hail night and the daughters of night! gaze on us with gracious eyes / award us victory, those who wait.

she is built like war and rock and earth, wide and expansive. she is all rounded edges and rolling muscle, with large, wideset shoulders and a thick neck just slightly curved down into the block-shape of her head. her skull is a brick of a rectangle, wide, flat like a battering ram. though tall, her legs are shorter, stockier, with great hooves that thunder across the ground. her back is straight and broad, large enough to bear both her massive wings and the long, undulating body of her serpent familiar. a gentle downward slope leads to rounded hindquarters. her stride is calculated and always reads of intent, a well-trained march capable of crossing worlds in a day.

there are seams in her coat where the vodar pieced her together; flesh of the noble dead crossed with the blackness of night. her face is a mask of white, a scalp sewn atop a foreign skull. her nose is soft-pink, for it was where she was kissed to life and here the blood of the Valkyr instilled her with breath. eyes red like the hum of war glower out beneath those bony ridges, relics of her mothers’ power. one ear borrowed from a hunter bested by fierce beast; her chest the remains of a guardian who lived and died at his post. pieces of her legs from battlefield messengers, runners who ran their hearts to failure in an endeavor to complete their quest. one haunch belonged to a tribal chieftain who sacrificed their life to fend off invaders to their land; the other a section from a martyr, drawn and quartered for righteous cause, who went to their end without a tear or pleading word. her hooves are the fallow bone of sacred deer; her mane and tail sewed from the ebon locks collected by loved ones from a corpse-strewn battlefield.

the braid in her hair is twined from the scalps of both mothers, a gift, a relic, a memory and curse, bound in sanctified gold melted from the weapons of the Valkyr. massive wings of sharp-edged feathers sit firmly upon her back, the white portions donated from the coverts of her mothers, the night-black sections torn from the flesh of Nephilim, fallen angels.

hail the goddesses! hail the earth that gives to all / carry we who die in battle.

capable - loyal - dauntless - strong - protective - noble
stubborn - impulsive - solitary - regimental - uncooperative - tedious

she is stamina and vigor, tireless persistence and a constant, forward motion; under her heels, the earth spins. her head is down and in the wind and the gale splits for her; even if it does not, there is no deterrent on this earth strong enough to slow her down. in battle and at what semblance of rest she observes, in injury and in health, she does not cease, for in her veins is the blood of the Valkyr and in her flesh the love of her mothers, and they are tireless beings, so she is a tireless being.

she is earth-bound stubborn and cannot be swayed. the opinions of others who seek to draw her from her path are grains of sand in the unending surf. any who speak of dishonorable methods, or scheme or trick, are nothing to her. If there is conflict she will head into it without fear or caution. only her king, whose cause she bears on her great, broad shoulders, can belay her. she listens to him, and him only.

Her loyalty is as long as the horizon. She has pledged herself to causes before and been run afoul of dictators and tyrants; she has been the weapons of rise and corrupt rule, and these are sins that she must live with. It is in her blood and it is in her bone to strive and stomach duty; she is mortal but driven by the magic of the Valkyr, and so where her mothers seek the souls of the noble dead, she is lost seeking some other truth. In her king is her truth, in her cause is her truth. Even if it leads her astray-- until it leads her astray-- she is bound to her truth.

she walks always with pride and courage and instills those around her with pride and courage. to look and find her night-and-light countenance in her corner is to be assured of victory. she is noble and she is dedicated to her cause. Fearless and unforgiving, the hearts of those around her swell with her certainty.

She is a capable fighter and does not cow from any challenge, but audacity and trouble go hand in hand. She has been the bearer of many wounds and has looked down the nose of the nightmare face of death; it is the closest she has been in some time to the wingbeats and warm breath of her mothers. But she is nothing if not a fighter, and somehow by will alone has she pushed her wounds to close, her strength to renew. An indomitable force, doomed to foolish repetition.

She keeps her wits and her head level. She is not driven by anger or revenge or love, but duty; responsibility is the fuel that pushes her forward, and an acute inability to fail. In life or death, she will not founder, and will press on until she is tendrils clinging to some unrecognizable skeleton, if it was asked of her.

