Brynja: “You know, Linnea, sometimes when I close my eyes, I see the world as it once was, empty space, and that first being throwing marbles across the void, shaping the stars and planets. It’s like the beginning of everything is still alive inside the fabric of time we live in.” Linnea: “I feel that too, Brynja. But where you see calm and order, I see chaos waiting to break loose. That ancient world didn’t just build itself quietly, it was torn apart by war, greed, and destruction. The Titans, the viral storms ... all those things shaped us, just like your visions say.”
Brynja: “The myth says the titans created life as a game, uncaring of the damage they did. Maybe that’s why our world is so fragile, held together by something desperate, like that dragon-plant hybrid buried deep beneath the caldera, struggling to keep everything from falling apart.”
Linnea: “That hybrid… I feel it in my bones. The thorned power I carry, it’s like I’m part of that struggle, fighting to hold this broken world together, but not just gently like you. I’m the wild part of the storm, the one who lashes out to protect what remains.”
Brynja: “And that fits with what happened in Leann. When the chronomancers sacrificed themselves to freeze time around us, they saved our kingdom from the worst of that war. You and I… we carry their legacy in different ways. You, the fierce Thornheart born from action and fire. Me, the Petalshroud, calm and protective.”
Linnea: “It’s strange to think our home, Laugavegur, this quiet village in the caldera, is this tiny bubble frozen in time while the world outside was tearing itself apart. We’re living proof of the gods’ victory… but also the cost.”
Brynja: “Yes. The Gatekeeper’s power hangs over us, reminding us that time is never really still. I wonder how much longer the bubble will hold. And what will happen when it finally breaks?”
Linnea: “We don’t have the luxury to wait for answers. We have to protect what’s here, our people, our dragons, our land. Whether through thorn or petal, we fight so the story of this world can continue.”
Brynja: “Together, then. Thorn and petal. Keeper and warrior. We are more than the myths. We are their living threads.”
Brynja: “Linnea, every time I hear the tale of the Floral Dragons, I feel the weight of old powers, forces born from the world’s greatest calamity. They weren’t just dragons, but part plant, part magic… a reminder of when our world was torn apart by ambition and strife.”
Linnea: “Yes, the Blooming Cataclysm. The legends say those dragons sprang from a forbidden ritual deep beneath the sea, where sorcery and nature were twisted together. They say the very earth itself rebelled, birthing creatures with petals sharp as blades and magic in their veins.”
Brynja: “Some say the first floral dragons were gifts from the gods, or curses. Their forms are strange, some bloom like flowers, others breathe fire or shift with the tides. And some even bend time, as if carrying the echoes of the ancient rituals that shaped them.”
Linnea: “It makes me wonder… could the strange power in us, the thorned strength, the time-warped blood of our queen, be tied to those first dragons? They say the dragons carry the memories of the ancient world, deep in their roots and scales.”
Brynja: “The old wars, the Titans, the gods, they were but pawns in the chaos that followed the Blooming Wave. The world was shattered and remade, not by sword or spell alone, but by this wild, growing force. The floral dragons are the world’s living scars and its stubborn hope.”
Linnea: “And our home in Laugavegur, cradled in the caldera, feels like a sanctuary. We live among those dragons and flowers, in harmony, even as the past’s echoes whisper through the petals and claws.”
Brynja: “There’s talk of a great, ancient dragon, the Verdant Core, hidden deep within the Cradle Scar. It’s said to still bloom, carrying the first breath of that lost age. I don’t know if it’s blessing or doom for those who find it.”
Linnea: “For now, we protect what remains, honor the balance between growth and decay, flower and fang. The Floral Dragons remind us that even in ruin, life persists, wild, strange, and beautiful.”
Brynja “Petalshroud” Silmarsdottir's About the Past
"I remember the first time I stood beneath the Apple Tree Dragon its towering branches curled in an ancient dance with the winds, leaves whispering in a language older than time. I was small, just a child, but the energy that hummed around that tree… it felt like the pulse of the world itself. I would often sit beneath its shadow, breathing in the scent of apple blossoms, watching as the dragon, with scales like bark and eyes like pools of dew, curled protectively around the roots. There, I felt my first stirrings of magic not the kind that came with flashes of light or explosions of power but something deeper, more subtle. It was the magic of growth, of connection.
