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Post by Grim Wanderer on Jan 31, 2019 12:46:04 GMT -5
~~~ Firebeard and the Crimson teeth ~~~
The crew of big Vanir Pirate Firebeard, at his captive Princess they all leered. When her guards came to grief she had blood on her teeth, grinning naked and staring so weird.
The exotic 'Vendhyan Princess' from Angkhor was unveiled as an evil cannibal-whore. Firebeard passed sentence and gave her a Dirk Proudly she pranced down the plank with a smirk The blood-thirsty crew were soon cheering the gore.
She stabbed the first Shark through the nose as another shape scraped past her toes. Then she chewed hard on a big fin as big chomping jaw aimed at her shin.
The crew saluted her fighting death throes, finally ripped apart by her ravenous foes? But they could not see through the bloody gloom They presumed she had sunk to her doom?
Firebeard smelled the perfumed silk of her dress he would forever remember that crazy 'Princess'.
Later the crew got a huge lump in their throat News said She had been picked up by a boat. Delivered to a Church, with relief she had wept but she plotted while all the nice Nuns had slept.
They were all found murdered by her evil jaw all their hearts and tongues she'd eaten raw Several tough bounty hunters follow her trail What do you bet that they will all fail? ~~~~~ [ by Buxom Sorceress --- 2019 ]
More grim horror and a very tough deadly maniac-princess. **[ dirk is a short dagger ] Excellent imagery Bux!The world will not be safe until that princess is put down. Hard.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Jan 31, 2019 16:01:35 GMT -5
One of a couple I've been pondering. A Rough Stone Axe When I was a lad, not yet a rogue, we sailed an icy morn'; at the helm stood Mōg – I shivered from cold, and shook from great fear; My teeth chattered loudly; I feared they'd hear;
Mōg wished to take, Óle Hellström's keep, and planned that day to upon his foe creep – For Óle had slain, Mōg's youngest son; as Mōg would have it, vengeance be done;
Our boatful of reavers hit the sand at dawn, which I lept in the water to drag the boat 'pon – We rowed all night to catch Hellström asleep, that Mōg might be assured a victory to reap;
How had Óle knew? How, by Ódin, would I know? I was a boy - fit to labor and row – In my fist was only a rough, stone ax, while the men bore steel to defend and attack;
As I and three others struggled to land, dragging a boat nearly filled to a man – There burst on our ears from the trees 'long the banks, a war shout so fierce it nigh split our ranks;
That icy water stung to my waist, and I saw strange patterns in gushing blood traced, in half-frozen sand as men stomped and roared; smote, cut, stabbed, punched, twisted and swore;
They'd ambushed us - as we'd intended them; and from what I saw, our chances were slim – I saw Lars cut down, cleaved nigh in twain Høk, Krøk and Abyørn also were slain;
I was a lad, when I killed my first man, my rough-cut ax spilling brains to the sand, of that frozen bank, below Hellström's keep, with no thought I'd make a widow to weep;
Twas my little stone ax - hard dealt and swift borne, to many-a-skull, that saved Mōg that cold morn – Mōg tripped on an oar, and fell 'pon his back, and Óle leaped quick - sword high - to attack!
I leaped too, my ax drawn far behind, and when Óle saw me, his face was resigned – My ax cracked his chest like a piece of dried wood, and there stood I - where Óle Hellström once stood;
We burned the Hellström keep to the ground, there wasn't much of Óle's we didn't burn down – We herded his women and get to our boat, and made them help push the boat back afloat;
Then we forced them aboard and they rowed us home; to the wailing of women, the tears and the moans; Mōg reached me a sword – I recognized that blade; Twas Óle Hellström's sword, high-crafted and well-made;
Mōg had me sit at the helm beside he, as our spoils of war rowed us back out to sea – And as one of Óle's girls, kept catching my eye, Mōg gave me her, too; Aye, I liked to died;
Tho' a boy left that morn, 'twas a man returned, after 'pon our enemies soil we sojourned – and Helena, dear lass, tho' Óle Hellström's get, bore me great sons, and walks 'side me yet . . .
