EsmeLaroux

🪶 By Rune and Wind — A Northerner’s Tale
I drew my first breath where the snow drinks in the silence, and the trees whisper in the restless winds. The sea and snow shaped me—hard, cold, and clean as the northern skies. There, in the wild embrace of ice and storm, a girl learns early to vanish like the morning mist, to slip unseen beneath the hunter’s gaze and to move like whispered wind, swift and certain, when fate demands her hand.

A witch of the wilds, born upon Skagnar, a fierce isle where the sea claws at stone, the winds bite with cruel teeth, and the old spirits linger beyond the fjords of Torvaldsland. This land is no place for the faint-hearted.

I carry few weapons, but those I wield are shaped by fire and wood, bound to me by the sacred stones.

My bow is my reach, my vengeance, my silence among the high trees.
“By rune and eye, the Allfather watches my mark,” I whisper as the arrow flies.

My blowpipe is the breath of my will, swift and true.
“By rune and wind, the Allfather guides my sting,” I call to the unseen forces as I let it fly.

The spear is my answer to the charge and my voice of truth.
“By rune and root, the Allfather strikes through me,” I swear, standing firm against the storm.

I bow to no tribe that forgets the old ways, for the Allfather watches—not with mercy, but with memory. I have lost kin to steel, to snow, to slavery—but I remain.
By breath, by blood, by the binding rune—I remain.

If you hear me in the hush of trees or the sigh of the tide, know this — I am still watching.
For not all who are gone are lost.
The Witch of Skagnar.