THE FIRST MOOT UNDER ADELMAR

[MadOne 4945]

 

 

 

ÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON REINMAR,

 

GATHER HEED,

 

When the folk stood gathered, I took my place before them and asked: "Who among you will take the law into their hands? Who will sit the stone-seat and bear the weight of the Kanun?"

 

None answered. No man rose. No woman stepped forth. The old gave no names. The young made no claim. And so, by the stillness of the tribe, I was named Lawspeaker. This is no crown. This is no cloak of gold. It is a chain about the neck, a blade at the back. But I took it all the same, for no tribe walks long without its tongue. And the Kanun is our tongue. So I am seated as Lawgiver and Lawspeaker by the will of the folk assembled in Moot. The tribe spoke with silence, and so I have answered with oath and burden.

 

See then, the events that transpired in this Moot, put under record and upon stone.

 

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In that same Moot came a man who was known to some and watched by many. His name was Johannas Stroheim, a healer by trade and a man of quiet bearing.

 

He stood before the ring and spoke not for glory nor gain, but for place among us—to shed the name of guest and take up the mantle of tribesman. He sought blooding, and he sought it not as a stranger, but as one who had lived near our fire.

 

And then the hands rose. Men of the tribe, and women of station, lifted voice on his behalf. They vouched for his steadiness. They vouched for his honour. They spoke of his craft in tending wounds, his gentleness of manner, and his strength when it mattered. By their voices, the circle was moved. So I turned to Johannas and asked him before all: "Will you walk the way of our tribe? Will you cast off the old name and take one rooted in our soil, sworn to our law, loyal to our way?" And he said, “Aye.”

 

Then let it be written and remembered: he was blooded that day before the eyes of the folk, and he took the name Hans, as is our tradition—to mark the shedding of the old and the beginning of the new. But I say this also: Blooding is not word alone.

 

So I gave him a charge: "By the ending of the Saint’s Week, take up bow or spear and seek a stag—not the weak nor the wounded, but a proud beast worthy of tale. Fell it with your own hand. Raise then a stone, carved by your own blade, and mark upon it your name, the date of your blooding, and the beast you slew. That way, your blooding shall not live in tongue alone, but in stone and story."

 

For the land remembers what men forget.

 

 

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Then came quarrel, as it always does where pride walks beside man.

 

Erminhilde, a daughter of the tribe, had spoken hard words against the folk of Wesenburg. Slander was named, and honour stained. The quarrel was not born of blades, but of the tongue -that sharpest of weapons. She came before the Moot not with denial nor deceit, but with plain speech. She admitted her fault. She named her sin. And she withdrew the words that had wounded. She put this upon in writ later.

 

The kin of Roland and Varik, hearing this, did not press the wound. Instead, as men do who keep the Kanun, they broke bread. Peace was made-not by silence, but by the shared act of closing the wound with salt and crust, and so they broke bread.

 

Let this be known and bound:

 

Slander is named shameful in the eyes of the Kanun. But so too is the man who digs up a buried quarrel and shakes dust upon it anew. A wrong was done, but it was answered. Let none stir that ground again. He who speaks of it henceforth sins not in defence of truth, but in rejection of peace. So says the Kanun.

 

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Here I speak with weight and sorrow. The Moot was called. The circle was full. But when I raised my voice and invited reply, I heard only the breath of the wind. Where were the quarrels? Where was the laughter? Where were the cries of “Nay, that is not just!” or “Aye, let it be so!”?

 

We are not men of parchment. We are not a people of ink and decree. We are not in marble halls whispering in robes. We are Reinmaren—a folk whose law is not carved in one tongue, but spoken in many. A people whose law is not carved in dead tongue but spoken in the breath of living men. The Moot is not a script to be read, but a fire to be fed. The Moot is the hearth of that law. If it falls silent, the fire dies. If I alone speak, and none challenge nor praise, then the Kanun becomes brittle. It grows hollow. It rots. This I will not allow. I do not want the law to be my voice. I want it to be ours. Raise your voices, folk of Reinmar. Speak not only when wounded. Speak to guide. Speak to question. Speak to uphold. The Moot is not a stage for one man. It is the root of the tribe. If the root rots, the tree falls.

 

The Moot cannot live if all tongues are stilled. I looked out and saw only eyes, not voices. If the Moot dies, so does our way. Speak. Bring quarrel. Bring praise. Bring judgment. That is how the Kanun breathes. The Moot is the root of our law. Yet when I stood before it, I saw no fire in the eyes, no thunder in the chest. Too many watched, too few spoke. This is not our way.

