Tag: Original

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Gerhard’s Scroll

This was a scroll commissioned of me for Gerhard’s von Hoehensee, Order of the Furisant

Amongst the chilled coals, arises an ember
stoking the surrounding kindling
The fire dances and begins to parry the cold
The fire does not dance alone
The fire teaches the flames to dance, to waltz
Sharpening their wit as is the blade of the rapier
Betwixed fine reignments, inspiring those who come after
The fire passes hand in hand and the fire grows stronger
Finely dressed within the ash and glows
What started the fire? We did not start the fire.
Gerhardt, the fursiant, bestowed his craft, his skill to enlighten us all
By his skill from the hands, his perseverance
Deemed it so by Baron Dorio of the Oaks
Deemed it so by Baronessa Jocelyn Del Espada

On this day, January 27, A.S. 52 at A Market day at Birka

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Scroll for Amalia

This was a scroll commissioned of me for Amalia’s von Hoehensee’s Lamp of Apollo

Oh yonder doth sit that little turtle dove, nay nightingale
Whos sweet rhapsody flows through not just music
But weaves and pierces the finest cloth
Each stitch is a note upon the melody of the cloth
Each stanza, a roving of the weave
Dulcet sounds and harmonies nestle into the thread
which is warmed by the heart and hands that are Amalia’s
Like a phoenix in her craft, sets the spirit a glow, a blaze
Pushing forth and reliving, creating each experience
She tests the purity of the cloth with fire
She lights the lamp of apollo which is now granted
By her skill from the hands, her voice
Deemed it so by Baron Dorio of the Oaks
Deemed it so by Baronessa Jocelyn Del Espada

On this day, January 27, A.S. 52 at A Market day at Birka

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Ah Weh, Away! (Birthday Bash)

It was time for something completely different. Well, not completely different, but new to me.  I was going to challenge myself to do a new craft that pertained to Bardic, but still new and would help me expand.

I have many friends up in the Mountain Freehold and tend to make my way up there for their events. However, not many folks up there know me and who I am. I was told that their Bardic community could use some growth so what better way to show who I am but to enter their A and S competition.

The rules were that it had to be inclusive/about the shire.

I chose to compose a piece a bout the shire. I wanted to bring it to the next level. Not only did I compose a piece about the shire, I composed accompaniment and I created a scroll and did the illumination for it. The scroll was done in Skaldic poetic style. The Mountain Freehold is a group that is heavily populated by vikings. The melody was mirrored after Scandinavian motifs and the Cello accompaniment was based off the sounds of the Nickleharpa, a widely used Scandinavian instrument.

 

Here is the final Product:

 

And here is the Scroll:

22554708_10101258377009409_590812433_n.jpg

 

I am pleased to announce that I won best overall for the A and S competition.

 

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Lochleven Sheep!

At Palio this summer, Baroness Jocelyn and I were chatting about the sheep that has been gifted to Stonemarche from Lochleven. She had a desire, nay, a passion to have the world know of these infamous sheep. Her excellency entrusted me to share their story. Here is the Ballad of the sheep!  Recording to come:

The Ballad of the Lochleven Sheep

By Solveig Bjarnardottir

Year Thirty five , Pennsic all were off
The gate was naked, Ewe the list’ner may scoff
What a way for the glory of the East
Than to guard the gate with a flock of sheep

Sheep, Sheep, Sheep
Rustlin’, Bustlin’ Sheep
Roaming free without their Bo Peep
They once were lost, but now are found
Keep an eye out for the sheep soon to be bound
Lo le lo le Lochleven
Lo le lo le Lochleven

Like the story goes, the herd did roam
The Sheep were missing, but not a Scottsman blows
A ransom laid, of mead well made
Libations for liberation , a splendid set trade

Hide and Seek, Stonemarche’s kids ne’er fail
The sheep were returned with no avail
Honors bestowed upon them at their feet
The taxes roll in without a single bleet

