Freya Baggins

~History~ When she was born, Freya was a seemingly normal elven infant, calm and quiet, with a quick smile and silvery laugh. However, all semblance of normality shattered when, at the slightest annoyance, her eyes turned blood-red and her fair infant face twisted into a grimace of utter fury. Scared and bewildered, her parents consulted a healer, but nothing could be done except to make sure that Freya did not become irritated. This plan went well until she was 10 years old. Freya’s eldest brother delighted in tormenting his younger siblings, and though he knew that she was not to be annoyed, he could not help himself. Freya imperiously ignored him for a while, but the last straw came in the latter part of the summer of her tenth year. Her brother had, against the will of his parents, gone with some friends to the village tavern and had come home, bold and dreadfully drunk. Finding that Freya was the only one in the house, he proceeded to harass her and ordered her to do mundane household chores repeatedly, insisting all the while that he was her master. Finally, she could take no more. Before her brother’s horrified eyes, her berserker form took hold and she leaped across the room, grabbing a kitchen knife on the way. That night, when her parents came home, they found her kneeling on the floor, laughing and weeping in turns at the feet of her dead brother, bloody knife still in hand. Though Freya had gruesomely murdered her brother, her parents did not have the heart to take her to be executed. Instead, they blindfolded her and dragged her to the fringes of the wild forest, where they let her go. Insane and alone, Freya wandered aimlessly for 3 years, eating whatever she could find, her berserk tendencies protecting her. During this time she forgot what had brought her to the forest in the first place. One day in the early spring of her thirteenth year, Freya stumbled on a ramshackle hut in the heart of the forest. There she met a reclusive and elderly wood elf, who, taking her in, succeeded in curing her madness, but was unable to dispel her berserker nature. Freya had no remembrance of her past, though in the years to follow she would have flashbacks of a life other than that which she had believed herself to live. The wood-elf taught Freya the art of being an herbalist and healer, as she had no children to pass her former trade on to. When the elf died, 3 years after Freya first met her; Freya left the forest for the world beyond the fringes. Living a simple, wandering life as a traveling healer, she gathered information about the world she never truly knew until recently. In her wanderings, she stumbled across the Pen Keep and decided that she would rather live here than anywhere else.

~Brief Description~ Freya Baranfinnel (or Freya B. as some call her) is an unnaturally short elf with a temper to match. She has a tendency to madness and has a hard time making friends. Her occupation is that of a healer, though she doesn't practice the art very much anymore. In the past she has built up her reputation as a little bit of a trickster.

Author's note: Just a random little thing that has been lurking on my hard drive for about a month or two... Land of the Fae As the moonbeams rise From over the hill And the sun is biding low I make my way To the fae’s golden glade Where the softest fern doth grow And there I dance until the dawn Until the moon doth sink And then I travel home again To sit silently and think. And when the day is done again, I swiftly do return To the golden glade of the gentle fair fae Where the softest fern doth grow.

A slight figure slipped out of a doorway and into the hall. Glancing furtively around, she made sure no one could see to identify her. She grinned, then pulled two cans of paint and a massive paintbrush from under her cloak. The sound of humming, interspersed with giggles, soon filled the hall as Freya dipped her paintbrush into blood-red paint, then swept it onto the wall with elegant cursive strokes. Pulling another, clean, paintbrush out of her cloak, she outlined her previous artwork with gold-tinted semi-tranparent glitter-paint. A mischevious smile could be seen on the diminuative elf's face as she gathered her supplies and fled the "crime" scene. The only evidence that she had ever been there: a slightly illegible, very sloppy piece of graffiti reading, Berserk Healer Elf 2-16-09 OOC: I hope it's ok for me to post this here... I'm still an Initiate...

*giggles* Tumbleweed... and "You stole my sake set!" I like.

First one This is so much better when it is sung, but here we go… A Young Woman’s Hope Butterflies on the hilltop, birds flutter through air, as I sit on this hillock, trying not to despair. Butterflies scatter swiftly, birds fly far away, as I stand, sad and silent, in the twilight of May. For you left without saying, goodbye to me, for you left without warning, to sail the sea. You, my dearest beloved, have broken my heart, I hope you are faithful, while we are apart. Now I see you a-coming from over the rise, love in your smile, warmth in your eyes. I know you’ve been faithful, you’ve been true to me, even through your long journey, from over the sea. You pick me up, and swing me around, I thought I had lost you, but now you are found. We soon will be married and go hand in hand, wherever the currents shall cause us to land.

You nailed that one. That's exactally what I was referring to. "Obvious to all but them." Wish that wasn't true. (forget I said that, JK!)

Yeah, I notice that about a lot of my poems I can never get the rhyme scheme to be quite as flowey as I want. Two things here a)I am odd in that I use olden lauguage more than a lot of people, and the person is a fool because they hold on even after they have been rejected. Does that make sense?

When last I sent a Valentine, I thought the world of you, but now my heart is broken, I know not what to do. Take back your empty words, Take back your empty lies, I never wish to see your face before my red-rimmed eyes. My heart belonged to you, you crushed it in your grasp, and now I must plead and beg, "Please, release your clasp!" Release my heart, O foolish one, Leave, and come no more, For I do long for freedom, as I've never longed before. When last I sent a Valentine, I thought the world of you, but now my heart is broken, I know not what to do.

In an old attic, covered in inches of thick, impenetrable dust, lays a chest. The chest itself is unobtrusive, scarred with age, and totally unremarkable. The hinges appear to be rusted shut, the latch weak, and the wood brittle. However, this cryptic message seared into the lid deters most inquisitive folk: Those who saw and opened, May wish they never had, While those who saw and didn’t, Forevermore be glad. A message to be well heeded, for the tale of this chest is one of horror and total insanity, one of utter despicability. How do I know? Because I am the one who made it so, the one who strikes fear into the hearts of those who choose to open the dreaded chest. I was once a rich and prosperous merchant, a man well respected by the general populous. Those few famous I would condescend to familiarize myself with were the elite and the disgustingly wealthy. They each owned several huge mansions, and threw elaborate parties, where they gave away objects of great value for no more than the promise of a “private party” later. The immorality that abounded was inconceivable. I was in the thick of it all, partying until I could no longer stand, making myself sick with my corruption. No one can live like that for long and not feel the agony which consumes the body, the numbing of the mind and heart. Insanity soon follows close on your heels. One day it happened. I simply snapped. My normal calm composure was gone and a loony but sinister smile covered my face. I would disappear into my basement workshop for days on end, then would reappear and burn whatever I had made. Finally, I stumbled out, dragging behind me a large wooden chest. This I loaded into my car and drove to a small country house, which my family had owned for generations. I dragged it laboriously up to the attic, each pounding step echoing my own beating heart. In the attic I set it down next to a trapdoor that led to a room below that contained no doors or windows, just four walls and some bones. Then I crouched behind a large box and waited. My first victim was not long in coming, as I had invited him. A puzzled look covered his immaculately groomed features, and his manicured hand reached out to touch the chest, opening it up. His look of puzzlement turned to horror as the smell of rotting flesh filled the room, wafting up from the decomposing body lying in the chest. My victim turned to run, but had not gone three steps when I came up behind him and smote him on the back of the neck, instantly killing him. I threw him down the trapdoor, a grim look on my face. Many pass through now that I do not harm, but those I once knew, well, they are in great danger of meeting the fate of that first victim.