Approved Veljara

eljara -

Freyja Ragnarsdóttir


Freyja stands 6 feet tall with a muscular build, a testament to her time spent in various gyms. Her shoulder-length blonde hair is usually kept up and out of the way, and her eyes can range from the warm blue of a summer sky to the frigid blue of an ice sheet. She boasts an impressive spread of tattoos covering her hands, arms, and back.

Enhanced Physique
Freyja's physical prowess can be described as "a bit above peak humanity". While her strength, endurance, and reaction time would technically be considered superhuman, they barely fit the definition. This does not come naturally to her, and Freyja is proud of the work she must put in to be at this level. The only innate part of her physique is her seeming immunity to heat. While she sweats and can feel heat, Freyja cannot overheat and flames don't leave any mark on her. A favorite trick of hers when the opportunity arises is to stoke a fire by adjusting the logs with her bare hands.

Gifts of the Past
Freyja can summon several ancient weapons at will, including swords, spears, and axes. She is proficient with them, and wields all of them with deadly skill. She can also read and speak not only Old Norse, but any languages that may have descended from it as well.

Bringer of

Veljara wields the fires of Muspelheim, donning her flame-drenched valkyrja form with but a word. She appears as an ashen-skinned valkyrie, her wing tips trailing into flame, an elaborate horned helm and mask covering most of her face. She wears minimal armor, preferring mobility over stalwart defense. In this form her physical abilities enhance even further, including her durability, to levels where she can easily pierce a man's chest with naught but her hands.

The flames that burn within her often seek an outlet, and Veljara is more than happy to oblige them, adding fire to her weaponry or simply wielding it as a weapon all its own. She can control the intensity of these flames as she likes, although hotter and brighter flames require more of her energy. The flames replenish over time, but she can also draw fire from this realm into her to fuel her reserves.

As a chooser of the slain, Veljara sends those that have died in battle to Fólkvangr or Valhalla. Or at least, she should. In actuality, the only deaths in battle that Veljara tends to are those against her. She takes those she has slain, and adds their essence to her flames. When she needs them, she can call them forward as fiery draugr to fight on her behalf, although they serve as little more than cannon fodder that seeks to kill. Whether they fight out of loyalty, force, or a desire to prove themselves so they may be sent to a better afterlife, none can say.
Code by Reyn
Header art by frostworksart
Sidebar art by Drawsouls
Last edited:

It started with a girl, as these stories often do. Raised by two historians, lovers of the ancient world, she was brought up on tales of old gods, of myths and legends. Yet her favorites were the tales of the Norse pantheon. Time and time again, the girl would ask her parents to retell the stories that she knew by heart, and they would lovingly oblige.

But again, as so often happens with these tales, darkness lay on the horizon. Their contracts ended, work was scarce. Sickness befell them both, and their loving daughter would have drowned herself in debts if it meant that she could save them. And yet she couldn't. It was weeks before she could return to that house, the one that was once so full of warmth and laughter, now empty save for herself and the ghosts of memories long past.

It was even longer before she could dare to enter the office that her parents shared. Part of her still believed that as long as that door remained shut, she could still pretend that they were simply hard at work, absorbed in the translation of some new runic text. But eventually the door was opened, the curtains drawn back, the mounds of untouched paper, work that was to be done later, threatening to have her just close the door and never return. She gathered it all, the half-written theses, copies of ancient texts, runes painstakingly copied with hand and ink, all of which meant nothing to her anymore. It all went outside, to a small pit in the backyard. There had been happier times here, times of laughter and marshmallows, tales of giants and men and monsters, her father's low gravely voice paired with the dancing flames reflecting in his eyes that made a younger girl squirm up against her mother for protection, yet still keeping her ears uncovered to hear more of the story.

As the last of the papers were hauled away, something was still left: a circle of stone, red and gold, runes circling the outside that she could not understand, nor did she have any desire to. The rune in the center was nothing special, what appeared as a capital M with extra lines. As she held it in her hand, hot tears ran down her cheeks. The paper was just that; notes, research, other work being consulted. This was tangible. This was what this office was being used for. Her fingers gripped it tight, too tight. Whether to ensure she didn't drop it or to shatter it in her grasp, she did not know. The sun had set by the time the girl had decided. She stood, returning to the backyard, and placed the stone in the papers. A match was struck, such a small, simple thing, and tossed into the papers.

And as the remains of her parents, of their work, burned, the girl let loose her grief. Wracking sobs, cries of anguish and sorrow, rivers of tears. The two most important people in the world had been taken from her, and all she wanted to do was to have them back. She didn't care if everything else collapsed, so long as they returned to her. She stayed by the fire for hours, a wretched display, until the embers were all that remained. Well, almost.

The stone, that cursed stone that she had thrown in, was whole, undamaged by the flame. But it was not unchanged. The runes encircling it were glowing, and the symbol in the center had changed, shrinking and being placed at the top of what almost looked like a winged key. Some force compelled her, although she knew not what, and the girl approached the embers, reaching out and grasping the stone.

Her mind was flooded, rapidly shifting images flickering along her synapses: gods, men, dwarves, elves, monsters, runes, realms. It all seared through her, veins glowing under her skin as if the blood were replaced with liquid flame. Her grief, her shattered sense of self, was reforged in that moment, molded, heated, and tempered into a white-hot anger. The world took her parents from her, and she was going to take what it she was owed.

You can't expect the gods to do all the work.
Code by Reyn