There is an area at the very top of England that was once known as ‘Yr Hen Ogledd’. This translates into the modern tongue as ‘Old North’ reasonably well.
It was here that Ida and his offspring of Anglisc blood would fight, settle, and dominate for many generations.
As you can imagine, there was much renown and glory to be found in the act of conquering amongst these warrior tribesmen. It was not uncommon for particularly powerful and aggressive rulers to gain nicknames.
There was one amongst Ida’s line that was known to history (according to ‘Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum’) as ‘Flesaur’ meaning ‘The Twister’.
Imagine being such a man. Imagine being such a barbarous chad that you are remembered throughout time as ‘The Twister’ for your battle ferocity, and ability to ravage and decimate the Welsh.
What’s stopping you from crushing your opponents and claiming their lands with such power that your deeds resonate well past your death? Well I suppose that’s an article for another time.
You might be a fine young man. You might be even more than a fine young man, but how are you to withstand the gullet of Cronos/Time?
How would this man have been remembered if not for the renown and resonance that found its roots on the tongues of poets and in the resonant strings of the bard?
How do you presume to carve a legend out of yourself without the aid of whispers and tunes?
The fact of the matter is that music is simply magic. Songs are spells, and words carry the meaning behind the victors first to final sword strike. They are the psalms that send the peasantry to their deaths in the name of a king. They are the words that plant the seeds of hubris within all inherited crown wearers.
They are the beginning and the end.
Any man that has not found it so has never been remembered.
Any society that has not valued beauty has settled into a mass of conquerable dough.
Like veins all across ancient England did the bards and poets flow from kingdom to kingdom, bringing news of perils, victories, magic and power.
Sagas from the North demonstrate to us that even well into the iron age did our ancestors understand the weight and power of song. I urge you to read Egill Skallagrímsson’s ‘Head Ransom’ poem for further proof of this.
:THE BARD: is an archetype that cannot be underestimated in any courtroom that wishes to thrive.
He is your conduit from the self to higher self; from highborn to lowborn; from victor to loser.
The bard imitates the holy psychopomp. He is the wanderer who carries with him the spirit of somewhere else. And he is loved for this, and treated as holy.
Think of rockstars. I’m not even talking about the famous ones. Consider your lowly thrash metal band on the road. They are poor, they stink, they have addictions… and they still fuck. You can take my word for that.
Fame is granted to those who carry the magic within their heart, and wherever there is beauty there will be music.
:THE BARD: will sing of your many undertakings, he will romanticize in the most important way possible all of your tales, and deeds.
This Archetype is necessary for your court, for he will remind you of all you have already done, and take those songs with him wherever he might travel.
The power of Taliesin is paled by no other force within your realm.
And yet he is mocked, along with everything else by the antithesis of Romanticized triumph.
For across the room at his polaropposite position sits the grinning, and fearless mockery alchemist.
:THE JESTER: can make or break you. As Loki storms into the halls of the great one, and insults his way into the events that conclude with the ending of the world… so too does every jester enter his King’s royal court.
Mockery, and comedy is a spell that many fear far more than they will ever admit. For if you cannot laugh at yourself, and your deeds, and your goals, and your life… then it will all be in vain.
There is a world of difference in the west from when Christianity went relatively unchecked by any Jester Magic, to when Monty Python decided to throw the molotov into the stain glass of the basilika, and the label on that bottle read ‘The Life of Brian’.
Contemporary Christianity showed its weakness that day, by its lawsuits, and weak death throes upon the cackling band of British Jesters.
A true king fears naught. And in the sullen court where the King banishes or kills his fool, all will agree in silence that it was the Jester that revealed his crown to be naught but piss and shit.
The final act of the fool is revealing his severed head to hold your crown, as you sit angrily upon the throne wearing his bell-tethered, and jingling hat.
Like a wild beast the fool might try and find weakness. It is uncomfortable.
Often his jests mimic that of the peasant’s who finds passage through the knight’s shining armor with the plunge of his rusty dagger upon a field of mud and gore.
It should be understood by all who follow the Germanic tales of the gods that these are tales of the inner world. Odin Wolfhead is a sworn blood brother to the chaos that is Loki Jester. This is the creator befriending the mockery/chaos.
This Archetype is not evil. Its intent is not to destroy, but to discover cracks, and to push limits. It is from the chaos that we might have had the big bang, or the fire that met ice. You must find this jester amusing, and you must listen to him carefully.
He will antagonize, and strip you bare, while the bard only wishes to sing you the songs of praise, and glory.
Both are crucial, and both will balance you whilst you seek entertainment and self indulgence. Meditate upon the jokes, and hum the tunes as you assess your next moves.