Sheep, Sheep, Sheep
Rustlin’, Bustlin’ Sheep
Roaming free without their Bo Peep
They once were lost, but now are found
Keep an eye out for the sheep soon to be bound
Lo le lo le Lochleven
Lo le lo le Lochleven

A new herd was granted, but something was a wry
Amongst the skein, they did lack all the eyes
A haunted face, an image dare burn
Into the minds of the Barony, all stomachs did turn

When gifted this splendid drove, to our Baroness
Discomfort replaced dreams about the new largesse
How could we make these noble creatures sans morose
Replace these emptied sockets with buttons to diagnose

Two Mismatched pupils, handsewn with care
These two baaaaaad sheep, now serve as Ambassador Heirs
No longer haunting, a fond memory they serve
For Stonemarche, the Children and all who hear the word …

Sheep, Sheep, Sheep
Rustlin’, Bustlin’ Sheep
Roaming free without their Bo Peep
They once were lost, but now are found
Keep an eye out for the sheep soon to be bound
Lo le lo le Lochleven
Lo le lo le Lochleven

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By His Hand

“Look at that,” he said, “how the ink bleeds.”  
It mirrors the way the rivers  
of the soul soak in the parchment
He loved the way it looked
to write on a thick pillow of the pad
To him, it was like music, a song in his hands–
all of the possible drawings,
curves, relationships–  
all of the answers, questions, mysteries,  
all of the problems solvable in that space.
The pen in his hand,  
a key to the prison, that white space.
By his hand, a new beginning.
By his hand, imagery–flights of arrows
Piercing through the stark confines
Like a sword dashing through the dark,
Revealing a new light
in his work, in his words

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Coronation of King Ionnes and Queen Honig

When in Rome, do like the Romans! Wear togas… what did you think I was going to say?

Callooh Callay! Oh frabjous day! My friends were getting crowned.

This little Viking — well, not so little, really — feels weird, because she doesn’t know how to roman. She’s more of a stayin kinda gal, to be honest. Thank goodness for Bianca di Firenze, who knows all about stolas and pallas and I’m pretty sure dressed the entire kingdom. Or at least the Malagentian half.

But before the festivities were to begin, there was always more work to be done for this Viking-turned Roman. Wait, where’s my bling? None of my bling matches! ACK!

I had been informed a few months prior that Lord Alexandre St Pierre was to receive *his* Laurel — I think you’ll start to notice a trend of when I compose. At least, I’m not decomposing. Yet. Wait, what’s that smell?

Anyways, how does one write a song for a scribe?  I made lists of all the things he couldn’t do very well — it wasn’t that long a list. I even tried to read poems about other scribes — don’t try it, because they don’t exist. But what does exist is a passion for hobbies, and then I was inspired by his passion. By his words, by what came from his hands, you could even say inspired by his hands.

I wanted well-rounded scribe, but a talented artist, and an archer as well. So I figured it out. I wasn’t going to write him a song. I was going to write him a poem instead!

Poems were their own sort of challenge, because they weren’t restricted by the same parameters as a song. Word stress was also far different. I hadn’t written a poem for anyone in seventeen years. I guess you have to start somewhere. Again. I stared at blank paper. I stared at ink. I made lists of all  to include *everything* he did, not just the scribal aspect. I used allusions to swords and to archery, and music as well. I was pleased with the product, but as always, shy to present it to the public.

Coronation arrived, and I think I figured out which way was up with my garb — the little arrows Bianca safety-pinned on really helped. I arrived early to help set up his vigil. And schmooze, as you do. And check for the 513th time I was wearing my palla correctly. Which fell off my head over 9,000 times! If I hadn’t been told how much of a hussy I would have been without one, I would have just given up on the darn thing.

