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.

Vetrnætr Colouring Page and Story

 

The Promise in the Winter: A Heathen Tale for Winter Nights

Long, long ago, in the shining halls of Asgard, there lived the God, Freyr. He was the God of sunshine, rain, and all the green things that grow. Wherever Freyr went flowers bloomed, and fields grew heavy with grain.

One day, Freyr climbed into Odin’s high seat, the magical throne from which one could see all the worlds. His eyes wandered far, beyond the homes of the Gods, until they rested on Jötunheim, the land of the Frost Giants.

There, walking in a garden of gold, was a maiden so radiant that the ice itself seemed to glitter with warmth. Her name was Gerðr. The moment Freyr saw her, his heart was captured like sunlight in a drop of dew.

---

Freyr could not eat.

Freyr could not sleep.

Even the sound of the wind in the fields seemed to whisper her name.

At last, he sent his loyal servant Skírnir to find Gerðr and tell her of his love. But Gerðr was cautious. She was of the Frost Giants, and Freyr was a God of the Vanir, living in Asgard with the Æsir. Their worlds were far apart.

Skírnir told her of Freyr’s kindness, his care for the land, and the joy he brought to both Gods and humans. He gave her gifts—precious apples from Iðunn’s orchard and a golden ring that produced more rings—and spoke of how life could bloom between them.

Still, Gerðr was hesitant to leave her home. Skírnir became impatient and angry and threatened Gerðr and her family with his sword. He threatened her with magic. 

Gerðr could see that Skírnir was not very wise, and that Freyr had been foolish to send him. However, she realized he was not as powerful as he was claiming to be. She could tell he was as scared of failing in his quest, as she was about leaving her home. She knew her life would be beautiful in Freyr’s lands, and that she was the one who had the power to decide what future she wanted.

At last, Gerðr agreed. She would meet Freyr… but not right away. She loved her home and wanted to properly bid it farewell.

She said, “In nine nights, in the green grove called Barri, we shall meet.”

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Nine nights! To Freyr, it felt like forever. The snow was already beginning to fall, and the fields lay sleeping beneath their white blankets. But Freyr waited with hope, for he knew that Gerðr’s coming meant the return of warmth to his lovesick heart, and also the promise of a new growing season on Midgard.

When the ninth night came, Freyr and Gerðr met in the grove. Frost was melted away by the sun in Midgard. When they joined hands, the land was blessed with the promise of life returning after the long winter.

---

So, every year at Winter Nights, when the fields are bare and the days grow short, the people remember Freyr and Gerðr. They give thanks for the harvest just gathered, honour the ancestors who came before, and look ahead to the coming Summer season.

They say:

“To Freyr, for frith and plenty!

To Gerðr, for the promise of growth!

To the Earth, for life anew.

Til árs ok friðar.!”

And though the snow may lie deep, Winter Nights reminds us that even in the coldest season, the seeds of Summer are already waiting below our feet.

The End.

Midsommar Colouring Page and Story

 

The Day Thor Got Married… Sort Of: A Heathen Tale for Midsummer

Long, long ago, when the days were long and the Sun hardly seemed to set, trouble came to the Gods.

One morning, Thor, the God of the Midsummer storms, reached for his mighty hammer Mjölnir—only to find it was gone! Without his hammer, the mountains would not shake, the storms would not roll, and the Jotunn might dare to attack.

Thor stormed into the hall of Freyja, the beautiful Goddess whose amber necklace shone light sunlight on summer fields. 

“Freyja! Lend me your feather cloak so I can fly to find my hammer!” he demanded.

But after some back and forth about if that would indeed work, it was Loki, clever and sly, who flew off to search. He soon returned with news:

“The giant Thrym has stolen Mjölnir. He will give it back… only if Freyja marries him.”

---

Freyja’s eyes blazed like fire.

“Marry that lout? Never!” she roared. Brisingamen rattled with anger about her neck.

The Gods gathered to plan. Heimdall, the watchman of the Gods, spoke up with a twinkle in his eye:

“If Thrym wants a bride, we shall give him one… Thor, you will be the bride!”

Thor’s jaw dropped. “Me?!”

But without his hammer, the land would not be safe—so eventually he agreed.

---

They dressed Thor in a bridal gown, draped him with Freyja’s shining necklace, and placed a bridal veil over his red beard. Loki, grinning from ear to ear, dressed as his bridesmaid.

Together they rode in a grand cart pulled by Thor’s goats, all the way to Jötunheim.

When Thrym saw “Freyja” arrive, he boasted of the treasures he had prepared. At the wedding feast, Thor ate an entire ox, eight salmon, and drank three barrels of mead.

“Such an appetite!” Thrym whispered.

“She has not eaten in eight days, so eager was she for the wedding,” Loki replied smoothly.

---

At last, Thrym brought forth Mjölnir to bless the “bride.” He placed it in Thor’s lap.

The thunder god seized the hammer, tore off the veil, and leapt to his feet. Lightning flashed, and with a roar, Thor sent the Jotunn running.

---

When Thor returned to Ásgard with his hammer, the Gods celebrated with a great feast under the Midsummer sun. They laughed, sang, and told the story of the day Thor wore a wedding dress to save the world.

---

So, at Midsummer, when the days are longest and the sun shines late into the night, we remember Thor’s “wedding.”

We feast, we laugh, we tell tales, we play games, and we celebrate the strength, cleverness, and joy that keep our world safe and bright.

