💙10 - Sjá Yggdrasill [Runes of Wyrd]🤍

Ritual Viking joik, mystical and intimate, slow tempo, deeply atmospheric, Multiple female voices extremely close to the microphone, whispering, ASMR-style, soft spoken and breathy, creating a haunting spiritual presence, Polyphonic layering of voices in Old Norse, overlapping chants, fragmented phrases, hypnotic repetition, Strong stereo movement: voices shifting left to right, circling the listener, disorienting and immersive like spirits surrounding a ritual, Sound design: cold wind, distant ravens, subtle icy textures, natural ambience, No modern instruments, Minimalistic medieval Nordic textures only: faint drones, low resonance, organic soundscape, Mood: sacred, frozen, ethereal, trance-inducing, mysterious, Voices feel like ancient spirits guiding or watching, Production: ultra-clean, binaural feel, wide stereo field, high detail in breath and proximity, immersive spatial depth, ASMR clarity, delicate but haunting presence

V5.5

In the pic, from left to right
Blíðkanelhjarti alias Blíðki - Skörta's loyal companion
Skörta Eldrún – Princess and heir of Norway, daughter of King Håkon Eldrún, now new Queen of Norway

Album : https://suno.com/playlist/d3b85d17-41e5-4f6c-bfbc-4086191ed19e

💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍

The palace had emptied faster than tradition would have allowed.

The king’s death had stifled every voice, broken every impulse, and even the great halls seemed to hold their breath. Skörta had stood her ground, composed and unyielding, announcing rites worthy of her father, ceremonies meant to cleanse his soul and guide him to Valhalla. Her voice had trembled only slightly, just enough to reveal the human beneath the ruler.

Torstein had accepted without hesitation, almost relieved to cling to something tangible. Organizing, gathering, celebrating... and drinking, no doubt. That was a language he understood far better than grief.

But for Skörta, all of it was nothing more than a veil.

She already knew what had to be done.

Find an Andfuglsjá.

They had been hunted, burned, cast aside as abominations who sought to force their way into the realm of the gods. And yet, some had mastered that forbidden gift, stepping beyond the visible to understand what men, and even kings, refused to face.

They still existed. Hidden. Silent.

And Skörta had never truly stopped being one.

She wandered through her chambers for a moment, her thoughts too tangled to be ordered. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost weary.

“Where are you, Blíðkanelhjarti... You are never here when I need you... Blíðki?”

A faint movement near the window drew her attention. Two piercing eyes emerged from the shadows, followed by a sleek form slipping silently into the room.

“There you are...” she murmured, stepping closer. “We have to leave. Now.”

She wasted no time. A few vials, dried herbs, thick furs, and carefully chosen relics were gathered into a light pack. Nothing excessive. Only what mattered.

The night welcomed them without resistance as she left the palace, the cat held close against her.

“It has been a long time... since we last performed a Hrafnsálbinding...”

The Hrafnsálbinding was an ancient rite, nearly erased from memory, reserved for the Andfuglsjá. It was not merely about seeing, but about loosening one’s identity and binding it to that of the ravens, becoming both witness and messenger between worlds. The ritual required a Hrafnheimr, a place saturated with their presence, where their influence lingered in the air itself. The officiant would trace a circle of black feathers, mark their skin with ash, and anchor themselves to a living focal point capable of drawing the birds. Then came the silence... and the surrender.

Two days of travel carried her across a frozen wasteland, where the wind bit at her skin and the sky seemed stripped of all divine presence. Gradually, another sound replaced the cold: distant croaks that grew into a constant, oppressive chorus.

Skörta finally stopped, watching the ravens circling above a land locked in frost. The place held something ancient, a density that even the cold could not erase.

“We are here...”

She knelt with deliberate care, placing the black feathers in a circle, setting each relic with ritual precision. Blíðki remained still, as though he understood his role.

“I must find Yggdrasil... I cannot leave my father’s death unanswered.”

Her hands rested on the cat as she closed her eyes, letting her breath slow before reshaping it into something more instinctive, more animal. The wind shifted, the ravens answered, and the world began to bend around her without resistance.

The transition was not abrupt, but deep, like sinking into another layer of reality. Her perception widened, fractured, until she was no longer seeing through her own eyes.

She was flying.

The sky was no longer a limit, but a passage, and matter itself seemed less solid, more permeable. A dense mist formed ahead, unmoving, almost aware, before slowly tearing apart under her gaze.

Skuggadalr revealed itself.

