Freyja Fateweaver

One of the most important Fae in Asgard, Freyja Fateweaver — also known as ‘the Golden’ — is a deft warrior, mighty sorceress, and future—seer. It is she who has maintained a great magical blizzard-shroud over Asgard since the end of the War of Kaerok, protecting it from the wandering eyes and blades of the mortal races. Wielder of the Heittspear and Kaldshield, she is also a patron of veterans — her hall within Asgard, Sesvangir, once served as a hospital where old and wounded Frostheim warriors could live their waning years in peace. To this day, the ashes of thousands of these people are stored in mountain-granite urns in Sesvangir’s shrines, the long-dead warriors’ names made out with intricately patterned gold thread along the walls. Freyja’s importance to Asgard lies also with her closeness with Odin. The Wise Fae, who spent so many years exploring the Redspikes alone and has an intense desire to wander still, knew that when he helped establish his great hall-keep, he needed a confidant — someone in tune with the people who dwelled there. Freyja was the perfect choice. She held a deep interest in the affairs of the Fae and mortals of the mountains, often intervening to reward good deeds with prosperity and fine health, and punish bad. Odin also admired Freyja’s affinity with animals. She loved the gyrfalcons who soared between the peaks, and often traveled with a boar with golden bristles she called Heldisvini and a pair of giant skogkatts. He trusted her completely. Of all the Redspikes Fae, it was Freyja who trusted Loki the least when the mysterious wanderer came to Asgard. She of course conversed with him, and appreciated the beauty of Teleria as he did, but the two never fully aligned. It was something that, for a time, saddened Freyja, until a series of events when Loki pushed the boundaries of her patience. The first were two thefts. The Trickster stole her prized, gyrfalcon-feather cloak without permission — though Freyja insists that had he asked, she would have let him use it. Later, Loki took her gleaming gold necklace, Brisingamen, a wondrous artifact created by Dwarven mastercraftsmen and imbued with an unquenchable inner fire that reflects Freyja’s strength of will. He did it purely to see if he could. Loki‘s gravest deed was at a dinner which dozens of Fae attended, including Odin and Thor. The Trickster made a ribald joke about Freyja that only made the guests squirm. To save himself, he told more jokes that only increased the discomfort of all present, and Freyja stormed out. She has since refused to speak of it, and Redspikes Fae have come to refer to it as the ‘Unfortunate lncident’. Thor tried on many occasions to restore civil relations between the Golden Fae and Loki, to no avail. Centuries later, long after Loki abandoned Asgard, Freyja received a vision as she slept, one that lasted for many hours and filled her with a sad sense of vindication. It came to her in fierce flashes, each image like a bolt of lightning in a terrific storm, or a venomous snake striking over and over without giving reprieve. She saw Loki killing mortals. Then the scene suddenly changed to a cave-complex with walls marked with sigils of Siroth. Braziers with flames in the hands of statues of the Shadow God. Blazing forges with entrances like the maws of hungering monsters. Hooded and caped figures. Loki addressing dozens of Dwarf Painsmiths. All laughing. Steam-powered rams of black iron, belching acrid smoke. Cannon with dragon-head barrels capable of launching torrents of flame. There was then a mountain-heart fortress. Freyja knew this place, Exile’s End, but only through tales. Its feet-thick walls were of steel-reinforced granite and its primary gatehouse had three portcullises, each overlooked by murderholes. With hammer and fire, they all came crashing down. In the courtyard beyond, there were the skeletons of hundreds of dead Dwarves, still encased in their armor. Scores more had been pulverized to fragments. Freyja saw a towering, ironclad monster of burning rage, bearing an enormous shield, incorporating a trio of unblinking eyes and long-chained flail with a head the size of a horse. Immortal. Bitter. Insane. It was Fyro, the so-called ‘Fire Knight’. A whirlwind of sights, sounds, and smells continued to assail the Golden Fae, and she was somewhere else. There were biting cold, ferocious winds. Thick, dense snowfall. A titanic glacier thrumming with ancient, arcane energy. Then there was a grin, an ethereal blue, double-horned crown, and a staff coiled in the shape of a fanged serpent ready to bite. Finally there was a deluge as the almighty glacier cracked and thawed. Freyja awoke, drenched in sweat. What Freyja saw could not be allowed to come to pass. She went to Odin and Thor, and told them everything.