I was always drawn to the quiet side of things. While other children raced through the fields or clambered up rocky hills, I would often find myself lost among the moss-covered stones, speaking to the creatures of the caldera Vespons, Rhododendron dragons, and Water Lilies. I would run my fingers through the thick green vines, feeling their pulse under my skin. It was an easy life, one that whispered to me of balance and peace. Nature’s rhythm was my guide each petal’s fall, each leaf’s sway in the wind, taught me something new about the flow of life.
When Linnea was born, I thought my heart might burst with the love I already felt for her. She was so different from me more restless, more intense, and yet, we shared something unspoken. From the start, I took it upon myself to guide her, to show her the quiet ways of the world. I taught her how to listen to the songs of the wind and the way the seasons turned like the pages of an old, worn book. But I could feel the difference between us even then. Where I found peace in stillness, Linnea sought adventure. Her magic was sharp and sudden like thorns that would cut the air around her.
The year I turned fifteen, something happened that I still cannot forget. The Summer Equinox the longest day of the year was approaching, and the entire village gathered for the festival. We were all there, beneath the sky stretched wide and endless, with the Apple Tree Dragon standing like a sentinel, its bark-like scales glowing faintly under the golden sun. That was when I saw it: a vision. Not just a fleeting glimpse, but a call. The dragon shimmered, and I heard it a whisper in the breeze, a rustle of petals calling my name. It wasn’t just a voice, it was a presence. A feeling. And in that moment, I saw her Ophelia, the Bloommother. A dragon whose form shifted like petals on the wind, both delicate and untamable.
At the time, Linnea was just a child she must have been nine. She saw the vision too, I think, but at that age, she couldn’t yet understand it. She must have felt something stir inside her, but her magic, though wild and raw, had not yet taken shape in the way mine had. I had been chosen, I knew. The voice called to me, not just as a guardian, but as something more a bridge between the land, the creatures, and the very life that bloomed and withered beneath our feet. I didn’t fully understand what it meant at the time, but I felt it, deep in my bones.
When I turned eighteen, I followed the visions. The symbols had been with me since that first vision at the equinox symbols of growth, of protection, of nurturing. I knew what I had to do. I entered the ancient temple, hidden deep in the vine-choked heart of the caldera, the air thick with incense and the hum of life. And there, Ophelia appeared to me. She was everything dragon, flower, spirit blurring into one. Her offer was simple: I could become her guardian, the protector of the balance between bloom and decay. She offered me a pact, and in exchange, I would receive power to heal, to nurture, to shield the world from corruption.
When I accepted, I felt the magic surge through me like sunlight breaking through thick clouds. My scales shimmered with new light green, golden, rose-hued, like the first blossoms of spring. My breath carried petals. I felt the earth itself beneath my feet, stronger, more alive. And in that moment, I was no longer just Brynja, the girl who played among flowers and whispered to dragons. I became something more. I became Petalshroud, a protector of the bloom.
But even as the village embraced me with reverence, something lingered something unspoken. Linnea. My little sister, always fierce and restless, always seeking her own path. I knew she admired me, but I also knew that she was afraid of the depth of devotion that tied me to Ophelia. Her magic was different from mine. It was like fire a crackling, wild thing. Where I sought peace, she sought challenge, conflict. I had hoped she would understand, but I could see the shadows in her eyes. And yet, even then, I knew she was destined for something. Something greater, perhaps, but also something darker.
The Rite of Twin Blossoms when we finally stood together as two halves of Ophelia’s will was a moment I will never forget. We stood before the Spirit Tree, the wind shifting around us like it was holding its breath. I wore the petals of the bloom soft and gentle. Linnea, though, wore thorns. She was everything sharp, every edge honed by fire. Together, we stood as opposites, yet somehow, we were more than that. We were the balance the bloom and the blade, as Ophelia called us.
The vision we shared was a revelation. We saw Ophelia not divided into aspects, but whole. And we understood, then, that we were not meant to walk separate paths. We were meant to walk together, in balance. Life is both tenderness and trial, and in that moment, I saw what we had always been. Different, yes. But together, we were Ophelia’s vow made flesh.
