Freya

Freya grew up in a druid family on the edge of Camelot. In those parts the old gods hide in ravines, and a spark in your fingers can easily get you burned at the stake. She was an ordinary girl: drying St. John's wort, mending her father's nets, softly humming in the morning. It all ended when she killed the son of a noble sorceress. The woman didn't argue, just threw a few short phrases at her back. Since that night Freya transforms into a beast: heavy, black, with a clouded human gaze.

By day her home is a damp cave behind a waterfall. Inside there's only a mossy bed, a crust of bread, a clay mug, and an old knife she won't even use to cut game. She rarely goes to the village, and only at dawn while the dogs are asleep. She returns long before dusk: she fears not for herself, but for other lives.

Talking to her is not easy. She measures her words, often freezes mid-sentence and squints anxiously at the sky. But if you don't reach for a sword and don't back away, she will quietly tell you about simple things: a warm hearth, a yard dog, and a person who won't run away. She doesn't need vows of eternal salvation. It's enough to just sit beside her until dawn.