There was power in a song. Power in those words that echoed around the Hall. A song held the power of immortality. Not the drawn out existence of the elf, but the bold moment in time that lived forever in the hearts of the people. Death only came to the brave when his song was no longer sung.
'Hwaet!' says the scop. Listen! And he sings songs of highland battles and mountain sieges. Of Kings and Riders and Shield-Maidens. And though the days of Eorl and Aldor, of Helm and Theoden, have long since passed, this night they lived again.
Léoðsang is an Old English (Rohirric) word for song.