(429) for my bb.

Oh what a marvelous thing it was, to be here at this time. Siv could not have chosen a better home if she had tried. With Eris disposed of (at least, from a leader’s position—she suspected that the rank given was merely out of respect) there was little doubt in her that her future was bright. She all but held Sirius’ ear when it came to the world of spirits, poisoning him against the beliefs brought by Tlanti and shared by Eris. Salvia was another story, but Salvia was a girl that Siv had spent many a hunting trip with. Salvia was simple. She cared little for the spiritual guidance of the witch-woman and more for her physical prowess and talents.

There were more, now, that Siv saw as potential tools. Her cousin, for one, had proven her magic by his fearful steps around her. He had chosen another woman to bed, but this did not matter. That girl was no threat to her. Wisteria had shown her true colors and defaulted somewhere beneath the dark woman, as was her place in the world. With Larkspur’s death, the Khalif gods lost their power.

Beyond that, Siv was gifted with an acolyte who not only knew the stories and knew the rights, but was a presence amongst the younger girls of Eris’ brood. That was her dear daughter, who was all but grown now. Still, there was much to teach. Siv turned over a piece of nearly finished leather and stared down at it, frowning. The tooling was expertly done and a delicate, strange pattern of thistles and vines crossed in a shape not unlike that of the Hand of Eris. It was to be a gift, for her King, though it would be instead given to the delicate little woman he called his own. While Siv might have bedded him once, and might have held his ear, it was Clover that held his children. As she knew, a mother was the one who would best guide them. Already, she planned. Already, she schemed.

She let out a sigh and put the leather back onto her work table then rose, stretching, and paced to the entrance of her home. It was nearly dusk and the sun had sunk beyond the line of trees, lighting them in a brilliant red display. Siv watched the sky as if she might read it, and in a way, she did—a red night always favored the following day, for the gods had killed and taken the blood they needed before the faithful slept.

(300) for my bb.

At the crown of night a purple-blackness, not entirely unlike her own pelt, blossomed and threatened to grow and reach into the very bloody section of sky beyond the treeline. Siv did not think she would ever truly tire of watching the sunrise and sunset, and thought of the chariots, of the wolves, and all the stories she had been told as a girl. Many of these she had passed on to her own child, when they she had been old enough to understand them. She had told her them before that too, when Draugr had been a child and Siv had carried her over mountains and streams and terrible distances.

A noise rose from nearby, though it was slight enough that Siv did not notice it at first. She turned her head and spotted the girl, a familiar shape to her, not far from her home. So much of her cousin did she see in the child that it worried her, though Dra had been lucky and not inherited his colors. Only those pale eyes, and those paler patches of white truly marked her as his offspring. Of course, Siv would never give Reykr anything more than his manhood credit for such a thing. She had raised the child, and she had kept her safe all this time. Even after a war, her child was unharmed. The gods favored Siv Helsi, and she believed this every time she looked upon this thing she had made.

The subordination pleased her. Something about that suggested she still held sway over the girl, and while Siv was one to spoil, she did so with a very firm hand. A faint smile crossed her face and she stepped down from her home to approach her daughter. “Do you remember why the sun falls?”

Siv had blamed her daughter’s supposed failure on her father’s genetics, though she did not know it under such a specific term and instead believed his blood had somehow dulled her mind. Certainly there was a bit of slowness in the girl, but Siv did not consider this a true fault. If she had been truly dull, it would have been unforgivable. Draugr was simply unpolished and yet to come into her own. Age would help her. Of course, Siv was not a fair example—she was so sharply manipulative that her intelligence was undoubtedly one of her strongest characteristics…following her charisma and her size, of course.

“There are,” she began to explain, in the patient tone of someone who has taught before. “Many stories, yes. Across the sea, in that desert land that Ihmotep hails from, they think that the sun is a god who is killed each night. I suppose one might think so, when the sky bleeds like this,” she added, pausing to look at the forest. For a long time the dark woman was silent, but then shook her head and turned her gaze back to Draugr.

“You look skinny. Are you eating enough?”

Though the girl was fast to defend her eating habits, Siv frowned in the good-natured way of an overbearing mother and let the argument slide. It was true that Draugr would never be as tall as she was. Part of Siv knew this was from her time on the road and the fact her daughter had not been able to grow with such comfortable settings. Another part blamed her father’s blood. Reykr was tall, but he was weak in spirit. Some of his weakness might have transferred into her soul, when she was conceived. Siv didn’t know, and let her daughter change the obviously sore subject.

The witch smiled and shook her head lightly. Her hair, which was loose, rippled at the motion. “No, the sun is not a god. The sun is simply the sun. We worship those who control these things; a horse pulls the sun across the sky, but we don’t worship horses, do we?” After slaughtering one for a ritual, she knew that her daughter knew this was not the case. “Many things are sacred, and powerful, but not gods.” It was an overly simple explanation, but Siv knew her daughter was still in the early stages of learning such truths.