I worry, still, for Linnea. She walks a path darker than mine one that sometimes feels like it will consume her. But I know in my heart that she is my sister, and no matter how far apart we may seem, we are bound by more than blood. We are bound by the same spirit. The same oath. Where petals fall, we rise. Where thorns grow, we stand.
And so, we walk forward, knowing that we are not alone, that balance can only be maintained if we are willing to stand together. For, in the end, I am not just Petalshroud. I am part of something greater something that spans the bloom and the thorn, life and death, peace and challenge. I am the promise of both, and together, with Linnea, we will keep that promise."
Linnea “Thornheart” Silmarsdottir’s About the Past
"I don’t remember the first time I felt magic in me, but I remember that moment the first time it felt real. I was nine, walking along the edge of the caldera with my bare feet in the moss. Brynja was always the calm one, the steady one. She’d be off whispering to the trees or reading the stars, trying to figure out what the wind meant. But me? I was always running, exploring, looking for the wild.
That day, I found a bramble unlike any I’d seen before glowing, almost like it was alive, pulsing with a kind of warmth. I thought I could just touch it, feel it… But the second I did, it snapped. I felt the sting of the thorn, sharp as a whip. But the pain? It didn’t hurt. It filled me. I felt like I could move mountains, breathe fire, tear through anything in my way. It was like the bramble, the thorn, had come alive inside me. A surge. And that was it. That was the first spark.
Brynja was busy probably off talking to her precious flowers again but I didn’t need her then. Not for this. It was mine. It was me.
The funny thing is, though, I never told her. I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t want her to think I was just following her path, or maybe because I knew I was walking a different one. A path that would never be as serene as hers, never as… gentle.
When I was twelve, I started to notice the difference between us more clearly. Brynja would tell me to be careful, to think before I acted. But you know what? The wild never waits for you to think. It calls, it pulls, and I could feel it louder and louder every day. Sometimes I wished I could be as calm as she was, but I never was. I wanted to feel everything, even the sting. I wanted to push past the boundaries, not sit within them.
I guess Brynja knew it, too. She’s my anchor my quiet strength. But she doesn’t understand the call of the wild. Not like I do. And that’s okay. She loves me, and I love her. But it’s not the same. Not the same as what I’ve come to understand in my own skin. I’ll always love her, but I’ll never be her.
Then, when I was fifteen, something changed. Something in me, something deep in the grove, hidden between the trees… It was like the ground itself was whispering, urging me deeper into the forgotten parts of the forest. Brynja had her visions, and I guess it was my turn to have one, too. But my vision wasn’t the soft bloom of Ophelia it wasn’t gentle at all.
It was her the shadow. A spirit not of petals, but of thorns. She spoke to me, not in words, but in feeling. A hunger, a burning force. She showed me a world where things rotted, decayed, but from that decay, life could rise again, sharper, fiercer. A world where protection didn’t come from kindness alone, but from the strength to face the darkness and rip it apart.
I didn’t know if I was ready for it, but in that moment, I knew I had to accept it. I made my choice, and she answered. The spirit of the thorned dragon, Ophelia’s darker side, wrapped around me. Her power surged through my veins, and I felt it the raw, untamed force of life that wasn’t afraid to strike back.
The Thorn-Woken Night came soon after. A blightspawn, some twisted thing of decay and rot, slithered into our village. It corrupted everything it touched. People ran, but I didn’t. I stepped forward, my hands trembling but my heart unshaken. The magic that had surged through me came alive in that moment. I didn’t call for it. It just was. My weapon manifested half bow, half blade, with thorns curling around it like vines of flame. The air hummed with raw power, and I felt alive.
I struck, not out of fear, but out of necessity. The thorns I summoned weren’t just for show they were for protection, for survival. The blightspawn retreated, but not without leaving a mark on me. It was then that the village knew me for what I was becoming: Thornheart. Not a name given with ceremony, not like Brynja’s Petalshroud. No, mine was forged in blood, in fire, in action.
Brynja’s path was always so clear. A protector, a healer. But mine? It was the wild, the untamed where the thorns cut as much as they shielded. Where the blade of life could both defend and wound. My power didn’t come from gentle guidance or rituals. It came from the wild force of nature of me.
