Brynwulf strums his harp a little, the voice of the harp slowly fading away, until it vanishes ... "Ec synge a tæl ec hef hearde in Geiringsfjord ..."

He starts up his harp, the gentle chords supporting the melody as air does a wisp of cloud ... The song is very earthy and Germanic-sounding, with a touch of Celtic thrown in, as if the song was the musical embodiment of the cross-cultured harp he plays upon ... As he sings, he does his very best to make the song understandable to those not of the Germanic persuasion ...

"Long ago, in lament-years
When battles oft, made blood as tears,
Quickly came, the Kyring brave,
Cursed was never, by king nor slave.
To ford the fjord, so forth he came,
As by the king, and bade by name
He was called for, and went to the king,
And offered then, an ornate ring.

"Here," the king, so heartf'lly said,
"The runes hath wrote, 'the Rik will be dead';
'The land shall lay, in lament dire,
Unless I find, that Loki's fire.'
A Torch, I'm told, is truly hidden,
Which is why, I've wailing bidden
Of you to come, I yearn that thou,
Shall find the fire, and find it now."

The Kyring thought, and calmly spake,
"To quell thy fear, this quest I'll take."
And off the Kyring, awfully brave,
The land did seek, the lord to save.
Through and through, he thought at last,
The quest was dead, but doubt he cast.
For suddenly, a spell appeared:
A rabbit rose, so roughly-eared -

"The torch is guarded, toughly by
A fleet of fiends, - you'll fiercely die.
The torch you'll free, the flames must live,
And you must dire, death-hacks give.
Yet first the ground, that affords the fire,
Must first be opened, by Freya's lyre.
Come and we shall, come to where,
The trees do sing, by trilling air."

So thus the rabbit, that he said,
The Kyring's soul, was spared - not dead.
To where the forests, flushed with song,
Kyring and the rabbit, came along.
Freya's harp, heart of air
Stood on stone, stooping there.
Kyring took, the travel-harp
And surely checked, his sword was sharp.

To the cave, of creepy kind,
Kyring and hare, did hotly wind.
The Kyring played, and plucked the strings,
And woke the earth, as wolf-cry brings.
So the hare, did happy hail,
And bound away, with bushy tail.
The Kyring charged, the charring hall,
Cut down his foes, with death did they fall.

The last of fiends, their life did fade,
And Loki's fire's, flames did fade.
Evil was, and ever will be,
Loki and his, laugh so free.
The Kyring came, to cut the life,
Of the flick'ring flame, that afforded strife.
He stamped it out, the stifling fire,
To return home then, his restless desire.

Back to the king, he barely made,
For food and mead, was his fairest shade.
The King did kindly, cast his ring,
Toward the warrior, a wond'rous thing.
He was off, the Kyring, in awe regarded.
And his trip, against trouble guarded,
Took to the sea, and sailed away,
And since he hasn't, been seen to this day.