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Post by Von K on Feb 2, 2019 4:30:12 GMT -5
Sorry I've not posted here for a while, not written much verse lately either. My Muse is sunning herself on a beach in Barbados. Glad to see you are all as prolific as ever. Hi. not being able to create new rhymes is understandable and a common block problem. But completely ignoring all the good new poems in here by your fellow friend poets, is not like you at all? [ you know well how we all need more feedback /support to encourage our quivering quills ] you have been completely absent from here for very long months, and much missed. Nice to hear that you are still ok. Give us just 4 lines of rhyme and surprise us and yourself? ======== >>>> Hey Kail and Chris, big thanks for your new fun limericks. Hi Bux, the real reasons are more complex. I was only kidding about my Muse. Kind of like when you said way back that your own tentacled Muse flipped you into your croc infested moat. Remember?
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Post by Von K on Feb 2, 2019 5:23:34 GMT -5
One of a couple I've been pondering. A Rough Stone Axe
A brutal verse Chris, reminiscent in places of some of the real Viking stuff. Reminds me of one of Blackheart's here and there too.
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Post by Von K on Feb 2, 2019 5:34:21 GMT -5
~~~ Firebeard and the Crimson teeth ~~~
More grim horror and a very tough deadly maniac-princess. **[ dirk is a short dagger ] That one's well worthy of BVAGH Bux. Mikey and Ironhand would have been proud. Here's the four lined verse you wanted from me: ~:Egil:~Black-browed bard of the battle storm* Was Egil Skallagrimsson called, Skald of the axe, and the whale road runes, Set nithing pole ‘gainst the Bloodaxe’ halls. *Egil called himself this in a poem, as translated by Magnus Magnuson and Paul Edwards, in the Penguin Classics edition of Egil’s Saga.
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Feb 2, 2019 13:20:01 GMT -5
~~~ Firebeard and the Crimson teeth ~~~ A great story, sorceress! I love story poems. Always loved story songs, too, songs like Whiskey in the Jar, etc. I have started two different themed poems, both are stories, but I will make every attempt not to go Tolkein on your all azz and try to keep them short. Dear Chris, thanks very much. [ i am still recovering from writing that very grim poem about horrific cannibal evil. my mind seems to get more drained and disturbed from creating very dark evil stuff? i guess i am getting more sensitive with age and i need to watch /read more nice positive things to fuel my good moods and enjoyment of life? [ i dont watch any manufactured world news on tv. i enjoy lots of classic comedy shows on dvd /youtube ] Us poets can be very moody nuts, eh? ] == i look forward to your themed poems. Write em as short or as long as you want? you have already proved your talent for long 'epic' poem-tales. == >>>> and my big thanks to : Char V and Grim W for your good feedback about my Firebeard poem. You have all made this crazy witch smile from bellybutton to knee.
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Feb 2, 2019 13:25:41 GMT -5
A Rough Stone Axe When I was a lad, not yet a rogue, we sailed an icy morn'; at the helm stood Mōg – I shivered from cold, and shook from great fear; My teeth chattered loudly; I feared they'd hear;
Mōg wished to take, Óle Hellström's keep, and planned that day to upon his foe creep – For Óle had slain, Mōg's youngest son; as Mōg would have it, vengeance be done;
Our boatful of reavers hit the sand at dawn, which I lept in the water to drag the boat 'pon – We rowed all night to catch Hellström asleep, that Mōg might be assured a victory to reap;
How had Óle knew? How, by Ódin, would I know? I was a boy - fit to labor and row – In my fist was only a rough, stone ax, while the men bore steel to defend and attack;
As I and three others struggled to land, dragging a boat nearly filled to a man – There burst on our ears from the trees 'long the banks, a war shout so fierce it nigh split our ranks;
That icy water stung to my waist, and I saw strange patterns in gushing blood traced, in half-frozen sand as men stomped and roared; smote, cut, stabbed, punched, twisted and swore;
They'd ambushed us - as we'd intended them; and from what I saw, our chances were slim – I saw Lars cut down, cleaved nigh in twain Høk, Krøk and Abyørn also were slain;
I was a lad, when I killed my first man, my rough-cut ax spilling brains to the sand, of that frozen bank, below Hellström's keep, with no thought I'd make a widow to weep;
Twas my little stone ax - hard dealt and swift borne, to many-a-skull, that saved Mōg that cold morn – Mōg tripped on an oar, and fell 'pon his back, and Óle leaped quick - sword high - to attack!
