Neri

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.