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A legend of the old Vanir from my world ... I played with the writing style. Imagine it's a young gryfess, speaking to her little nestling brother.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell you a story? I should be on the first night-hunt of the season with Mother and Father but instead I’m stuck nest-sitting, and you want a story? No. I won’t further the humiliation.
Stop that!
Fine! Fine. If you’ll be quiet, I’ll tell a story. If you’ll go to sleep. What story?
The Ravenwing? You’re too young. Where did you hear of it, anyway? Dagur? He’s too young also. No, I don’t think he actually heard it either. You’re both too young.
Fledging? Ha! You barely have feathers to fill your face – enough to fill your head, mind you. But you aren’t fledging.
FINE! I’ll tell you of the Ravenwing. Just stop that caterwauling. No, you stay there on your side of the nest, I’ve just preened. I’m your sister, not our windblown mother. No, tell her I used that word and you’ll be windblown, I’ll tell you that much now.
Fine. The Ravenwing. She wasn’t black, no. She was white.
Why? Well that’s the whole story, isn’t it? Do you want the whole story or are you just going to ask stupid questions? All right.
They say she was winterborn. Dark-born. Born in the dark part of the year, that month when the sun stays below the earth, born in the long night, and the first wind she scented was a starwind.You haven’t seen that month yet, but you will. Her name was Muna, and she didn’t yowl when she took her first breath. They say those who are winterborn are ill-fated, and this was true enough of her.
What do you mean? You were summer born. Caterwauling, irritating chatterboxes is what summerborn are fated to be, that’s what. Do you interrupt Mother when she’s telling you stories? Hush.
She wasn’t white the way any kit is white or fluffy gray. She was near clear, Muna, but feathered so she looked white, like crystals all layered, you know, or white ice, or snow. Her eyes were blind in the sunlight and filled with all the sadness of the world. They say she didn’t look at the real sky, that her eyes were forever in the Sunlit land, or that her sky was black with ravens.
I don’t know what it means! Ill-fated. Stay on your side. No, she didn’t have a brother and she was lucky for it. She didn’t have a sister, either. Her mother died whelping her. Don’t start that. I didn’t say this was a happy tale, did I? Hush.
Some say she was beautiful but she never mated. No one ever asked, or she never flew – who’s to say? No one’s alive still who really knew her, or her mother, or hers. Her father? Well I don’t know. I never heard.
Well it’s the best I know the story! Tell it to yourself, you know so much, or be quiet. Mother and Father would be glad of my help tonight, and not sorry at all if you fell out of the nest, I’ll bet – not. Sorry. At all.
That’s better.
So she lived most alone, even in the pride, even in the winter. Her mother had been loved and so Muna was fed, and kept, but that was all. She sang sometimes, and spoke to herself, and had visions. But no one minded her visions, because she was winterborn. Ill born. She had raven dreams and those are tricky. They’re not always true. She once dreamt of the great waterfall off the starland side of our island flooding its banks, flooding the nests and the pride. That year, there was dryness. Drought. Raven dreams.
It went that way most of her life for white Muna.
Then in the dead of winter, on the ninth anniversary of her birth, she dreamt of earthfire. You’ve never seen that either. Well I’m just about to tell you, aren’t I? If you’ll be quiet. It’s when fire comes into the mountain, but not from the sky like when it storms. From deep down, from the belly of the earth, and it breaks a mountain and fills the sky with black and poison. Muna dreamed that, and she knew it wasn’t a raven dream.
Because she just knew, well? What do I know of dreams?
But no one believed her. They were quiet about it, and kind, but no one paid her mind and she became more and more panicked as winter deepened.
So she flew to the farthest isle where the sleeping mountain lay, full of fire. She found boiling rock and the mountain slowly spitting fire, just as in her dream. Desperate, she stooped and clutched some magma in her talons and flew it all the way back to Sun Isle. Yes, I’m sure it hurt. As much as me locking your yattering beak shut, that's how much.
The earthfire gave off horrible poisoned air and she choked as she flew, and the magma caught her feathers aflame, so that by the time she reached the elders of the pride she was burning like a branch struck by sky fire.
They doused Muna in the snow but she was blackened, burned, and had given her last to prove her vision. There was enough time for the whole pride to go to ground, to seek the shelter of the caves that run under all the islands. When the great mountain exploded for real in fire, they were safe, and waited under their island until the sky was clean and clear.
As for Muna, they laid her with the honored dead, her wings now black as a raven’s, her lonely soul at rest.
That’s the end. Yes. There is no more. Of course she died! It was earthfire! I told you it wasn’t a happy story. . You asked for the story. Stop that. You’re a warrior of the Sun Isle, remember? I think I see a bit of prime feather coming to your wing after all, so you can't be carrying on like that. Maybe we’ll find the old caves. Yes, I’m sure you’ll be flying before Solstice.
What?! Maybe I’ll mate this year on Solstice sun, maybe not. It’s not your business.
Anyway it’s getting chilly. Come here – yes come here, tuck under my wing. We’ll greet Mother and Father together when they return, and hear of their hunting.
No, I’m sure there’s no earthfire in the mountains now.
Good night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Graphite, Prismacolor pencil & marker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell you a story? I should be on the first night-hunt of the season with Mother and Father but instead I’m stuck nest-sitting, and you want a story? No. I won’t further the humiliation.
