Raise the spirit of freedom

Skaði's features become less human as the winter progresses. They are more defined, harsher, as if carved by a chisel-wielding sculptor who has only passing knowledge of the subtleties of human flesh in the layers of skin, muscle and bone that make up face and body.

Under the skin--under the fine, treacherous dusting of snow--lies ice and stone, sharp, cruel, unrelentless, shaped by the elements; ice always stronger than stone, loud booms as the very mountains shatter under the biting cold. Beautiful wonderlands that literally steal the breath away, freezing the lungs of the onlookers.

She is counted among the Ásynjur, yet there is no taming of her gýgr nature under another name. Winter may be endured but not controlled.

Baleful Skaði, Lady of Winter, may not control the season as she once did in her perhaps-namesake homeland. However, for as long as time circles itself, she will not reflect the season--she will be the season.

[locked: inbred mutt Perses]

The ski runs are open at Whiteface. Bring the family, dress warmly, etc..

[/locked]

[locked: Perses]

We had a deal going, mutt. Your very likely drunkenness at the time does not excuse you from it. Time's up.

[/locked]

She has no use for a goat. For a moment, she considers chopping it down and feeding it to Snake, but there is something that demands payback.

He has a goat brother. It shouldn't be so hard taking care of a new member of the family.

Friday morning proves that Skadi has not yet forgotten how to fluently swear in German, Italian, French or Romansh, the languages entwined in long chains of obscenities. Switzerland isn't just about climbing mountains.

Skadi spends the summer months in semi-dormancy. It is easier just to fall asleep, to let herself go, rather than staying awake and forget what she is. Technology helps, of course, and her house in the mountain range is kept just above freezing. Electricity bills are inconsequential when survival is the concern. However, it is not enough, for outside Sol shines fiercely and the ice has long been swallowed by the bowels of the earth.

She has always been a warrior, and will not allow summer heat to put her down without fighting it every inch of the way. Weakness is not shameful, if learned with and exploited in one's favor.

( Perses )

A 13-year-old boy is the youngest person to have ever climbed the Everest.

There are no limits, if the soul is large enough to encompass the sky and the stars. Dream on.

Now all hopes are on accidents for the fools who try to reproduce the feat. Blood is always sacrifice.

( Figure Skating )

Headaches are starting anew, too soon by far. Never could last; three months, no more. But steal those moments here and there.

They would still be facing walls of snow and ice back home. Here, they call end of the world to a few hours' worth of blissful white.


They have slowed, lying dormant like plants in winter. But the Earth does not wait, sisters. We dance again with the flames soon.

( Biathlon medals and schedule )

This is driving me crazy. So close, and yet so far away, a line that can't be crossed.

Luge athlete Nodar Kumaritashvili died during a practice run on the 12th. Such a brutal death reminds people of the ever-present risks when dealing in extreme sports. These Olympics are marked by his passing, but the sports live always on.

14 days. At long last. Time to return to Whiteface, the weather calls and home the store needs me.

Anyone wants to go skiing or snowboarding? Or just a good, plain old snowball fight in the mountains? There isn't much snow in the ground yet, but I can pull a few strings.

Dress warmly. Don't mind the wolves.


Hmm. Anyone willing to petsit a snake for a week or so?

I have a new friend to keep me warm. The contrast of pale scales against black fur is gorgeous, and the texture only surpassed by that of spiked icicles.

38 days to go, and my heart welcomes the impending darkness. Though Sól keeps shining during the months of darkness - how I miss the longest nights! - her light is bearable once more, and the ice lurks, awaiting to renew its hold.

Some things are better than golden apples, if one looks for the right spice.

New York, New York. You're not home, so I bring back a taste of it to your halls.

91 days to go.

I've waited too long. The 'Dacks are waiting, and so is my bow. I wish for a new fur the color of night to warm my bed.

The early season is on, and the tracks are running cold. Come, my sisters and brothers, let us dance.

119 days to go.

Time stretches and refuses to pass. Glass is not ice, it does not sing and crackle and thunder. But it has to do, as the calendar days stay on the wall even as the numbers move along.

The worst is over and Fall is not far off. Rejoice and dance, my sisters, I will be coming for you soon.

Every year warmer, the bill is always due.


Hunt and shatter and clean.

My, my, is Mrs. Claus knitting more this year, Santa dear? Because I sure want one like this.

( Image under cut )

144 days to go. 144 too many.

No matter how much I crank up the AC, it's not enough. With the weather as it is, living in a freezer would be an improvement. You will never find me complaining about the winter, but the summer? Horrible season.

Snake is happy. I am not. I need icicles to shove them through someone's heart, anyone.

Nothing to be done about it, yet I cannot help being grumpy.

Just a little snow? Please? To break the monotony?

The earth is not dying, it is being killed. And those that are killing it have names and addresses.

What are you doing tonight?


Nightfall. It's hunting time.

152 days to go.

My wintergreen bushes are withering. This weather is inclement on them and on myself. Thunderstorms aren't enough, much less rain - I need rain, blistering frost, a fierce blizzard, the sky crackling and crashing around the mountains.

This heat makes me dull, apathetic, slow. I miss the vibrancy of a crisp morning covered in sheets of smooth ice. It feels as if the outer layers of my skin are peeling off, as the sun melts the glacial ice in them.

On the other hand, Snake revels in the season. He basks in the pools of sunlight by the windows, and the shine on his green and blue scales is gorgeous. Lounging on the bed with his coils wrapped around me reminds me of good old times.

I have a killer headache, and not even being inside, away from the heat, is helping it.

Perhaps it is time to return to White Face. If this weather believes it will chase my off the city, I have a bridge to sell it.


Drinking might help. Or at least mingle beautifully into the pain already in place.

158 days to go.

It's still too hot, but there is a chance of thunderstorms tonight.

Anyone up for a hunting dance?