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Edda
Dusk Court Scholar
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Age:

9 [Year 496 Spring]

Gender:

Female

Pronouns:

She/Her/Hers

Orientation:

Heterosexual

Breed:

Norwegian Fjord Horse

Height:

13.2 hh

Health:

16

Attack:

4

Experience:

10
Offline

Last Visit:

1 hour ago

Joined:

06-29-2020
Signos: 225 (Donate)
Total Posts: 0 (Find All Posts)
Total Threads: 0 (Find All Threads)

Long is the way, long must thou wander,
But long is love as well;



Edda is rather small and at glance, appears stocky, with muscles plying well-used and rugged under her pale coat. But by a different angle, appears delicate, somehow, not quite as thick-set as some of her cousin fjords. Breakable and yet unyielding.

Once, perhaps, her eyes might have been a rather ordinary brown—or a charming hazel—now they are a pallid, clear blue, the irises faded and cloudy. She cannot remember a time when she could use them of their own accord; relying now on tricks and gifts from her gods to get glimpses of the world around her.

• Small, but rugged, not overly thick
• True white with brown clusters of freckling around her muzzle, eyes, groin, armpits and chest
• Blue-white eyes with cloudy pupils; completely blind
• Runic, Elder Furthark-like symbols scarred into her neck - ᛋᚨᚷᚨ - it reads 'Saga'
She is a true white, with pink skin peeking through where her coat is thinner—her muzzle, around her eyes, the front of her chest and her belly and groin. Where the flesh shows through, there are spatterings of brown freckles, varying in size, from ants to robin's eggs. They get darker in the winter and lighter in the summer.

She spent the vast majority of her young adulthood on the road, and the majority of her adulthood chasing the ghosts of her love around dying kingdoms and worlds, and as such, Edda is often a little wind-woven and wild-looking—the odd handful of leaves sticking from her upright mane and long forelock; the overgrown lengths of her thick tail often muddied.

Edda's most notable feature is the runic markings on the left side of her neck. They translate into "Saga", branded by her gods when she was charged with her task.

Old tales I remember of men long ago;



Edda is quiet, contemplative. Stripped of any prior memories—any prior personality—Edda lived the majority of her young life (all her young life, as far as she knows) devoted to her task, to her history and to her gods. As such, she is often unsure around others. This is not, of course, helped by her blindness, though she is generally comfortable in her own darkness, having known nothing but it and the glimpses of the world offered by Grim.

• Quiet
• Contemplative
• Observative
• Empathetic
• Scholarly
• Deeply Loving

• Disenthralled
• Faithless
• Moony
• Dependant
• Obscure
• Reserved

There are peeks of her former self in the Skald—of what could have been—now and then, for not even her gods can completely cleanse a soul of its aspect. She was effervescent, once. Playful and outgoing. She might have been a carefree woman, had the weight of a thousand years not been placed on her shoulders and mind. Had all that transpired after leaving the purview of her gods not been marred and riven by misery and loss—but also of deep, deep loving, such that a Skald has never experienced before.

She has come into her own, slowly, but surely, now that she seems to have broken the ties that bound her to her Path, to her gods. She has grown into the skin and bones of what will be.

She is reserved, and quiet, still, for she lived a life and the lives of thousands of others, on a solitary path, not meant for connection or worth beyond her task. But so is she loving, like a star being born into a blank, ancient cosmos—she has learned to open up, to allow the comfort and affection of one other to enter her constellation. Her cynosure.

Despite swerving from the path Edda is, however, still fascinated by history and by stories—though she has passed through the veil, stripped of her ability to connect to the past—she still seeks out heroes, villains, mortals and immortals, to listen to.

I have heard it told in olden tales, how a maiden came to Morningland;



- Making, and Remaking

Edda does not remember her past. Skalds never do.

But I remember it all.

Edda was born to a mother and to a father. She does not remember their names. She does not remember their faces. She cannot, now, recall their existence, the parental way they closed in around her like soft hallelujahs. But they did exist.

They do.

Ake, I can tell you, was her father. (I can tell you, too, that Ake is dead—old age and heartache will do that to a man.) Ake was a soldier in his youth—a raider, one of his jarle's finest—but when his back became sore and his body battle-broke, he settled down to tend his homestead and forge a family.