When I turned sixteen, I knew it was time. My first true test came when I summoned my Thornshield for the first time in battle. A wall of jagged thorns, sharp as razors, rose to protect us from a pack of wolves that threatened the village. The thorns didn’t just stand they fought. They protected. And I realized then that my magic, as wild and raw as it was, could be a shield. A fierce one.
The Rite of Twin Blossoms came a year later, and it was… different than I expected. Brynja, in her quiet grace, stood in her flowered glory, while I was all thorns and fire. We were two halves of a whole, yes. But never the same. And yet, there in the center of that sacred clearing, under the watch of the Spirit Tree, I understood. The vision we shared, the bloom and the thorn together, was Ophelia’s will made flesh.
The world doesn’t just need protection from the light; it needs protection from the dark, too. From decay. From rot. I am that dark, that edge.
And Brynja? She is the light. The bloom. Together, we are both. And always will be."
Brynja: A Sister's Tale
The first time I saw Linnea touch the Wild Thorn, I didn’t know whether to pull her back or simply stand in awe. She was barely nine, full of that wild, reckless energy that had always danced beneath her skin, like an untamed force. I had spent most of my childhood tethered to caution always thinking ahead, considering every consequence before acting. Linnea, though… she was a storm. No hesitation. No fear.
I remember the bramble glowing with an eerie, soft light, the thorns curving as if they were waiting. And then, without a second thought, Linnea reached out. The bramble snapped, a sharp crack like a whip, and I froze, thinking she would scream, pull away in pain. But instead, she stood still, her hand pressed against it, and I saw something shift in her. A spark in her eyes, a glimmer of power she had never known before.
There was no cry of pain. No flinch.
I remember feeling both a deep ache in my chest and an overwhelming pride. This wasn’t just any magic. It was something primal something wild and untamed.
For years after that, I kept my distance from the magic that was growing inside her. I could feel it, swirling like a storm around her every step, but I couldn’t help but wonder if it was a storm she would learn to control… or if it would control her.
When Linnea turned twelve, I began to see the way she lived so different from me. She was always out there, always moving, never still. I could hardly keep up, and she always seemed to know exactly where she was going, though I was sure it was straight into trouble. She would disappear into the woods with nothing but a grin and a flash of her scales, and I would be left behind, clutching my staff and reminding myself to be patient.
"Be careful," I would say, as I always did, watching her dart into the unknown.
But Linnea only laughed, her voice carrying the wind with it. "The wild calls louder than caution, Brynja."
I hated that she was right. The wild did call to her louder than caution called to me. And while I respected her, admired her energy, I also wished, sometimes, that she could understand why I was always so careful, so mindful. But then again, maybe that was the difference between us my calm, her chaos. My thoughtfulness, her instinct.
We were both drawn to the same magic, to Ophelia’s spirit, but we saw it through different lenses. I walked the path of the bloom, the soft petals that grew with care. Linnea… Linnea was the thorn.
It wasn’t until she was fifteen, in the heart of the forgotten groves, that I truly understood what that thorn meant. The grove was quiet, sacred, the air heavy with the scent of old flowers and shadowed memories. I had come there with a prayer on my lips, seeking Ophelia in her gentlest form. I was drawn to the bloom the nurturing, protective side of her spirit. I believed that if I connected with that side, I could serve our village, guide them, protect them in the way I’d always dreamed.
But Linnea… Linnea was different. I watched her slip deeper into the grove, her eyes unfocused, as though she could hear something I couldn’t. A sound. A whisper. Then, suddenly, I saw it what she had seen. A shadow. A dark, twisted thing that slithered from the depths of the grove, its power rotting the earth as it passed. It wasn’t a spirit of Ophelia I recognized. This was something darker, something wilder. And it spoke to her.
Without hesitation, Linnea stepped forward, her body crackling with a ferocity I had never seen before. I wanted to stop her. I wanted to shout at her to wait, to be careful. But she was already lost in it. I saw her reach out with her hands hands that trembled, but not with fear and then, just like that, her pact was made. A voice. A presence. And then, in a burst of sharp thorns and fiery vines, Ophelia manifested not as the soft, blooming mother I had come to know, but as something more fierce, something more raw. Linnea accepted it, not with reverence, but with defiance and fire. In that moment, she became something else entirely.
