December 24, 2024, 10:26 PM
His message was clear—both an offering and a challenge—and the weight of it settled upon her with the gravity of a thousand unsung prayers. A wedding, he said. The first snow to fall, marking a union, and she, along with Pangur, were tasked with preparing the sacred grounds. It was an honor, undeniable, yet the task itself… a delicate art. The gods would be present, their eyes upon this place. For the sake of the gods—and the forneskja—she would give nothing less than perfection.
Her gaze remained cool and steady, though inside, she felt the familiar stirrings of anticipation. The mention of the Nornir was not lost on her, nor the importance of what they wove. Skuld, Urd, Verdandi—those who shaped the threads of fate. They demanded reverence, precision.
She turned her head to Pangur, catching the gleam of excitement in the other wolf’s eyes. Her enthusiasm was palpable, but Y'var'la’s mind already moved ahead, calculating the flow of the task. There would be no room for mistakes.
"Flowers," she murmured, as though tasting the word. "Spider silk. Ivy." Each item rolled off her tongue like a challenge in itself, each more fragile than it seemed. The glen would be beautiful, yes—but it must also be worthy. Worthy of the gods. Worthy of their gaze.
Her eyes studied Sólhárr for a moment, gauging the sincerity of his offer. Wolves of honor. It was a prize she could not ignore, though the way he said it—half a command, half an invitation—struck her as both a gift and a test. She was no stranger to proving herself. No stranger to showing her worth through the careful mastery of her surroundings. And yet, the thought of such an honor being bestowed upon her… it stirred something deeper. Ambition? Perhaps.
"Forneskja thrives when it is bound together," she said, her voice smooth, like silk against the cold air. "And so too shall this place. It will be fit for the gods’ presence, as it always should be." She spoke with certainty, her words deliberate as she turned her gaze to the snow-laden trees. The task was clear. The stakes—clearer still.
Her gaze remained cool and steady, though inside, she felt the familiar stirrings of anticipation. The mention of the Nornir was not lost on her, nor the importance of what they wove. Skuld, Urd, Verdandi—those who shaped the threads of fate. They demanded reverence, precision.
She turned her head to Pangur, catching the gleam of excitement in the other wolf’s eyes. Her enthusiasm was palpable, but Y'var'la’s mind already moved ahead, calculating the flow of the task. There would be no room for mistakes.
"Flowers," she murmured, as though tasting the word. "Spider silk. Ivy." Each item rolled off her tongue like a challenge in itself, each more fragile than it seemed. The glen would be beautiful, yes—but it must also be worthy. Worthy of the gods. Worthy of their gaze.
Her eyes studied Sólhárr for a moment, gauging the sincerity of his offer. Wolves of honor. It was a prize she could not ignore, though the way he said it—half a command, half an invitation—struck her as both a gift and a test. She was no stranger to proving herself. No stranger to showing her worth through the careful mastery of her surroundings. And yet, the thought of such an honor being bestowed upon her… it stirred something deeper. Ambition? Perhaps.
"Forneskja thrives when it is bound together," she said, her voice smooth, like silk against the cold air. "And so too shall this place. It will be fit for the gods’ presence, as it always should be." She spoke with certainty, her words deliberate as she turned her gaze to the snow-laden trees. The task was clear. The stakes—clearer still.
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RE: störf - by Y'var'la - December 24, 2024, 10:26 PM