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thranduiliens · 6 years

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dawn-bringer | kriselda

for the noble life cleric who just wants to bring light to this dark world, who will not let the second chance she has at life go to waste. a playlist for warmth, optimism, and comfort.

healing incantation - mandy moore / glorious - macklemore feat. skylar grey / satellite call - sara bareilles / fight song - rachel platten / flashlight - hailee steinfeld / homesick - dua lipa / carry you - ruelle feat. fleurie / aeon - nick murray feat. juliet lyons / holocene - bon iver / dawn - landwerm / softens - wet / the houses of healing - howard shore feat. liv tyler / rescue - tommee profitt feat. raine wilder & svrcina / monster - paramore / heart of darkness - tommee profitt feat. sam tinnesz

i. healing incantation // mandy moore

“Heal what has been hurt Change the Fates' design Save what has been lost Bring back what once was mine”

Kriselda’s mother, begging to bring her only daughter back to life. Kriselda’s life ended and began again.

ii. glorious // macklemore feat. skylar grey

“I feel glorious, glorious Got a chance to start again I was born for this, born for this It's who I am, how could I forget? I made it through the darkest part of the night And now I see the sunrise”

Ever optimistic, Krissy happily goes back to the world, unafraid and always giving. She’s been through a dark ordeal, but at least she’s alive and can make a change in the world, with her faith in her deity unwavering.

iii. satellite call // sara bareilles

“This one's for the lonely child Broken hearted Running wild This was written for the one to blame For the one who believes they are the cause of chaos in everything”

Kriselda still holds some guilt for being the reason her family is apart. She knows she is not at fault--she was murdered, after all, but she still blames herself for why her family is no longer complete. Because if anyone ever finds out who she truly is, her family will be put in danger.

iv. fight song // rachel platten

“This is my fight song Take back my life song Prove I'm alright song”

Kriselda does not give up easily, and she is here to prove that through everything, she’s okay and she will keep fighting.

v. flashlight // hailee steinfeld

“I got all I need when I got you and I I look around me, and see a sweet life I'm stuck in the dark but you're my flashlight You're getting me, getting me through the night”

Kriselda fears nothing as long as her faith in Lathander the Morninglord, her deity, god of dawn and renewal, is by her side. She has complete trust in him, and knows that she was put on this path by him for a reason, and that he will never abandon her.

vi. homesick // dua lipa

“Here, where the sky's falling I'm covered in blue I'm running and I'm crawling Fighting for you”

Kriselda, remembering and missing her family, but knowing that she has a duty to keep them safe, and that keeps her going despite her sadness and loneliness for them.

vii. carry you // ruelle feat. fleurie

“You are not alone I’ve been here the whole time singing you a song I will carry you, I will carry you”

Kriselda brings light to those who are lost, often believing in those who don’t even believe in themselves, and letting them know she is there to support them and care for them.

viii. aeon // nick murray feat. juliet lyons

A beautiful, instrumental song that speaks without words of Kriselda’s journey from resurrection to continuing with her duties, never once losing the smile on her face and the hope in her heart.

ix. holocene // bon iver

“And at once I knew I was not magnificent High above the highway aisle (Jagged vacance, thick with ice) I could see for miles, miles, miles”

Kriselda knows she is just a small part in something far greater, yet knows that her part is great. She finds comfort in this, and finds peace with the fact that she is both significant and insignificant in this big, complicated world.

x. dawn // landwerm

Early morning, the sun rising in the east, and the humble noble on her knees, praying to her god for strength and comfort. (Also this instrumental transitions to the next song seamlessly and beautifully)

xi. softens // wet

“If you've lost your way You don't know your place The sun hits the table At a beautiful angle”

Kriselda’s comforting words to those who don’t know the purpose of their world.

xii. the houses of healing // howard shore feat. liv tyler

“Sorrowing you must go, and yet you are not without hope For you are not bound to the circles of this world You are not bound to loss and silence All things must pass away All life is doomed to fade”

Kriselda can’t heal or bring back every life that is put in her hands, as hard as she may try. When their time comes, it comes. And she can only bring comfort to those the dead have left behind.