The secret fears of her daughter were ones Siv did not understand. She would certainly have objected to Draugr choosing another faith, or asking to leave Salsola, there was nothing harmful in entertaining a pet or a child’s whim. Siv was understanding to an extent, though she expected certain values and ideas to hold sway overall. Thus, she had no idea of the torment going on in her daughter’s head, having been a child that adapted quickly and was entirely outspoken. That Dra would be more introverted had never crossed her mind—she simply assumed the girl slow.

Her ears swiveled to rapt attention at the soft voice, and surprised, she stared. It was a bold statement, especially for someone so low in the ranks. Many of Salsola seemed to blur the lines between king and god. Siv herself had helped to fan these flames, at least in Sirius’ own eyes, and she certainly didn’t expect that Draugr would be capable of distinguishing the two forms of worship at such a young age. Pleased, a deep and terrible smile grew on her face.

“Yes,” she affirmed, and pulled her daughter close to her. “Mortals are not gods; even our King is not a god. That is why we do not name children after gods.” On this, Siv was certain. She let her hand raise and caress the tresses of Draugr’s hair, admiring their color, pleased it was like her own. “Come inside, if it will ease your worries. My home will always be safe for you.”

(373) Siv you feminazi

There was a vague sense of desperation within her daughter, as if there was some unknown or unforeseen threat for her words or her boldness. This was wise, of course. Siv had brought her to a place that demanded respect and obedience and even such questions could be seen as treachery to the right eyes. Sirius was a man led by paranoia, and Salvia…well, they did not call her Tigress for nothing.

Siv’s home was, as was the way of witches, cluttered without being disorganized. She had many odds and ends, trinkets, holy signs and less important items scattered throughout. Drying plants hung from taunt cords, various animal pelts covered makeshift seats, and everywhere the symbols of her faith were drawn or fashioned out of bones, or feathers, or carefully woven vines. This too, was part of her trickery. By hiding the obvious with supposed clutter, with places for eyes to wander and look for things, she distracted her guests. They never saw what she did not wish them to see.

One hand gestured lazily towards the seating around the firepit, in which fresh wood waited to be burnt. It was dim within her home and so she trailed towards where a lamp, taken from the fall of Boreas, flickered and gave off the only light within the place. While she moved, lifting a carefully packed bundle of kindling from a pile, her ears swiveled and focused on Draugr’s voice.

“You must be prepared,” she said slowly, thinking of how best to explain such a delicate thing. “To do things you may not like in his name. A king,” the witch went on, and lit the small bundle in her hand by using a longer stick sparked from the lamp. “A king has power because his people allow it. You saw how easy this can change, did you not?” With the small torch in hand, she moved to the firepit and squatted, positioning the bundle below the carefully stacked branches and logs.

“The gods do not see men as kings,” she went on, and looked her daughter firmly in the eyes. “Above all, remember you serve gods before men. No woman,” the witch added sharply. “Should ever think of herself below a man.”

I'm pping, deal with it

Slowly, the kindling began to grow. Flames licked at the dried wood, chewing quickly through sections of pine and burning hot, though the heavier wood would take longer to catch and burn. It was a controlled thing, however, and Siv had no need to pay any attention to it. Between the lantern and the fire there was just enough light to see…and just enough not-light to allow the shadows to flicker and dance as if they too were alive.

The dark wolf, a giant amongst these people, rose and trailed off towards her sleeping quarters. From here she brought the bone comb, a pale thing that gleamed against her palm. She was listening as she moved, and began speaking long before she reached her daughter. “Magic is a woman’s realm, Draugr. Men might try and drabble in such a place, but it is not theirs to know.” She slowed behind the girl and lifted a section of her hair. Gently, she began to comb through it—it was something she had done when the child still lived here, and it helped to keep her focused. It further helped to spread her own scent through the Associate’s hair and clearly define just whose daughter Draugr was.

“You will learn,” she affirmed. “It is your right.”

I'm pping, deal with it

There had always been a sense, at least in the Hearg, that women were the superior gender. Siv had been raised on such beliefs and knew them as truths. It had been remarkably easy to force herself into the role of völva, and easier still to manipulate Reykr into falling for her. What she wanted, she took. There was nothing about her that was made to bow, and while she did so now, her claws were digging deeper into the hardened flesh of their King, and her whispers would become the worm that rotted his tree.

Her daughter’s eyes were remarkably pale, and Siv knew one day they would be a gift, but only once the child understood the ways of lies. Even now they were too clear—morning mist left transparent by sunlight, pierced and open and all too easily read. Her own were opaque like uncut stones, thickened by webs of deceit. It had kept her alive this long. By hardening her heart and slowly, carefully disconnecting her emotions, Siv had crafted herself into an illusion not like her magic. Oh she had been brought down the fury of the Valkyrie upon their enemies, but for what purpose?

