Combat Role - DPS
Enjoys: Events, markets, RP meetups, Dungeons, PvP, social interactions of all kinds
Favorite Clothing Brand: Original Kersting garments

(Prefer to listen to the ballad? Follow the link under Neri's image)

Hwæt! We have heard of heroes in high days of yore,
shield-bearers bold, breakers of rings,
yet now shall the scôp sing of Neri the Wanderer,
far-farer, wise in wit, wide-roaming over whale-roads.

From northern nesses, through night-shadowed forests,
he trod the trackless, seeking strange tidings,
till on a fell-side, in fen-mist enfolded,
he beheld the hoard-guard: a Lindwyrm gleaming.

Scales like sea-gold, eyes ember-red,
coiled on cairn-gold, on cups of kings,
on arm-rings ancient, on iron-hard helms,
the worm lay watchful, wealth-hoarding, grim.

Neri, ring-giver, not rash but rune-crafty,
drew from his cloak a curved drinking-horn,
never-empty, mead ever-flowing, gift of giants.
He hailed the hoard-drake with honeyed words:

“Hail, O Lindwyrm, lord of the barrow!
Thy fame fills the fjords; thy fire is feared.
Yet even earth-biters thirst in their triumph;
taste of this mead, mighty one, and be merry!”

The wyrm, pride-puffed, proud in his power,
laughed like lava, long tongue lolling,
and lapped at the liquor, linden-sweet, golden.
Cup after cup the horn yielded, unceasing.

Mead-foam mantled the monster’s muzzle;
his eyes grew ember-dim, his coils grew slack.
He bellowed a boast, then a burbling song,
till the fell-drake foundered, drunk, dream-bound.

Neri, light-footed, laughed low in his beard,
piled plunder in pouches: pearls, pale gold,
byrnie-bright silver, swords of old sorrow.
He left the horn hanging on the wyrm’s horn,
a parting gift, ever-pouring, never-empty.

Then south he sailed, swan-breasted ship,
over whale-ways, wind at the sail,
till Gallia’s green hills greeted his prow.
In a mountain valley, mist-veiled, meadow-sweet,
Pladenn by name, he planted his hearth.

There he raised rafters, roofed with red tiles,
an inn of oak, open to all wayfarers.
Above the door, a dragon carved, drooping,
mug in claw, mead on muzzle.
He named it true: The Drunken Lindwyrm.

Now wanderers warm by his wide-flung fire,
hear Neri’s tale told in torchlight and song,
how wit won wealth where weapons had failed,
and the never-empty horn still pours in the north,
drowning the dragon in dream after dream.

Thus Neri the Wanderer, wise and wealth-laden,
rests in renown, ring-lord of Pladenn,
and his inn stands steadfast, a story in stone,
while the Lindwyrm lies lapped in endless mead.

Hwæt! The scôp has spoken; the song is sung.