Tove is Edda's mother. She is not dead, though her mind is troubled now by the loss of her family—those kinds of demons are not easily exorcised. She was beautiful, in her own youth—fair-coated; green-eyed; shapely and sensual—a godly woman attracted to Ake for his prowess—the way he came back shining and dripping in spoils; knotted with silvery pink scars; damp with sweat and blood; strong and protective. Those things that a northern girl builds her nest with.

Ake, Tove, and then, Edda. And it was good.

But stories, are rarely ever so simple and happy. And gods, to be sure, play games that factor in not contentment nor love. It is what it is—and Edda is the Skald. That was decided for her eons ago—perhaps never decided, but known. A truth. Objective. A thing that cannot be undone, or unknown. It is that which precedes even the God's themselves, for the first Skald, it is known, greeted them on the summit of Mount Hefja and started, first, with their stories.

So when her predecessor died, becoming another footnote in that well-guarded saga, the gods came for her.

When gods come for your daughter, you do not protest.

They (five brothers and sisters) whisked her away to Mount Hefja, where they branded her, screaming and crying, with her runic scars—pain, you see, is often a vital part of ritual. They blinded her—payment exacted for the honour; stripped of the burdens of the present.

Then they emptied her, spilt her contents over the edge of the mountain and left her blank. Stripped of the burdens of the past.

They filled her, too, with the knowledge accumulated by the thousands of Skalds that came before her—all the tales and mythologies they had gleaned on their own long and lonely paths. They filled her with gifts—the ability to find history like birds do their ancestral migration routes, endlessly and primally. They gave her the ability to slip through the veil of time—to see what those heroes saw; to live, in a ghostly and distant way, their wars and their accords.

She wandered for years—though to the Skald, it might as well have been a lifetime—across the borders drawn hastily and bloodily, joined now and then by a winged friend sent by the gods to help her on her path.

What the gods did not know—what they did not foresee—is what happens when a Skald wanders too far. For Edda, there is wanderlust, where there should be discipline. There is an enigma, where there should be a vessel, open down the spine like a book. She dreamed of a village and two faces, hazy like ships in spectral fog carrying curious cargo; trappings of a mortal mind.

- Caeleste

[ ... ]

And so, as they turned their back to play foolish games of war (as gods are want to do) the Skald moved ever further until she felt the taut bindings of herself creak and pull, moan and fray. She did not feel the snapping, that came as a gentle hush as she found herself alone in a close and airless forest, her steps muffled by the stillness of time. Alone, without the sharp snatch of Grim's claw on the crest of her neck. Alone. Alone. Alone. And, for the first time.

Utterly blind.

It was there, in the hinters of a land called Caeleste that Edda met Calyndar, an uneasy, comforting presence, who showed her from the labyrinthine woodland and into the golden hands of the sun. Without Grim, she was halved, but with Calyndar, she was not lost but a sailor of black waves, watching the Northstar bloom and wane on the horizon. But always there. For a time they separated, but he was her cynosure in that land, in the darkness of her own cosmos; and, when it was time to find the path once more, she came to him in the night and it was there that she convinced him to join her on the road, to search for Grim.

- In-Between and Dreaming

[ ... ]

It was then, side-by-side and fast asleep, that Edda dreamed she was flying. Of bleary waves coming to white scores in a grey ocean. Of a ribbon of beach and a briny, mussel-clad statue standing like a broken mast in the cough of foam and seaweed. Eternal. And as Eternal did, it pulled them in, winding Edda and Calyndar through rips in space and depositing them on a chilly beach where, in the vagueness of new light, Edda could see. Like peering out from a womb, as she drew closer the scene became clearer until she saw herself, thin and weary, from Grim's own eye.

Reunited, Grim, Cal, Edda and Flynn—dear companion of Calyndar—began the task of figuring out the lay of this new land. But as lands seem want to do, this did not last long. For some eldritch fever struck the continent, renting holes in the space between here and there; life and death, a barrier Edda knew well. Knew well enough that it ought not be opened. In this spill of shades and transcendental fog, Edda and Grim lost Cal and Flynn.