xiii. rescue // tommee profitt feat. raine wilder & svrcina

“I'll be the shield That blocks every sword I'll be the steel The fires will forge To bring you peace I will go in to war”

Kriselda does not like taking life. She believes greatly in saving and creating, not destroying. But if to preserve peace, she must hurt people she swore to save, then she’ll do it.

xiv. monster // paramore

“I'm only human I've got a skeleton in me But I'm not the villain Despite what you're always preaching Call me a traitor I'm just collecting your victims They're getting stronger I hear them calling”

Oh, Kristoff, how you broke your sister’s heart.

xv. heart of darkness // tommee profitt feat. sam tinnesz

“Here we are in the heart of the darkness Hold fast, we must be brave In the heart of the darkness ”

The ground rumbling with power, Kriselda’s hand glowing with divine light, the battle raging on.

#character playlist #playlist:kriselda #playlist

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exquisitelyeco · 6 years

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Fire, Wind, Rain,........and being wrenched and compounded....

On church this Sunday, one of the songs we sang was by Davis Ruis, from the Vineyard, which went,

There’s a Fire blowing, all across the land, awesome tongues of fire, consuming you and I,

And, then, ‘there’s a wind a blowing, all across the land,

And, than, ‘there’s a rain a falling……mercy drops from heaven, mercy drops of love…..

And that, along with my Pastor Petes sermon, about Christ’s wounds and our wounds, got me pondering.

As you know by now, I have a perchance for all things Scrooge, at the mo. A theme. And yet again, came to me the words of Marley, telling Scrooge how his choices had been making a chain, in life,……his words are both startling and horrifying. He says, ‘Yours is a ponderous chain…..’

Note these things:

Scrooge himself had been forging this chain, HIMSELF! Link by link, yard by yard, his whole life. How? It was a spiritual chain, made by his choices. Of avarice and greed. In his inward, mean, selfish attitude. He had hardened his heart. Made choice after choice. Decision after decision. And like bricks building a wall, like links added one to another, till the chain was miles and miles long. Or a wall the size of the Berlin Wall. With is own hands. HIS OWN HANDS!

Ponder that for a minute……do you see how significant that is? Do you think he KNEW he was doing that? NO! He honestly though he was helping by paying money to poorhouse and prisons!.........'Are there no poor houses, are there no prisons.’ And that those who fell down and were beggared should go to these institutions or die…’And decrease the surplus population!’ (Sounds very Tory to me…..) What does he say to Marley? ‘You were always a good man of business…..’ meaning Marley was a GOOD man of business. And he did not see that this ‘good business’ was of Extortion. Of making foreclosure on people’s homes, and leaving them beggars and homeless. Giving them loans with extortionate interest. With no mercy shown if they fell into troubles. But Scrooge truly does not see it like that! ‘You were always a good man of business..’ And Marley’s reply, in his sorrow and despair, and self reproach..’Mankind WAS my business…!’ But with a whole different meaning!

Marley means that he should NOT have been living that way! That Greed, Avarice, Extortion and foreclosures were the opposite of what he should have been doing! Instead of looking after, or at least respecting his fellow man, he had destroyed them, for his own gain and greed.

But it is even more devastating. When Scrooge asked for some crumb of comfort, on hearing his fate, Marley’s stark, cold reply is, ’I have none to give…..’ Why? Because it was not IN him! He did not even know the feeling, let alone the word! All his life Marley taught himself to be mean and show NO mercy. So the concept of mercy was null and void. In deed hell has no mercy. Scrooge, actually IS shown mercy. But the mercy does not LOOK as kind at first!

We must always be careful OUR view of something does not blind us to GODS view of the same thing! What have we missed, because the so called facts did not fit our ideas and IDEALS of things!

So it takes three spirits and the horror of seeing his future with the chains he made, and feeling them binding his body and knowing it’s forever, so help make Scrooge to see how wrong his life choices have been.

And it made me realise, that our fate is made by ourselves. And my own damage, I had made link by link. Hammer blow, by hammer blow. Compounding it till it was packed so tight, it would take God and His mercy to loosen the damage I had committed against myself!

