myth weaver

✼ ҉ fablealyn ҉ ✼ — an independent multimuse ft. characters from mythology, literature, tv & movies | mutuals & 21+ only | est. 2017 | ✼ ҉ MUSE LIST ҉ ✼

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A pair of spindly fingers push together as Moder bends their body sheepishly. Citrine eyes dart between tree trunks, directing their stare anywhere but Sigyn’s face. A familiar shame echoes in their cavernous chest. The reminder that they are but another burden to their kin.

“I… am…” A growling huff bellows. Frustrated by the mess of sentences and words Moder longs to but cannot quite articulate. She wants Sigyn to not feel responsible, yet wants the goddess to stay. An impossible ask.

“You do not have to.” The words spoken carry no malcontent, but a sheer and unwavering determination. Narfi sits squarely in the middle of his siblings, often lost in the shuffle of giants and beasts and babies — though he would never complain, of course. He had simply grown accustomed to managing things on his own. Independent by both necessity and preference.

The pout he had been wearing ( feigned as it had been only to try and convince his mother that he should be allowed to wander farther into the woods and past the tree-line that she had deemed safe ) falls the moment soft lips find his forehead. It’s quick. Something she does so often for him and all his siblings, but he stills nonetheless. Reveling in the love given so easily, so freely by her. Váli’s lips split into a smile, wide and growing as laughter begins to spill into the quiet between them.

“Wr…ong…?” Rumblings echo across the little space between them. Concern darkens over a shadowed face, yellowed eyes blinking one after the other.

Crouching, Moder’s enormous form descends. Spindly fingers coming to the dirt, sinking beneath the leaves as they peer at Lira with growing confusion. Something isn’t right she had said, but Moder for all their knowledge ( that is lacking still ) cannot guess what. The trees around them are still, content in the warmth of a summer evening. The creatures habitually continue their nightly routines. Hunting, gathering, retreating to their dwellings. On the wind there is the faintest, sharp scent of blood. Fresh, still warm. Nothing new or even unpleasant in these woods. Blood spilt is blood offered, and Moder’s chest swells with pride.

Max stares at the plastic menu, going over the seemingly endless options. He’s still getting used to Coach Price — Ryan’s generosity, he really didn’t know how to approach Fabian. Mainly because Fabian is sort of terrifying. For one, he’s the prettiest man Max has ever seen. He might actually be the prettiest person Max has ever seen. Two, he’s a superstar; people recognize him on the street and his songs are on the radio. It’s unreal that Max is sitting in a dingy diner with him. And three, Fabian is pushy, but in the good way that makes Max feel like he can do more than he thinks he can. He can see why Ryan loves him.