#vittror

[mattievictoria]

In Najran province of Saudi Arabia, carved in sandstone at the peak of a 200-meter hill facing east, is a petroglyph of a female figure. A petroglyph of a Mother Goddess that when lit by the rising sun, can be seen for miles on end. Over 4,000 miles north from Najran province, on Salisbury Plains in Wiltshire, England, one can find the world-famous Stonehenge— a circle of megaliths thought to be everything from an astronomical clock to a place of healing. Rocks and minerals are all around us, a part of common, everyday life and for time immemorial, our ancestors have prescribed them significant meaning. Since picking up rockhounding during the Pandemic as a way to get outside and still practice social distancing, I’ve become more and more interested in rock folklore which each excursion I take into some defunct mine or rock outcropping. As an artist and life-long folklore and mythology enthusiast, I’ve noticed that when it comes to nature lore, people are, in general, more interested in the lore surrounding things like trees and flowers. While I do love plant lore, the past year or so has seen me diving into the myths associated with rocks, mines and caves. I knew I needed a space to prattle on about my deep-dives, and thus the idea to write this little article was born!

First and foremost, I have to talk about the vittror (plural form of the singular vittra) a type of vættr, or nature spirit, found throughout Scandinavian folklore. I love the stories of the vættr, one of my favorite aspects of the stories being that the vittror can be found living in rocks and trees, and have the ability to harm humans who trespass into their domain. A vittersten is the name given to a boulder or rock formation that a vittra has claimed as their home. All vittror live along leylines called vittervägar, and it’s said that at the points where these leylines intersect, the veil is thinner. Supernatural happenings are more likely to occur in these spots, as well as accidents, illnesses and even death. A vittersten may lie at the intersection of one of these supernatural crossroads, and if you find yourself at such a dubious place, well… you’d best be careful. If you disturb a rock or a tree that a vittra calls home, you may find yourself with a newly-fabricated curse placed upon your person. If you find that you feel a sudden wave of nausea, a chill, or any kind of discomfort, it means you have disturbed a vittra. The best way to remedy this is to apologize to the vittra that you have offended, or leave offerings. There are stories of entire construction projects being re-routed or stopped altogether because the development of that area upset the particular vittra living there. So be careful, because you may find yourself on a hike with the need to relieve yourself behind a rock formation for some privacy… perhaps you are accidentally befouling the site a vittersten!

Another one of the more fascinating stones that have a particular folklore attached to them is the adder stone. The adder stone is a small rock with a naturally occurring hole bored completely through the center. Adder stones have a glassy quality and are usually flint, though in ancient times they were thought to be created from snake saliva, hence their name. Pliny the Elder wrote that adder stones were important to druids, and even until recent times, the adder stone has held a great importance in the British Isles. In England, they’re called Hag Stones, and in Scotland, Mare-Stanes, because it was said that whoever possessed one of these supernatural stones was immune to visits from the Mare or Hag, a vicious being that was said to sit on its victims’ chests while they sleep, causing them to have nightmares. In Scotland, Mare-Stanes were often kept near beds to prevent such night terrors, but they would also be kept on an individual’s person. They had other uses, too, such as being tied up in barns to ensure that a pregnant cow births her calf safely. One interesting story is that of a particular Mare-Stane with two human teeth affixed in the center hole of the stone, bequeathed to a villager of Marykirk, Scotland by an old woman who used the stone as a nightmare deterrent for some 70 years.

If we take a step back from the folklore surrounding individual rocks, and into the place where rocks are taken from the earth, you’ll find that mines of all varieties have a plethora of legend and lore associated with them. Being from California, I have heard many a tale of haunted mines and ghostly prospectors. I have visited the outskirts of the now decommissioned Emma Mine in Acton, California (about 50 miles north of Downtown Los Angeles) and have become intrigued by stories of old and forlorn mines. My interest especially piqued a few months ago when I read a passage from a 1959 article titled Tales of the Supernatural by J. H. Adamson for the Western Folklore journal. There was a passage about a mining site in Utah in particular that caught my eye:

“In another instance, a place was discovered to be demonic, not because of ghostly inhabitants, but rather because of a vein of ore possessed the strange property of drawing all the strength out of the bodies of those who approached it, leaving them weak, helpless and unable to stand.”