Stop that!
Fine! Fine. If you’ll be quiet, I’ll tell a story. If you’ll go to sleep. What story?
The Ravenwing? You’re too young. Where did you hear of it, anyway? Dagur? He’s too young also. No, I don’t think he actually heard it either. You’re both too young.
Fledging? Ha! You barely have feathers to fill your face – enough to fill your head, mind you. But you aren’t fledging.
FINE! I’ll tell you of the Ravenwing. Just stop that caterwauling. No, you stay there on your side of the nest, I’ve just preened. I’m your sister, not our windblown mother. No, tell her I used that word and you’ll be windblown, I’ll tell you that much now.
Fine. The Ravenwing. She wasn’t black, no. She was white.
Why? Well that’s the whole story, isn’t it? Do you want the whole story or are you just going to ask stupid questions? All right.
They say she was winterborn. Dark-born. Born in the dark part of the year, that month when the sun stays below the earth, born in the long night, and the first wind she scented was a starwind.You haven’t seen that month yet, but you will. Her name was Muna, and she didn’t yowl when she took her first breath. They say those who are winterborn are ill-fated, and this was true enough of her.
What do you mean? You were summer born. Caterwauling, irritating chatterboxes is what summerborn are fated to be, that’s what. Do you interrupt Mother when she’s telling you stories? Hush.
She wasn’t white the way any kit is white or fluffy gray. She was near clear, Muna, but feathered so she looked white, like crystals all layered, you know, or white ice, or snow. Her eyes were blind in the sunlight and filled with all the sadness of the world. They say she didn’t look at the real sky, that her eyes were forever in the Sunlit land, or that her sky was black with ravens.
I don’t know what it means! Ill-fated. Stay on your side. No, she didn’t have a brother and she was lucky for it. She didn’t have a sister, either. Her mother died whelping her. Don’t start that. I didn’t say this was a happy tale, did I? Hush.
Some say she was beautiful but she never mated. No one ever asked, or she never flew – who’s to say? No one’s alive still who really knew her, or her mother, or hers. Her father? Well I don’t know. I never heard.
Well it’s the best I know the story! Tell it to yourself, you know so much, or be quiet. Mother and Father would be glad of my help tonight, and not sorry at all if you fell out of the nest, I’ll bet – not. Sorry. At all.
That’s better.
So she lived most alone, even in the pride, even in the winter. Her mother had been loved and so Muna was fed, and kept, but that was all. She sang sometimes, and spoke to herself, and had visions. But no one minded her visions, because she was winterborn. Ill born. She had raven dreams and those are tricky. They’re not always true. She once dreamt of the great waterfall off the starland side of our island flooding its banks, flooding the nests and the pride. That year, there was dryness. Drought. Raven dreams.
It went that way most of her life for white Muna.
Then in the dead of winter, on the ninth anniversary of her birth, she dreamt of earthfire. You’ve never seen that either. Well I’m just about to tell you, aren’t I? If you’ll be quiet. It’s when fire comes into the mountain, but not from the sky like when it storms. From deep down, from the belly of the earth, and it breaks a mountain and fills the sky with black and poison. Muna dreamed that, and she knew it wasn’t a raven dream.
Because she just knew, well? What do I know of dreams?
But no one believed her. They were quiet about it, and kind, but no one paid her mind and she became more and more panicked as winter deepened.
So she flew to the farthest isle where the sleeping mountain lay, full of fire. She found boiling rock and the mountain slowly spitting fire, just as in her dream. Desperate, she stooped and clutched some magma in her talons and flew it all the way back to Sun Isle. Yes, I’m sure it hurt. As much as me locking your yattering beak shut, that's how much.
The earthfire gave off horrible poisoned air and she choked as she flew, and the magma caught her feathers aflame, so that by the time she reached the elders of the pride she was burning like a branch struck by sky fire.
They doused Muna in the snow but she was blackened, burned, and had given her last to prove her vision. There was enough time for the whole pride to go to ground, to seek the shelter of the caves that run under all the islands. When the great mountain exploded for real in fire, they were safe, and waited under their island until the sky was clean and clear.
As for Muna, they laid her with the honored dead, her wings now black as a raven’s, her lonely soul at rest.
That’s the end. Yes. There is no more. Of course she died! It was earthfire! I told you it wasn’t a happy story. . You asked for the story. Stop that. You’re a warrior of the Sun Isle, remember? I think I see a bit of prime feather coming to your wing after all, so you can't be carrying on like that. Maybe we’ll find the old caves. Yes, I’m sure you’ll be flying before Solstice.
What?! Maybe I’ll mate this year on Solstice sun, maybe not. It’s not your business.
Anyway it’s getting chilly. Come here – yes come here, tuck under my wing. We’ll greet Mother and Father together when they return, and hear of their hunting.
No, I’m sure there’s no earthfire in the mountains now.
Good night.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Graphite, Prismacolor pencil & marker.
Image size
900x671px 246.02 KB
© 2011 - 2024 ElementalJess
Comments41
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A lovely, if melancholy art piece accompanied by an excellent story, I loved the tone, language and manner of speech, if felt familiar but distinctly unfamiliar giving it a nice sense of distinction from how other characters in stories often speak.