The alpha dogs of Norse mythology: Sköll (Old Norse “Treachery”) is a wolf that chases the horses Árvakr and Alsviðr, that drag the chariot which contains the sun (Sól) through the sky every day, trying to eat her. Sköll has a brother, Hati, who chases Máni, the moon. At Ragnarök, both Sköll and Hati will succeed in their quests, after which Fenrir will break free from his bonds and kill Odin.
A concentration is a 12 piece project with a similar subject, idea, or evolution with a single or mixed medium.
For my project, I chose to do the undead carousel; a nostalgic being that both represents the childhood illusion and grandeur that comes with the innocence of youth, as well as the harsh reality and realization of truth with time. As the child grows up within us all, the old nostalgic creatures we dreamed of have been transformed by the twisting perception of time and experience. Nothing is nearly as fun as when you were a kid, after all.
TL;DR - I like skeletons and I have a twisted sense of humor. I used it to my advantage.
Made with microns on Bristol paper.
Gabrielle speace, 2013
First part of a project I’m doing this summer, a Viking era version of Beauty and the Beast.
Heres the Beast, (or Garreth), a frost giant who was cursed by Odin for his big ego and self confidence. Beauty is coming, as well as the first chapter of their story!
On another note, this is the best thing I’ve done digitally! :D
Sigyn was barely old enough to remember the great Æsir-Vanir War. But remember she did. Every last gory image was imprinted on her mind, though she did try hard to forget it all. Things would have been a lot simpler if her mind had chosen to block it all out.
When the people of Vanaheimr had refused to become one with Asgardia, the Æsir had become in accordance with a strange and unusual vow. They set upon destroying everything that had the mark of the Vanir. Clothing was cut to pieces and cast away, gold and silver was thrown into the river, the breastplates of the men were hacked to pieces, and great halls were torn down. The trappings of the horses were broken up, the horses themselves drowned in whirlpools, and the Vanir – men and women alike – with nooses around their necks hung from the trees - expressions of pure terror still etched upon their faces. The point was complete annihilation of Vanheimr. Thus, there was no treasure for the victors, and no mercy for the vanquished.
It was Heimdallr, the great seer, who had found her, hours after the last man had been slain, cold and half asleep underneath a pile of broken logs. The man, so large that when at the age of twelve no horse could carry him, frightened Sigyn, and she screamed out in terror as he grabbed her arm, and pulled her to her feet. Her screams died in her throat, however, when she had seen the seer’s eyes. The unbearable sadness in them told her that he had known that this day would come, and that the slaughter of their people was inevitable.
She had allowed him to lead her numbly through the carnage, to a gathering of Æsir warriors circled around a small group of Vanir prisoners. The Æsir parted to let Heimdallr and herself through, as everyone present knew the last two free Vanir people had no choice but to resign themselves to be prisoners. They immediately went to kneel behind Freyja and her kin, the leaders of the once great Vanir people. Though she knew that the Vanir had been utterly broken, Freyja had kept her head high, and her face void of emotion.
Sigyn tried to mimic her queen, but she could not keep from shivering. Though her head was bent in shame, she still prided herself for not crying; it was not a day for children. She hoped with all her might that all the Æsir present would die from strong drink while celebrating with immoderate joviality at the death of their helpless enemy later that night. Her thoughts were murderous, and the cloud of anger had had taken Sigyn a few moments to realize why they were al kneeling in the same direction. She looked up from the blood-caked earth into the one eye of the great and terrible Allfather. A gold patch concealed his other socket, and the corners of his mouth were turned down into a grimace. Not even the bloodthirsty warrior god had taken pleasure in the battle fought that day.
Her heart was never so full of hate as it was then, glaring upon the man responsible for so much destruction. She had them made a great vow she would likely not be able to keep. But like all five year olds, she had believed that anything was possible at that age. One day she would have their positions reversed. One day, she would see Óðinn kneeling before Freyja, or her successor, and he would be the one mourning the loss of his people and his home. This vow solidified in her then young, and rash mind as the Allfather began to speak.
“Disaster will always wait upon the Vanir, their maidens shall tread the path of exile, and the raven and wolf contend over their warrior-dead.” These words had haunted Sigyn’s dreams, and filled her with dread and fury that was only barely contained to keep herself from gouging out Óðinn’s remaining eye.
All these years later, and still the only thing she had done in way of rebellion was insist on staying Vanir, and be a Lady of the high court. Sigyn had done nothing to fulfill the promise she had made herself when she was still a child. At least not yet.
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