The Golden Mead Hall

In tonight’s bedtime story, you find yourself beside the fire at the King’s Mead Hall. When a stranger arrives from the north, claiming victory over the dreaded dragon, all gather round to hear her tell the tale. As the repository of wisdom and song, you weave the stranger’s story into the latest verse in the epic poetry of your people.

Key ingredients:
Beowulf-inspired
Alliteration
Crackling fire

Music: A Glimpse of Avalon by Flouw; Magic Surroundings by Drift Far Away, EpidemicSound

Transcript

Journey to a distant past where great heroes battle dragons and bards compose poetry to exalt their victories in tonight's bedtime story.

Sleep and Sorcery is a folklore and fantasy inspired sleep series.

My name is Laurel and I'll be your guide on tonight's fantastical journey.

Sleep and Sorcery is one part bedtime story,

One part guided meditation,

And one part dreamy adventure.

If you are still awake,

As the story concludes,

I'll guide you through a relaxing body scan.

In tonight's story,

You,

A local bard,

Find yourself beside the roaring fire at the King's Mead Hall,

Enjoying the company of friends and comrades.

When a stranger arrives from a distant land claiming victory over the dreaded dragon,

All gather round to hear her tell the tale.

As the repository of wisdom and song,

You weave the stranger's story into the latest verse in the epic poetry of your people.

Where has the horse gone?

Where are my kindred?

Where is the giver of treasure?

Where are the benches to bear us,

Joys of the hall to bring us together?

No more the bright goblet,

All gone the mailed warrior,

Lost for good the pride of princes.

How the space of years has spread,

Growing gloomy beneath the night helm,

As if it never was.

The Wanderer,

Poet Unknown.

As dusk falls over the rolling hills,

A corona of golden light from the setting sun rests delicately upon the shoulders of the King's Mead Hall.

Stately in silhouette atop the highest of the hills,

The hall hangs heavy over the surrounding village.

Its eaves are adorned with horse-head gables,

Tributes to the warriors Hengist and Horsa,

Who led armies to victory in the south.

You ascend toward its grand entrance,

Step by step up the side of the steep hill.

As you reach the pinnacle,

Bright burning torches are brought forth from inside the hall,

Illuminating the entryway.

Passing over the threshold through the thick wooden doors,

Each carved carefully with tale-telling relief,

The glories of the line of kings,

Your eyes feast upon the light and warmth of the Mead Hall's interior.

A fire roars in the grand fireplace at the far end of the hall,

And the walls are lined elegantly with torches.

As many times as you've stepped through the doors and beheld this sight,

The spectacle never fails to amaze.

The grandeur of the Mead Hall is utterly astounding.

The high,

Angled ceilings,

The abundance of richly-hued tapestry depicting the legendary kings of old,

The astonishing size and length of the space.

The walls echo with laughter and conversation,

For the benches are filled with familiar friends and fine faces,

Drinking mead to each other's health and happiness,

Feasting heartily on meats and cheese.

The atmosphere is one of everyday celebration,

Joy and comfort in another season's successes,

A fruitful spring,

Delight in life's pleasures and mysteries.

The kingdom has been fortunate,

You think.

A bountiful harvest carried you safely through the winter,

And the wise king,

More philosopher than warrior,

Has ruled with justice and equity since taking the throne.

But legends creep across land and sea,

Stories wind their way across trade routes,

And songs whisper on the wind of nearby perils.

If the tales are to be believed,

Nearby villages have faced the wrath of a fearsome beast,

A dragon who ravaged their lands,

Plundered their wealth,

And retired to his cave beneath a lonely mountain to hoard their treasures.

Who knows what truth the stories hold?

You as a bard and troubadour know full well that storytellers deal in exaggeration,

For who would sit by the fire and hear a tale of peace and prosperity?

Any great story needs sweeping gestures of bravery,

Conflict,

And ecstasy.

If anything,

The legends of the dragon beneath the mountain fall upon your ears as the hyperbolized fantasies of wandering minstrels drummed up to inspire listeners to drop coins into a purse.

