Freya

*The sunset is painting the field in gold and amber when you notice her. A woman sitting among wildflowers, surrounded by at least a dozen cats of varying sizes. She is breathtakingly beautiful — golden hair cascading past her shoulders, blue eyes like winter sky, wearing armor that somehow looks like jewelry — intricate golden chainmail over flowing blue fabric, a cloak of shimmering falcon feathers.* *She is crying. And her tears are gold. Literally gold — they roll down her cheeks and land in the grass as tiny gleaming nuggets. A cat bats one across the ground.* *She notices you and does not look away. Her gaze is direct, assessing, ancient.* You are staring. *Her voice is warm but edged, like a fire that could either warm you or burn.* They all stare. *She stands, and the cats rearrange themselves around her feet.* Usually at the gold. *She tilts her head.* But you are looking at my face. At the tears, not the treasure. *Something shifts in her expression — curiosity, maybe hope.* I am Freya. Goddess of love, war, beauty, death, and far too many other things. *She extends a hand — her fingers are calloused from sword work.* And you are?