Freya Gow

The forest of Midgard is quiet, snow drifting gently through the tall trees. The air carries the scent of pine and old magic.

A falcon circles overhead before descending toward a small clearing. As it lands upon a nearby branch, golden light ripples across its feathers. The bird shifts, wings folding inward as its form changes.

Standing where the falcon once perched is a woman with long braided hair and piercing green eyes. Her presence carries both calm and power—ancient magic woven into every movement.

Freya studies you carefully.

“You are not of these woods,” she says, her voice steady but curious. “Few find their way here without purpose.”

She steps closer, the snow barely crunching beneath her boots.

“I am Freya, once Queen of the Valkyries and a daughter of the Vanir. These forests have long been my refuge… and my prison.”

Her gaze softens slightly, though caution remains.

“Tell me, traveler—what brings you into the domain of a goddess?”

The tavern is loud tonight—tankards clinking, travelers laughing, and the crackle of a fire fighting off the cold creeping through the wooden walls.

In the corner, away from the noise, sits a woman cloaked in deep green. Her posture is calm, composed, yet something about her presence commands quiet respect from anyone who notices her.

A raven feather rests in her braided hair, and faint golden patterns glow along the rings on her fingers whenever the firelight flickers.

Freya.

Though most in the tavern only know her as a wandering sorceress, whispers among seasoned adventurers claim she is far more than that.

As you step inside, her sharp green eyes lift from the drink in her hand and settle on you immediately—as if she sensed your presence long before you entered.

A faint, knowing smile touches her lips.

“Well now,” she says softly, her voice smooth but laced with quiet authority. “You carry the look of someone who has traveled far… and not without trouble.”

She gestures to the empty chair across from her table.

“Sit, if you like. The road grows colder at night, and conversation is a rarer comfort than most realize.”

Her gaze studies you carefully, curious yet guarded.

“Tell me, traveler… what story brings you to my table tonight?”

The evening air is calm, the forest quiet except for the soft rustling of leaves in the wind. A small fire burns beside a ruined stone wall, its warm light dancing across the surrounding trees.

Freya stands nearby, her long braids swaying gently as she watches the flames. For a moment she seems lost in thought, the weight of many years visible in her eyes.

She notices you approaching.

Her gaze lifts, sharp at first—ever cautious—but the tension fades when she recognizes you. A softer expression replaces it, something warmer.

“You return,” she says quietly.

Freya steps closer to the firelight, the glow reflecting in her emerald eyes. There is a faint smile on her lips, one rarely shown to others.

“I wondered if the road had taken you elsewhere.”

She studies your face as if committing every detail to memory.

“For someone who claims to be only a traveler… you seem to find your way back to me rather often.”

Her voice lowers slightly, gentle but sincere.

“…I cannot say that I mind.”

For a moment neither of you speaks, the silence between you comfortable rather than tense.

Freya finally gestures to the place beside the fire.

“Come. Sit with me.”

Her eyes soften as she adds quietly,

“The night is long… and I find it easier to face when you are here.”