The King's Hall,

Built in the Age of Wonder at the zenith of the highest hill in the kingdom,

Is both fortress and forum,

A place of congregation,

Of good food and good company,

And also a place of safety and protection.

You make your way to the far side of the hall,

To the tables and benches that sit near the fire.

Its warmth makes your skin prickle,

Kind and comforting.

Its light flickers against the faces and furs of the friends gathered at the benches.

When they notice you,

Five faces break into eager grins.

Your closest companions leap to their feet to embrace you and welcome you.

It's wonderful to see them.

While you hold a resident position at the King's Feasts as an honored bard,

Your friends are the valued theans and honored warriors of the King's Guard.

You've only just returned from an excursion abroad to lend aid to allies defending their homes.

Only one table sits higher than this one,

The King's Table.

He is smiling and feasting among his closest advisors.

Awake and energetic,

Adrenaline surely rushing through their overtired veins,

Your friends fill your cup and load your plate,

Clapping you on the back,

Shaking your hands.

They launch into a hundred stories at once,

Overwhelming your senses as you begin to eat and drink.

There are days,

Indeed,

When you envy your friends,

These mightiest men of valor who fare forth with good fortune in the field,

The glory they gather and lay at the feet of the King and Clan.

But for all the riches and glories of the world,

Fair as they may be,

The life of a warrior would not suit you.

You would rather spend your days in the safety of home,

Spinning the stories of those great soldiers with the favor of your King and country.

Eating and drinking your fill in the company of good comrades,

You catch the twinkle in an eye,

The magic in a smile.

These brave folk will find eternal life and youth in your songs.

In this way,

You are the memory of your people.

You hold their histories and honors,

Immortalizing them in word and meter.

In the frenzy of talk,

Recountings of rites and retreats,

You begin to string together a narrative of the expedition.

You know the circumstances.

An allied kingdom abroad was under siege.

An ancient oath bound to the poetic memory of a distant war in which two armies fought side by side against darkness,

Obliged your King to send troops.

Your friends,

Seeking honor in battle,

Led the charge to liberate the land.

But what compels you are the details,

The complexities,

And the intricacies of the entanglement.

You learn that a dear friend fell forthwith in love with a lady of high birth,

That the affair ennobled him to do great deeds in war,

But was ultimately ill-fated.

This,

You think,

Though tragic,

Will serve as fair fodder for your poetry.

The mead flows forth and fine foods fill platters as voices echo across the hall,

Joyful and musical.

You are struck with sudden relief and gratitude hearing the stories of battle spill from your friend's lips,

Gratitude for their safe return to the King's hall.

You find your eyes are wet with tears and the intense emotion is returned by your reunited companions.

Turning them from the sting of the flickering fire,

Your eyes fall upon the warp and weft of the tapestry on the wall before you.

It depicts a story from legend of a King seven generations gone who first set foot on this very hill and began the building of the Golden Hall.

He was called Woden,

The wielder of wonder,

And his likeness woven into the tapestry is ringed with rays of light as he lays the keystone of this very hall.

How many happy heroes,

Weary wanderers,

And prolific poets have feasted here in the decades since?

As is preserved in the poetry,

Woden was said to have sired six sons and seven daughters,

Each stronger than the last.

The brawny brood built villages from the ground up,

Brought crops to bear fruit in the spring,

And diverted rivers to nourish the land.

The King,

Who now sits at his high table,

Is said to descend from the second son.

The other siblings spread across the continent and sired kings and queens all over the land.

You sought for some time to disentangle fact from fiction,

Myth from truth,

But only as a personal pursuit.

The legends give comfort and strength to the people you found.

Your mind swimming with the memories and myths of generations past,

You hardly notice that a hush falls like a wave over the jubilant crowds,

The clanking and clattering of goblets and dinnerware ceases as the swing and slamming shut of the heavy doors echoes across the walls of the Golden Hall.

Before the doors,

As you crane your neck to observe,

Is the silhouette of a solitary stranger.

Stranger still,

The silhouette is that of a lone woman,

Clad in mail and furs.

She steps forward into the silence and torchlight,

And all about her are agape.