I leaped too, my ax drawn far behind, and when Óle saw me, his face was resigned – My ax cracked his chest like a piece of dried wood, and there stood I - where Óle Hellström once stood;
We burned the Hellström keep to the ground, there wasn't much of Óle's we didn't burn down – We herded his women and get to our boat, and made them help push the boat back afloat;
Then we forced them aboard and they rowed us home; to the wailing of women, the tears and the moans; Mōg reached me a sword – I recognized that blade; Twas Óle Hellström's sword, high-crafted and well-made;
Mōg had me sit at the helm beside he, as our spoils of war rowed us back out to sea – And as one of Óle's girls, kept catching my eye, Mōg gave me her, too; Aye, I liked to died;
Tho' a boy left that morn, 'twas a man returned, after 'pon our enemies soil we sojourned – and Helena, dear lass, tho' Óle Hellström's get, bore me great sons, and walks 'side me yet . . . Dear Norse Bard Chris, that is a great and vicious viking raid saga. the vivid atmosphere sucked me right in. Very well done. Another one of your very best long poems. [ and i enjoyed all the different viking names ] Many thanks.
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Feb 2, 2019 13:28:25 GMT -5
~~~ Firebeard and the Crimson teeth ~~~
More grim horror and a very tough deadly maniac-princess. That one's well worthy of BVAGH Bux. Mikey and Ironhand would have been proud. Here's the four lined verse you wanted from me: ~:Egil:~Black-browed bard of the battle storm* Was Egil Skallagrimsson called, Skald of the axe, and the whale road runes, Set nithing pole ‘gainst the Bloodaxe’ halls. *Egil called himself this in a poem, as translated by Magnus Magnuson and Paul Edwards, in the Penguin Classics edition of Egil’s Saga. Dear VK, thanks very much for your feedback and support. [ i still miss mikey and ironhand: they were both huge fans of our poetry ] >> Your Egil good new verse is a lovely surprise for me. 'Black-browed bard of the battle storm' is a great viking title /name. Many thanks for returning in generous and creative mood. good to have our loose coven of bards posting together again. I wish you good luck and good health to beat the complex problems that modern high pressure living can present. Best wishes.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Feb 2, 2019 18:07:31 GMT -5
One of a couple I've been pondering. A Rough Stone Axe
A brutal verse Chris, reminiscent in places of some of the real Viking stuff. Reminds me of one of Blackheart's here and there too. Thanks, Von! I enjoy these battle verses.
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Post by buxom9sorceress on Feb 3, 2019 16:22:34 GMT -5
~~~~~ After our Howardian Hall was burned and taken Twas a huge loss, I was failing to cope Our Clan was rescued by Jason Aiken He fought like a mighty Lion, brought us hope. ~~~~~ [ by Bux --- 2019 ]
Celebrating 3 years of this fine new REH Forum. Supernatural hugs and best wishes to you all from the most buxom Sorceress.
