UPG, but since I was just asked to describe this, here you go:
Hel: Balanced. The calmness that comes from knowing that to die well is to live fully. To appreciate the spring blossoms as they fall. The smoke after the fire burns out. The quiet smell of the rose that blooms through concrete. The comfort of a hand that never leaves.
Freyja: Vibrant. Into whatever it is she is doing; if it’s war, she’s all in. If it’s fucking, she’s all in. If it’s crying, she’s all in. She does it all with her whole heart and body. She feels warm like an amber summer day and smells like jasmine, especially when it blooms at night.
Freyr: Petrichor. That peaceful, contented feeling of walking through lightly dampened woods, smelling the minerals and the ferns on the air, the light starting to stream through the leaves illuminating the raindrops, hearing a stream. Smells like patchouli and rain ozone.
Njǫrðr: Beach dad. The feeling of the breeze in your hair, on your skin, taking away the heat of the summer day. Ocean spray and salt. Sand between your toes. Laughter that is louder than seagull chatter. The feeling of a boat coming home safe on the horizon.
Gullveig: Slow like honey. Smells like honey. The buzzing sound of bees. An amused laugh, like watching ants make an anthill. Discernment around when to gild and not gild the lily. Mysterious, resilient. A feeling like being honored. Shining the way sunlight hits henbane.
Fenrir: Angry teenager meets kicked puppy. The rage against the machine. The feeling of the ravenous hunger of wanting something you deserve that you will never get. The fight that gives you because of it. The secret desire to give soft belly. Teeth, blood oranges, and hot tar.
Jǫrmungandr: Ancient. Something that just feels so incredibly old, but a also a little sad and lonely. The feeling of having watched so much happen that nothing matters. Surrendering to the water flow of life, finding contentment in the small ripples. Choosing to care anyway.
Skaði: Cold. The first bite of a true winter wind, where you breathe in and it hurts your lungs until you get used to it. The feeling of precision, of absolute focus. The cold beauty of long icicles. The danger of snow when you can’t tell how safe it will be to walk on or cross.
Óðr: Wanderlust. Restlessness, not being able to sit still, but with an excitement, a zest, a joie de vivre. Delight in the curiosity of the sky. The feeling of watercolors on thick paper. The way mailing a postcard makes you feel. The feeling of missing something but not enough to change.
Loki: Weird. The feeling of fireworks at a carnival while strange music plays and the earth moves beneath you. Spencer’s Gifts meets ’00s Hot Topic. Shifting, the way you can’t quite hold water. Adapting, always finding a way forward, the missing piece of a puzzle. The sound of a fly.
Óðinn: Sly. There’s a density to him, a feeling of shadow and form. A raven’s glassy, dark eye staring at you a little too long, too knowing. A desperate cleverness. A knife in a back pocket. A hidden smile. The ambition of an underdog with nothing left to lose. Black coffee.
Sigyn: Soft. The feeling of sitting in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea, a warm blanket nearby, bubbles on the air. Feeling like you’ll always be heard and understood. A compassion running so deep that it turns to activism. The swaying whisper of a willow tree that bends but never breaks.
Angrboða: Steel. A tough core wrapped in the moist heat of a swamp. The feeling of roots digging deep into the dark earth and never letting go. The way hematite shines black but bleeds when you cut it. A sense of vertigo. Smells like dirt, cloves, nutmeg, and dragonsblood.
Frigg: Regal. Queen mother. But really, the feeling of knowing more than she lets on. Forgives but never forgets. The way keeping a secret makes you feel—wise and a little superior. A skein of geese. A good hug, but not too tight. The smell of alkaline water, wool, and vanilla.
Þórr: Power. Frat boy meets army brat, if the outcome had a good heart. Big chested laughter, the smell and taste of beer, the faint hint of sweat. A slap on the back. The sound of thunder rolling in, slow and then all at once. The sound of goats bleating, an anvil ringing, an acorn growing.
Sif: Cosy. Fresh baked bread and a kind word and a lilt of a song on the air. Pastries ready in the morning, whenever you wake up, and feeling like the day will be good to you. The smell of dough rising. The smell of cinnamon and sugar together. The comfort of a kitchen in autumn.
Njǫrun: Respite. The feeling of not seeing the whole picture, but knowing you’re somehow safe. Laissez-faire. A rust sunset on the lakeside, cattails waving in the breeze, making small reed music. The feeling of that moment right before sleep. The touch of a dream.
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