 

 I will not drag the law of our forefathers behind me like a cart. I will not carry the law alone. And be ye noble, or a free tribesman, when you come to the Moot, speak.

 

 

And if silence grips your tongue, then I shall loosen it. Let it now be law, by my word and by the stillness I was made to bear:

 

All who come to the Moot shall henceforth pay the Moot-tithe: three silver marks.

 

These marks shall be spent in full on the buying of Mootbier, drawn from the tavern. The casks shall be brought to the Moot, and poured before all. There shall be no empty hands nor dry throats. For a dry man is a silent man—and I would rather deal with drunken quarrel than empty air. Let the ale stir the bellies, let the mouths run hot, and let belligerency rise like steam from stone. I would rather hear bellowing and bad judgment than stillness and cowardice. Better the man who speaks folly than the one who keeps wise silence and does nothing.

So drink, you lot. Then speak. Then brawl, if need be. For this is how the Kanun lives—not in peace, but in passion.

 

 

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For the running of the Moot, as the Lawspeakers of old,

 

I call for two Hirdmen. Men or women of strength and honour, to uphold justice, enforce the Kanun, and stand firm when law is challenged.

 

I call for two Lawmen. Folk of sense and learning, who can speak the Kanun, help judge disputes, and proclaim justice before the fire.

 

Lords, landed men, elders and youth alike - I expect your voice in the Moot. This law is ours, not mine. If the tribe is silent, we drift like leaves on the wind. Let this be known.

 

 

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Now that the law has been spoken and the quarrels laid bare, I speak as Skald, not Lawgiver. It is not enough for a tribe to be ruled. It must also remember. Our laws are bones, but our stories are blood. Our judgments build walls, but our songs fill the halls with warmth. A tribe that forgets its stories is like a man with no name—he walks, but no one knows him. So I give you now a tale, as our fathers did when the Moot fire burned low and the mead horn passed from hand to hand - for the Lawspeaker speaks not only law, but is the memory of the tribe. 

 

Let the children hear. Let the old men nod. Let the tale be told. Here now is a Reinmaren tale. Listen. Remember. Speak it again.

 

 

In the Age of the Undead, during the Reinmaren flight to the North, Theoderic and brethren loyal to him thus traversed the untamed wilderness with his band of four hundred valiant Hird. Guided by destiny, they so stumbled upon this fateful encounter, a battle between unfamiliar forces of Waldenfolk.

 

Theoderic's voice thundered like the storm of winds across the wilderness, as he spoke to his trusted riders, gathered like the warriors of old, beneath the shadow of this here towering runestone:

 

"Hearken, noble comrades! In our wanderings, we came upon a clash of blades, a battle fought by unknown warriors. We here carry swords upon our hips, not in the manner of timorous souls, but in the way of true champions. To turn and flee, as craven folk, is an affront to our honor. We must extend our aid, but to which side shall we lend our strength? The victors or the vanquished?" Chieftain Theoderic shouted, and his eyes aflame like a maelstrom. 

 

His loyal brethren, their sinews like the gnarled roots of ancient trees, spoke in unison, their voices resonating as such; "To aid the victors seems the prudent course. Our numbers are few, and our might may not sway the course of the battle."

 

Theoderic, however, shook his head, his gaze fixed upon the horizon. "Nay, dear brethren, such counsel is the path of the faint-hearted. To be a true warrior is to aid the vanquished, to strike with the fury of thunder and bring relief to those ensnared in despair. Genuine valour does not dwell in the ease of the chosen path, but in the extension of our might to those most in need, for this is the hallmark of a true warrior of the Rein."

 

With hearts steeled, they advanced. Tjudmund, whose skill with the chisel was legendary, took note and thus carved these words. This stone was raised by Alaric in memory of Theoderic, his father's son. He was unjustly denied a death in battle, yet his honour echoed in these plains. Ever will stand this memorial.

 

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WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

[MercyAzalea 405]

 

 

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"Without the Kanun, there is no justice. And without justice, there is no righteousness. I consider myself a knowledgeable woman of Reinmar; if you will have me, Lawspeaker, I should like to be considered for the ranks of the Lawmen. "

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷

Ivona von Ostturm reviewed the recount of the moot with furrowed brows, each word as enthralling as the last. Upon reviewing the call for Lawmen, she wasted no time in reaching for the quill; she felt she knew the Kanun well enough, so why the devil not?

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷

 

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WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.