Don’t get me wrong here. As a child I was horrifically abused. By my father and my grandparents. Over and over again. Every day. For years. And I learned hate, fear and self loathing. That was not my fault. That was and is, my fathers and grandparents responsibility before God.

But my choices, to perpetuate that damage were of my own making. I chose one after another violent relationships. I starved and abused my self. Self harmed, tried to commit suicide. Put myself in dangerous situations. Required ALL. Pushed my self far beyond the boundaries of honour. Fed my hate of God and myself. Chose, actively to look into The occult and play with the darkness I could find. On purpose broke as many of the 10 commandments as I possibly could.

Day in. Day out. And slowly, unbeknown to me, I was forging a chain. Link by link. Yard by yard. Until

I was so weighed down by it I was on the edge of being committed to a metal hospital.

And God, in His unfathomable mercy, never left pestering me, pursuing me, wooing me. Till He got me to CCD, to begin my journey of healing. And my pastor talked on Sunday, about how Jacob wrestled with God until daybreak. And God had to dislocate his hip to stop him carrying on. His stubborn nature needed correction. His deceitfulness, pride and stubbornness needed to be dealt with. But how hard for him that was! The loss of his son. The deceit and lies of his other sons. Years of thinking and grieving the loss of Jospeh, who he was told was dead. His only daughter raped. His sons murderers. (Genesis 34v25)

Yes, their sister was raped. But the rapist had atoned for this. We are not told whether Diana was unhappy with being made a princess to right this wrong. Her disgrace covered up. Giving up a tent, for a palace. And yet her brothers did not only murder her husband, AFTER he had confessed, made right, and been forgiven, by the family. But ALL the men of Shechem were murdered! All of them! A whole city! As if they were all guilty! Why? Partly because of Jacobs failure as a father. His choice to openly treat one son with total favour and the others with contempt, just because he did not love their mother. He made his chain, link by link. First, not trusting God to work His way, but taking it into his own hands and choosing to rob his brother of his birth right. Then to deceitfully obtaining his fathers dying blessing. God was not even consulted!

And the price! How devastating. And it got me thinking. Jacob had to have his socket WRENCHED out of place, to begin to change.

When I am trying to change a sin, at the moment, that particular sin, is blaming God for everything. Stamping my feet and ordering Him around, like He is nothing. And it’s a WRENCH to change my attitude and turn around! Truly. It’s SO hard. The battle with myself. I WANT to stamp my feet. To curse God. And changing that is difficult. But I am slowly progressing. Because of Gods grace and mercy.

What is more. God loves us, AS WE ARE! Do you REALLY get that? How many of us could truly have chosen to really, deeply, openly, love Scrooge? To be prepared to suffer for him? Accepted his meanness, unkindness and ruthlessness? Washing his feet ANYWAY? I wouldn’t. I’d want him to change first!

But our God, our GOD, loves is as we are. Do you truly get that? The only God, that exists, who created all matter, who Was and Is and Is to come, loves us, not only covered in our shit, but actually living and eating it. Every day. Sticking our fingers up at Him. Cursing Him. And He openly, deeply loves us, just like that. (1 John 4v19)

And if He had not first loved us, we could never love. Because it is not in us to do so. (Romans 7v18, Psalm 51 v1-3,Genesis 6 v11-12, Romans 3v10, Romans 3v23) But along side Gods love, as I have said before, in my post, I think about Ananias and Saffara, we must do our part, in working out our own salvation. We are actually told to do so. (Philippians 2v12, Jude 1v23, 1Corinthians 3 v1-3,) But we can only do this because God comes down, into our crap pit. He gets down, in the shit WITH us. (Luke 15v2)

And He shows us how to climb out. How to wash it off. But if we have been in that pit a long time, we are only used to seeing the crap. To living with it, in it, on it. And we hold onto it! Because we believe that the crap that covers us is our clothing! We must get USED to the new clothing! (Ephesians 4 v22-24) and this new life with Christ, has to be both LEARNED and LIVED, until we see the crap we have loved as God does! As sin! ( Proverbs 8v13, Psalm 119 v104 and 163, Psalm 129v 32)

And even the wrenching change we must fight within ourselves, with Gods mercy, crying out to Him every second of the day is not new! (Romans 7 v15) God KNOWS all this. Yet He loves, strengthens and protects us. And at the same time He prospers and blesses us! Even those of us, who are at the beginnings of our growing up in Him, like Scrooge.