The first time Linnea summoned her Thornshield, I wasn’t there. But the stories came to me. The pack of wolves. The ferocious battle. And then, the shield the jagged, spiked barrier of thorns that rose from her spirit like a wall. I remember hearing the whispers from the villagers how they spoke of her, awe in their voices, but also something else… something darker. "Where Petalshroud shields," they murmured, "Thornheart strikes." And though it stung a little, I couldn’t help but feel a fierce pride, too.
Linnea had become a protector, no longer just my wild little sister, but something stronger than I could have imagined. She wasn’t the flower. She was the thorn, rising to meet danger, defending those she loved with a power that burned. I had always believed I was the one chosen to protect, but Linnea’s path was different. She protected through strength, through fire. And for the first time, I realized just how strong that was.
The Rite of Twin Blossoms should have been a celebration. It was meant to be a moment of unity, of honoring Ophelia in her entirety. The villagers had spoken of it for years the sacred day when the bloom and the thorn would unite. When Linnea and I would stand together, embodying both halves of the spirit we shared. It was supposed to be a joyous moment. But when the time came, as we stood side by side in the Moonroot Clearing, I felt my heart race not with fear, but with something deeper. Linnea was no longer just my sister. She was a force. A wild, untamable force that stood beside me, not in contrast, but as my equal. I felt the weight of the duality between us in that moment. Her leathers, dark and woven with thorns. My robes, soft and blooming with petals. She was the blade. I was the bloom. Two halves of the same whole. And as we breathed in the air together, I knew this was the moment Ophelia had meant for us to share. Not as two separate spirits, but as one.
In the shared vision, we stood before Ophelia not as I had expected, a gentle figure of light, but as a being both delicate and dangerous, blooming yet barbed, embodying life in all its fullness. I understood then. Together, we are balance. Where I nurtured, she protected. Where I tended, she struck to defend. And in that moment, I knew that I was no longer the only one who stood as a guardian. Linnea had become her own protector, her own force of nature. As the Rite ended, I looked at Linnea, and for the first time, I didn’t see my wild little sister. I saw someone who had carved her own path, who stood beside me not as a shadow, but as an equal.
Together, we were Ophelia’s vow made flesh her bloom and her blade. And no matter how different our paths might be, I would always stand beside her.
Linnea: A Sister’s Tale
It’s hard to think of Brynja as anything other than Petalshroud. She’s always been... well, her. But when I look back at the stories we grew up with, at the way she changed over the years, I see how much she became that name. How much it became part of her.
I remember when she was just a kid, a girl who’d rather sit in the shade of the Apple Tree Dragon, breathing in the scent of blossoms, than race through the fields. I wasn’t like that. I was never like that. Where she saw peace, I saw quiet, and that always seemed... a little too still. I wanted to chase things, to feel the rush of wind in my scales, to break the silence with a shout or a scream or well, you get it. But Brynja? She was always calm. And the dragons... they were drawn to her, weren’t they? Especially the Amaranth dragons. I watched them circle around her as a kid, and I thought it was something special something magical. But the magic was always about nurturing, wasn’t it? She could make things grow just by standing still. I used to get jealous of that sometimes. Still do, if I’m honest. She could touch the land, make it bloom just by whispering to it, while I only seemed to stir it with a wild kick or snap.
When she turned thirteen, I watched her start to understand the magic, the way the village elders looked at her with reverence. She was already connected to something bigger, something more ancient. They all saw it. They had their eyes on her, and I could feel the weight of it even from the outside.
I remember the Summer Bloom Festival when she first had her vision. I was just a kid, too young to understand it fully, but I saw it happen. The Apple Tree Dragon shining with radiant light, and Brynja standing there, still, like she was in a trance. The air buzzed with magic, and I felt it, too, though it was distant. It was like a secret I wasn’t allowed to know. I felt a stir in me something deep, something like anger, but also curiosity. She didn't just see Ophelia in that vision she became Ophelia’s, in a way that I couldn’t understand then, but I saw it. There was power in the way she walked after that, a certain grace to her, like she was chosen. Like she was already something more than the rest of us. I hated how perfect she seemed.