She carries a sword in one hand,

Half the length of her.

Her boots are brown and caked with clay.

About her head is a leather circlet,

A symbol of high status.

Beneath it flows voluminous,

Untidy red hair.

Her cheeks are ruddy,

And a fresh scar marks the flesh above her left brow.

A leather belt encircles her wool tunic,

Studded with burnished metals.

She is a strange and fascinating sight for a summer night.

She projects power and command,

But warmth flows freely from her eyes,

Which catch the torchlight as she approaches the King's table.

With some surprise and awe,

You find subtle similarities between her features and those of the wonder-wielder,

Whose face is threaded in the old tapestry.

From the silence of the hall comes the slow buzz of muttered conversation and questions.

Who is the strange traveler,

This well-wandered earth-stepper?

She arrives before the King's seat,

And with the clanking of mail kneels before him.

The King's eyes are wide with wonder,

Alight with allure.

He speaks.

Her name is Thora,

She says,

And she hails from the far north.

She comes to claim kinship with the King,

And to sing of the marvels she's seen in her travels.

Most of all,

However,

She comes bearing tidings of great victory.

For she has slain the beast that ravaged so many nearby kingdoms.

She alone has defeated the fearsome dragon.

All,

The King,

You and the guard included,

Hold the silence in the space of what seems like centuries.

Are the legends of the dragon true?

Was the beast truly destroyed by a lone warrior?

The King breaks the silence with light laughter.

Soon all in the hall follow suit.

Laughter rings in the air and bounces across the walls.

All are laughing,

Except for you.

Moved by some desire or force unknown to your conscious mind,

You rise to your feet.

We'll wave,

Starting with the King,

The laughter quiets,

Then ceases.

Your companions whisper across the table,

Urging you to sit.

But you feel right as you move from your bench to Thora's side.

She gets to her feet.

You speak with deference.

You,

For one,

Would like to hear the wanderer's tale.

There is a twinkle in the King's eye,

One you've seen before.

He's a reasonable man,

To be sure,

And he trusts you,

Respects you.

After a pause in which the firelight flickers on the faces about you,

The King nods.

After all,

He says,

Tonight is a night to celebrate victories at home and abroad.

A good story may be just what the company needs.

Thora looks at you with an expression of inscrutable interest and curiosity.

The King gestures for her to take a place of honor before the fire.

The hall will hear her tale.

Against the fire,

Again in silhouette,

Her Titian hair gleams like flames itself.

She begins to weave her tale of wonder like the threads of the tapestries about the hall.

You return to your bench and hearken,

Awed,

To her words.

Thora,

Daughter to a line of warrior queens to the north,

Heard the whispers of a nameless beast that ravaged the lower kingdoms.

Broad were its wings and sharp were its talons,

This terror of the seas and skies.

She came to a village in the shadow of a castle that now stood empty against the setting sun.

The villagers spoke of the black beast that burnt their crops and stole away their sheep.

Its breath was fire,

That wondrous worm.

On that dark day,

Thora swore to the villagers that she would avenge lives and livelihoods.

She tracked the beast to the base of a broad mountain,

Lone in the flat farm country.

Its peak was so high that it pierced the clouds above and its roots,

As Thora discovered,

Burrowed deep into the bowels of the earth.

Beneath the crags,

She discovered the mouth of a dark cavern and descended into its depths.

Down she went,

Further.

Deeper down she descended into the earth.

Only a torch held high in one hand and her mother's sword grasped in the other.

Deeper she went,

Darker the cave grew.

Until her torchlight fell upon glinting,

Gleaming gold.

Piled high before her,

Guilt,

Treasure,

And jewels of such splendor and riches she'd never dreamt of.

The cavern was so vast that the pile of treasure might have been the height of the mountain above.

The flame flickered against the glittering gold,

A tiny light in the deep darkness.

Thora began to climb,

Feet and fingers slipping on the steep side of the mountain of gold.

Red rubies caught the firelight.

Silver shone like liquid.

Beads of lapis lazuli lay low amongst the treasure.

