Season in the Shadow of the Hawk

A child's tears rusts the armour of the most noble of knights as the children of
Angrboda run wild along the shores of the river Ifling in the shadow of the
hawk. Does not the wolf sing to a lonely moon?

Those who speak the virgin tongue of the old say this day will come after
fimbulvetr and certainly it seems that time has come to past. For this day as
others sleep, the war arrow passes through our lands along the forest's darkest
paths.

The well which once gave forth from it's abyss, water as sweet as honey mead now
is bitter as wormwood upon a warrior's tongue,yet he thirsts for more. Beware of
Durin's gift for was it not the bane of Svafrlami?

Under the heavy moon come the kin of Angrboda but those who dwell in the holts
and howes know the time of their coming for the troll-wise have long told of it
to the northern born.

Even still, we shall gather upon the plain of Vigrid and those who draw the
words shall raise a stone for those so lucky to be called to the great hall to
dine upon the boar.

May on that day, our honor be worthy when our swords sing the warrior's song,
for Bragi to greet us and sing back our deeds. May our widows dance to our memory in the glow of our fire and may our friends foster our young.

Vedfolnir's shadow fore tells of the coming war. Let it be a season of war in
the shadow of the hawk and may it be one for which will be so honorable, the
unborn will know of it and tell it forever to their kin.