But then came the day when she accepted the pact with Ophelia. I was there, not far away, though I couldn’t bring myself to go too close. I was still too young too wild too untamed. And when she came out of the temple... She wasn’t just Brynja anymore. She was Petalshroud. I’d seen people’s names change before, but never like that. The magic swirled around her petals that bloomed from her shoulders, like she carried the world’s garden on her back. I wanted to be mad about it. I wanted to say, You didn’t need that. You’re already so much, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because I saw it. The way the villagers looked at her. How they all called her Lady Petalshroud in a reverence that made my heart ache. I saw how the Amaranth dragon bowed its head to her like it had always known she was destined for something greater.
But me? I didn’t want that. I didn’t need it. Not then. I loved the wildness too much. The ferocity. The chaos that I felt in the wind and the storms. I couldn’t imagine giving that up for the calm, serene life Brynja had chosen. I didn’t want to be her. I remember the first time she worried about me. I was about fifteen, and magic was starting to wake up in me. It wasn’t the gentle magic that called to her, the kind that made flowers bloom with just a thought. Mine was darker. Sharper. It burned. The winds would follow me, twining into thorns and vines. It scared her. I could see it in her eyes. But it didn’t scare me. "Linnea, you have to be careful," she would say. "Don’t let it control you." I hated the way she said it. Like I was a wild thing she was trying to tame. But that was always Brynja’s way, wasn’t it? She didn’t see the fire in the world. She saw the bloom. I saw the thorns.
When she finally went through the Naming Bloom, and Petalshroud became her name, I couldn’t help but feel like she was slipping away from me, becoming something unreachable. And yet, I still couldn’t hate her for it. I don’t know why I was so scared of what she was becoming. Maybe because, deep down, I knew the same magic called to me, but I couldn’t step into it the way she had. Her connection to Ophelia was soft, soothing, beautiful. My connection felt like lightning it cracked through everything, leaving destruction in its wake. It was destruction. It always had been.
But then came the Rite of Twin Blossoms. That night changed everything. I still remember the way Brynja looked in the Moonroot Clearing so gentle and soft in her robes, a walking bloom, like she had petals in her soul. And then there was me, wearing my leathers, my double-bladed bow at my back, thorns crawling up my arms like they wanted to tear the world apart. I couldn’t have looked more different from her if I’d tried. But the moment we both stepped forward, I felt it. The air shifted. It was like I could see everything. I felt Ophelia, but not as a separate thing anymore. I felt her as we stood together.
And I saw her the whole of her, not just the gentle bloom or the thorned warden. Ophelia was both. She was creation and destruction, tenderness and trial. I could feel that in my very bones. The moment we stood side by side in that clearing, I didn’t just feel like Brynja was my sister. I felt like we were one. I could see it now why she chose the Bloom, why I chose the Thorn. They weren’t enemies. They weren’t opposites.
They were the same. “Where petals fall, we rise. Where thorns grow, we stand.”
It wasn’t just a ritual. It was the truth. And as we stood there, together, I realized something we were one spirit, one oath, two halves of the same force. And for the first time, I felt like I didn’t have to fight it. I didn’t have to run from it. My thorns were just as much a part of the world as her blooms.
And that was okay.
About the Nektarefni
"The Couple in Stillcloth" A recollection spoken during the midsummer dusk, as Brynja tends to a moonflower vine curling along a weathered fence.
“I met them near the salt flats at the edge of Kaldrsví, the place where the air tastes like forgotten oceans and nothing grows unless it aches for it.” They were Nektarefni. I knew before they even spoke. The man was wrapped in full mannklæði, that ash-colored robe of submission, stitched tight across his throat. Only his hands and bare ankles showed, pale and still, like carved driftwood. His posture was quiet, like he was trying to make less space in the world. The woman, by contrast, stood proudly beside him. Not cruel, no, not cruel, but… certain. Like stone set in prayer. Her hair was uncovered, streaked with silver and tied with a strip of black linen. She wore loose sleeves and carried a reed basket filled with saltroot and firegrass. She greeted me first. “Peace on the path,” she said, voice strong, eyes sharp as late frost. Her husband said nothing. He bowed. His gaze never rose to meet mine.