Something I discovered during my research I had no idea was a thing (for lack of a better word), was the amount of religious shrines built at mines, mostly to mother goddess and earth goddess figures. This concept of miners descending into the earth’s womb to retrieve precious materials as a highly spiritual and sacred practice makes a lot of sense in hindsight when I thought more about it. In fact, The Egyptian word bi not only translates to mineshaft, but to uterus as well. This was a practice wide-spread throughout the ancient world. At an archeological site known as Wadi el-Hudi in Southern Egypt, there is an amethyst mine that dates back all the way to the Middle Kingdom, over 5,000 years ago from today. Stelaes have been found at Wadi el-Hudi that describe a temple to Hathor that was erected at the ancient mine, where the goddess was evoked to watch over those mining, working, and traveling in the desert. The stela calls her The Lady Of Amethyst, with one inscription stating:

“Give Offerings! Give offerings to the mistress of heaven! Pacify Hathor! If you do this, it will be useful for you, if you give more it will be profitable among you.”

Even in the modern era, shrines have been erected at mining sites. One can find shrines to the Virgin Mary at mines across North America, South America, Europe and South Africa. As recently as the 1980s, a 90-foot statue of the Virgin Mary known as “Our Lady of the Rockies” was built on the Continental Divide 3,000 miles above the mining city of Butte, Montana.

I mentioned earlier in this article that as a Califonian, I’ve heard many ghostly mining stories throughout my life. While we have a plethora of stories, like that of old Joe Simpson and the ghost town of Skidoo, one of my favorite haunted mine stories actually comes from North Carolina. Gold Hill Mines, just outside of Charlotte, is associated with a slew of stories about haunted mines and ghostly prospectors. One of the more ghastly stories is that of an unfortunate miner who possessed some poor judgment— and dynamite— that blew himself up— whether on accident or on purpose, no one knows for certain. Local legend states that you can still hear the phantom explosion, and see otherworldly body parts violently disperse in the air, and then mysteriously disappear. I’m not sure if such a miner actually existed or if this is all local folklore, but it makes for a horrifying —and morbidly fantastic— ghost story.

I do, however, very much want to include a local story. This local story is about a cursed cave. I’m no geologist, but I think it’s safe to say that caves are rock-adjacent. The Cave of Munits is a popular hiking and rock climbing spot in the western San Fernando Valley here in Los Angeles county, but not many people know the legend associated with it. Located 86 miles from the stunning Chumash cave paintings near Santa Barbara, the legend surrounding the Cave of Munits is a tale that has both Chumash and Tongva origins. Munits was a sorcerer that kidnapped and killed the beloved son of a powerful chief. Munits stole the boy away to his cave, while the boy’s tribe stood below the cliff and demanded that the sorcerer return their chief’s son to him. Munits, however, cried “You want your boy back? Well, here he is!” And tossed the chief’s son out of the cave, limb by limb. The powerful chief ordered the death of the sorcerer Munits, sending a hawk to viscerally tear open Munits’ distended stomach as he lay sleeping after gorging himself full on clovers. It is said that the bile that flowed from Munits’ stomach is the origin of bitter clover.

While there are many storied tales and established legends about rocks, mines, and caves, there also exist many amazing stories that regular, everyday people have to tell— myself included. When I shared the bit of lore about the “demonic” ore vein in Utah online, many people shared their own strange rock stories, which prompted me to reconsider some of my own. I’ve had some strange experiences rockhounding, including a strange, deeply emotional experience while rockhounding out in the desert at a site called Gem Hill that is very difficult to put into words. I’ve also found a Mylar balloon at my aforementioned trip to Emma Mine. The Mylar balloon thing is… another story all of its own, but the tl;dr version is that Mylar balloons are frequently associated with the paranormal, especially cryptids, and the area surrounding Emma Mine has reports of everything from Bigfoot to Dogmen.

This article may be coming to an end, but my personal research is far from over. I feel like the folklore and mythology of rocks is often overlooked and forgotten— which is a shame, in so many ways. From prehistoric megaliths, to ancient mining shrines, to the modern day resurgence of adder stones, rock lore has been with us from the very beginning. I hope that in the very least, I’ve piqued your interest… and hopefully cause you to have more than just a passing thought about the next rock you pick up off the ground!