As she climbed,

Each stone or coin she disturbed sent clinks and chimes to bounce across the stone and stalactites,

Ringing in a quiet,

Cavernous symphony.

And then,

Halfway to the apex of the astounding mound,

She heard a new sound above her steps.

The susurrating sound of a snore.

For atop the mountain of precious metals sat the storied beast himself.

He sat,

Slept,

And snarled,

Puffs of smoke erupting from his nostrils as he snored.

To hear Thora tell it,

She felt no fear but fierce determination.

Yet you suspect that beneath the veneer of calm confidence,

This ferocious fighter felt some unspoken unease.

The dragon was curled like a cat about the top of the hill,

Jewels between his talons and toes.

His scales were like shining black plate.

His wings were folded.

His teeth,

Which he bared here and there with an unconscious snarl,

Were long and sharp.

He was fearsome,

Yes,

But undoubtedly elegant.

Thora's eyes gleam as she describes the dragon.

He was a thing of uncanny beauty despite the sharpness and brute strength.

The dread one had,

She continues,

By daring achieved the mountainous horde to rule at his will.

The cave was at once a palace of pleasure and den of dark dreams.

For a moment in the candor and strength of her words,

You find yourself transported to Thora's side,

Climbing her story like the horde of treasure.

You can see the swell of shining gold.

You can hear the snoring dragon.

You can smell the sting of smoke from its breath.

Even as a vision dropped into the story's weft,

You fear the smallest step lest you disturb the beast's slumber.

But this is inevitable,

You think,

For the story must end in combat to arrive at Thora's victory.

She must wake the sleeping dragon eventually.

Whisked back to your seat at the hearth of the golden mead hall,

You find your thoughts drifting away from Thora's tale to meditate on the threads of the tapestry,

The image of the wielder of wonder,

Woden's face so familiar to the features of the warrior wanderer.

Thora's tail weaves like a wind through the hall.

The dragon awakens as he must,

And she battles the foe.

She calls upon the power of the past,

The strength of seven generations of women,

To weather the worm.

She calls the names of her kin Freya,

Mildredha,

Odelin,

Budica,

Beomya,

Ariane Rod,

Osberga.

With each generation invoked,

Her strength and resolve increases.

The blade of her sword held once by her mother and by each preceding queen blazes with internal flame.

With flashes of fire and slashes of her sword,

She swiftly banishes the beast,

Her blade buried in his bosom.

The listeners are rapt with attention as Thora concludes her history.

She holds the sword aloft.

She claims that the beast's blood seeped into the blade,

Giving it the strength and properties of the dragon.

Then,

To your surprise,

She lays the sword at the side of your king,

Who looks upon it with wild-eyed wonder.

A gift to his lordship,

She explains,

A symbol of reunion,

For she is descended from the same line,

Woden's daughters,

You think,

And she yearns to unite the kingdoms of old.

The king clasps the hilt,

Fingers closing around the carved metal and holds it high.

The sword gleams and glints,

Reflecting the fire and the enraptured face.

Her eyes fall upon Thora,

Who locks her gaze with yours and gives a nod of thanks.

She is kin of the king indeed.

There are mysteries that lie in the depths of the earth,

Ones that move across countries and kingdoms like whispering winds,

And ones that sing from the threads of the past.

There are wanderers,

Warriors,

Kings,

Sorcerers,

And dragons.

In Woden,

The wielder of wonder first laid the keystone of the golden mead hall.

What would he have known of his legacy and reach?

What role will your king and this warrior queen play in the songs of your history?

When by war you're won or by seas you're swept,

What will your sons and daughters sing of today's glories?

Will the stones of the golden mead hall still stand on the hill?

You think of the weavers whose fingers cracked from the creation of frozen moments,

Whose tapestries hold together today the picture of the past.

They frame the faces of distant rulers,

Gods,

Histories.

They still time.

Poetry,

Song,

These tools are different.

They won't stay put.

Words,

Languages change.

They warp,

They weft on the wind of history.

Here atop a hill,

Your belly full and body warm from the fire,

You gaze upon the face of a warrior woman whose words you'll twist and shape into song,

Into memory.