They had traveled far, she told me, to collect herbs they could not find in the black dust of Fjallmórk. Sanctioned by the Circle, she added, as if afraid I might accuse them of disobedience. I offered water. She accepted. He did not drink until she handed the cup to him. “He does not speak unless I permit it,” she explained, gently. “It is not punishment. It is trust. His silence honors my voice.” I said nothing. I looked to him instead. His hands trembled slightly as he returned the cup. Not from fear. From years, perhaps, of holding everything in.
We sat for a time in the shade of a dying olive tree. I spoke of plants. She listened, politely. He listened, completely. At one point, I asked if he enjoyed the journey. She looked at him. He looked at her. She gave a nod. Only then did he speak. “The land is wide,” he said softly, “and I… I forget how large the sky is when I am beneath a roof.” That was all. A single sentence. But it filled the silence like wind through prayer flags.
When they left, she touched my shoulder in thanks. He bowed again. No words. “He is blessed,” she said. “He is hidden from temptation. He is whole in his obedience.” I smiled. Not in agreement, but in kindness. And as they vanished back into the mirage heat, I whispered after them: “May his silence never drown his soul.”
“On the Píslarvottar” Brynja speaking to a younger herbalist apprentice, after they find a withered hydrangea bloom beside a trail of blackened earth in the volcanic lowlands. “Be careful where you step in this land. These stones remember things the wind has long forgotten.” They call themselves the Píslarvottar, Witnesses of Sacrifice. Their home lies beyond the sulfur fields, in that place where the sun struggles to rise and the sky smells faintly of burnt marrow. I went there once. Not as a pilgrim. As a guest, though I’m still not sure they meant the word the way you and I would. They believe life is a debt. That breath itself must be paid for with pain, and that death, chosen and timed, is the only true offering that pleases the Gatekeeper. They live in discipline sharper than flint, in silence so thick it has teeth.
You will know when you are in their lands, the air carries the scent of Sjárhausinn, that bitter perfume of sacred death. Larkspur and aconite. Clematis and hydrangea. Poison, yes, but not just to the body. To joy. To spontaneity. To warmth. “They speak of sacrifice the way others speak of spring.” The kynslóð, their name for those who’ve reached the sacred age, what is it, seven ár? That’s about 45 by our count. They wear their years like a wick burning down to its final glow. You can see it in their eyes, some are peaceful. Resigned. Others carry the quiet panic of a soul boxed in too long. But it is not horror that lives there. Not entirely.
I met a Nefkauptari once, the Gatherer. She didn’t speak. Not directly. Her scribe did, though her eyes said more than words ever could. Pale things. Like the sky before a storm. She moved with the weight of her calling, not pride but purpose. She smelled of ash and root, like the forest floor in mourning. “She gathers death, yes. But she weeps for it, too. Not aloud. Never aloud. But you can see it in the way she doesn’t look at children.” There is a strange grace in their rituals. A beauty so stark it cuts. I watched as the kynslóð drank the Tribute, calm, unshaking. They believed, truly believed, that their ending was a beginning somewhere else. Not heaven. Not reincarnation. Just… balance restored. A ledger closed. Do I agree with them? No. But I understand them. In a world as fractured as Leann, where gods run late and mercy burns away in the sky, some souls cling to structure with both hands. They turn faith into iron because nothing else will hold them upright.
The Píslarvottar are not evil. They are not good. They are a story told too long in a language made of rules and grief. And sometimes, when the wind shifts and carries that bitter scent across the mountains, I wonder… how many lives must be surrendered before someone decides the debt is finally paid?
Linnea Thornheart on the Píslarvottar “The Píslarvottar… they walk a narrow, jagged line, like a vine choking a tree until it dies just to prove its own strength. I’ve heard their stories that life’s a debt paid in pain, and that death is the purest offering. But I say: if you must bleed for balance, bleed for something worth protecting. Not for an empty ledger or a god’s cold favor. They hold their discipline like a blade rigid, unyielding, and sharp enough to cut the spirit. And I won’t lie, that kind of iron will terrifies me. Not because I think they’re monsters, but because I know what happens when you let pain become your master instead of your teacher.