Words are a cheap commodity to her; she does not speak but for what needs to be said. Some may find her a trying companion as she is strenuous to socialize with. Her breath is best spent saved for a fight, for when it is needed. When asked her opinion she will share it, and she speaks from the heart, regardless of what the gathered crowd wants to hear.

She has low regard for weakness or cowardice, but can understand inexperience; this coupled with a willingness to try and the motivation to strive will earn her respect. There is always room under her wing for tutelage. She is a soldier and will always recognize a soldier, and any who may fight or act under her order or leadership is now under her semi-divine protection. She feels their life and death like a weight; and though it is heavy, she is but strong.

nine worlds i knew / the ninth in the tree,
with might roots beneath the mold.

Radogrid was known as 'bossy' by the legions of her shield-sisters. She was fastidious, proper, and did not entertain imbroglio or drama. Everything to her was to be clear, concise, and finished quickly. Skuld was her antithesis, a creature prone to vice and lascivious behavior. She was just as famous for her cardplay as she was her battlefield prowess. Skuld was a planner and gifted of forethought; Radogrid jumped first and looked back after. Their relationship was a mystery to most but questioned by none; together, they were unstoppable.

She was born of the devotion of two mothers— two Valkyries, bonded by love. Her existence itself is a victory, flaunting itself in the face of the normal and recognized. With the help of the vodar, the Valkyran flesh witch, they pieced her together from the meat and bones of the worthy fallen. And so she was avodara, not from the flesh but OF the flesh.

The vodar Tasijanga was not mortal nor deity. She was stuck somewhere between, like most vodar, with a body that would continue to age but a soul that was everlasting. Such was the trade for her forbidden knowledge. She spent the time in the confines of her rotting corporeal form collecting and preserving pieces to be sewn and crafted into a new one. Tasijanga was the oldest, and the best; it was not uncommon for those deathless beings incapable of natural reproduction to seek out her aid. Radogrid and Skuld were not the first, and they would not be the last.

Creation magic and sacred descendance aside, she was not a Valkyrie, but mortal. And her mothers, called to battlefields in worlds beyond, could never stay for long, dooming her thusly to this world of corporeal mass and finality. Such was her curse, to have the call to glory, but be trapped, here, in this mortal existence. But in this world of flesh lips and tongues, her truest name would turn a speaker to ash, or render them a babbling, maddened mess. So she has taken a grammatically adjacent title for herself: if the valkyries are Angels of War, she will be a Bird of War.

In a dark, dank cave, Tasijanga stepped aside and revealed the final form of the Valkyr descendant. The battle-mothers embraced each other, and then each breathed their own life into one nostril. They each leaked their own lifeblood into seams at the unborn's wrists, and where it touched the flesh it became mortal. And she opened her eyes and they were red as blood.

Though she does not share a consecrated title with her mothers, Warbird is still driven by duty, and purpose, the greatest of which is the intent to conquer challenges. She was, after all, crafted of the sinew and matter of the noble dead. This form, barrel-chested and staunch of the neck, was not her first and it would not be her last. No matter where she went, following the bone-trails of her mothers, she would overcome what hardships she could find, seeking out suffering, learning from it— mastering it, proving herself worthy of one day joining the ranks of her mother's people. Each new mortal kingdom she came to was another opportunity to attest to her ability and merit.

Above her the aurora slices the midnight sky like dragonfire. She would not make the comparison if the beast itself was not dead at her feet. He was a lesser wurm, a servant of King of the Snakes, and his fiery breath had licked neon across her threaded flesh. Places of her still smouldered. Scattered around the mouth of his lair were the bones of the foolish fallen. The aurora above is the wingtrails of her mothers as they strove ever onward. Warbird slips her great sword into the sheath at her back and turned to follow them.

Something drew her to this place, a land of bedlam and oppressive statures. It sang to her like the Siren song of the monsters of her homeland-- a coursing dirge to match the heat-hymn singing in her blood. She is doomed forever to seek challenges to prove her worth, and she follows in the astral-electric trails of her mothers. This burning in her bones matches only the strength in her heart. She knows where she is meant to be, and though that may change in the future, right now, it is here.

