Freya Lynx

Deceit

You came here to confess. No sound can be heard, an oasis of pleasant solitude. Massive walls, elegant arcs, marble statues of heroes and saints, ages old. Quiet company, their judging eyes directed down, towards you.
The cold night sends shivers of reverence down your spine. A sound, startling. a soft, warm hand landing on your shoulder as you kneel on the bench, the hands still folded. You look up, trying to make out who it could be, at this time.

The strange person is basked in moonlight falling through an open arc far above. A female silhouette is all you can make out. Black garment, white and golden accents, a sister of the order of the way of white, undoubtedly. A saint, bestowing her blessing upon a sinner, a merciful angel. Once more you lower your head in prayer, once more silence draws it's veil over the empty cathedral. You raise your eyes after what feels like an eternity, the cold air making your body go numb, your heartbeat echoing in your ears at an unnatural volume. She is still there, you can feel her presence. Why?

The moon has long since moved on, no longer enveloping the sister in an aura of whiteness. Your eyes meet hers for a brief moment, orbs of a shimmering white, divine, yet free of emotion. A heavy scar the only mark on her pale skin. White horns, elegant and smooth, protruding from beneath the short, silver hair that falls into her face. Her hand rests gently on your cheek. How long has it been there? Warmth. Your mouth opens, lips forming words, questions, a plead. Nothing breaks the silence. A moment, frozen in time.

Her face is now close to yours, so close. Your body is still freezing but you pay it no mind. A spark, deep in her eyes, barely noticeable. The hint of emotion, hard to determine its nature. Then her lips find yours, her hands on your neck.
No love lies in the sudden act, no more warmth. No gentle touch, only hunger. Her body leaning into yours, fingers digging into skin. A assault, sudden, unnatural, impossible. The sensation slowly taking your consciousness you try clinging to reality. The night, the empty cathedral, the hard, wooden bench below your knees. Your mind begins to fade, your body deprived of its strength. A last glance upwards, into those shimmering, cold eyes, the beautiful face, then. Nothing.

Visions haunt your dream. Cold. Stone grinding against metal. Slow. The jarring clank of heavy chains.

The priestess

Eyes of a glowing white.
Silverish hair.
A fair complexion.

A voluptous body, fit to seduce and entrance all those she encounters, cautiously concealed by her robes.
Few bore witness to what she looks like below, even fewer yet able to report on it.

Her voice, sweet and gentle. It oozes with empathy, yet plants the seed of wicked desire deep within the hearts an minds of those subjected to it, unbeknownst to them.

Her character. Depraved, dangerous. Beauty as a trick, purity as a mask. Sadistic desire below, conceived by herself as the righteous will of her gods.
Punishment as elevation. Pain as reward. Lust as a tool. Sinners as subjects to her will, smiting them, using them, only for them to be reborn and serve as vessels for her ideas.







Freya, once a simple midlander. 6 feet in height. Well endowed to the point of leaving whoever she encounters lost for words, should they catch a glimpse. Scars on her face and body, the most notable one across her nose, a heavy strike from ages past. Her horns, elegantly curved upwards and hidden at will.

Surprising amounts of strength, putting the lie to how she is conceived. Armed usually with pieces of her array of whips, chains and riding crops, usually concealed.

Thank you

Thanks for reading!
Freya is a relatively new character, but I hold her very dear to me. I will expand on her in the future, hopefully.