Morning court came, and everyone played it cool. I had Alexandre’s little flaggy hidden in my palla, and he was the first one called in. The look of, “Oh crap!” was priceless! Hopefully someone got it on camera! We waved our little flaggies and watched as he was sent off to vigil. He was one of the lucky ones, because he wasn’t there when (former) King Brion made the entire room cry while singing “My Queen” to his lovely wife, Anna. I bet Alexandre’s were the only dry eyes in the entire building as King Brion sang well and with all his heart, nothing could have been more true. It was really freaking adorable. Even the Vikings cried, though they probably won’t admit it, since they were all disguised as Romans.

About an hour into his vigil, I finally got my chance to present my gift to Alexandre. I felt like one of the fairies from Sleeping Beauty. I hope it’s not Merryweather. Oh God, or Maleficent!

Since I lack the skill of calligraphy and illumination — I’m learning, but it’s taking quite a bit of time — I had “borrowed” in classic Viking fashion, a previously created illumination from Ye Olde Internets, and had placed the words of my own composition on it using Ye Olde Word MMXIII. You would think, as a bard, I’d be better at words in vigils. But I feel as if I always walk all over my tongue. I spoke to Alexandre of the beauty that he presents the world, and his multitude of gifts. So now it was my time to give him a gift back, the only one I have to offer. I handed him the framed copy, and then began to read. I didn’t catch his reaction, since I was too busy being nervous reading it to him to look up, but I feel it was well received. I also let him know that I learned a new trade just to be able to honor him that day. I told him that I would be heralding him into court. This is something I had never done before, not just in court aspect, but at all.

The rest of the afternoon passed, and it was time for the afternoon court, the first court of the new King and Queen, my friends, Ionnes and Honig. We anxiously mustered in the hall. We were all of Woolfe’s Company: We were small but we were mighty. Thank you, New England April Fool’s Day storm. We were the last business, but the energy was still high. As herald, I was the second to process, the first being a small boy no older than eight years old, carrying Alexandre’s banner of arms. I wrote the words that morning as I was inspired, and grandiosely presented my friend to the Known World. In addition, I had arranged a Machaut piece (which was of his persona) to be played as I heralded. I made sure the words suited him, and that I was clearer than crystal. The world would tremble at his presence. But not too much, because as Sir Ivan remarked, he is a small man.

Image may contain: 6 people, people on stage and child

Beautiful gifts were presented to him as were his right, and court finished soon after as all the Laurels swarmed to welcome their newest inductee. I got a hug too.

Now my favorite part of any event, that doesn’t have shopping, FEAST!

This feast would have a new twist — I had signed up to serve. It’s true. My palla found a new place to live, as I became a kitchen hussy. This experience was not only enlightening, because while I had only just recently learned what it was like to run a feast a few months prior, I had never served a feast before. I would say I rolled up my sleeves and dug in, but I didn’t have any. Where it was a whirlwind at times, it was still a great time. The camaraderie and leftovers were great. 9.5, maybe 10 out of 10, would definitely serve again. Besides, any time I can be that close to Gryffyth’s food is a fantastic day in my book!

 

By His Hand

“Look at that,” he said, “how the ink bleeds.”  
It mirrors the way the rivers  
of the soul soak in the parchment
He loved the way it looked
to write on a thick pillow of the pad
To him, it was like music, a song in his hands–
all of the possible drawings,
curves, relationships–  
all of the answers, questions, mysteries,  
all of the problems solvable in that space.
The pen in his hand,  
a key to the prison, that white space.
By his hand, a new beginning.
By his hand, imagery–flights of arrows
Piercing through the stark confines
Like a sword dashing through the dark,
Revealing a new light
in his work, in his words

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The Maiden of the Gardens

Through solitude’s blooming orchid garden,
A graceful and elegant maiden does stride,
Enters our lady, Camille Desjardins,
Lavender waves across an amethyst tide.

The flowers herald her arrival,
Blossom with each step serene,
As if her presence Spring’s revival,
All in her grace stay evergreen.

Careful she gazes upon their beauty,
with every floret’s form observed,
For she accepts her kingdom’s duty,
to see them on a scroll preserved.