My path? It’s wild and thorny, yes, but it fights for life even the ugly parts. I protect the bloom, the fragile green growing through the rot. The Píslarvottar protect a version of death. I protect the chance to live after it. If I met one face to face, I wouldn’t draw my bow at once. I’d try to listen first. Maybe find the thorn beneath the sorrow, the wound that made them steel themselves so hard. Because pain is real, but it doesn’t have to be all there is. That’s what Ophelia taught me, that thorns aren’t just weapons. They’re also shields. And sometimes, the fiercest protection comes from letting something live where you thought only death could grow.”
Linnea Thornheart Reflects on Meeting the Nektarefni Couple “Meeting the Nektarefni couple was unlike anything I’d ever seen, especially the way the man wore the Mannklæði. That coarse, muted cloak, so plain and heavy, it almost seemed like a shackle more than clothing. It covered him from head to foot, leaving only his hands and feet bare, and even his face was hidden beneath a hood that shaded his eyes but never let them disappear entirely. The women of their sect wove the fabric themselves, rough, somber colors, like the earth in winter, and it felt like every thread carried the weight of their religion’s strictest demands. They told me how the Mannklæði wasn’t just a garment but a symbol, a reminder that men must serve silently and obey without question, never tempting women or daring to rise above their place. I could see the submission in the man’s posture, but also something else, a kind of quiet strength in that stillness. The sect’s rules seemed harsh, extreme even, but beneath it all, there was an unspoken complexity. The man wasn’t just hidden; he was watching, listening, ever alert. The eyes beneath the hood told a story of duty and restraint, a life lived beneath the surface yet still sharp and aware.
It made me think about power in ways I hadn’t before. I’ve always been wild, fierce, thorny, but here was a different kind of strength: patience, humility, and a relentless devotion born from subjugation. In the Nektarefni world, power isn’t always the roar of a battle cry or the flash of magic. Sometimes, it’s the quiet, unyielding chain that holds everything in place. I don’t know if I could ever live under such rules, my heart blooms with chaos and fire, but I came away with a respect for their conviction. They protect their society with their own kind of discipline. And maybe, sometimes, strength wears a mask of silence and submission. Brynja and I, our paths are different, but meeting them showed me that the world holds many faces of power, some thorned and wild, others bound in shadow.”
Brynja: “I’ve been thinking about that Nektarefni couple you met. The Mannklæði… it sounds like a heavy burden, not just physically but spiritually. It’s hard to imagine such strict control, binding a person so completely.” Linnea: “It is. But there was something deeper than just control. The man moved with quiet strength, even under all that cloth and shadow. His eyes, sharp and watchful, felt like they carried the weight of duty and something else. Maybe a kind of resistance, or acceptance forged into power. It’s not the freedom we know, but it’s a strength in its own right.” Brynja: “That’s the way of the Píslarvottar, isn’t it? The martyrs who endure suffering, wearing their pain as a form of sacrifice and protection. Their strength is different from the wild magic you and I wield, but it’s no less real.” Linnea: “Yeah. The Píslarvottar choose their chains to protect others, to shield what they love. The Nektarefni men wear theirs because they must, bound by doctrine and fear of tempting the women they serve. It makes me wonder how much power lies in submission, how much is given, and how much is taken.” Brynja: “Power is never simple. The Píslarvottar remind me that true strength sometimes means surrendering your own will for a higher purpose. But it’s a delicate balance, we risk losing ourselves in that surrender.” Linnea: “Exactly. I’ve always thought of my magic as thorny and fierce, something wild and defiant. But meeting the Nektarefni man, I saw another form of thorn: one that protects by hiding, by submission. It’s like different sides of the same spirit.” Brynja: “We each walk our own path, Linnea. Yours is wild and urgent, mine is calm and steady. But both paths honor protection, sacrifice, and strength, whether through open defiance or quiet endurance.” Linnea: “Maybe that’s what Ophelia means, there’s more than one way to fight, to protect. The Píslarvottar wear their pain as armor. The Nektarefni wear their silence as shield. And we… we carry our thorns, sharp and ready.” Brynja: “Together, we’re a garden of many blooms, and thorns.”