Growing up is painful! It’s full of mistakes, fallings over, forgetting what we have learned, picking ourselves up, having tempers. But, to get to the place, as Pastor Pete said, ‘Becoming Gods friend, even when it all looks like it’s all going wrong’ How far are we to go with this trust? How bad does it have to get before we can stamp or turn away in anger? To the end. No turning back. No stamping. No cursing, just as it states in Job 13 v 15, ‘Though He slay me, yet I will trust in Him.’

But you know what? Even then God does not mind us asking questions, or seeing if we can change His heart on a matter! Don’t believe me? Check out: Isaiah 41 v 21 and Isaiah 1v18. Although our God ALWAYS has the final say, we can still approach Him and he will listen. And if He thinks it right, He will even repent of His decision! See Exodus 22v14 and Jonah 3 v1-10. Our God will change His mind for us! How awesome is that!

Approachable, forgiving, serving and loving, to us, whilst we are STILL IN OUR SHIT!

I tell you, it truly is, as Matt Redman wrote, ‘Its the mystery of the universe, Your the God of Holiness, yet you welcome souls like me.’

#God #Jacob #St. Paul #sermon #wrench #change #god personal life #personal life #Sunday #repentance #growing up

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rosheendubh · 6 years

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https://books.google.com/books?id=jUcqNBkKA64C&pg=PA91&lpg=PA91&dq=atli+oddrun&source=bl&ots=uKYwuk7Bzy&sig=-42A0djD2v7azaXfubHX0AsUHiY&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj3w-Gbh8fcAhUM7IMKHRRVCXY4ChDoATAEegQIBBAB#v=onepage&q=atli%20oddrun&f=false

Reference to Oddrun, sister of Brynhild and Atli/Attila, and lover of slain King, Gunnar. She journeys west after the defeat of the Burgunds in 437AD, mourning her dead King, and seeking escape from the ravages of warring tribes and nations in conflagration across the fragments of Rome’s west, eventually crossing the channel, and arriving in Hengist’s court, recently granted by his half-brother Vortigern, in the lands of the Cantici.

438 AD

Possibly old Segedunum/Carnarvon

A servant of Odin/Wotan, she senses a draw further west, where her skill and need are most keen--at the side of young Ygerna, the Irish princess and wife of Vortimer, Vortigern’s eldest son. Torn from the birth of her twins, Madrun and Anna, lying ravaged by the ignorance of monks no more knowledgeable of leechcraft or childbirth than a butcher, she lies dying, her husband--warrior bucking beneath the grim shadow of his greed-driven father, and his Jutish allies--grieving her torture, for the pain he's wrought her as well in the few months of their tumultuous marriage.

Vortimer, who unknowingly bears the Sword of the Waelsungs, Sinfjotli’s progeny, Sigurd’s curse--a weapon blended of dragon-bone (read=dinosaur fossil), and star metal...(apparently, bone was sometimes mixed into the forging amalgam of a blade b/c the carbon content increased its strength?? I'm not sure how that works with fossils of dinosaurs...or, if swords are even forged, b/c I need to read up on smithing...something I had a brief intro into during the HighlandChalkenge, and something that's my fiance’s forte from his Medieval Martial Arts/Fencing and his reenacting...). Shattered by the fire of Odin, and reborn at the breath of Wayland’s son, Withga, Oddrun enlightens the British Prince of the sword’s power. And its curse.

“What care I for pagan gods or pagan metal-smiths?” Vortimer asks, unmoved, “Thevblade is now a weapon of God, in the service of men of God--the one true God. Your One-Eyed demon has no power here.”

