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Jarnja Sings, Wondering

Jarngrimr sang us away:

Freida and Ingvi rode out into the sun-dappled woods,

bows and falcon-fletched arrows ahand, aback boars,

the twins wore cloaks of wolf, fall was at its apex,

the smell of loam and Nerthus’ autumnal perfume rose

in mist like an intoxicating oracle past oak and ash.

The Golden Twins were hunting the white hart, dashing

through Vanaheim aback war sow and hog, spilling ruby

blood of Ingvi’s sacred antlered stags, Freida saw a

spiderweb woven of gold, and as Ingvi roasted the hart

she strayed in her feather cloak and moonlight dress to

a dwarven hollow, where a soot-rough duergar smithed a

beautiful bracelet shaped like the sun, Freida swelled

with gold-lust, for Gullveig is her witch-name, and the

metal of morning and dawn is her domain. Freida spoke

words of want to the blackened dwarf: “Lay with me this

harvest tide, and you shall mine gems and fin
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