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Post by Grim Wanderer on Feb 4, 2019 11:40:42 GMT -5
One of a couple I've been pondering. A Rough Stone Axe When I was a lad, not yet a rogue, we sailed an icy morn'; at the helm stood Mōg – I shivered from cold, and shook from great fear; My teeth chattered loudly; I feared they'd hear;
Mōg wished to take, Óle Hellström's keep, and planned that day to upon his foe creep – For Óle had slain, Mōg's youngest son; as Mōg would have it, vengeance be done;
Our boatful of reavers hit the sand at dawn, which I lept in the water to drag the boat 'pon – We rowed all night to catch Hellström asleep, that Mōg might be assured a victory to reap;
How had Óle knew? How, by Ódin, would I know? I was a boy - fit to labor and row – In my fist was only a rough, stone ax, while the men bore steel to defend and attack;
As I and three others struggled to land, dragging a boat nearly filled to a man – There burst on our ears from the trees 'long the banks, a war shout so fierce it nigh split our ranks;
That icy water stung to my waist, and I saw strange patterns in gushing blood traced, in half-frozen sand as men stomped and roared; smote, cut, stabbed, punched, twisted and swore;
They'd ambushed us - as we'd intended them; and from what I saw, our chances were slim – I saw Lars cut down, cleaved nigh in twain Høk, Krøk and Abyørn also were slain;
I was a lad, when I killed my first man, my rough-cut ax spilling brains to the sand, of that frozen bank, below Hellström's keep, with no thought I'd make a widow to weep;
Twas my little stone ax - hard dealt and swift borne, to many-a-skull, that saved Mōg that cold morn – Mōg tripped on an oar, and fell 'pon his back, and Óle leaped quick - sword high - to attack!
I leaped too, my ax drawn far behind, and when Óle saw me, his face was resigned – My ax cracked his chest like a piece of dried wood, and there stood I - where Óle Hellström once stood;
We burned the Hellström keep to the ground, there wasn't much of Óle's we didn't burn down – We herded his women and get to our boat, and made them help push the boat back afloat;
Then we forced them aboard and they rowed us home; to the wailing of women, the tears and the moans; Mōg reached me a sword – I recognized that blade; Twas Óle Hellström's sword, high-crafted and well-made;
Mōg had me sit at the helm beside he, as our spoils of war rowed us back out to sea – And as one of Óle's girls, kept catching my eye, Mōg gave me her, too; Aye, I liked to died;
Tho' a boy left that morn, 'twas a man returned, after 'pon our enemies soil we sojourned – and Helena, dear lass, tho' Óle Hellström's get, bore me great sons, and walks 'side me yet . . . A very worthy epic Chris. Stirring and exciting. It needs to be sung around a fire with ale and mead flowing freely.
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Feb 4, 2019 16:10:41 GMT -5
One of a couple I've been pondering. A Rough Stone Axe When I was a lad, not yet a rogue, we sailed an icy morn'; at the helm stood Mōg. . . A very worthy epic Chris. Stirring and exciting. It needs to be sung around a fire with ale and mead flowing freely. Now that's what I'm talking about! Pass the drinking horn, Grim! And thanks.
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Post by Grim Wanderer on Feb 4, 2019 16:48:17 GMT -5
A very worthy epic Chris. Stirring and exciting. It needs to be sung around a fire with ale and mead flowing freely. Now that's what I'm talking about! Pass the drinking horn, Grim! And thanks. Consider it passed!
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Feb 5, 2019 8:17:05 GMT -5
Thanks, Von! I enjoy these battle verses. Very impressive, Chris, and equally impressive getting all the little accents in there, too. ...... My ancestry came up recently, and I think it's what got this Viking raid stirring in my mind. Out of all the immigrants from Germany and England in our family line, we have one odd-ball from Norway. It's a matter of pride, as I love that region and would dearly love to visit it. Thanks, Kail!
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Post by ChrisLAdams on Feb 5, 2019 14:16:04 GMT -5
Dear Norse Bard Chris, that is a great and vicious viking raid saga. the vivid atmosphere sucked me right in. Very well done. Another one of your very best long poems. [ and i enjoyed all the different viking names ] Many thanks. Norse Bard Chris! I love it! Where do you come up with these? Kind of has a certain ring to it, by Freya! Thanks, Sorceress. I'm thrilled you found this one titillating, and hope to suck you in again in the future.
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