A valley enclosed by black cliffs, absent from the world of men, hidden within a fold of reality itself. The silence there was heavy, filled with a presence beyond human understanding. Yet through the raven’s sight, everything became clear.

A cold green light bathed the valley, source unknown, and at its center stood Yggdrasil.

Not merely a tree, but a living presence, vast beyond reason. Its trunk seemed to pierce the heavens while its roots vanished into an endless abyss. The branches carried shifting runes, pulsing as though the wood itself could think and observe.

Shapes moved around it, indistinct, resisting any attempt to be defined.

It was then that Skörta felt it.

A tension.

Subtle, undeniable.

Something was not only being seen... something was seeing her in return.

Her mind wavered, caught in a pull she no longer fully controlled. In that instant, she understood with brutal clarity that she was nearing a dangerous threshold.

“I can... stay a little longer...”

But the thought no longer entirely belonged to her.

With a violent effort, she severed the link. Her body convulsed as she was torn back, and the frozen air crashed into her lungs. Her eyes opened to the physical world, the wind, the night... and Blíðki beneath her hands.

She remained still for a long moment, as though part of her had yet to return.

Then, in a low voice, deeper than before, she whispered:

“I saw it...”

Silence followed.

“We will have to tell them.”

💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍

Skuggi... (skuggi...) (skuggi...) (skuggi...) 
Hrafn... sjá... (sjá...) (sjá mig...)

Íss andar... (andar...) (andar...)
Blóð minnir... (minnir...) (hver ertu...)
Ég... nei... ég... (hver...) (hver er ég...)
Hrafn taka... (taka...) (sál...)

Sál bind... (bind...) (binda mig...)
Fjöður falla (falla...) (hér...)
Auga annarr... (annarr...) (sjá...)
Ég flýg... (flýg...) 
Nei... ekki ég... (ekki...)

Dalr... falinn... (falinn...) (ekki sé...)
Skugga dalr... (dalr...) 
Ljós grænt... (grænt...) (lifir...)
Rót djúp... (djúp...) (andar...)
Hann sér... (sér...) (sér mig...)

Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (Anda...)
Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) 
Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) 
Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...) 
Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (sjá mig!) (Anda...)
Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) 
Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) 
Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...)

Ég týnist... (týnist...) 
Hugr brotnar... (brotnar...) 
Vertu... kyrr... (kyrr...) (farðu ekki...)
Nei... ég... ég... (ég...)
Hann dregur... (dregur...) (niður...)

Andi... aftur... 
Lík vaknar... 
Kalt... svo kalt... 
Hrafn horfinn...
Ég sá... (sá...) (allt...)

Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (sjá mig...)
Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) 
Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) 
Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...) 
Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (sjá mig!) 
Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) 
Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) 
Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...)

Skuggi... (skuggi...)
Sér enn... (enn...)
Skuggi... (skuggi...)
Sér enn... (enn...)
Skuggi... (skuggi...)
Sér enn... (enn...)(enn...)(enn...)

