tool of the norns
May 25, 2006 5:30:04 GMT
Post by frey on May 25, 2006 5:30:04 GMT
The Helm of Fear hideth no one,
when bold men bare their swords;
when many are met to match their strength,
'twill be found that foremost is no one
Frey perched looking over the seas from a small camp at the edge of a windtorn cliff-face, the skies were dark and stormy with a touch of scarlet and pink as the sun set behind the mountains, the surrounding area was empty, devoid of anything that drew breath but him.
Damnedable place, nothing thrives here, the earth is scorched, bagh.... I must move on
He grabbed a handful of dust and ash from his once lit campfire and let it pass through his hands and into the winds. Wiping his hands 'cross his breeches he began the small chore that was packing up his camp.
Looking towards the forests inland he noticed a large solitary tree growing from an exposed hilltop. Nothing normally drew his attention in this dreary landscape, but this eve was different. A small light flickered in the distance as a faint hint of smoke carried itself over the hills.
He finished his task, rolled his bedspread tightly and shoved it into a rucksack along with his meager cooking supplies and cuttlery, then set out cautiously along the treeline towards the lone fire in the distance. The deeper he pushed along the woods the more the smoke became present. After many minutes of hiking he found himself looking up at the hilltop, there was but a lone figure with its back to an ancient oak tree, gnarled and old it had become with the years, having lost most of its leaves due to the surrounding sterility of the soil which this land seemed to have no shortness of (Frey believed these places to be areas where great magicks had been worked that dealt death to warriors and earth alike)
He pushed onwards, closer he came to the fireside and the lone figured sitting against the tree. Frey could see him clearly now, well, not neccesarily a he as it were, Frey saw now that it was not a man, but a woman, clothed in catskins. Her cloak was made of the furs of a spotted snowcat, with matching gloves. But what fully stole his attention was the small pouch at her side marked in red pigments with runes of power and knowledge. She leant heavily on the tree with a carved stave of yew at her side. Without looking out from underneath her long cowl, she spoke, "Welcome Frey, son of Njord, bane of the lotnar, i have been expecting you..."
You speak my name woman, as if you knew me for many winters, but how is that? For I have never laid eyes on one such as you since ages long past. Truly one such as you could not have followed my travels this far
Frey spoke to her in contempt.
Back to Niflhiem with you! Haunt me no more shade of times long past
"Fool!" She snarled between gritted teeth, "Hiemdall knew when to speak, and where his place was... I come to say but a single thing, If you truly are seeking your bretherin. Then go henceforth to the lair of the dokkalfar, he lingers here tainting the land and bleeding it of its lifeforce. It is said he keeps animated spirits of longdead skalds in his lair for entertainment. You may find what you are looking for there..."
As the last syllables left her mouth, she reached deep into her magicked pouch, she pulled a handful of stones from it, then cast them into the air. No longer were they stones, but now shimmering stars, orbiting her head. They spun faster and faster, as their lights grey brighter till Frey could no longer see.
A surge he felt, as if the air were water, and he had pulled the stopper from its basin. Then at last the blindness passed, blinking in a stupor, he now took in the scene of a bare hilltop, with no tree, pyre, or woman in sight. All that was left was a small peice of parchment where she sat.
Frey walked forwards tenatively.
Never trust a woman... he muttered to himself as he picked up the parchment. With baited breath he unfurled it.
It carried a map.
when bold men bare their swords;
when many are met to match their strength,
'twill be found that foremost is no one
Frey perched looking over the seas from a small camp at the edge of a windtorn cliff-face, the skies were dark and stormy with a touch of scarlet and pink as the sun set behind the mountains, the surrounding area was empty, devoid of anything that drew breath but him.
Damnedable place, nothing thrives here, the earth is scorched, bagh.... I must move on
He grabbed a handful of dust and ash from his once lit campfire and let it pass through his hands and into the winds. Wiping his hands 'cross his breeches he began the small chore that was packing up his camp.
Looking towards the forests inland he noticed a large solitary tree growing from an exposed hilltop. Nothing normally drew his attention in this dreary landscape, but this eve was different. A small light flickered in the distance as a faint hint of smoke carried itself over the hills.
He finished his task, rolled his bedspread tightly and shoved it into a rucksack along with his meager cooking supplies and cuttlery, then set out cautiously along the treeline towards the lone fire in the distance. The deeper he pushed along the woods the more the smoke became present. After many minutes of hiking he found himself looking up at the hilltop, there was but a lone figure with its back to an ancient oak tree, gnarled and old it had become with the years, having lost most of its leaves due to the surrounding sterility of the soil which this land seemed to have no shortness of (Frey believed these places to be areas where great magicks had been worked that dealt death to warriors and earth alike)
He pushed onwards, closer he came to the fireside and the lone figured sitting against the tree. Frey could see him clearly now, well, not neccesarily a he as it were, Frey saw now that it was not a man, but a woman, clothed in catskins. Her cloak was made of the furs of a spotted snowcat, with matching gloves. But what fully stole his attention was the small pouch at her side marked in red pigments with runes of power and knowledge. She leant heavily on the tree with a carved stave of yew at her side. Without looking out from underneath her long cowl, she spoke, "Welcome Frey, son of Njord, bane of the lotnar, i have been expecting you..."
You speak my name woman, as if you knew me for many winters, but how is that? For I have never laid eyes on one such as you since ages long past. Truly one such as you could not have followed my travels this far
Frey spoke to her in contempt.
Back to Niflhiem with you! Haunt me no more shade of times long past
"Fool!" She snarled between gritted teeth, "Hiemdall knew when to speak, and where his place was... I come to say but a single thing, If you truly are seeking your bretherin. Then go henceforth to the lair of the dokkalfar, he lingers here tainting the land and bleeding it of its lifeforce. It is said he keeps animated spirits of longdead skalds in his lair for entertainment. You may find what you are looking for there..."
As the last syllables left her mouth, she reached deep into her magicked pouch, she pulled a handful of stones from it, then cast them into the air. No longer were they stones, but now shimmering stars, orbiting her head. They spun faster and faster, as their lights grey brighter till Frey could no longer see.
A surge he felt, as if the air were water, and he had pulled the stopper from its basin. Then at last the blindness passed, blinking in a stupor, he now took in the scene of a bare hilltop, with no tree, pyre, or woman in sight. All that was left was a small peice of parchment where she sat.
Frey walked forwards tenatively.
Never trust a woman... he muttered to himself as he picked up the parchment. With baited breath he unfurled it.
It carried a map.