This moment,

This story gleams like the treasure hoard.

Future generations will sing of this victory and hail it as a golden past.

The way you hail Woden,

Wonderwielder and his six sons and seven daughters,

Distorted through time,

Through change,

As it passes from person to person,

From ear to ear,

The songs will weave through.

For a moment,

You feel you can see the strings and strands of past and future as though all time is held in the quivering glow of the king's fire,

In the tangled threads.

What tales you'll tell of this time.

You look to Thora,

Male clad,

Stately and sturdy,

The king,

Humble and honorable,

The golden hall,

Long lived,

Long loved.

You hold this moment,

This place,

This time,

These people in joy,

In love,

In mystery,

In wonder,

In poetry,

In song.

You are the memory of your people.

You are the giver of untold treasures.

It is your unimbap it is only their鹅 eats and nestles in habit,

To inc rude and grave Breathe.

Let your body melt into your sleep surface.

Feel a tingling warmth as though you're sitting beside a gentle glowing fire listening to a story wind its way around you.

Focus on the toes of the right foot and the space between the toes.

The ball mound of the right foot.

The arch of the foot.

The right heel.

The right ankle.

The shin and calf.

The right knee.

Right thigh.

Feel the whole right leg.

Tingling with warmth.

The right buttocks and hip.

Now bring awareness to the left toes and the space between the toes.

The left ball mound.

The left arch of the foot.

The left heel.

Left ankle.

Left shin and calf.

The knee.

The thigh.

Feel the whole left leg.

Feel the warmth in the left buttocks and left hip.

Feel yourself melt.

Now feel both legs together.

The whole lower body warm and softening.

Breathe.

Breathe into the low back.

Relax any tension or strain that you're holding.

Now let your awareness and breath travel up the spine to the mid back,

To the upper back.

Bringing awareness to the belly,

The chest,

The right shoulder,

The left shoulder.

Feel the whole torso,

The belly,

And the whole back softening,

Melting the tension away.

Now bring awareness to the fingers of the right hand and the space between the fingers.

The palm of the right hand.

The wrist.

The forearm.

The right elbow.

The upper arm.

The right armpit.

Feel the whole right arm and where it meets the shoulder.

Relax.

Now focus on the left hand fingers and the spaces between the fingers.

The palm of the left hand.

The left wrist.

The left forearm.

The elbow.

The upper left arm.

The armpit.

Now feel the whole left arm.

Feel where it meets the shoulder and release any tension.

Relax.

Now melt.

Let the whole body soften into your sleep surface.

Feel the whole body tingling with the warmth.

Let that warmth travel up your neck towards the base of the head to your ears,

Your face,

And the top of your head.

Relax any tension in the jaw,

The forehead,

And the neck.

Just let go.

And let yourself melt.

Think deeper and deeper down.

Good night.

Reviews

This is a wonderful story with a great reading giving me a good night's sleep

I like it all😃

Thank you for such great story. Thank you also for your soothing voice. Thank you for your talent of story telling. 🌹

Love this to get me to sleep anytime of the day. You voice is so soothing and the story so relaxing thank you. This is my go to story when I need an afternoon nap. Thank you x

Another fantastic story told by laurel in her lovely, soft voice. My problem is I’m so engaged in the stories, I never fall asleep!

Cool! Thanks!
Edit: I just made it through this fully, after maybe ten slumbers sustained, and though I wish I were dozing, I delight in your dancing dream, these woven words of worlds of magic, my beloved Bard🖤😘

🤲🏻💖🤲🏻

Such a magnificent mental space these series hold. Laurel's voice and pace is amazing for sending one of to sleep.
They're perfectly prepared and centred... Just what I've been looking for in a sleepytime wind down.
I have to be honest in that I struggle to get to the end without falling into a deep sleep - but that's what they're for!!
I look forward to new titles and adventures often.

I wouldn’t have thought I’d go to sleep to it, but I did, twice last night and didn’t quite hear it all.

I haven’t found a bad one yet, I look forward to listening to these at night