Her brushstrokes capture and acclaim,
the trappings of renown and glory,
To skill and service she does bring fame,
And to great battle, and claimed quarry.

Upon her parchment she infuses,
Life into the artistry she weaves,
She is the favored of the muses,
Her inspiration the lakes and leaves.

She captures the beauty of color and light,
Immortalizing honors with ink and quill,
To bring glory to those who do right,
Her patient hands bear unwavering skill.

This art alone could be life’s labor,
Yet her talent flows without such bounds,
Her voice, her stitch, her nimble saber,
The quality of which astounds.

Her voice can soothe a heart of fire,
Granting peace and granting reason,
As a lark’s call disperses ire,
that sounds upon the warming season.

Her mastery of fiber weaving,
Shows clearly within her stitch,
The way she blends fiber receiving,
awe from those it does enrich.
And none would dare to test her mettle,
As this gentle flower does adorn,
Herself with not just purple petal,
But with our kingdom’s golden thorn.

A woman finely celebrated,
In talents stitched and inked and floral,
Does rightly need be elevated,
Into the Order of the Laurel.

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Fall Crown Tournament

It was a bright and sunny day. Not as warm as I’d hoped it would be, but warm enough, nonetheless. This would be my first Crown consorting for Sir Marcus. I was told I would have some mighty shoes to fill. After all, Astrid was a mighty viking. I was dressed in my finest garb, newly made for the occasion, because I lost my other finest garb — which of course, I found as soon as Crown was over.

I was early to site, with a hidden treasure tucked under my arm. I had been made aware that a month and a half prior that Dona Camille was to receive her Laurel. I had put myself to the task of composing a new piece for someone who had taken me under her wing. I found it quite the challenge to put to words what this human being was to me. So I did the next best thing. I reached out to her cadet, Trian, and asked him if he was willing to scheme with me. What a silly question that was. Of course he easily agreed.

By Trian’s hand, with a little help from me, there would be words. Due to location, and both of us being on the go individuals, we found it hard to meet up in person, however, thanks to the joys of modern machines, we were able to Skype and use Googledocs to compose at the same time. Have I mentioned how much I love modern machines? Because I really do.

I mean, we used doves, and carrier pigeons, and the Black Arts…. Yeah…

Anyways, after a few nights of tediously working and edit after edit after edit (what rhymes with Camille?) we were both sorta, kinda, maybe okay with what we considered to be the final lyrical product. It was now time for me to work my magic. *spits in hands, rubs palms together, then grimaces at gross hands* ugh….

The muse ran away. Even after I hog-tied her. Of course she did, stupid, frivolous muse! Even after all the shinies I gave her too. Then, as the muse does, in typical muse fashion, I laid in my bed, and she smacked me upside the head around 1, maybe 3 am. Eureka! I needed some tissues to wipe up the way it flowed.

I called up Trian to present the product, and he provided only minor feedback. I’d say that’s a win, right? Not bad for musical vomit in the wee hours of the morning, right?

So, back to Crown, after my musical malady had been cured. I’ll admit most of my focus was on my consort. After all, it was my duty to the East Kingdom, and him, to be who he needed me to be. I spent hours chewing at my fingernails, watching each of his combatants being laid to rest. Between bouts, I would check on Sir Marcus, and then run over to the vigil, to where Dona Camille had been taken that morning. I was lucky to have known the guards well, and gotten my name on the list when I was available. Text in a frame tucked under my arm, I made my way into the tent. The frame sat face-down in my lap and I began to explain to Camille in what words I could muster, who she was and what she meant to me. I turned over the frame, and almost skittishly provided the art that Trian and I had collaborated on. It was to no surprise that rivers ran down her cheeks — not the first time, and not the last that day. I wonder if the pollen counts were too high?

Image may contain: 6 people, people standing and outdoor

I then hurried back to the list field when my time was up to watch my champion. Sadly, soon after Sir Marcus lost his second fight and was eliminated from the tournament. This was in the top six if I recall correctly. I couldn’t have been more proud of my friend. He fought bravely and chivalrously, and was an inspiration to the fighter inside myself.

