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#1 muse that should not cook:
hel
you pour the soup she made with love into a houseplant and it immediately explodes with like bad png effects overlay
shit's wretched
love yourself. say no to a hel-cooked meal
she rots living material around her. the food is actively degenerating, molding, rotting as she handles it. subtly. but persistently
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someone: i think i'm falling for you. hel, snarling: get up.
posts about pheromones on dash. reminder part of hel's humanoid beast nature is that she can smell pheromones.
hel can smell the sunday horny.
it's always monsters raised among humans and never the humanoid among the monsters. her father is the flame and her mother is the land, her brothers are serpent and wolf, are stallion, are boys playing a thousand roles depending on who perceives them -- but hel is ever hel. her shoulders scream for want of wings. she has talons at odds with the softness of her small, queer hands. she has no fur, only what grows from her head and lines her brow. it's how her parents burn and her parents grow but she is forever stagnant, winter incarnate, everything she might have been in the promise of spring buried under the tundra. it's how she looks around for something to make her worthy, to make her belong, something sharp and able to fight and make demands of the world -- and she never finds it in her own eyes.
"Oh, good, company," Hel notes, tilting her head in greeting. The sigils upon the floor bind them to the spot, but at least Hel doesn't have to endure the moment alone any longer. Rubbing at her arms, she drags her eyes up and down Meg. Their surroundings, a dingy garage, offers little explanation for their presence.
"As best I can tell, the our host is throwing everything at the wall and seeing what sticks. Bit... Dweebish," Hel confesses conspiratorially. "Amazing penmanship on his runes, but not in the mood for conversation. Tries to make demands. Fancies himself a Faust, I think. Meddling with what he can't easily dismiss, expecting gold and oil..." Her expression is chagrined as she looks back to Me. "I fear it's my fault you're here -- I said these things were more the purview of your folk." // @bitchheroine
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dark woods… thick mists… stark snow… drab grey exteriors… a sense of decay and starvation to the landscape… the fuckin veiled witch in the hollow… it’s all so hel.
Queen Frigg has been talking up her niece-by-marriage all night and has helpfully left some surveys by the exit --
“Every man I meet wants to protect me. I can't figure out what from.” Wanda for Hel // @luxsclaris
"Historically? Yourself."
Yet it is not Wanda she condemns. Idling her hand in the candy bowl, she hums, imagining every man could be as sweet. Lilting her head, she leans forward.
"You're too sad, or too vapid, too solemn, then at once too guileless. You don't know how to live -- what solitary creature does, to them? We are too much so we must be brought below their level. We are too little so we must be the backdrop to their glimmering mercy. Do you ever read Warsan Shire?"
There was an excellent poem on the subject. Even so, Hel thinks about creatures like them. Not poets. Creatures whose power extended beyond written word.
Creature whose power unsettles.
"We are victims of what we control to them. They cannot imagine us equals. At a glance, they somehow understand the weight of it, and what luck -- their shoulders are just powerful enough to bear the load for us. Surely we can't. So that makes them brave, instead of entitled."