7232/7500

In the pic, from left to right Blíðkanelhjarti alias Blíðki - Skörta's loyal companion Skörta Eldrún – Princess and heir of Norway, daughter of King Håkon Eldrún, now new Queen of Norway Album : https://suno.com/playlist/d3b85d17-41e5-4f6c-bfbc-4086191ed19e 💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍 The palace had emptied faster than tradition would have allowed. The king’s death had stifled every voice, broken every impulse, and even the great halls seemed to hold their breath. Skörta had stood her ground, composed and unyielding, announcing rites worthy of her father, ceremonies meant to cleanse his soul and guide him to Valhalla. Her voice had trembled only slightly, just enough to reveal the human beneath the ruler. Torstein had accepted without hesitation, almost relieved to cling to something tangible. Organizing, gathering, celebrating... and drinking, no doubt. That was a language he understood far better than grief. But for Skörta, all of it was nothing more than a veil. She already knew what had to be done. Find an Andfuglsjá. They had been hunted, burned, cast aside as abominations who sought to force their way into the realm of the gods. And yet, some had mastered that forbidden gift, stepping beyond the visible to understand what men, and even kings, refused to face. They still existed. Hidden. Silent. And Skörta had never truly stopped being one. She wandered through her chambers for a moment, her thoughts too tangled to be ordered. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, almost weary. “Where are you, Blíðkanelhjarti... You are never here when I need you... Blíðki?” A faint movement near the window drew her attention. Two piercing eyes emerged from the shadows, followed by a sleek form slipping silently into the room. “There you are...” she murmured, stepping closer. “We have to leave. Now.” She wasted no time. A few vials, dried herbs, thick furs, and carefully chosen relics were gathered into a light pack. Nothing excessive. Only what mattered. The night welcomed them without resistance as she left the palace, the cat held close against her. “It has been a long time... since we last performed a Hrafnsálbinding...” The Hrafnsálbinding was an ancient rite, nearly erased from memory, reserved for the Andfuglsjá. It was not merely about seeing, but about loosening one’s identity and binding it to that of the ravens, becoming both witness and messenger between worlds. The ritual required a Hrafnheimr, a place saturated with their presence, where their influence lingered in the air itself. The officiant would trace a circle of black feathers, mark their skin with ash, and anchor themselves to a living focal point capable of drawing the birds. Then came the silence... and the surrender. Two days of travel carried her across a frozen wasteland, where the wind bit at her skin and the sky seemed stripped of all divine presence. Gradually, another sound replaced the cold: distant croaks that grew into a constant, oppressive chorus. Skörta finally stopped, watching the ravens circling above a land locked in frost. The place held something ancient, a density that even the cold could not erase. “We are here...” She knelt with deliberate care, placing the black feathers in a circle, setting each relic with ritual precision. Blíðki remained still, as though he understood his role. “I must find Yggdrasil... I cannot leave my father’s death unanswered.” Her hands rested on the cat as she closed her eyes, letting her breath slow before reshaping it into something more instinctive, more animal. The wind shifted, the ravens answered, and the world began to bend around her without resistance. The transition was not abrupt, but deep, like sinking into another layer of reality. Her perception widened, fractured, until she was no longer seeing through her own eyes. She was flying. The sky was no longer a limit, but a passage, and matter itself seemed less solid, more permeable. A dense mist formed ahead, unmoving, almost aware, before slowly tearing apart under her gaze. Skuggadalr revealed itself. A valley enclosed by black cliffs, absent from the world of men, hidden within a fold of reality itself. The silence there was heavy, filled with a presence beyond human understanding. Yet through the raven’s sight, everything became clear. A cold green light bathed the valley, source unknown, and at its center stood Yggdrasil. Not merely a tree, but a living presence, vast beyond reason. Its trunk seemed to pierce the heavens while its roots vanished into an endless abyss. The branches carried shifting runes, pulsing as though the wood itself could think and observe. Shapes moved around it, indistinct, resisting any attempt to be defined. It was then that Skörta felt it. A tension. Subtle, undeniable. Something was not only being seen... something was seeing her in return. Her mind wavered, caught in a pull she no longer fully controlled. In that instant, she understood with brutal clarity that she was nearing a dangerous threshold. “I can... stay a little longer...” But the thought no longer entirely belonged to her. With a violent effort, she severed the link. Her body convulsed as she was torn back, and the frozen air crashed into her lungs. Her eyes opened to the physical world, the wind, the night... and Blíðki beneath her hands. She remained still for a long moment, as though part of her had yet to return. Then, in a low voice, deeper than before, she whispered: “I saw it...” Silence followed. “We will have to tell them.” 💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍💙🤍 Skuggi... (skuggi...) (skuggi...) (skuggi...) Hrafn... sjá... (sjá...) (sjá mig...) Íss andar... (andar...) (andar...) Blóð minnir... (minnir...) (hver ertu...) Ég... nei... ég... (hver...) (hver er ég...) Hrafn taka... (taka...) (sál...) Sál bind... (bind...) (binda mig...) Fjöður falla (falla...) (hér...) Auga annarr... (annarr...) (sjá...) Ég flýg... (flýg...) Nei... ekki ég... (ekki...) Dalr... falinn... (falinn...) (ekki sé...) Skugga dalr... (dalr...) Ljós grænt... (grænt...) (lifir...) Rót djúp... (djúp...) (andar...) Hann sér... (sér...) (sér mig...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (Anda...) Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (sjá mig!) (Anda...) Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...) Ég týnist... (týnist...) Hugr brotnar... (brotnar...) Vertu... kyrr... (kyrr...) (farðu ekki...) Nei... ég... ég... (ég...) Hann dregur... (dregur...) (niður...) Andi... aftur... Lík vaknar... Kalt... svo kalt... Hrafn horfinn... Ég sá... (sá...) (allt...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (sjá mig...) Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) (sjá mig!) Anda... anda... tré lifir (lifir...) Sjá... sjá... Yggdrasill (sjá mig...) Ekki snúa... ekki aftur (aftur...) Skuggi... (skuggi...) Sér enn... (enn...) Skuggi... (skuggi...) Sér enn... (enn...) Skuggi... (skuggi...) Sér enn... (enn...)(enn...)(enn...)

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