I watch her beauty more through shade and sight
A blend of twilight gold and purple fair,
She radiates an aura: liquid light
And passion warms her cheeks, along with care.
Her wistful dancing eyes of blue do dream
In colours rich and textures lined with sky,
So bold those lips of red do seem
But deep the quest in her to search is high.
The vision of a woman so divine,
Who fills the air with doves of sensual joy,
Is deepened by her spirit rich like wine
And strengthened by her will, though sometimes coy.
The perfect blends of poignance, poise and play
Of her I dream far more that I can say.








   Volva, seer, mystic, and medium, Anneliese does not remember her past. She doesn't remember her father or her mother, the life that they gave her. The time before she came to this place this world this land. She remembers very little, save for the mists, the voices and the visions that come to her, and even then, she has trouble keeping that reality from the hazy cloud of diviniation that she lives in. She remembers the old blind woman in her village, she remembers being young and kept at her feet as she spoke to the ancients and the spirits that roamed their world, and she remembers the lessons that she learned at her ancient feet, But only those moments shine clearly through the haze that hangs over her like a fog.

   She hears the voices, urging her to different places, calling her to the divine occupation that has been given to her, always aware of her special status, she knows that she is here to guide those on the earth to the path that The Ancients have laid before them. She's watched the Morrigan scream over fields of battle, seen Fenris run along the tundra and still she steps one foot in the spirit world and one in the real to make her way. Staying only as long as she is bidden leaving when the north wind blows on her back to push her to her next destination, her path is as cloudy to her as the rest of the mortals in the world.








   Now she is here in beware, the wind pushing her into the path of a Norseman by the name of Wulfgar, suspected to be a traitor in his court, she can not defend anything because she knows only what she is allowed to see. She has to earn his trust, and the trust of his men, as well as survive what this new and admittably scary world has to offer her. Armed only with her rituals and beliefs this Volva has to survive by her wits and skills.

    To earn trust, to survive, to wait for the north wind to come to her back again, To see the Morrigan and the valkyries ride the field, she lives only as she can and on her own terms. Let life bring what it may, let the spirits speak their will let her words be defined with honor and truth and justice. Too long the puppet of the whims of The Ancient, she has made her choice, to live life to the fullest, to fufill her oaths to those beyond, and to experiance those here. Life is a cup and should be drunk until it's dry, to turn her face into the fog and deny all that happens around her would be disgracing the gift given to her, and who would know that more than those who see the path of others?

   Beware is her battle field of choice, freedom and life are her cause and her world hanging in the balance of divinity and man. Remember the past, find the future her goals. The fog of her forgetfulness, of her detachment her enemy and she holds her spear high, her shield to her body and steps forward ready to be bloodied and bowed in this war. Nothing is worth anything if it is not tempered with experiance and wisdom.