Kárivhímla

The Kárivhímla ('Hymn of Kárivog) is a collection of poems written anonymously in Old Hinterlandic. Composed in narrative prose, the poems detail the life and heroic deeds of Karivog the Strong, a semi-mythological folk hero of the Hinterlands. It is considered the national epic of the Hinterlands, as well as the cornerstone of the Hinterlandic literary canon.
===Preface===
For those who have spent any time amongst the Hinterlanders, the pride with which they hold tradition and their unspoilt insular culture becomes readily apparent. I first visited the Hinterlands seven years ago, where I received, from a monk on Mera Kólm, one of the oldest manuscripts of the Kárivhímla. To an Occan audience, this title may be completely unfamiliar, but in those distant northern isles, it is a work of such literary and linguistic importance. I would be remiss if I did not emphasise the high role this singular work plays in Hinterlandic society; so defensive are they of their national epic and its paramount status in their vernacular tongue, that, as I attempted to translate the work from Old Hinterlandic into the Aquilan Standard from my chamber in the Mera Kólm monastery, so offended were the monks that had granted me the gift, that I was immediately banished from the holy isle. Fortunately, I prevented them from retaking the manuscript, and continued my work with much help from the Albion King's Writers, who have provided exceptional and thankless aid in dealing with the fickleness of Hinterlandic-Aquilan translation. Despite years of hardships in this regard, here is the final product: the first full translation of the Hinterlandic epic.
The Kárivhímla is divided into nine works, each detailing a different chapter of the folk hero Karivog's almost certainly fictitious life. It is set first in the far north of Olexia, amidst the backdrop of ancient petty fiefdoms, before illustrating the circumstances by which Karivog, the eventual king of the small kingdom of Minas (which almost certainly did exist), led his people far over perilous seas to the lands we now call the Hinterlands. Using what limited knowledge is known of ancient Olexian politics, as well as the names of actual historical figures explicitly mentioned, the tale of Karivog is likely meant to be set sometime around 2500-2800 AD. As the Hinterlands were not settled until the 3800s, this almost certainly makes the Kárivhímla an a posteriori foundation myth used to romanticise the circumstances of an otherwise routine human migration from Olexia to the Hinterlands. The work itself was likely written thousands of years after the events it describes, in the 4200s, at the cusp of the Hinterlandic golden age. The author or authors of the nine works remain anonymous, though due to their status as the premier men of letters throughout Hinterlandic history, the Kárivhímla was almost certainly written by a Thelian-Hinterlandic monk or monks - perhaps within the halls of Mera Kólm, that largest and grandest of Hinterlandic monasteries.
There are nine poems in the Kárivhímla, called here 'Cycles' (Kíerikkir). They are written in traditional seven-line verses that follow a ABCBBDD pattern, with three verses to a stanza, except in the closing chorus of each work, where only one verse is present. Such structures and rhyming patterns are unorthodox to a standard Aquilan ear, but make up the steadfast tradition of Hinterlandic poetry. Attempts have been made by myself and my colleagues to maintain as much of the flow and tone of the original Hinterlandic manuscript - a nigh impossible task.
Nevertheless, below is my translation of the Kárivhímla, the national epic of the Hinterlands.
Olaver Krauss
The King's Writers, Albion
Brightstar, 8th dusk, 4789
===Cycle I - The First Trial of Karivog===
THE GODS SING OF ARMS and the man, who, 
Driven by fate and Mórsinr's guiding gale,
Expel'd and exiled, left the Minasean shores.
By no deed but by malice was he forced to sail,
First to the isle of servitude, under midnight pale,
Second to the snows of a realm unknown,
Before seizing by right his kingdom own.
But the gods sing most of his final deed,
A feat done against such vile foes,
Cast from Królihr's fiery realm.
Faced with trials no others would know,
He did cast light from sword and bow,
And give, through the gods' good grace,
A home, a home for the Hinterlandic race!
O gods! Grant me that you sing once more;
Skalds and bards, the world wide whole
Continue to sing for our hero's claim.
From the fire-lit halls of Old Skarvold
To the Thelian shores, bleak and cold,
Still they sing, in rain, hail, or fog,
Of the life and trials of King Karivog!
