Over horn or over iron shall we meet.
I will judge you not over your epithets for i have travelled much.
As in my native lands my voice have travelled to the mighty one, rustled ravens feathers and wolfs fur in Ireland and lands beyond the resting place of the golden maiden.
The woman of warmth.
I will look into your eyes and they shall speak to me clearly.
Trust or no.
What men of the land call you shall not be my judge.
My horn risen, your enemies shall meet two tips.