We say:

“Hail Thor, protector of Midgard,

Mjolnir’s master, and good of the Midsummer storms!

Keep us safe and our lands fertile through the summer!”

And just as the Gods laughed together in the golden light, so do we, knowing the warmth will stay a little while longer before the Winter returns again.

The End.

Jól Colouring Page and Story

The Longest Night: A Heathen Tale for Jól

Long, long ago, when the world was young, the Gods watched that the Sol and Mani dance a circle through the sky, bringing Day and Night, Summer and Winter. But there was one night each year when darkness lingered longer than any other—the longest night.

The Gds knew this was a special time, for from that night onward, the Sun’s light would begin to grow again. And in that deep midwinter darkness, the worlds came closer together: the realm of the living, the realm of the dead, and the halls of the Gods.

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On that night, the Yule God, Odin, rode forth on Sleipnir, his eight-legged steed. He was joined by Freyja, the bright goddess of love, beauty, war, and magic.

Together, they led the Wild Hunt—a great host of riders and spirits that swept across the Winter sky. With them rode the honoured dead, our ancestors, who came to visit their kin by the flickering firelight, but there were also mischievous spirits who would play tricks on humankind if they were out after dark, and even malicious spirits who would chase humans through the night if they had the chance. It was easy to know when the Wild Hunt drew near because you could hear their shrieking on the wind. Humankind knew to stay inside. The honoured dead could always find their way around the hearth fire, but the other spirits could not come in out of the darkness unless someone foolish bade them.

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In the roots of the great tree Yggdrasil, the three Norns—Urðr, Verðandi, and Skuld—sat at their well. They wove the threads of fate for Gods and mortals alike into a rich tapestry, memory, becoming, and what shall be. On Jól, they listened closely to the voices of the living, for this was a night when wishes, oaths, and memories could weave themselves more strongly into the great tapestry of the nine worlds.

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So the people gathered in their homes. They lit bright fires to guide the ancestors’ way and set out food and drink to honour them. They left a little grain, hay, or bread for Sleipnir, and a strong cup of drink so Odin would bless their household with good fortune if he happened upon their home.

They sang songs to call the Sun back, told stories of the Gods, and spoke the names of those who had gone before them over the horn, so they would never be forgotten.

And when the night was darkest, they remembered:

“The sun will return.

The threads of fate are still being woven.

Our Kin, both living and dead, are with us still,

To keep us strong through the darkest time.”

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From that longest night onward, each day grew a little brighter. Jól was not just the turning of the Sun—it was the turning of the heart, the weaving of love, memory, and hope through all the worlds.

And so it is to this day:

We honour Odin for his wisdom,

Freyja for her love and magic,

The Norns for their weaving of fate,

And the honoured dead who celebrate beside us in the firelight.

The End.

 

Sigrblót Colouring Page and Story

 

How Summer Returned: A Heathen Tale for Sigrblót

Long, long ago, before there were trees or flowers, birds or bumblebees, or even you and me, there was only a great emptiness called Ginnungagap. Imagine looking as far as your eyes could see in every direction and there being nothing to see at all except darkness. To the north of this emptiness was a world of ice and snow called Niflheim, and to the south was a land of fire and heat called Muspelheim.

Where the cold and heat met, they hissed and steamed—and from that mist came a giant named Ymir, and a great cow named Auðumbla. The cow licked salty ice blocks and uncovered a new being: Búri, the first of the Gods. From him came more Gods, and soon, the world was made!

The Gods shaped the Earth from Ymir’s body: his flesh became the soil, his bones the mountains, his teeth the rocks, and his skull the sky. They named the world Midgard, and it became the home of humankind. Above it sat the world of Asgard, the home of the Gods known as the Æsir

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But in the far reaches of the sky, two great forces still battled each year: Winter, strong and cold, and Summer, bright and bold.

Winter was the time of the Jötunn. They made the nights long and the ground hard. A white cloak of frost draped over the Earth. It was a time of sickness and death. People huddled in their homes to stay safe, telling stories, and dreaming of warmth. 

Summer was the time of the shining goddess, Sól, riding a chariot pulled by fiery steeds. Her hair was woven with wildflowers, and when she rode across the sky, the frost melted beneath her wheels.

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Each year, the people waited to see who would win the battle, Winter or Summer. If Winter stayed too long, crops wouldn’t grow and food would be scarce. But if Summer won, the sun would shine again, animals would return, and seeds could be planted.

So the people gathered at the time of Sigrblót, the Victory Blessing, around the first full moon after the new moon after the Vernal Equinox. They sang songs, gave thanks to the Gods—especially Sól, the brilliant goddess of the Sun—and made offerings for a good growing season. They lit fires to chase away Winter's chill and welcomed Summer with feasts, songs, and games.

They said:

“Hail Sól, for victory over the Winter!

Bless us with your radiant rays, for good crops!

May we feel your warmth and life here upon Midgard!”

They knew that Sigrblót was not just about warriors winning battles—it was also about the warmth of the Sun winning over cold, light winning over darkness, health winning over sickness, and hope winning over fear.

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So, each year, when the snow begins to melt and tiny buds appear on the trees, remember the story of Summer's ride and Winter’s retreat. Celebrate Sigrblót by spending time outside, making ready the ground for planting, or thanking the Sun and the Earth for all they give us.

For just like the Gods shaped the world from the old, we too shape the new season with our hopes, our songs, and our joy.

The End.