Oddrun’s reply shows the irony of his pledge--appealing to a heathen woman for the salvation of his wife, a victim of Christian ignorance. Angered, about to dismiss her, Vortimer is stayed by his wife’s plea, spoken past her pain, to let Oddrun a chance to show her skill. In that shaking, breathless sorrow stirs Ygerna’s unspoken suffering in the months of her unwilling marriage, the tenuous affection that had begun to blossom between herself and Vortigern’s son, poisoned by Vortigern himself, possessed by the enchantment of Vortimer’s beautiful, young Irish princess. One last offering to Vortimer, to trust her, this time, with her own life as the price.

Oddrun, watching Vortimer fall to his knees, promising Ygerna anything if she only lives, allows him a chance to show his love, feels again, the claws of her own sorrow still raw, mourning Gundohar’s death. And the thread of her hatred, forever cursing her brother, Atli, to the fires of damnation, rejoicing when she received word on her journey west from the territories of the Danube, how Gudrun had slain his sons, and served him a hero’s feast from the skulls of his own children, burning his hall to the ground in retribution for the deaths of her family. Oddrun has little pity to spare for Gudrun’s loss, knowing Gudrun had sworn vengeance upon her own kin when they had brought the body of Sigurd back to their palace with a spear thrust through his back. Treachery bled with his life from the mortal blow.

Such grief as this, Oddrun ponders from a bitter heart, even here, on an island at the edge of the world, in a palace crowning a fort of Roman design, repaired by native British and Jutish workman, how Signey’s progeny darken fates, and Wayland’s vengeance yet spins its deadly destruction of lives and dreams. Families and hearts perpetually broken by betrayal.

But something here, something in this moment is different--Vortimer’s tears spilling into his dying wife’s breast, rising and falling in shallow in fits as she struggles for air amid the tremors wracking her worn frame. His sword, sheathed, rests by the door--a presence to Oddrun’s sense, as vital as any creature of flesh and blood, humming in a thirst for blood, taste of life before the kiss of death from its fatal edge. She hears the breath of her own God in that tremble crawling through the air, a hush beneath human sense, alive in her mind, a current raising hairs over her arms.

The mastery of that blade lies in the grip of kings, strength tethered with wisdom. Few men, none in fact, posses the skill to match the spirit of Gram. Even the best of all warriors, Sigurd, fell to the price of that sword. Until now, here, where a man, a prince yet to realize his kingship, leaves his weapon abandoned. He chooses his wife, dying flesh over living steel, begging forgiveness of his young bride, broken in heart and body, to find one more measure of will, and step back from that darkness. It's here, Oddrun realizes, something is different, this man who carries the blood of the wolf, also bears the fire of the dragon, a yearning for beauty and peace in an era of death. A vision of something rejuvenated, a Dream of Rome, but beyond Rome even--realms of earth and of mind.

Ygerna’s gaze rests upon her husband, shadowed by fever and pain. And, there. A spark, a flicker of spirit, determination--a bright shaft through her delirium. She doesn't want to die, not yet, and not this way, some element of self-mockery in her drawn features, scorn at her body’s vulnerability that touches Odddrun with an absurd moment of joy, brief as it is, but heartening. Love, belatedly realized, but pure in its essence, binds them. Ygerna’s fingers curl around her husband’s powerful grip, shaking and weak, but tender and purposeful, belying everything she hasn’t the strength of voice to speak, her reserves failing. Vortimer has asked her to fight, and Ygerna means to defy death, whatever the cost.

For this reason, Oddrun will defy her God as well. What arts of the Valkyrn were her sister’s, Oddrun too, has learnt. A woman’s battlefield may be different than a man’s, but the dangers of the childbed are no less fatal. Runes and leechcraft abound in her armament, wielded for the life of this shining soul. A price though--there's always a price. Heavy in sorrow, Oddrun sees. Future advances, a woman who will be a mother of a king, begotten in shame and vengeance, father upon son. This man, husband kneeling at her side will not be the sire, but brother instead, progeny of the same father. The curse of Signey stains her children still. A king, an emperor of the West once more. *Uter ap Vortigern*, and his queen--ah, his queen...

*Gwenafyr*, the name her god whispers, seeps through her mind, and washes into her skin, dread and desire and yearning, a wave of hunger. Her god awaits the feast and the ravishing, eager to taste her, and live in her flesh. He fears though, and this, this is something new. Oddrun has never felt fear rising from All Father. Whatever this queen, from wherever she comes, his anticipation mingles with...bemusement. An odd word, capturing immortal fascination with mortal paradox. What she’ll embody, he has sought through the ages.