- Embers, Edana

[ ... ]

No amount of yelling into the muffled murk, or sending Grim on reconnaissance, revealed the two. No steady black body whose warmth parted oceans for her. No red fur and white-tipped tail like a balefire in the fog. Alone. Alone again, past another warp in time as that great, old, godless land collapsed under its own weight. Down. Down, spiralling through leagues of saltwater and old, heavy, funereal blackness. When the end seemed near, it was almost peaceful. But the Skald was not marked for death that day. Through the thrust of the sea, depositing her once again on a ribbon of damp sand, she and Grim found themselves sputtering in a new world.

Tied, now, to a different truth and a different path, she found Cal and Flynn, left, also, by the sea on that sill of sand and seafoam. Left in the hands of more strained and volatile divinity. They did not know it then, could not have known, that this land was doomed, too.

But it revealed itself, slowly—the beautiful, rotten, divine, lovely tapestry of Edana. It opened like a book for her, creaking and new. It read like poetry and like an omen, she felt the shiver of the unknown and beyond wrestle on the breeze. But she took it and she wore it like regalia; Edana crowned her in her own glory, in her own remaking. So far from the gods (and yet, still within their tenuous sight, like looking through a kaleidoscope), she could be her. She could be things a Skald was never meant to be: A lover, a heretic... A mother.

Edana revealed in the cracks of old ruins, in the bights of still waters and in the strange auspices left by demigods. Warnings—warnings of things to come. Things that would be.

Too late.

She made peace in the rough dirt; in the pale, shrouded clutch of judgement. Had it found her unworthy? Them unworthy? Labouring against doom, bearing down on the shaking soil, Calyndar and Edda breathed a passing calm. A wholeness as Eirlys slipped damp and heaving onto the spoiled nook of her nest. She took him against her breast and felt the small thump of his heart rap its beautiful tattoo onto her soul; licked clean the whorl of his forehead to reveal the darkness and light beneath all that untold yearning.

They were a family.

He was theirs. And they, his.

Too late.

Blight took the land. Like crawling fingers of corruption. They cleaved furrows of madness in the streets. They left pain, suffering, daggers plunged into hearts as gestures of sweet mercy and then, they left nothing. Salted earth. Fields gone to seed. A world devoid of colour. She stood on the cusp of death and life, and knew it. Knew it well. Knew, again, that it ought not be opened, ought not be spilling one from the other. And yet, here it was again, splitting at the seams.

She screamed into the nothing. It answered back in tongues of cruelty and of void-melody. Eirlys stumbled, called back with a throat that bore no words; shivered as the hands and jaws of abyss tore him from the skin of the world. Left him a trembling mirage, shadow and wan against the bone-white skyline. Lurching and sick, she looked to Cal, looming large and everything on the shaded, murky horizon of some incoming epoch of iniquity.

Grim's shrill shrieks filled her ears.

Cal's yells echoing into oblivion as the world rent in two. In to a million.

- In-Between and Abyss

Imagine, for a moment, you go back to the beginning.

But not the real beginning.

As I recall—

They called her home. Pale wings brought portent of Edda’s loss and abeyance to the god-city.

She stood on a precipice, on a balcony of golden sun and ivory marble. The womb of her remaking. The god’s forge; the place of loss and reawakening. Around her, Himinioðurr shined, gilt and godhood. She did not remember it like this. The place where the Five had stripped her naked and blind; taken her memories and spilt them over the edge, flowing into the lethe and murky river Týna below, a ribbon of slow-moving grey-blue.

She remembered it through slashes of tears and screams of pain, an outcrop of ragged, precipitous rock.

‘Come home.’

It was an ancient, extinct tongue—one reserved for the divine, and yet she knew every word like well-researched poetry.

But she could not.

And as she turned to look at them—one, two, three, four, five—they begun to scream. Screams like wild gales and cacophonous thunder. Screams like war and like childbirth and like hell. She took a deep breath and jumped, tumbled from the godly city, landing without a splash in the amnesiac river of memory and forgetfulness.

She wandered, as if in a daze. As if, neither here nor there, but apart. A severed being. A shade, slipping from a husk of weary bones and aching skin.

Darkness, so utter it consumed her.

She had no voice nor breath to scream their names—Calyndar, Eirlys, Grim—and so she became mute.

Insensate. Moving, without realizing it, on a migratory route...

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Reference by Enfanir
Banner by Musonart
Pagedolls in History and Appearance by Fintron



Played by:

Berb (PM Player)

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