A Bardic Journey
Based on Buffy the Vampire Slayer (As requested)
In every generation there is a chosen one. He alone would stand against the mundania of solid colors and boring prints. Muin maqq Minain, first of his name but not last of his bloodline and protector of the plaid-ypus. A man of egg-straordinary tastes who was so brave he always took the whisk! He was the Baron.
I was asked several years ago to compose and athem for Stonemarche. I have had very little faith in my own compositions. The kingdom is filled with very many talented composers and who am I to try to be amongst them? It was brought up again that we needed an anthem and I finally got the gumption to write one. It’s not perfect and it’s a little quirky but so is our Barony.
Below is the recording of it’s first performance and the lyrics are below.
In the snow capped mountains
From far away lands
Dwelled the folks in 3 towers
Who wear white and green bands
We fence and loose arrows
We sing and we dance
See the gifts that we offer
Our love’s not a chance
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
Rolling lands rich with sheep
Cross the grass covered hills
A gift from lochleven
We tend to their wills
Cross the grass spanning lands
And as they wander and roam
Our children do gather
And bring them all home
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
If you come from the outside
If you dwell in our tillage
All around us are welcome
Inside our family’s village
Paint us up a bright chorus
Join our Bards in their song
We fight and we dance
No activity’s wrong
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
We’ve a motto in Stonemarche,
There’s no famine we said,
In Stonemarche, Stonemarche
Our home, our hearth, our stead
Not a ton to report. These pieces aren’t super new to me outside of my own composition and the new lyrics to Miri. The day felt good and I’m not ashamed of my performances. They weren’t perfect but they were solid.
Round 1
Round 2
Round 3
Round 4
Through time’s vast veil of ash and smoke,
A mystery burns, a tale unbroke.
Greek Fire, the tempest, the sea’s fierce bane,
A whisper of alchemy, lost in flame.
A weapon forged in secret’s keep,
That made the mighty navies weep.
A liquid blaze, unquenched, untamed,
Its makers lost, its name unnamed.
Yet through the past, with steadfast gaze,
You walk where history’s embers blaze.
Octavia Veritas, seeker of the spark,
You chase the fire through the dark.
In scroll and script, in lab and lore,
You trace the past, unlock its core.
With wisdom’s torch, you light the way,
And bring the lost to modern day.
For knowledge burns as bright as war,
But builds where ruin stood before.
And so, we honor what you inspire—
A scholar’s mind, a soul of fire.
Baron Ferghus and Baroness Sabina do we
Instill title A and S champion on thee
Silver Wyvern AS 59 Tavern Halls
Today will be marked in our annals
I wrote this… I wrote all of this. Putting out songs of my own are terrifying. It took me until now to finally feel comfortable enough to publish this. This isn’t the best recording but that’s ok. Folks came in late, a spider was taken off me while performing BUT! people sang along. That is why I felt like posting this. I hope this song becomes an anthem for the Bards. This is about who sings for us when we are gone. Think a-la Hamilton, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Their Stories”. Be brave. Sing your songs unashamedly.
Video taken by Jasmine Rochelle Goodspeed
I dreamt of a day when you sang a song
The song was spun for me
Instead of painting a warriors skills
Bardic tales were their decree
I hoped for the day when lauds and praise
For those who most enchant
Not the stories and words of those who berserked
Spoken out for those who can’t
Who will sing my song when I’m gone?
Who will tell my story?
Who’ll remember the days
And sing of the praise
Of the minstrel’s memory
If you would walk the streets at night
Or at a meal or ale
Hark! To those who weave the myths
Sing for them a jaunt wassail
Know you the tales of great Arthur
You have heard of Lancelot
Epic deeds rhymed in memory fair
But the bringers oft forgot
Chorus x2
The sun will rise and the moon will fall
As time will wane and pass
To the memory of those before
We all should raise a glass
To the bringers of the melody
When their bodies live no more
A chorus sung to bring their name
And conjure spirits to restore
Chorus 3x
Of the minstrel’s memory x3
Beneath the boundless steppe’s embrace, where whispers weave and wander,
A warrior’s will, wise and warm, shines brighter than gold’s grandeur.
Budang Altajin, a beacon bold, whose spirit takes its flight,
Not for clashing, crushing blows, but for kindling others’ might.
When his own blade rested, silent, his spirit stayed unbroken,
Guiding, guarding, growing strength, with steady words unspoken.
Through winter’s wail and summer’s song, the circle’s spark was sown,
A flame that flickered, fed by faith, where fellowship had grown.