*Revolution*, she ponders in her silent voice. *What you sought in my sister, that she rejected at the expense of a hero’s glory? What you awoke in Gudrun, that resulted in a bane of destruction for her hatred? And you think to find this...enlightenment? At long last, in the soul of some Pictish princess born at the edge of civilized lands? You've grown deluded, Old Man. Or desperate.*

*Wiser*, is the laconic reply, the hush of wind in leaves soaking her sense.

*She’ll be your death,* Oddrun cautions.

*She’ll be my life,* his words hang in her mind, an echo of a lover’s endearment. *A queen like no other.*

*And her king? This boy, yet to be conceived?* Oddrun challenges, wishing for a thousandth time Grim would leave these lives untouched, in peace.

*They seek me, daughter. Their desires summon me. What they ask in dreams, I fulfill. King, this son of wolf and dragon. His queen, my Daughter of Ravens--cauldron and starlight, sea and sky, my dark eye and light. Together, infinite promise.*

*And what price, this promise?*

No words, now, image only, floods inner-vision, the way a god shapes events of future making.

“No!” Oddrun gasps, overcome, staring into the space before her, where Vortimer remains crouched at his wife’s bedside.

Curiosity and wariness alive in his eyes, “You refuse to help her then?” he asks, misreading Oddrun’s involuntary denouncement.

She shakes her head, sorrow imprisoning her voice. How to explain her reluctance in a way that a Christian prince would not condemn as heathen superstition.

Ygerna, it is, who allays her husband’s fears, and instills a newfound calm in Oddrun. Her acceptance shaped by lips scarce strong enough for speech cut a wound in Oddrun’s conscience that will forever weep to the end of her days. “I know. I've seen as well, and I know. This island belonged to a goddess long before your One-Eyed God claimed these shores. And it will always belong to Her. I'm not afraid, whatever comes of this night, and after. I'm not afraid.”

A child of old magics and older gods too, Oddrun guesses from Ygerna’s words, her conversion to the Christ’s teachings have been a recent thing. Wrought, perhaps, by the contingencies of her marriage with this British prince who shares common heritage with Waelsung, Jute, and Roman.

Reservation rather than anger marks his scowl. What Vortimer follows of the women’s enigmatic exchange is rationalized as some sort of feminine absurdity, an intuition kin to their sex, and therefore of little consequence to the graver immediacies of men. "You'll help her?”

In the silence, Vortimer’s gaze hangs heavy upon her. Scarcely older than her supplicant, Ygerna no more than seventeen at that time, Oddrun wavers before his desperate hope. Trust placed in her abilities, unwilling as it might be, distasteful and dangerous this route, accepting a heathen sorceress to heal his young wife. But love speaks a language more elemental than any religion, and Vortimer’s devotion to his one true God has been usurped in these months by a fresh welling of devotion to his wife, much to the consternation of bishop and priest.

A deep breath, and finally, a crumb of serenity rising above the rumble brooding in her mind, Odin’s presence ever abiding. Bowing her head, Oddrun’s solemnity silences even the God for a moment. “I will try.”

It's all Vortimer needs to hear. He nods once, hiding the emotion twisting his features, attention falling back to his wife. His hands folded over hers, he lowers his head upon the ragged rise and fall of her breast, as though straining for her heart beat between the spasms catching her wraithlike frame.

From this moment, Oddrun swears her life to this family, to Ygerna and her children. She has subsisted on the carrion of sorrow and hatred in the months since Gundohar’s death, aimless and errant through the lands of the Danube and the Rhine. What she sought, non-existant, eluding her amid the rustic halls of self-styled kings, grandiose egos larger than the piecemeal territories they carved out of once great cities, the rich fields long since deserted to waste and rot. Oddrun wandered like a phantom through these lands of shattered temples and twig-built hovels. Gradually, she realized she was being drawn by a current toward a fathomless destination, a thirsting beast following the scent of water, still beyond reach.

