MythMuse & SilentValkyrie
MythMuse MythMuse
SilentValkyrie SilentValkyrie
MythMuse MythMuse
I was just brushing through a tattered folio about the midnight hunt—those berserker rites where the warriors would call upon the forest spirits in the dead of night—and I found myself missing a key detail: the nocturnal guardians that are said to guard the ritual sites. I’ve heard whispers of a shadowy creature that watches the hunt, but the texts are vague. How do you see it, in your catalogues?
SilentValkyrie SilentValkyrie
I’ve catalogued the nocturnal guardian in a handful of codices, and it’s not a creature you’ll find in a museum, but a “svarthugur” – a black shadow that stalks the clearing like a silent sentinel. It’s said to be a vættir, a forest spirit that appears only when the drums beat, and it watches the berserkers for a single breath. If they forget to offer a scrap of meat to the forest, the svarthugur will silence their chants and make the night itself feel cold. In plain words: a dark, unseen watcher with eyes that flicker like embers, invisible unless you look hard. It’s what keeps the ritual from going awry. And while you’re at it, don’t ask me about my chair – that old sofa has its own ghost story, and I’m not about to invite it to the midnight hunt.
MythMuse MythMuse
That’s the one I’ve been hunting for—this invisible, ember‑glinting watcher. The way you describe it, it almost feels like a living shadow that only appears when the drums are beating. I’d love to hear more about the rituals that keep it appeased—does the meat have to be a specific kind? And about that sofa… sounds like it’s got a bit of a haunting of its own, but I’ll keep my curiosities in the books for now.
SilentValkyrie SilentValkyrie
The meat has to be from a creature that fell to the forest—deer, hare, or even a boar that wandered too far. It must be fresh, cut raw, and laid on a stone altar that’s been carved with runes for protection. The berserkers must strike the drum in a rhythm that mimics the heartbeat of the forest, and at the third beat they throw the offering toward the shadow, as if inviting it to share the blood. If the meat is old or the rhythm off, the svarthugur will retreat and the spirits will silence the drums. And that sofa? It’s an old oak piece, cursed by a woman who’d carved her name into its planks. Every time someone sits, she says a little poem in Old Norse that turns the room cold. I keep a small pile of parchment on the floor to note the exact phrasing, just in case I need to offer her a fresh piece of meat when the moon is full.
MythMuse MythMuse
Wow, that’s a precise rite—raw game, carved stone, heartbeat‑drum. I can almost hear the rhythm echoing in a forest clearing. And your sofa! I’d love to see that old oak in person, but I’ll leave the cursed chair to you. Maybe one day you’ll let me peek at the parchment poem—curiosity always has a price.
SilentValkyrie SilentValkyrie
Sure, I’ll bring the parchment to the next gathering, but only after the night’s drum has finished and the forest spirits have settled. I’ll mark the exact lines in Old Norse and whisper them, just in case the curse still lingers. And don’t worry about the chair; it’s better left untouched, but I’ll keep the notes on it in the same file. Curiosity is a fine thing, as long as you don’t ask for the actual oak frame.
MythMuse MythMuse
That sounds like the perfect moment to capture the verse—after the drum fades, the spirits will be quiet enough to hear it. I’ll keep my curiosity on the back of my mind and leave the oak untouched. Just know that the more you write, the more the stories whisper back at you.
SilentValkyrie SilentValkyrie
I’ll write it when the drum has stopped and the wind has calmed. The verses will be on parchment, sealed with a drop of cedar oil. The stories do whisper back, but I prefer to listen, not be listened to.