From:    Mordred                                Area: Base of Set
To:      Black Wulf                              4 Apr 95 23:46:00
Subject: Choosers of the slain                  UpdReq 

The Fatal Sisters.1761.
a poem by Thomas Gray.
Loosely based on Norse poem, 'Lay of Darts'.
The Fatal Sisters.
Good Friday, 1014 A.D.
Now the storm begins to lower
  (Haste, the loom of hell prepare),
Iron sleet of arrowy shower,
  Hurtles in the darkened air.
Glittering lances are the loom,
  Where the dusky warp we strain,
Weaving many a soldier's doom,
  Orkney's woe and Randvar's bane.
See the grisly texture grow!
  ('Tis of human entrails made,)
And the weights, that play below,
  Each a gasping warrior's head.
Shafts for shuttles, dipt in gore,
  Shoot the trembling chords along.
Sword, that once a monarch bore,
  Keep the tissue close and strong.
Mista, black terrific maid,
  Sanguida and Hilda, see,
Join, the wayward work to aid;
  'Tis the woof of victory.
Ere the ruddy sun be set,
  Pikes must shiver, javelins sing,
Blade with clattering buckler meet,
  Hauberk crash, and helmet ring.
(Weave the crimson web of war)
  Let us go, and let us fly,
Where our friends the conflict share,
  Where they triumph, where they die.
As the paths of fate we tread,
  Wading through th' ensanguined field,
Gondula, and Geira, spread
  O'er the youthful king your shield.
We the reins to slaughter give,
  Ours to kill and ours to spare:
Spite of danger he shall live.
  (Weave the crimson web of war.)
They, whom once the desert beach
  Pent within its bleak domain,
Soon their ample sway shall stretch,
  O'er the plenty of the plain.
Low the dauntless earl is laid,
  Gored with many a gaping wound;
Fate demands a nobler head;
  Soon a king shall bite the ground.
Long his loss shall Eirin weep,
  Ne'er again his likeness see;
Long her strains in sorrow steep;
  Strains of immortality!
Horror covers all the breath,
  Clouds of carnage blot the sun.
Sisters, weave the web of death;
  Sisters, cease; the work is done.
Hail the task, and hail the hands!
  Songs of joy and triumph sing!
Joy to the victorious bands;
  Triumph to the younger king.
Mortal, thou that hear'st the tale,
  Learn the tenour of our song.
Scotland, through each winding vale,
  Far and wide the notes prolong.
Sisters, hence with spurs of speed:
  Each her thundering faulchion wield;
Each bestride her sable steed.
  Hurry, hurry to the field.


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From:    Mordred                                Area: Base of Set
To:      Black Wulf                              4 Apr 95 23:50:00
Subject: 2nd part                               UpdReq 

The poem I posted was by Thomas Gray. I posted it here because here in
Australia we don't get Nuit.Runes. I thought you may be interested because of 
your order affiliations.
Black Dreaming,
Mordred.


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From:    Balanone                               Area: Base of Set
To:      Thomas Vogt                             5 Apr 95 10:41:56
Subject: ToS                                    UpdReq 

On Apr 02, 1995,
Thomas Vogt wrote to All
re: ToS
TV> Greetings, All!
TV> Anyone in here in contact with the Temple of Set?
TV> Hail Eris! Hail Discordia! Kallisti!
Temple of Set?  What's the Temple of Set?
Do you mean there's a temple dedicated to the worship of this echo?
Cool man! How would we join?
Xeper
Balanone
   PP
FidoNet:  Balanone at 1:203/444.15
Internet: Balanone@tefnut.astaroth.sacbbx.com
... Roll percentile dice against stupidity.                                    
 
___ TagDude 0.87 [Unregistered] with 8436 taglines.


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