Disablót Colouring Page and Story

 

Disablót: The Night of the Wise Women

The wind that night was still, as though the whole world held its breath. The fire crackled low, its light painting long shadows across the stones. The air was thick with the scent of herbs—mugwort, meadowsweet, and juniper—offerings for the Disir, the mighty women who walk between the worlds.

Long ago, when the threads of fate tangled and the path ahead grew dark, Wayfinder Odin sought the wisdom of one who could see beyond time. Not a king, nor a warrior, nor a God’s counsel would do—he needed the sight of the Völva, the seeress who had been buried long before his time.

With his staff in hand and spells upon his tongue, Odin rode to the edge of the world, to the burial mound where she lay. He chanted runes over the Earth, his voice low but heavy with command.

"Wake, Wise Woman. Speak to me of what is, and what shall be."

The ground trembled, and from the deep came the voice of the Völva, slow as the turning of the seasons, strong as the roots of Yggdrasil. She rose, pale and cold, her eyes seeing through both the worlds of the living and the dead.

She spoke not only to Odin but to all who had ears to hear: of beginnings and endings, of the weaving of wyrd, of the fall of Gods and the rise of new days. She spoke of the Disir—the mothers, grandmothers, and foremothers who stand unseen beside their descendants, guiding hands and whispering warnings.

Odin listened, drinking in her counsel as though it were mead. He knew the price of such wisdom: it would weigh upon him. But knowledge was the coin of the Gods, or at least of Odin, and he would pay for it gladly.

When her voice faded and she sank back into the Earth, Odin stood alone beneath the dim starlight. Yet he did not feel alone—around him, in the rustle of the wind and the flicker of the firelight, the presence of the Disir could be felt. They had heard. They would remember, and share what they had heard with their Kin when it would be of aid to them.

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At Disablót, we call to the mighty women who came before us—mothers of blood and mothers of spirit, women of wisdom and will. Like Odin before the Völva, we seek their guidance. We lay out food and drink for them, we speak their names, and we listen for their counsel in dreams, in omens, in the quiet between heartbeats.

We say:

“Hail Mothers and Grandmothers, Hæl and well ancestors.

You are the breath on the wind. You are the smoke in the fire.

Share with us your wisdom, So we may live well.”

For the Disir are never truly gone. They whisper in the flames of our hearths, their voices echo behind our thoughts, they spin for us visions to light our paths forward.

The End.

Alfablót Colouring Page and Story

 

The Wise Head and the Hostage Oath - An Alfablót Story

Long ago, the Æsir and the Vanir waged war — not with mere skirmishes, but with the fury of Gods. Walls fell, fields burned, and even the sky seemed to bruise from the clash of their might.

Eventually it became clear neither side could claim victory. War wearied even the war-loving. So they made peace in the way of ancient kings; they traded hostages.

From the Æsir, went Hœnir, broad-shouldered and comely, swift of stride. With him went Mímir, the wise, whose thoughts ran deep as roots beneath the World Tree. To the Vanir, it seemed a fair trade — one leader, one counselor.

For a time, peace held. The Vanir made Hœnir a chieftain, trusting his decisions. But Hœnir, though strong and handsome, had little wit without Mímir’s counsel. Whenever a choice weighed heavy, he said only: "Let another decide — Mímir knows best."

The Vanir saw this and grew wroth. They felt cheated. So they took Mímir and struck off his head, sending it back to the Æsir with bitter words.

Odin, High One, took the head into his keeping. But he would not lay it to rest. Instead, he worked seiðr and sang galdr over it, anointing it with herbs and speaking secret runes. Thus Mímir’s head spoke again, and its counsel poured into Odin’s ear, guiding his steps in all the ages to come.

So it is that wisdom can outlast flesh,  that the voice of the dead may still serve the living. Odin claimed that counsel for himself — not for war alone, but for the shaping of the future, as a farmer saves the best seed from one harvest to plant in the next.

On this night, we pour the ale and call to the Alfar — the spirits of our fathers, forefathers, and their fathers before them.

We say:

“Hail Fathers and Grandfathers,

Hæl and well ancestors.

You and your wisdom are welcome

At our tables and in our hall.”

For though the bodies of our forefathers are gone, their counsel may yet guide us, if we have the courage to listen.

The End.

Haustblót Colouring Page and Story

 

The Apples of Autumn: A Heathen Tale for Haustblót

Long, long ago, when the leaves began to turn gold and red, there was a Goddess named Iðunn. She cared for a wooden box filled with shining golden apples. These were not ordinary apples—they gave the Gods their youth and strength.

