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As she waited, silent and brooding, the stormclouds in her heart grew darker still. It was only a few that heeded the call—one parent for each, she supposed unhappily. It spoke ill of Eris’ power to hold faith, she reasoned, and not that she herself was a low-ranking outsider. Soon, though, things would change. Soon she, would grapple power by the throat and rip it, kicking and screaming, into a great and glorious future. By the time Wisteria arrived, painted in the marks of her own trio, did Siv begin.
The dark woman looked at each of them, dark worry in her eyes, and lifted her head. Though she was not capable of commanding those ranked above her, she was used to making herself heard—and so her voice rose, deep and powerful, to reach them all. “We have forgotten the faces of our fathers,” she began gravely, falcon-purple eyes meeting her daughter’s. Would the girl understand? Would any of them understand? “A great boon has been gifted to us; two princes, three,” her hand motioned in an arc towards Magnolia’s children. “, three because it is a powerful number. You should know this, Magnolia,” the witch went on, and her voice became warm and motherly. She looked upon the girl with love in her eyes even though she barely knew her. Siv Helsi was, amongst other things, a remarkable pretender.
“Where I come from, three gods form a strong sign—this,” she went on, and brought forth from under her billowing cloak a tarnished necklace. She held it out for Magnolia to take, solemnly. “Is their sign. You have been given a wonderful gift, young one. And you,” her eyes lifted, turned to the tall dog with the short fur. He looked so peculiar to her even now. “I suspect you pray to other gods for your children. Join us now and call to them. Call to them as she,” her hand gestured again, moving towards Wisteria, who had come to stand near her daughter’s mate. The tall she-wolf looked at him evenly, orange eyes filled with worry and doubt. Only Siv’s hand caught her attention, and the older woman straightened sharply. “Calls to She Of The Sun, The Silver Arrow, The Dark One.” Bastardizations, new names, making them her own even as she felt the earth pulse under her feet.
“Call to them as I call to Freyja, and Freyr, and Gerth. Call to them as I call to Odin,” she went on, and silently thought of his brother, his son; she thought of Sirius too, and her eyes darkened to a fierce color, something like that of a fresh bruise. “Call to them,” she went on, and looked to Ataxia. “As we call to The Sun.”
The witch was silent, but waiting—they would speak more, perhaps, and then she would see to her duties. She motioned for her daughter, recalling not long ago when she prepared her for such a thing. If Draugr was to become a priestess—to become volva—Siv would see her ready when the horse’s blood was drawn.