Blood, animal death
Every shade of color could be found in the weaving tower. The clean stone walls, and the dark, carved wooden pillars were decorated with all manner of flags and bunting, gently swaying with the breeze that carried through the high windows. Wool of every staple and texture had a place among the shelves and nestled in baskets, or stretched across the carding table. The curled roving of Ceardian wooly lambs fell in ecru ringlets, while the blåfrakk goat of the North's wool appeared in shades of indigo and modra-root blue. The faces of the Gods peered down from painted silks and woven tapestries, and felted birds lined the rafters, tied in place with wire. Sivrid's 16-shaft loom took up much of the floorspace, though square looms leaned against the walls with half-finished works still showing, and inkle looms showed colorful bands in a thousand repeating patterns.
It was a happy place, high in the air, overlooking the pond on Sorenvik property. Serene, and inspiring, hoisted up as high as Sivrid could go, to be nearer to the Gods. She thought about her family- her father, a master of this art, and her mothers, one gentle and soft, and the other strong and stern. She wondered if any of them were doing as she was, now; were they sitting at their spinning wheels, plying delicate fibers into thread? Were they dyeing virgin lambswool with onion skins, or pine needles? Could they smell the acrid scent of acid seeping into soaking skeins? The noblewoman was deep in her thoughts, in her own form of meditation. What an engrossing thing it was, to sit before the gods, and do the work of her ancestors, from across the sea.
A sudden gust of wind, unnatural and shrieking, exploded into the tower. Sivrid let out a startled scream, dropping both shaft and shuttle to raise her arms and protect her face. From behind her own fingers, she watched a spray of blood and a mess of feathers scatter through her tower. It was hard to think over the sound of her own pounding heart, but just as quickly as the interruption had come, it was suddenly flying- no, falling- out the opposite window. She heard a crunch upon the ground, as whatever it was, had fallen into the bushes below.
Hands still trembling, but with newfound resolve, Sivrid rushed to the stairs. She descended the tower, and found the bloody scene at the bottom: a hawk, battered and broken, constricted in the hold of a shiny black snake. She saw the rips in the snake's belly, where the hawk had clawed it. A dinner that it hadn't expected to fight back, she realized. And slowly, her terror subsided, and was replaced with pity.
"You've had a bad day," she muttered, before her hand lashed out, to take hold of the reptile from behind its dangerous jaws. It had a curious face, an upturned nose as if it'd been flattened and bent, and a wide, flat head. Even as she took hold of it, its bloodied body curled around her wrist, and squeezed. "Be easy, friend. Your fight is almost over- you've already avenged yourself." The blood was sticking to her arm, covering her skin and her tattoos.
Sivrid began to walk toward the Temple, the black bundle still wrapping itself in vain around her arm, still fighting as if she were the hawk, and it still had a chance to live. An animal this strong was a worthy sacrifice to the Gods of death, both in the spirit of ruthlessness, and mercy. She couldn't very well let it suffer and bleed to death in her garden- what kind of an omen was that?
The Valsung kept this temple organized as she viewed nature, and the positions of the Gods within it. Each element had its shrine, and each season was represented therein. She passed them, moving to the Helbolwen.
The air dropped in temperature, the moment she was within the cave. Running water trickled through the rockface, and pooled below. Moss and lichen and faintly glowing mushrooms made their home in the darkness, the company of the dead who rested in this black oasis. With a wave of her unburdened hand, a thousand candles came to light around her, casting flickering shadows across the tombs. She brought the snake to the altar, in the center of the cave.
The relevance of every item on the stone table was like a secret language to the Valsung. Every token, rune, and object had its meaning. Prayers could be formed from the arrangement of trinkets and bones. The entire world was here, she knew, and every story within it. She found a dagger among her tools of worship, which bore a death head carved in the black stone of the handle. Her hand, and the snake held in her grasp, were lowered over a flat piece of slate, as she poised the knife above them both.
Hesitation was uncommon. Even if the world was aflame and her heart encased in ice, even if storms were raging and life stood still, Sivrid did not hesitate for her Gods. And yet. And yet…
Her eyes could not lift from the snake, as it fought against her arm. Weakened, bleeding. Its venom spent, its body mangled, still it fought against her. She imagined the hawk. She thought about what it must have been like, to suddenly be brought into the sky, and then to fight against the wings that held you, knowing that the plummet was perilous, but that death was imminent. To tumble back down to earth, broken, yet breathing. To have survived- only to die a second time. She put the knife back down.
"You don't deserve it," she muttered, looking down to the snake. Its strength was failing. The slate was smeared with its blood. "You fought for your life. If you're still willing to fight, I will leave it to the Gods who spared you once already. Lucky snake."
A curious pet, maybe, but Siv couldn't help but feel that it was meant to be with her. After all- true believers never believed in coincidence.
Sivrid has a new familiar! <3
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