Every so often, when the Gods began to feel tired or achy, they would visit Iðunn. She would hand them an apple, and with each bite they would feel the years melt away like frost in the morning sun.

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But far away, in Jötunheim, lived a greedy giant named Þjazi. He wanted the apples for himself. One day, he saw Loki, the craftiest of the Gods, walking with two companions.

In the shape of a great eagle, Þjazi swooped down, caught Loki in his talons, and carried him high into the sky. The wind roared in Loki’s ears as Þjazi spoke:

“I will let you go… if you promise to bring me Iðunn and her apples.”

Loki, knowing he could not escape the eagle’s grip, agreed—although his mind was already working on a plan.

---

Back in Ásgard, Loki went to Iðunn and said, “I saw apples growing outside the walls—apples even more beautiful than yours! You should bring your box and compare them.”

Trusting Loki, Iðunn followed him. But as soon as they stepped beyond the gates, Þjazi swooped down, seized Iðunn, and carried her away to his hall in Jötunheim.

---

Without Iðunn’s apples, the Gods began to wither. Their skin wrinkled, their hair turned grey, and their strength faded. They gathered in council, and their eyes turned to Loki.

“This is your doing,” they said. “Bring her back—or face our wrath!”

Loki borrowed Freyja’s falcon-feather cloak and flew to Jötunheim. There he found Iðunn alone. Using his magic, he turned her into a small nut, tucked her in his claws, and sped away toward Ásgard.

---

When Þjazi returned and saw Iðunn gone, he took his eagle shape and chased after them. The wind howled as the two sped through the sky—Loki ahead, Þjazi behind, so close that the tips of his wings almost brushed the falcon’s tail.

At the gates of Ásgard, the Gods lit a great fire. Loki darted over it, but when Þjazi tried to follow, his feathers caught the flames, and he fell from the sky.

---

Iðunn was restored to her true form, and the Gods bit into her apples once more. Strength and youth flowed back into them like mead into a horn.

---

So, at Haustblót, when the fields are bare and the harvest is gathered, we give thanks for the fruits of the Earth and the gifts that keep us strong through the dark months ahead. We remember Iðunn’s apples, the wit of Loki, and the courage it takes to bring life back when it is nearly lost.

We say:

“To Iðunn, for life’s sweetness!

To Loki, for cleverness in dark times!

To the harvest, for the strength to see us through the winter!”

And as the apples are stored and the grain is stacked, we know that—just as Iðunn returned—life will return again after the dark time.

The End.

Groablót Colouring Page and Story

 

The Ploughing of Gefjon: A Groablót Story

Long ago, when the world was still young and the fields had yet to feel the first cut of a plough, the Goddess Gefjon wandered through the lands of men. She was a giver of bounty, a bringer of fertile soil, and wherever her foot fell, green things sprang up behind her.

One day, Gefjon came to the court of King Gylfi of Sweden. He was a wise king, fond of riddles, and welcomed her with feasting. The two spoke long into the night, and Gefjon’s bright mind and keen wit delighted the king. Amused and impressed, Gylfi offered her a gift:

"Take from me whatever land you can plough in a single day and night."

Gefjon’s eyes glimmered like sunlight on new leaves. She left the hall, journeying far into the Otherworld, to the halls of the Jötunn, where her four great sons dwelt. They were strong as mountains and oxen both, for their father was a Jötunn. She yoked them to a plough of iron, and they came willingly, knowing the work would honour their mother.

At Gefjon’s call, the four sons strained against the Earth. The ground split and turned beneath them, rich black soil curling like waves behind the plough. Through hills and meadows they tore, pulling a great island free from the heart of Sweden. Streams ran in the furrows, and lakes welled up in the wake of the cut.

By the time the sun set and rose again, Gefjon had pulled the land into the sea. Her four sons dragged it far, and it settled in the waters where it rests to this day — the green isle of Zealand.

Gefjon set her new island in the sun, sowing it with seed. Barley grew where her hands scattered the grain. Wheat bent in the breeze where her plough had passed. She taught the people to till the soil, to honour the land spirits, and to plant with care so that every seed might wake in the long days of Summer.

And so, in early Summer, when the Earth softens and the plough turns the first furrow, we remember Gefjon. 

We say:

“Hail to Gefjon, strong oxen Goddess,

Tiller of the rich soil of Midgard.

May this land be fertile,

And what we sow here grow in abundance.”

We give thanks for fertile soil, for the work of strong hands, and for the promise that what is planted under her wise gaze will rise in plenty.

The End.