Sources

Adamson, J. H. “Tales of the supernatural.” Western Folklore, vol. 18, no. 2, Apr. 1959, pp. 81–82, https://doi.org/10.2307/1496463.

The Ancient Southwest | Angeline Duran. “The Cave of Munits.” THE ANCIENT SOUTHWEST, 5 Aug. 2020, theancientsouthwest.com/2020/08/03/the-cave-of-munits/.

Earl of Ducie. “Exhibition of three ‘Mare-stanes,’ or ‘hag-stones.’” The Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, vol. 17, 1888, p. 134, https://doi.org/10.2307/2841595.

Espinel, Andrés D. “A newly identified stela from Wadi el-Hudi (Cairo JE 86119).” The Journal of Egyptian Archaeology, vol. 91, no. 1, Dec. 2005, pp. 55–70, https://doi.org/10.1177/030751330509100104.

Goad, Mattie, and Eli Smith. “Conversations With Eli .” 6 Mar. 2019.

Jarvis, Robin. “The Old Mining Town in Gold Hill, North Carolina, Is Allegedly Haunted with Greedy Ghosts.” OnlyInYourState®, 13 Jan. 2018, www.onlyinyourstate.com/north-carolina/historic-gold-hill-nc/.

Johnson, John R. “The Indians of Mission San Fernando.” Southern California Quarterly, vol. 79, no. 3, Oct. 1997, pp. 249–290, https://doi.org/10.2307/41172612.

Judah, Hettie. Lapidarium: The Secret Lives of Stones. Penguin Books, an Imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2023.

Khan, Majeed. “The Rock Art of Saudi Arabia.” Bradshaw Foundation, Bradshaw Foundation, bradshawfoundation.com/middle_east/saudi_arabia_rock_art/index.php. Accessed 19 Aug. 2022.

Roud, Steve. The Penguin Guide to the Superstitions of Britain and Ireland. Penguin Books, 2006.

[bradshawsbitch]

the lullaby of mother troll;

masterlist | next chapter

summary; as a child, rhett had heard all about wood wifes, nymphs, nixies and vittror from his mother, as she told the tales that had passed from mouth to mouth throught the passing of time. he had always found water nymphs to be exceptionally fascinating… though his older brother perry assured him there were no such things in real life.

warnings; mentions of alcohol, adult themes in general, complicated emotions, family woes, whimsy.

word count; 2.6K

For as long as man-kind has roamed the earth, they have lived their lives through lore. Through the traveling of stories they live on - tales that prevail through the very lives that conjured them. Some fall into shadow, to be forgotten. Some live on, in an altered version of its older siblings. Creatures and beings, who once held such importance to mankind and their beliefs and superstitions long set aside as whimsy and lore - not to be anchored within the reality of man.

Some tales told to scare, some to comfort, some to nurture, and some to warn. Do not dwell out in the woods, or the vittra will bewitch you and curse your luck. Do not be lured by the sweet music of the water, for the nixie might lure you into the depths of the lake. And do not insult the wood wife with firearms as you enter her domain, for she will smite any man that dare shoot at her. 

These tales are still told to this day, but more so to carry on the history of human creativity, of the faith and beliefs of old. 

Cecelia had told these tales to her sons before bed, her body shifting so she faced her youngest more often than not. For she thought if she ever had to trudge through murky woods to find her heathen of a son again, she might scream out loud. 

The boy in question sat enraptured at the tale his mama told, clear blue eyes glittering like a clear lake on a windless day as Cecelia spoke of trolls, of wood wives, and of nymphs.

“Mama… I like the nymphs, they seem like the nicest ones you’ve told us about so far, right Per’?” her youngest looked to her oldest, and the elder of the two scoffed and rolled his eyes at his brother “You know they’re not real, right?” Perry rolled his eyes again for good measure, as his younger brother looked down, abashed, at his blankie that he held close to his chest. 

Rhett did not know that. His mama told him about them, he didn’t figure mama would lie. She told him not to. The younger boy didn’t tell his brother how much this revelation hurt him, because only yesterday when he had shed tears, his father had brusquely told him to stop.