The legend of the King of Snakes is you must kill all the snakes if you were to kill one, or else the others will come and exact revenge. This is not always the case, but it was a thought in Warbird's mind as Stykkislange reared her ugly, blood-stained head, and her jaw undulated with its triple row of serrated teeth. The battle was brief, but fierce. Stykkislange tossed Warbird's great sword into the sea for her father, Jormungandr, to claim as a prize; Warbird stepped on Stykkislange's throat and threatened to rip it out with her teeth. The bested serpent was amused. She had consumed all the likely prey in the area and hungered for more. Warbird agreed to take her on her journey-- but should one scale slip out of place, the avodara would see to it Stykki had swallowed her final feast.

The sun, the sister / of the moon, from the south Her right hand cast / over heaven's rim; No knowledge she had where her home should be,

A PORTRAIT OF THE FATHER, of which she mimics in miniature.

Jörmungandr is the child of gods. A vengeful king stole him from his parents and tossed him into the sea, where he grew so large and fat on the ocean’s bounty he became large enough to encircle the world. An inconceivable size. Larger than a planet.

Stykkislange (or simply ‘Stykki', pronounced like 'sticky’, for short) is not her father. She was born of one of his shed scales, dropped to the bottom of the sea to grow and gestate in pure darkness. She has many siblings, all long serpents with gnashing teeth and a taste for the flesh of their kin. She had willfully and excitedly eaten many of her smaller, weaker family members, before heading to the surface to feed on anyone who crossed her path. After consuming a number of unfortunate victims, she came across Warbird, who promptly stomped her into the ground.

Their relationship is built on mutual respect, and the idea that Bird could kill her at any moment. Stykki is snarky, sneaky, and always looking for a snack on the side. Her master keeps her on a short-leash, which is necessary, given that her unhinging jaw can swallow whole things the size of a foal-- and unlike other serpents, her mythological background and mouth full of teeth in triplicate gives her the physiological ability to bite, rip, and tear.

At 7 feet long and as big around as a small pumpkin, Stykkislange makes an intimidating figure. She is the same mottled silver as her father, though she lacks the moss and earth which sprouts from him in his size and languidity. She has a snubbed nose and striking electric blue eyes that glow in the dark; flexible frills lay lax against her large skull, and when expanded they are a purple color and shot through with blue veins. Like a true constrictor she has rows of serrated, sharp teeth, that she can raise and drop with a constriction of muscles; unlike a normal constrictor, she has three rows of teeth, and her jaw muscles are capable of opening and closing, and sawing and snapping, more akin to a canine than a serpent.

For travel, she makes a compact figure looped around Warbird’s neck or stretched across her back, relaxed and predatory. She has poor eyesight and instead navigates the world mostly by smell.

Claimed by using 2020 Advent Calendar FREE RESTRICTED ITEM (sans massive bonded) PRIZE

Thence come the maidens / mighty in wisdom, Three from the dwelling / down 'neath the tree;

Her armor was a gift from her parents, and bore pieces of battle regalia in the style of each mother. It was forged in the embers of offshoots of the Great Tree and battle-tested in the blood of the Valkyr. Outside of the land of her birth, it is striking in appearance, but bears no magic or preternatural abilities.

The headpiece was granted by the wisdom of Skuld; it is a black, five-pointed sunburst with a plate to protect the forehead. It fits snugly over the ears and wraps circular at the cheeks. A layer of scale protects the throat.

Her chestpiece was cleaned meticulously by Radogrid after every conflict. It is black with edges of beveled silver. It meets across her broad chest and then again under her midsection. It is shaped to her croup and covers her from withers to dock.

The shoulders are covered in interlocking silver plate, while her thighs are covered in layered black tassets edged in beveled silver. Claimed by using 2020 Advent Calendar ARMOR PRIZE

the war i remember, the first in the world, three times burned / and three times born

she bears two small accessories as thus:

two golden hair clasps, one bequeathed from each mother, to hold the braid spun of their holy hair stitched into her scalp.