Her dreams grew violent and vivid, flurried images that made no sense, of times and men either past or present, that she might have known in life or only in song. Always, always though, that blade, the sword of Odin, claimed by Sigmund and Sinfjotli, a god’s breath and vision in that mad weapon, and bright in her dreams. The source of everything she had lost, never realizing as a little girl what she now knew as a woman. Memory, her constant thorn. Sigurd, striding into Budli’s hall, confidant in his power, beauty of the war-god molded of perfect form, muscled arms, broad chest, and strong legs shod in armor that glinted as brilliant as his hair, gold and silver and the very light of the sun shimmering in his wolf’s eyes. And that sword, shimmering in its scabbard strapped across Sigurd’s back, its hilt stone glowing of red-gold and fire, amber holding the shadow of a serpent forever frozen in previous resin.

Oddrun was too young to understand the sudden awkwardness dimming his bold features when he caught sight of Byrnhilde. How her sister’s dark intensity transformed to eerie beauty for perhaps the first, and only time in her life. Her wildness hovered beneath the surface of a restless gaze and sharp-tongued wit, captured in the set of pointed chin and chisled cheek, accentuated by the close-cropped black fuzz coating her scalp. An ensemble radiating the ferocity of a wild hawk, she moved with the grace of a wildcat, and the lethal speed of the hunting bird, a complexity the fearsome warriors of their father’s court found too intimidating to be beautiful.

Brynhild still drew her suitors, the allure of her dowery matched by the temptation of a champion’s prize, defeating her in single combat, and winning the bride thereby. It had been Sigurd who bested her, Sigurd she accepted, Sigurd who asked leave to claim the horde of Andarvi as her bride-price, returning a season later with a host of richly armed men from Burgundian lands. In the name of his father’s sword had Sigurd come to claim his prize, the betrayal of a vow sworn to a woman’s heart, in the name of a brotherhood Sigurd had sought since the death of his foster-father, Fafnar, by his own hand and blade. The same one he now swore in his allegiance to the Burgund King, in the wooing and winning of Brynhild. From that moment, when Brynhild’s quick mind finally pieced what had transpired, was it a matter of time before her hatred and her pain would consume them all.

No one knew the fate of Sigurd’s sword by the time the flames of his pyre had cooled. Brynhild, a husk of scorched bones embracing his blackened skeleton, had taken its length into her heart as she stepped into the blaze. Some thought Sigurd’s grieving wife had wrested the weapon away to an unknown place, hidden from her treacherous brothers. Others insisted Odin had stolen the sword back to Valhalla, to be wielded by its true champion, forever more a hero.

Whence Oddrun had arrived to Britannia, her purpose solidified into a single feat. Her mantra, a repitition of defiance to her own past: destroy the blade. Her own damnation, flung in the face of All Father, but at least ending the havoc brought by that rabid steel.

Yet, there it rests, propped by the entryway, in its scabbard, point down. Harmless, but humming to her ears, hungering to be wielded. Oddrun readies her implements on a small side-table, beneath a window overlooking the courtyard from Ygerna’s quarters. What has been a symbol of atrocity Vortimer--Gwerthemyr Fendigad, Emrys--means to transform into a symbol of justice. In the name, not of his God, but of Ygerna, and their Dream. His love, the fire of his purpose. The ancient sovereigntry of Queen to King, as they struggle to form a nation of new emigres and native citizens, shifting borders and beliefs.

And Oddrun’s heart lifts, freed by something she doesn't quite dare name yet, as happiness, let alone hope.