'Twas in the fortieth year of Renfric's reign
When came Karivog's first trial of many.
He was little known, but a shepherd's hand,
Of only years four and twenty.
He was a great man - bigger than plenty,
And with long beard and hair a burning red,
He was half man, half giant - or so it was said.
In the northern Kingdom of Minas, 
Along the stormy shores and frozen plains,
King Renfric ruled with virtue and justice.
Indeed did those other Olessian thanes
See right to mimic how old Renfric reigns.
His domain was frigid, forever plagued by gale and snow;
And so it was as 'Storm King' he was forever known.
But it 'twas a long winter, and the sacrifices came late
And the gods saw it fit to punish the King of Storms.
In Old Renfric's great and hollow halls,
In the ancient grey castle atop the ocean's tor,
The gods cast a curse, of such abysmal horror.
The halls were ravaged, by a serpent none could slay.
The Storm King fled, as castle and beast were seal'd away.
From all over Minas, the kingdom wide,
Thirty men had come to Elgin, 'ere the castle veil'd.
Arm'd with swords and shields, pikes and bows,
They dared to try where the King's knights fail'd;
Each thought to slay the serpent, so wick'd and scaled.
But so great was the beast! Thirty men would try,
For glory and for gold... and those thirty men would die.
When young Karivog, the shepherd's hand,
Had heard the tales of the serpent's rage,
He was taken by some unknown force within
To fell the beast himself, and free that castle grey.
'It is death!' wept his mother, bidding her son stay.
But Karivog saddled a horse, amidst a stormy din,
And rode four days east, to the grey gates of Elgin.
'I am come to slay the serpent, the beast that
Prowls the King's halls, what horrid thing,'
Karivog said to the King's steward, who watch'd in disbelief.
'You are but a youth!' the Steward cried, recounting
The thirty men who had died to please the King.
'Thirty-one you'll make, for the beast won't yield!
Besides - you carry with you neither sword nor shield!' 
'I am but a poor shepherd's hand,'
Young Karivog did confess,
'I have not the gold for sword nor shield,
Nor any such arms you knights possess.
But I have been sent by the gods upon this quest;
Unseal this door now - it is my destiny!
And should I fail, indeed, thirty-one I shall be...'
With a chuckle and a weep, the steward unlock'd
The great iron door of the Storm King's keep.
Young Karivog enter'd, with no arms by his side,
And beheld those ruin'd halls, which ran so deep.
Thunder pour'd in, as he spotted the serpent - asleep!
Around the Storm King's throne, the beast was curl'd,
So large and vile and black, the spawn of another world.
Littering the great hall were the corpses of thirty men
Some strangled and mangled, bloody and torn,
Bitten and lying with arms spread about.
Yet Karivog did not reach for the fallen's swords,
Rather he stomped and clamour'd in great discord.
The beast was woken and spot'd young Karivog,
And pounced toward him, like a wolf to a hog.
But Karivog was quick, and leapt from his spot;
He hid out of reach, amidst rubble, in stony debris.
The hero descended into the castle's depths,
As the beast pursued him for days and nights three.
Prowling through passages dark and wide and bleak,
The serpent hunted its prey, searching high and lo.
But nowhere could be found our most daring hero!
At last on the third night the beast retired,
And Karivog emerged all full of fain.
Whereas the beast was weary and starved
From its tireless search in vain,
Karivog feast'd on rats, and drank from puddles of rain. 
The hero clamber'd once more to the hall,
And, hoisting a great stone, the sleeping serpent he did maul.
Dazed and exhaust'd, the beast let out a wail,
As it once more stirred and pounced about its lair.
But it was slow, whereas young Karivog was not;
As the serpent near'd, he leapt through the air.
Atop its scaly back, he strangled it with his hands a-bare.
The great beast shriek'd and writhed as its life did drain,
And when silence fell, Karivog knew: the evil was slain.
And so still the gods sing on high,
Of Karivog's first and mighty trial.
With ne'er a sword nor shield, pike nor bow,
But with hands a-bare, he slay'd that beast so vile.
Through use of strength, of cunning and guile,
Young Karivog, the shepherd's hand, did succeed.
But behold the gods' timely favour; it would not be his final deed.
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