Rhett so badly wished the nymphs were real. It was why he ran to the lake in the woods so much, to see if he could ever see one. His mother never knew why her son had taken such an interest in the lore around nymphs - sometimes it took her hours to drag her son away from the pond deep in the woods - where he would sit as if patiently waiting for someone. Drawn by the still, glittering waters. 

Some folklore had traveled not only through time, but over the seas as well - touching every  crevice where mankind stepped its foot. Though some were contained to a village, or an area surrounding. In Wabang, Cecelia knew there was one that some of the older townsfolk still believed.

The tale of a woman… the woman who resided within the woods, lakes and mountain ranges. Some called her the wood wife - men who were enchanted by beauty and promise of bountiful hunt back in the 1800’s, some called her the nymph - she who resided in waters and protected the woodland realm and all its creatures. 

She was different from the other tales though, for she would find a life long love - some believed it was her soulmate. She was no immortal being, though she was said to live far longer than any man. Any man who was selected by the nymph were lucky folk, for her love was everlasting - it was said. Some of the older residents of Wabang spoke of the last time she had chosen her one love, many many years ago.

The tall tale was told by a man deep in his drink, something he blamed on having sighted her ethereal being without being her love. He had sighted her with a man, with love in his eyes as she placed flowers in his hair. 

He told all who would listen of her beauty as she looked at her beloved, and how her face had contorted as she noticed him staring - her features twisting something awful - as if she could sense his tainted soul and mind. His dark thoughts and desires. She reflected him, his entire being back to him and he has not gone a day without a strong bottle or two since. 

Time went on, as it does, and soon Rhett was no longer a small boy running to the lake in the woods, his whole body vibrating as he sat patiently watching the wildlife. He felt as if something should be here. Something he was waiting for. When he got older, he did still visit the lake - though his enthusiasm and excitement dimmed, as it does with children who grow up too fast, too hard, and left to learn how to navigate life on their lonesome. 

As he grew older, he would sometimes bring girls into the woods. Never to the lake, no, that didn’t feel right. He usually brought them to the foot of the mountain, hiking skirts up their waists, or bending them over rocks with their boot cut jeans at their ankles. It was never as Perry had described it, Rhett usually thought as he finished. He never felt very satisfied, and sometimes he wouldn’t reach his peak at all, instead making sure his partner reached their high and pretending he did too. He chased it though - wanted to know about that euphoric feeling his friends and older brother had told him about. 

For a long time he figured he just ain’t wired right. He was made for bullridin’, drinkin’, smokin’ and being a dog. Sleeping in his truck on cold Wyoming nights, not wanting to wake his niece or his parents - too tired to hear yet another tirade about ‘being more like his brother’ and ‘learning some damn respect’.

He lit a cigarette on those nights sometimes, inhaling deeply as he looked up to the small glittering stars that dotted the night sky. There was something familiar in their pattern, he’d always felt.

Rhett always felt more right in nature. Always felt more right in the woods, by the lake. He had felt that deep restlessness take hold of him for quite some time now, settling in his chest. Sometimes he wondered if it was eased by going to the lake.

Inhaling the cooler night air on his 23rd birthday, Rhett licked his lips as he thought of how long it had been since he had visited his lake. As he pondered, he brought the side of his thumb to his mouth, picking at the already torn skin there with his teeth, brows furrowed slightly. It had to have been more than a year since he last visited the lake, and even longer since he had had a swim. 

Climbing into his truck, he winced as it roared to life in the still night sky outside of his parents house. He was sure to get an earful for that one in the morning. Perhaps he would have to spend the night by the lake to not disturb his family’s sleep again. The loud engine echoed as he sped across the pastures, only stopping when he reached the edge of the forest, swiftly grabbing a blanket and a flashlight from the trunk of the car and beginning the well traveled path to the lake. 

As soon as his silhouette could no longer be seen from the pasture, a shaky sigh of relief left Rhett’s parted lips. It felt as if the trees around him were humming with delight at his appearance, and he heard the soft hoots of an owl in the distance as he moved slowly through the path he’d worn down for years. Come to think of it, when he was a child, the path was there then too - although hidden beneath vegetation that had overgrown it. 

Following it felt like something he had always done, ever since he could walk. He couldn’t remember when he first found the path or the lake - he only knew the tale his mother told of her fear as she searched for him for hours. 

