Many are there who travel in search of peace.
They believe it is on this middle-earth (middingard) to be found.
Truly, solace there is, but not in the way they seek it.
Some believe they can buy peace; others, that solace comes from wisdom and learning.
There are those who believe that peace is only achieved during the bitterest winters of their days, and in this, they are not far off.
But as for me, peace I find in none of this. But still yet it is to be and has been and ever will be found.
The high sounding diatribes of the wise sooth me not; for truth, fools are closer to the end than they.
Nor does sparkling gold, grown heavy in my hand, hold any promise of peace.
Nay, for myself and those of my ten thousand Cymry, it is the call of the rams horn, the pounding of the war-drums, it is these, my brother, which draw me to my peace.
All is seen in startling serenity, even in the midst of battle, for this is the element, the order, the awen that I am given.
The War Leader's bellowing commands are as the greeting of an old friend, long lost.
My armor glides over my skin like a woman's lightest touch.
My heart pounds in rhythm to the drums while the horns ring out the attack, sweet music to my ears.
It is almost here.
Invincible, we lift our voices of one accord, with a mighty shout, a song of praise and victory bursts from our lips; we sing of everlasting glory and the destruction of our enemies.
It has been a black night; now it will be a red day.
In this midst, I can feel my sword calling me, begging for release, just as a harp longs for the bard's touch, so does my steel desire my hand.
No bard has ever struck such a chord as I have struck with my sword.
As the bard sings and plays with the skill of the ancient druids, hallowed on their wooded island, so do I ply my skill, on this field of battle, hallowed with blood.
Lost in the cosmic song that the Greeks claimed to hear, I finish, complete my task, my end.
So, been gone awhile...again.
13 years ago