Today we toast not just the sword, swift, sharp, and sure in hand,
But the heart that holds and helps the weary make their stand.
Budang, may your deeds echo on the steppe’s wide sea,
A legacy of strength and care, in eternity’s harmony.
Done by the King of Demons as he delights with the Queen of Bengals, as they both bestow at the Tournament of Daffodils, the honor of induction into the Wheels. Done this day during AS 56.
Lo, mark the hand that flies so true,
With strength and craft, it bids adieu.
The spear, the axe, the dart they cast,
Shall find their mark and hold it fast.
In battles thick, where valor shines,
The hurler’s art doth draw the lines.
No clashing swords, no mighty bow,
But deadly skill to loose their throw.
Arms, like tempest, rend the air,
With cunning born of skillful care.
Through wind and storm their fury rides,
And in its wake, no foe abides.
Ellyn Grene, who’s name we cry
King and Queen with Eagle eye
Matthew and Fiamun grant you this day
A Silver Mantle in their stay
Pray heed to the edict of the crown and consort that celebrates the craftsmanship of the following gentle :
Meticulous craftsmanship creates a monument to the myths and memories of yore. With a masterful hand and historical heart, Aelfwine Aekworthe recreated thorborg trousers with remarkable precision. This pair, perfectly patterned and produced, reflects his profound passion for past apparel. His work wonderfully weds authenticity with amazing artistry. From creating beautiful bows to accurate arrows and further creating his kit down to shoes, his dedication to detail ensures that every seam and every stitch speaks to the stories of those before. This gentle not only defends his art with writings and study, but with the axes he has also created.
Thus do we, Tindal and Emerson, crowns to the mighty East, demand Aelfwine’s entrance today at Sommer Draw, AS 59, into the auspicious order of the Silver Brooch.
I have done several boasts this year. All of them have been hand crafted by me, but this time, I had been asked to do a different task. This time, my friend, Lisabetta, did not wish to be lauded as she entered court. She simply wanted to be sang in.
I was contacted about a week before the event via email by her grace, Marieke asking me if I would be willing to perform this task (No pun intended). She said that it wasn’t a specific piece, but Lisabetta would like it to be in Italian.
I had a couple pieces in my back pocket, super memorized, but nothing that really captured Lisabetta and what -she- would have wanted. So, I did a bit of thinking. Lisabetta is female artisan who has worked her entire life to be the incredible, warm and well versed in her art. Although her persona is not 16th century (or atleast, I don’t think) I feel like she would have loved the music of the 16th century and Isabelle D’Este, who was the reason why women in the 16th century were able to have a viable career. She loved madrigals and so I pulled out my book of Madrigals and picked out “O Occhi Manza Mia”.
I had been heralding all day in the cold so seeing if I still had a voice was a thing. Here is the translation.
| O occhi, manza mia, cigli dorati, o faccia d’una luna stralucente, Tienemi mente, gioia mia bella, Guardam’un poc’a me, fami contiento. O bocca come zuccaro impanato, o canna che specchiare fai la gente, Tienimi… O cuore, manza mia, perfido cuore. tu sei la gioia mia, lo mio amore! Tienimi… | Oh my beloved’s eyes, set in gold-blond lashes, oh face more luminous than the moon, Keep me in mind, my lovely treasure,Look upon me for a little while, and keep me happy. Oh mouth like sugarloaf, oh throat, that brings crowds in to suckle, Keep me… Oh heart, my beloved, most perfidious of hearts, you are my treasure, you are my love! Keep me… |
Oh yeah… I also read the scroll.. because I could.
Composer: Orlando di Lasso
Language: Italian
First published: 1581 in Libro de villanelle, moresche et altre canzoni, no. 15
Blank scrolls are hard. Do with this what you will.
In the shadowed embrace of this night of specters and enchantments, we, the honored Baron and Baroness of Iron Bog, do joyously recognize the luminous brilliance of [Recipient’s Name]. With artistry and grace that transcend the ordinary, your creation, [specific item or artwork], has enchanted our senses and captured the very essence of our eerie revelry.
Through the whispered tales woven into your work, your skills’ splendor shines like a beacon in the twilight. Your dedication to the craft and your ability to conjure beauty from the mists of time have earned you this distinction.
May your creative spirit continue to soar on the wings of inspiration.
Given this [day] at Ghosts, Ghouls and Goblins, AS 59 by their Excellencies Andre l’Epervier and Genevra d’Angouleme.
Meddlings of the Minnesinger 