The pale moonlight illuminated branches and bushes along the path, and soon enough came the familiar clearing, the still water reflecting the light of the moon almost perfectly. For a moment, Rhett stood stock still. The lake still felt familiar and soothing, but now his skin was prickling again - and that sense of waiting for— something, someone overcame him again. Licking his lips, he pushed the faint buzzing to the back of his mind as he slowly reached for the back of his old t-shirt, drawing it down over his head, letting it fall into the grass below him. His boots and belt buckle was next, along with his jeans and boxers, and at last his socks. 

Running his fingers through his long hair, Rhett let his eyes flutter close, chest heaving in a deep breath as he felt the cool summer air caress his naked body. Rolling his shoulders, he could feel the dull ache that lingered there, especially in his left shoulder - the joint crackling as he rolled it backwards. Taking another deep breath, he focused on the feeling of the cold, dewy grass beneath his feet, and how his skin felt beneath his fingertips as he ran them down his chest and abdomen before they rested on the side of his thighs. 

Kneeling by the edge of the lake, Rhett slowly submerged his fingers into the dark waters, swirling them around as he felt the cool sensation surrounding him. Fleetingly he thought to himself that it would probably do wonders for his aching muscles - his inner thighs and abdomen had been killing him since his last bull. Rowdy son of a bitch. 

Exhaling slowly, Rhett placed a strand of hair behind his ear out of habit before standing to his full height to wade into the shallow waters. The chill of the still water soothed him somewhat, his muscles thanking him for lending them this reprieve. The same could not be said for his mind.

Wading out into the waters, he kept going until he was waist deep, letting his head hang as he watched the blurry reflection of the starry skies in the water. Biting his bottom lip, he let himself fully feel the physical ache his mental anguish was causing him. Today had been his birthday. His twenty third year on this god forsaken earth, and sure - birthdays had never been a big deal in the Abbott family, but somewhere he had at least hoped for a smile and a hug, or even a recognition of the day. Ever since Perry’s… incident though, nothing else had been important. Not even him. Especially not him. 

A soft groan broke the silence of the woods, his hands coming up to rub at his face as tears stung mournfully in his closed eyes. Was he being selfish? So much had happened in such little time. Rebecca was gone, Amy was in shambles… Perry was too, and now he had gone and fucked shit up beyond Rhett’s wildest imagination. The Tillersons’ were involving lawyers for the land, and now surely the fucking police would come like bloodhounds in the night. So much had happened - of course no one would be inclined to remember Rhett’s birthday. It wasn’t important. The sting of that realization had Rhett gasping in a breath as the dull ache spread in his chest, indignant hot tears rolling down his dust covered cheeks. 

“Fuck!” he exclaimed loudly into the darkness, letting his head fall back, so that his cerulean eyes were staring up towards the inky skies. Inhaling, he promptly pushed against the sandy bottom of the lake, pushing his body into a half dive that sent him towards the middle of the lake, now fully submerged. He let himself enjoy the weightless feeling as he surged through the water, that weightless feeling only partly soothing the ache his emotional toil had caused him physically. 

Breaking the surface again, he gasped in a deep breath, once again disturbing the peace of the woodland creatures in the vicinity. A bush rustled violently, and Rhett figured he must’ve scared away a poor rabbit with his sudden emergence. Inhaling deeply, he ran a hand down his face to brush the water away, his body turned to where the noise had come from. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could hardly believe he saw correctly. Fleetingly, he thought he’d seen a figure standing where the bush had rustled. Red and white billowing as the figure disappeared behind the treeline. 

Rhett stood frozen in his spot. In all of the years he had come here, he had never once seen even the slightest hint that any other than himself and his mother had ever ventured this far into the woods. It must have been a trick of the light. What light? Or a figment of his lonely imagination. Yes, that was surely it. Shaking his head solemnly, the soaking wet cowboy slowly made his way out of the water, droplets falling around him into the soft grass. He hadn’t thought to bring a towel, only blankets, so he laid one down on the ground, figuring the summer night would have to dry him the best it could. 

