freyja forrester. d7. fin.

calla
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just a litle creacher

freyja forrester. d7. fin. Nov 30, 2019 22:00:27 GMT -5

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Post by calla on Nov 30, 2019 22:00:27 GMT -5

FREYJA FORRESTER
eighteen

You are cold against fingertips,
like diamonds in black sand.
The first of a million firsts,
born and then untouched.
Shivering before you, I can see it.
All that was when I wasn’t there
and all that will continue to be.

— D.K / basics

Last Edit: Dec 8, 2019 22:12:22 GMT -5 by calla

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calla
RP Tutor

2,122 POSTS

Pronouns: she/they
last seen Apr 27, 2024 19:59:46 GMT -5

just a litle creacher

freyja forrester. d7. fin. Nov 30, 2019 22:42:54 GMT -5

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Post by calla on Nov 30, 2019 22:42:54 GMT -5

i know my way through the night to your door
you know the blood that i'm owed is all yours
the wishes i've made are too vicious to tell
the devil already he knows me so well

I was born to a blood moon, to a hymn of the old language and the cry of a falcon.

And I grew up on stories, sat at my mother's feet and watched her eyes roll back as she channeled eons worth of ancient magic, as she wove the destinies of my cousins and siblings. I knew from the time I could walk that my future was to inherit her gifts, to continue our traditions and guard the gates of our home.

My mother aids the healers in the deliverance of children, in the reading of their fates and the divination of their names, the places they'll have in the family. It is her voice through which the gods make their will known, and when she returns to the halls, the honour will fall to me, then to my own child.

Vargen may have guided beings through their final moments, followed his own practicing, but we dictate their beginnings, write the prologues of their stories with our crimson ink. The prophets of my line decide who crosses the forest border and who does not. We decide who is worthy of a place within our ranks.

My own father came from further within the District, a common disbeliever until the gods opened his eyes and put him on our path.

And when the time came, I myself guided men to the forest, promised them a life with us, a home with me.

Maybe that's why, when the healers called me barren, my mother, bowed under the great weight of our name, wept. By the winter of my seventeenth year, I had never bled, and would never bear a child to continue our legacy. It made every part of me ache, some cruel thread in our tapestry we had missed, a twist that said I would bring the end.

But my mother, anguished that the gods had hidden my fate from her, didn't relent.

She covered me in henbane oil and painted my stomach with pigs blood, wove hops blossoms into my hair and placed fresh lady's mantle under my tongue. She burnt coltsfoot leaves in a shallow bowl and when the smoke curled around my shoulders, she told me to pray.

When the smoke shifted, I walked the dreamplane as she had taught me, saw the great wolf mother and her many pups. I took my place at her side and she lapped at my hands, at my throat. She nudged one of her litter into my lap and I heard my fate in the timber of its little growl.

If I could not bear a child of my own, if I could not carry forward the future of our family, the forest would provide.

It would not let us die out.

I coaxed one of my brothers to the outskirts of the trees, watched him lie with a district girl and knew at that moment, the life that had been sparked within her would be my own god.

She was sweet, for one of them, unsuspecting, seemingly overjoyed with an unexpected pregnancy. It was easy to integrate myself into her life for those nine long months, to stumble through her path and offer remedies, charms of linden wood and bairnwort salves, a litany of things to make the babe strong. When the time for delivery came she sought me out and said she wanted me there, another female presence to help her through the pain.

And I did help her. I brushed her hair away before slitting her throat, reached into that infidel womb to welcome a new Forrester.

To welcome my son.

Eirik, the forever king.

My king.

I burned the girl's body in a strawberry bush and when my son cried, strained his fresh lungs with a battle-cry, I held him close to my chest and whispered stories of old magic, of gods and monsters and everything I had seen him grow up to be. I pressed my lips to his forehead and bathed him in cowslip water, skinned rabbits for his nursery while he teethed on the antler of a fallen stag.

I bared my teeth at those who glanced too long at his dark hair, at his features so foreign from our own. It didn't matter if they called him illegitimate, if he was considered lesser by the people who lived beneath his feet, because the forest had given him to me, and he was mine in all but blood.

We may be prideful people, feral, savage animals in our hearts, but we were fashioned in the image of our makers. We can't be faulted.

And I have never loved anything in the way I love him.

If shrines will not be built in my name, they will be built in his.

I am the keeper of the gates, Death's prophetess, as was my mother and her mother before her. This is the lineage of our spirit and the inheritance of our people.

But he has the soul of a warrior, of a god.

He is Tyr himself, the bringer of war,
and no one will take him from me.

phildel — the wolf

Last Edit: Dec 8, 2019 22:10:28 GMT -5 by calla

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calla RP Tutor 2,122 POSTS Pronouns: she/they last seen Apr 27, 2024 19:59:46 GMT -5 just a litle creacher	freyja forrester. d7. fin. Dec 8, 2019 22:13:43 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by calla on Dec 8, 2019 22:13:43 GMT -5 ripred_bot owo??
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goat Retired Staff 977 POSTS Pronouns: they/them last seen Jan 8, 2023 15:16:05 GMT -5 kindness, kindness prevails.	freyja forrester. d7. fin. Dec 8, 2019 22:21:13 GMT -5 Quote Select Post Deselect Post Link to Post Member Give Gift Back to Top Post by goat on Dec 8, 2019 22:21:13 GMT -5 calla i'm SCREAMING .. this is everything your writing is literally everything accepted xx
	turn soft and lovely any time you have a chance.