Image may contain: 4 people, people sitting, child and outdoor

Soon after, we had our new Prince and Princess, Ionness and Honig, and it was time for court. It would be my first time attending a Crown Tournament court, and after I made myself comfortable next to some familiar faces, court began as dark quickly fell. Her new Highness, Honig, was presenting her first award as a Lady of the Rose, and she called my name. I was flabbergasted, trying to figure out what I could have done wrong. Honig had been, until recently, part of Malagentia, the local group, so she knew of some of my shenanigans, but I couldn’t think of anything horrible enough to get called up in front of court for. She called me up to present a token for my poise on the field. She said to me that she was impressed with my behavior, and how I presented myself as a consort. I gratefully accepted the token, and went back to my seat, where I buried myself in my cloak for the rest of the court.

 

The Maiden of the Gardens

 

Through solitude’s blooming orchid garden,

A graceful and elegant maiden does stride,

Enters our lady, Camille Desjardins,

Lavender waves across an amethyst tide.

 

The flowers herald her arrival,

Blossom with each step serene,

As if her presence Spring’s revival,

All in her grace stay evergreen.

 

Careful she gazes upon their beauty,

with every floret’s form observed,

For she accepts her kingdom’s duty,

to see them on a scroll preserved.

 

Her brushstrokes capture and acclaim,

the trappings of renown and glory,

To skill and service she does bring fame,

And to great battle, and claimed quarry.

 

Upon her parchment she infuses,

Life into the artistry she weaves,

She is the favored of the muses,

Her inspiration the lakes and leaves.

 

She captures the beauty of color and light,

Immortalizing honors with ink and quill,

To bring glory to those who do right,

Her patient hands bear unwavering skill.

 

This art alone could be life’s labor,

Yet her talent flows without such bounds,

Her voice, her stitch, her nimble saber,

The quality of which astounds.

 

Her voice can soothe a heart of fire,

Granting peace and granting reason,

As a lark’s call disperses ire,

that sounds upon the warming season.

 

Her mastery of fiber weaving,

Shows clearly within her stitch,

The way she blends fiber receiving,

awe from those it does enrich.

 

And none would dare to test her mettle,

As this gentle flower does adorn,

Herself with not just purple petal,

But with the our kingdom’s golden thorn.

 

A woman finely celebrated,

In talents stitched and inked and floral,

Does rightly need be elevated,

Into the Order of the Laurel.

 

Words by :  Trian O’Bruadair / Sólveig Bjarnardóttir

 

Music by :  Sólveig Bjarnardóttir

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The Great Northeastern War

O cantare, O solo mio!

A few months prior to the war, I was approached by the A and S minister, Lord Frederick Vandeveer, about giving a concert at the event. Excitement and anxiety rushed over me, you might say it came in like a wrecking ball!

I eagerly accepted, and had thus sealed my fate. After allowing this information to sink into my brain, I realized that, while working a standard 40 hour per week job, my skadian career, modeling, cosplaying, fencing, and an overwhelming need to satiate a need for social connection, an hour-long concert would be a little bit of an undertaking to attempt on my own.

So I decided to call in a life line and make this a tag-team Super Friends concert.

Thus, the birth of Lady Solveig and Friends!

I reached out in a frantic… I mean “composed” (yea, we’ll go with that) fashion to all my talented friend base of performers. The super list included Mistress Analitta Falconbridge, His Excellency Jean Du Montagne, Lady Eva Southerland, and Lady Nuala McKensie.

I had asked all except for Eva to have 2-3 pieces of diverse style to perform. Eva was local to me and would not only be performing her own pieces, but accompanying me on guitar as well. I had also asked everyone to include the titles and duration of their contributions. I should note this was my first time ever organizing a concert.

