fast,
His pen and tongue are mighty, but his arm is well surpassed!
When battle comes roaring, he's found too proud to run,
And draped o'er someone's shoulder when every bout is done.
Now Algernon comes chanting, his hands a fan of flame,
Apprenticed in a bakery, or so it seems in name.
His master, old Keebler, is playing dual parts,
And underneath that teaching, he's learned forbidden arts.
His humor tends to tweaking the customs of his land-
A trait he shares with Bunbury, who humors his command.
His gift comes most welcome with all our lives at stake . . .
Oonobra guide his reason, his antics all half-baked!
Young Emily, a rascal, has joined her brother's side,
But why she fled her family, she simply won't confide,
Her sharp wits are nimble, and quick as any dart
To rescue us from peril, when bluffing falls apart.
A child of her people, she views our works with fear,
For magic brings a phobia that's long to disappear;
She's trained her emotions to tolerate our spells
In little comprehension of what within her dwells.
Arriving from the Northlands, the kindly Khaz MoŽn
A shaman of the tundra who entreats our wounds to mend,
His people are scattered, his home consumed in fire,
His world is with companions, achieving their desires.
His hammer deftly dances, and strikes from foe to foe,
His powers of protection hold the demons far below,
His shadow, however, he cannot help deplore-
Recalling that enchantment that bound him to the floor.
A fleet-footed ranger, Kes visits from the wilds,
Her arrows casting doubts into the foes who would defile,
A kind-hearted traveler with no roof but the sky,
With friends who can accept her, and will not pass her by.
Her memories are haunted by what she's paid as price,
To lie by wood and campfire's ash, to sleep in sacrifice
But out of the shadow, her spirit surges strong,
She's spun her past to darkness, her future into song.
Our number's fully rounded, Sir Gregory makes nine,
A just, noble paladin, resolved of soul and mind;
He rode out with his squire, one fateful autumn day . . .
Brought down by mighty forces, till allies came his way.
Well-quenched in steam of battle, well-skilled in games of grace:
For even if he cannot win, he'll deftly mark his place!
His honor and wisdom are sound beyond reproof
And for that strength he carries the ringing staff of truth.
Across Caladania we seek to earn our name,
From Veshtad to Thistleborg, encountering the same:
The land starts to darken, the orcs mass in the hills,
The cult of ancient mysteries is waking for the kill.
Now legends are wandering, we seek them with respect,
Embracing our destiny, our kinsman to protect
For who will defend them if no one else will fight?
And who will dare to challenge the horseman of the night?
Oh, we strive for our glory . . . our story flowing still!
Running time: about 8 minutes.
At long last, the Saga is complete . . . or is the true edda only beginning?
''Debatably a FilkSong