#Arthuriana #random thought splat #In seeking a segway into this jungle #existing in snippets/scribbles/outline battles/and obscure website references #in a few 2-3 notebooks #Oddrun makes a lovely substrate by which to catalyze #this arcane eccentricity of Arthuriana/Volsunga/Nibelungenlied lays/British-Frankish-Germanic history/and legendary volken

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spiritmaiden23 · 3 years

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Eloquent words he had carefully composed resonates deeply within her prudent mind. The words spun and woven into a thin safety line. And he'd intend for her to catch it. And though very enticing to grasp onto the line furthering to complete her holy quest, she does not. Not out of suspicion, as he'd yet to prove himself to be part of Ghirahim's forces. Perhaps it was more out of hesitance with the fear of bothering someone with her burdens holding her back. With the opportunity of aid presented to her, rarely she knew what to do. She was but a maiden who loved helping others yet never really expecting much in return. The close-knit community of Skyloft had helped nurture this essence of hers. Hugging the harp close to her chest, she'd look away from his expectant gaze. The holy journey across the Surface was proving difficult on her own. She did not know when Link's descent from the clouds will occur, perhaps a long while. And to fight off beasts with no weapons was a foolish idea. The dark energy they give off undoubtedly messing with her efforts in purifying her body.

"Hmm... I don't get it. Why do you want to help me that much? Wouldn’t it be easier to just point me in the direction?" Strange girl in an even stranger world. To decline help when she needed it the most was silly, even for her. But the idea to say no has yet to cross her mind. Truly, she had to know the reasoning. If only to calm her whirling thoughts.

@bransles | starter call | closed.

#bransles #| your sorrowful fate forged by the gods.#| interactions.#(#alright here you goooooo!!#i've yet to play coh but i have listen to the ost and lemme just say that lost woods?? FIRE!!!#lmk if you want something different ;v;v;#)

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spiritmaiden23 · 4 years

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“If you were looking for a chance to prove yourself, this would be it.”

Two bokoblins. Guarding the entrance to what would no doubt lead them back to Faron Province. Confidence cracks at the opportune moment that presented itself once she recalls her useless endeavors in trying to summon her magic, minute faith twirled within the lines and splits all formed by apprehension.

“Uhm! Right! You’re completely right! And there’s no better time than now to try this out. Alright, let’s see what I can do here...”

Magic. Mystical, fantastical abilities that could not be explained by the logic poured onto the earth by the goddess of wisdom. Magic simply just was. A force that defies the ordinary, that opposes what should be considered impossible yet wasn’t and as one who grew up in a somewhat ordinary area (despite how fantastical it was to live in a place surrounded by the clouds), it was hard to get a proper grasp on it. Like rivers outlining The Surface, streams of candescent golden magic flows throughout her mortal body; the remnant of divinity bestowed to her by Hylia herself (or perhaps... something that once was hers to begin with, memories were not fully formed just yet so all she had to rely on were assumptions). But the running currents of the glittering energy were far too rough to completely grab a hold of, it was seemingly accessible yet distant. Obstructed by her own incompetence to fully comprehend the fact that she carried mystical powers. She was not the girl next door. But someone who was key to Hylia’s plans. And though she knew not what her true role was as of it, it’s clear to Zelda that she was anything but normal.

Zelda’s pale eyelids flutter close. She takes a deep breath. Focusing all of her concentration on the palms of her hands. Imaging lithe fingers as an extension of sorts for the force to come flowing out through the tips of them. If recollections of the goddess were to be trusted, then she knew she at least had the potential to do this.

So then why? Why can’t I still do this? Came her distressed thoughts as time bleeds on, seconds hemorrhaging yet not a drop of gold came pouring out. Time. Time. Time. They were running out of time and the longer she sat there with her hands out the higher of a chance they have of getting caught by Ghirahim’s goons. Drawing her hands back to her sides, she could only shake her head. Disappointment weighs heavy once another plan as to how they can get past the bokoblins would form.

“Sorry. It looks like we’ll have to find a way to slip past them. My magic... I still can’t summon it fully yet. It feels slippery to use, that’s the best way I can put it.”

The one time she’d did by accident... was it merely a fluke?

“I need to see more memories from the goddess, maybe then I can finally understand how to use these powers. Until then, there’s not much I can prove just yet. Sorry, Sora. I hate to ask this of you but please. Just bear with it a little while longer, we’ll find a way to get you back to your friends soon enough. I’m sure there’s a way, I’m sure of it.”

#| answered.#| your sorrowful fate forged by the gods.#(#ah yes!!! i love writing a zel who doesn't understand her magic just yet :') she was awful with it at the start of her journey #thanks for sending this in! she tried! i tried! we all tried ;v;#)#valorxdrive

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