Eva and I got together many times to rehearse up until the day of the concert. The concert was scheduled for Saturday after court, which seemed to run on forever. To be fair, most GNE courts do. Originally the concert had been scheduled in Bardic Grove, however, due to the copious amounts of rain that had fallen, a more apt title at the time may have been “Bardic Lake”. Therefor, the concert had been moved to the barn.

8:30 or so, I hauled ass to the barn, trying to stay as dry as possible. I was blessed to have heralds announcing the concert, or I fear no one would have come. Circum 9:00, we had about 45 attendees, but 2 of my performers were still missing. But, alas, the show must go on!

I sat on the stage in front of the audience and had a casual conversation with them to warm up the crowd, and perhaps to calm my own quickened heartbeat. And after about 5 minutes of this, only 1 of my 2 missing performers had shown up. Jean De la Montagne, with his 21 Charisma (+5 modifier!) strolled in with his infamous hat (with admirably long plumage!). He offered up this hat to me, and it seemed to have magic powers. The hat bestowed upon its wearer (now me) a new sense of bravado and confidence. At this point, the concert began.

Image may contain: 2 people, people sitting, phone and indoor

Songs wove between the first 4 performers until the 5th had finally shown. There was no competition between the performers. Our only battle was against the rain, with its tapping against the roof a constant backdrop to any music we sought to perform.

Image may contain: 2 people, people sitting, people playing musical instruments and indoor

At one point, I was so bold as to entice the audience to join in the song. I taught them the round, “Rose, rose”, and had them sing in 4 parts. On top of that, I added another layer of “Poor Bird”, and, finally, Mistress Aneleda added an addition layer of “Hey Ho”.

Image may contain: 2 people, people playing musical instruments, people sitting, guitar and hat

About an hour later, the concert was over, and the rain had let up. This whole concert seemed to be in perfect harmony, and I had earned some new followers. All in all, a rather positive experience.

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Huginn and Munnin

Write me like one of your french women.

Huggin and Munin was taking flight and the Riding of Ravensbridge was starting to take shape. As a growing community not quite yet official, it was time to begin recording their history. Ravensbridge is an incipient Riding of Malagentia and as a resident of Malagentia, I felt the need to help document their history.

I spent the next few weeks reaching out to the founding members to find out exactly how this group came to fruition. Of combined efforts, I was able to piece together this viking village and their bright birth.

Below is the entry I composed:

 

Down by the swan-road  we soar on the  wing

and from our hearts a song we did sing

Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge

about the birth of Ravensbridge

 

Trapped between rivaling nations we stand

This place was not home, no not on this land

Together as people the plain that we spanned

to make a home not written in sand

 

Down by the swan-road  we soar on the  wing

and from our hearts a song we did sing

Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge

about the birth of Ravensbridge

 

We searched for a center, a place to call home

Two strongholds that stood, both we did roam

Endewearde, headland of swords north fair

Malagentia lit South, by the  light of Sif’s hair

 

Down by the swan-road we soar on the  wing

and from our hearts a song we did sing

Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge

about the birth of Ravensbridge

 

Our men speared-din worn, our people lost drive

‘til an outstretched arm lent our kinsman to thrive

A spot between moon and shield to be shown

Our wound-hoe, blood-ember and arms soon to be grown

 

Down by the swan-road  we soar on the  wing

and from our hearts a song we did sing

Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge

about the birth of Ravensbridge

 

Nameless the many who wandered are we

A name and an image we’re proud to be seen

In honor of friends and this place that we stand

The Raven and Bridge is our chosen brand

 

Down by the swan-road  we soar on the  wing

and from our hearts a song we did sing

Over the mountains it rang o’re the ridge

about the birth of Ravensbridge

 

As a side note, this was my first attempt at composing using kennings. Ravensbridge is a viking based group, I tried to be authentic in composition style and true to their heritage.

Image may contain: 1 person, outdoor

After the performances were completed but before their winners were announced, music needed to be made. I did what I do best and I pulled out rounds and found any willing to sing to join me. It was then announced that I was the first winner of their Bardic competition.