Frigg: Queen of the Aesir (asynia_frigg) wrote in deities_dot_com, @ 2013-06-06 20:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | ~frigg, ~vidar |
Roving Along [tag: Vidar]
It was only June but Frigg was well into designing and planning -and in some cases starting, her Yule gifts. Most everything she did on her own. When she wanted wool, she went and examined the fiber and purchased it on her own. She would clean, card, dye and spin it all herself. No matter the modern conveniences and advances there was something incredibly satisfying in knowing that she had done it all herself. It somehow meant more to know that it was crafted with love from beginning to end. And she never accepted help. Not when it was a gift.
So her handmaidens didn't even offer assistance anymore when their Queen got that determined look in her eye.
Most of the land surrounding Fensalir was marshy and unsuitable for draping the freshly dyed wet roving she had in a basket on each hip over. If a wind caught it and it fell into the marsh... well if it was before the fiber had dried properly to set the dye it could ruin everything she'd done so far. Or worse... it would felt. So a fair walk through Asgard away from the wetlands there were a clump of trees that were strung up with rope like a cat's cradle where the ladies of Fensalir dried their fiber and finished items.
On her left hip was a basket of Peruvian Highland Wool blended partly with Alpaca in a rusty orange color and heathered with bits of dark gray. That was for a sweater for Hermod. Something striking in a complimentary color to make his eyes stand out, and bulky enough where he wouldn't have to always wear a coat when he would inevitably wear the sweater while working in his stables. That was the easy and happy basket of wool. Hermod was her son, her only living son now, and doting on him was expected. The other basket left her somewhat uneasy.
Frigg had flip-flopped on it for months. It probably wasn't going to be welcomed at all but it just wasn't sitting with her that she hadn't done something yet. So, the basket on her right hip had a roving of 100% Merino Wool that she had more or less painted than kettle dyed in a variegated pattern of blues in different shades. The darkest was almost black and the lightest nearly white. It would be dried and spun into a lace weight yarn that would be knit into the shawl she had sketched for reference. It would be lovely when finished and the Asyniur could only hope that Sigyn wouldn't toss the gift back in her face when she delivered it. Frigg had to at least try to make peace.
Sighing, she wasn't paying the closest attention to the ground in front of her. If she had, Frigg would have seen the sizable rock before her foot caught and tripped over it, sending her stumbling forward and fumbling her baskets. There was a momentary yelp of surprise as she scrambling to keep them from tipping. She didn't care if she skinned a knee, ripped her skirt or anything else... just as long as the baskets didn't spill or she'd be picking vegetation out of the wool for hours.
On her hands and knees, she leaned over to reach the basket of heavy, wet, blue Merino. Frigg turned sharply to grab the other basket, which had been precariously resting on an angle against her leg, and bumped it. Before she could grab it properly a few yards of the burnt orange wool roving tipped out onto the ground.
“Dammit.”