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Ledger of the Tundra by NEP

SongGPT
Ledger of the Tundra by NEP - Bardic Folk Fantasy music cover art

Ledger of the Tundra

Bardic Folk Fantasy

0:004:39
Lyrics
Description
Lappland, you stitch the night to blade, Lappland, the ledger's dues are paid.
From ice-sown paths she counts the moonlight's depths,
A jagged grin beneath wolf-mark scars she keeps.
She walks with two shadows, one fed, one forgiven,
Hoot-leather whispers where old mutinies sleep.
Cold breath knits close to the scars on her hands,
Tundra ink dries slow on the palms of her past.
She trades in quiet favors and sharper endings,
Leaves coins of silence where warm voices were cast.
Hear the strings climb like smoke through pines,
A quickened heart that forgets the lines.
Lappland, you stitch the night to blade,
Lappland, your legend never fades.
Lappland, you move her shadows straight,
Lappland, the north keeps what you've made.
Once a name in a ledger, once a whispered prize,
She learned that mercy sleeps with a crooked smile.
Her laughter snaps like a twig over frozen water,
A hunter's promise folded up in exile.
She speaks in small covenants blunt as thrown knives,
Marks debts in the snow, lets the wind be the judge.
When contracts fray and a friend turns to ash,
She keeps one clean oath, never hand back a grudge.
Fiddle writes a thread of white-hot fear,
Drums beat the step that pulls her near.
Lappland, you stitch the night to blade,
Lappland, your footsteps carve the glade.
Lappland, when bargains break and friends betray,
Lappland, you tally what they gave.
There are ledger pages with names that glow faint,
Some inked in gold, some scrawled in trembling red.
She reads them by aurora, counts who owed what, who stayed,
And pockets the ledger when the rest were fled.
She is not saint nor savior, she is sharper, older,
A mercenary hymn wrapped in a wolfskin coat.
Two shadows walk with her, neither wholly kinder.
One keeps the score, the other keeps the throat.
Under green fire she hums an old refrain,
Notes stitch the cold as the sky unwinds.
A pause, the fiddle snaps like a distant chain.
She folds the ledger, tucks the past behind.
Lappland, you stitch the night to blade,
Lappland, the ledger's dues are paid.
Lappland, from broken things you draw new shade.
Lappland, northborn dead repay.
So let the bards in taverns bend their strings,
Sing of the woman who trades in dusk and bread.
Let the three-note call tread soft through winter's rings,
And tell how Lappland walks with two shadows ahead.
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