My friend Gav, known in the SCA as Master Godzimir the Golden, OM, Scarlet Guard, asked if I would assist his recent elevation as a Principal of the Order of the Mark by making some of his regalia and bragging him into court. I was honored and happily agreed.
He’s a Kievan Rus persona, and so I thought about doing something in Russian or Ukrainian, but this idea was so far out of my knowledge and comfort zone that I discarded it almost immediately; not only do I not know that song, I can’t even hum a few bars. I sorta hemmed and hawed on this for a few days, but finally inspiration struck, as it so often does for me, in the shower.
I would tell the tale of Godzimir the Golden in the style of J.R.R. Tolkien.
The following represents my best effort at that. It’s FAR too long for a court walk-on, taking me nearly three minutes ro read in full, but what the hell, my boy only gets elevated for the first time once. People would just have to wait and enjoy it. Or wait and tolerate it. Or wait and bitch about it later. Whatever. I thought it was good.
Of the Bowmen of Ætt Skyti, and of the Renown of Godzimir the Golden
And it came to pass in the waning days of strife and long toil in the lands of the Dagorhirrim, that a weariness fell upon the Fellowship, for many years had they waged war beneath sun and shadow. Thus they turned their hearts from battle and departed thence, seeking fairer lands and a gentler purpose.
Then those companions—Halfdan and Sefa, Bjarki, Snorri and Annika, Asa, Þorir and Ayla, Ran and Godzimir, and sundry others unnamed in the chronicles—made for themselves a new dwelling in a distant realm. There they raised up a hall and hallowed it Ætt Skyti; which, in the tongue of the common folk, is called Clan Marksmen, or House Deadeye.
Now among them were three: Snorri, Bjarki, and Godzimir, who took up the bow and bent their will to the mastery of the archer’s craft. Long did they strive upon the ranges, and many shafts did they loose beneath the watchful boughs. And in time they grew mighty in skill and fame, so that they were named Master Bowmen by all who beheld their marksmanship.
Yet not all paths run ever straight. For Bjarki was drawn once more to the clash of arms upon the list-fields, to the ringing of sword on shield, and the gleam of helms beneath the sun. With him went Halfdan and Þorir, and their feet came less often to the archer’s green; and the memory of the bow grew dim in Bjarki’s hand.
Likewise, Snorri was ensnared by other callings: the hammer’s song on anvil, the forge-fire’s glow, and the crafting of subtle things wrought in gold and silver and gleaming mithril. To the smithies of the Dwarves he went gladly, and his arrows fell fewer, and his bow leaned unstrung.
But of all that company, Godzimir alone held steadfast. Never did he forsake the ranges nor the way of the bow. He taught many to draw and to loose, to fashion arrows keen and quivers fair, and many were the tools of his hand, both humble and wondrous, that armed the Companies of the Archers. Tournaments he devised, that skill might be tested and valor proved; and he forged from fellowship a brotherhood of bows, keen-eyed and resolute.
Thus his fame grew, and word of his deeds passed beyond the field and into high places. Even the King and Queen of that realm heard tell of him, and bade him come before their court.
Now the day is come, and lo! he draws nigh—Godzimir the Golden, steadfast in aim, pure of heart, and unstained in honor—to be named a Peer of the Realm and set among the Principals of the Order of the Mark. Rejoice, O people of the North! For one worthy has arisen from among you.
Snorri's House 
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