Channelling spirit takes on different forms and styles for each individual but sometimes it comes to me as poem and verses that are down loaded whilst I sleep. In this short yarn, I will relay a verse that came to me in a dream.
I was in a great hall of my ancestors and a victory was being celebrated. Warriors and shield maidens were standing and relaying the story of their part in the great battle, whilst the audience either cheered, heckled or sometimes threw food. Then the lord of the hall banged the table, pointed at me and said
"Wizard, tell us a story or sing us a verse, for your word hoard is great and you speak with such splendour."
I rose to my feet, scanned the gathering, which helped me choose the right tale and the words just came out.

"Three witches by fire bright,
weaving the web of wyrd. 
Counting out the orlog for the the sons of men.


Some they mark as warrior,
some they mark as smith,
others they set to the plough.
All sprang from the loins of Heimdall
and take their place in the tribe of man.

Some they mark as Shaman or Vitki,
Blessed and cursed at the very same moment.
Blessed to have the ears of the Gods 
and the vision to see between the worlds.
Cursed to wander this world alone
and have but the friends you can count on one hand.

I would rather have one good friend
than a thousand acquaintances.
Tis not when the shield wall holds
that friendship is tested.
Tis when the wall breaks
and the courage of men flees the battlefield,
that is the knowing of a true brother.

The battlefield of the Shaman is some what more apocalyptic,
facing demon, phantom and shade.
All these creatures snarling and drooling at the mouth
waiting to rip the Vitki apart.
Tis then, Shaman to Shaman, Brother to Brother,
wrist clasping wrist one last time,
they cheer and charge, ready to take their seats in Valhalla