The child. She had killed for Draugr and most certainly would do so again.

A soft smile rippled across her muzzle, breaking the black velvet to further show her teeth. The canines hung over her lip regardless, the only true sign that she was some well-disguised monster. “Your mother is a völva, child. Did you not think that path would be yours to walk as well?”

(300)

It was without a doubt that Draugr would not remember the Hearg. She would not know how Siv was looked upon as a child, as a blasphemer, as anathema when she had spoken so boldly of her crime. The gods were not in their rock. Each god lived in the blood of the fallen, in sacrifice, and in the realms beyond those that her fool-counterparts had deigned to acquest from her. As far as she would tell it, and as far as she knew Reykr knew (for he had gone long before she had), she had left of her own choice and gone into the wilderness with the child in tow. Salsola had given them protection; wolves were made to live in groups and to function as a unit.

So when a snake like Siv, who twisted herself deep into the roots of such a place like the great serpent himself, called a land home she meant it with the possessive, manipulative desire of a harpy. Until she was satisfied, she would cut and poison and rot the whole of them to the core.

A chunk of her daughter’s hair, thick and dark-to-light as her own, fell from between her fingers. Siv smiled fondly down at the Associate, pleased to know she was not corrupted by the hubris of those who led them. “You are blood of my blood,” she affirmed, gently and intimately. “This is a path that will try you,” her voice hardened, warning the girl even as she continued to work through the tangles and knots of hair. “Your faith will be tested and you will learn truths that will steal the warmth from you. Our blood is of the first—our father is the All-Father, and even he suffered to learn the wisdom of the world.”

(660)

Every bit of knowledge Siv had learned had taken what she believed of the Hearg and stripped it, bit by bit, until even her faith was gone. She believed now—she had heard and seen the gods the night she had broken Tlanti down to size—and while it was the no-nonsense faith of a true believer, it was tainted by the idea and knowledge that true magic would never be done. She was no prophet, no seer, but she was clever enough and willful enough to know how to impose her word on others.

The girl’s silence was enough to tell Siv to keep going. As her nimble fingers, long and pointed, worked through a larger knot, the story was told. “Odin-All Father has always wanted to know,” she began, emphasizing this point. Wisdom always was better than simple strength. If not, why would the gods have kept Loki around? “He rode his horse to the tree that grows in the center of all worlds, Yggdrasil, and there found the Nornes—these women,” and again, she emphasized this point. “Weave together the fates of gods and mortals. Odin asked them about these things, and they told him many secrets of the past and future. They told him that the mad-wolf, Fenrir, who is himself the son of Odin’s brother Loki, would be the one to destroy him when Ragnarök came.”

With the larger knot loosened, Siv took the comb to her daughter’s hair again. Though Draugr was obviously taking care of herself, the tangles and bits of dirt and leaves caught in her locks were proof she was not being idle. This too, pleased Siv. “What the women told him was not enough for Odin, and he asked for more. They told him to speak to Mímir, who lives at the spring of wisdom. It is from this spring that all knowledge comes, and this spring that feeds the world tree. When Odin came to this place, he asked to drink from the spring—Mímir would not allow it. You see,” her tone shifted, and she looked down at her daughter sternly. “Wisdom comes with a price. Odin tore out his own eye and traded it for a single drink of water.”

This was not where the story ended, but Siv found her voice weary. Unwilling to let the tale end, she released her hold on Draugr and moved towards one of the many leather bags hanging from the strong wood that made the foundation of her yurt-like home. It was made from an animal bladder, carefully cleaned and re-purposed. She did not need to sniff it to determine what was inside, and picked up two shallow bowls made from carefully smoothed wood. She settled next to the young girl and the low-burning fire, and continued to speak as she undid a knot and gingerly poured warm water forth. “Even this, child, was not enough for All-Father. He hung himself, as a sacrifice, upon a branch of the World Tree. All sacrifices must be made of flesh and blood, and so he thrust his own spear into his side.”

Her voice stopped, only long enough for the she-wolf to lap at the water in the bowl. It soothed her throat, though she sorely wished it was cool. “For nine days, he hung there—even the gods are not immortal, and Odin’s spirit left his body. For nine days his spirit traveled the nine worlds. At the end of those days, the Norns came and restored his life. Odin learned the Futhark—the sacred runes—and knew them for their true names. They say he learned nine songs as well, though I’ve heard many songs called magic, and none yet that produce any.” A small, secretive smile crossed her face. One day she would teach Draugr the truth about magic, but not yet. She was still a child, and it was sometimes easier for stories to be told before truths.