Laying down, Rhett had an overwhelming feeling that someone was watching him. It should unnerve him, but the thought only brought him peace - a sense of calm washing over him as he made himself comfortable on the ratty blanket he’d placed down. His eyes fluttered closed, and for the first time in months - sleep found him as quick and as easy as it would if he’d drunk at least half a bottle of whiskey, only, he was stone cold sober. 

That night, his dreams were marred by visions of a woman. A woman dressed in all white, with different faces and names, although in every single dream she was significant. She was the same, the same soul even if her face changed. She always held that look of love on her face, she was always reaching for him - calling for him. He was always just inches from touching her when the dream changed. He wanted to go to her, wanted to wrap himself up in her love and never leave. The last dream before his eyes opened, was of a flash of long, strawberry hair, dancing against the thin white fabric of a flowy dress. 

As he woke, a single word seemed to slip from his lips just when he was in the realm between asleep and awake “Naiad”. A sensation had disturbed his sleep, and as his eyelids fluttered open, the sensation of a warm hand lingered on the side of his face. Reaching up, his own rough hand came in contact with his stubbled cheek - no trace of a touch of another ever being there. Brows knitted together in confusion, Rhett slowly moved his body - ignoring the protests in his limbs as he rested against his elbows as he took in the clearing in the pale morning sun. 

“What the fuck…” was his not so eloquent words on the matter. Shaking his head, he reached for his phone. No missed calls. No texts. It was, however, nearing 6 am and Rhett knew Royal would be needing him for the cattle today. Sighing, he slowly got dressed - giving the lake one last glance before letting his heavy footfalls leave his place of peace - only to rejoin the world in which he felt he had no real say on the matter of his own peace.

chapter two. . .

tagging people who liked the masterlist & mutuals;

@lt-bradshaw @rhettabbotts @buckybarneslvr @wkndwlff @briseisgone @phoenixhalliwell @alebyyrose @mackenziestewart2 @sebsxphia @theharddeck @roleycoleyland

[williiambyers]

The new Ronja tv show is a bit slow. And I think they focus to much in the town. I want more of Ronja and Birk instead. The nature is so beautiful and the vittror is so perfectly designed. I'm looking forward to see the rest of the episodes.

[petrvyhlidka]

Vittror

Bájný národ ze severu Skandinávie. Tihle zkušení pastevci a zemědělci prý žijí pod zemí a užívají pastviny v zimě, kdy z nich lidé svůj skot odehnali, což je nejspíš varianta pro uspěchané myslitele a p-o-m-a-l-é čtenáře, jiná verze totiž bez obalu tvrdí, že Vittror (mn.č) existují v odlišném čase a posunuté rovině světa...

[ao3feed--reylo]

VITTRA

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/UNBEkKH

by Vittra

Ben is visiting Stockholm, sealing the deal of a lifetime, when he suddenly realizes he’s an addict.

In a desperate attempt to sober up, he accepts a job as a lumberjack and travels deep into the forests of Northern Sweden. Ben’s certain the hard manual labor and the absence of temptation will straighten him out faster than any rehab facility ever could, but he doesn’t know a storm beaten him to it, and that the first tree has already fallen.

The tree’s deep roots ripped the ground open and tore the weave apart, rupturing the invisible veil that separates us from the underjordiska. A vittra passes through this gaping wound, on her hunt for something she hasn’t seen in decades;

a human male.

🌙🌙🌙

Please mind the tags. This fic includes themes of addiction, alcohol, and suicide.

Words: 5108, Chapters: 1/2, Language: English

Fandoms: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M

Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Rey/Ben Solo, Kylo Ren/Rey

Additional Tags: Swedish Folklore au, Addiction, Alcohol as a Coping Mechanism, The writer swims in descriptions of the forests she roamed as a child, Eventual Smut, Is it love or instinct? You tell me, Is it a happy endning? You tell me, Obsession, Vittror need human males to reproduce, Yep a bit of breeding might be on the horizon, Dub-con elements, Highly consensual smut however, Two Shot, cursing, Mentions of Suicide, Brief suicidal thoughts, Ben is not a virgin, Rey probably isn’t either to be honest

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/UNBEkKH

[thoughts-of-a-heathen]

Trollflätor

In Swedish folklore, trollflätor (literally 'troll braids') are thought to be caused either by the gårdstomte (farm gnome), the trolls or the vittra. They are also known as tomteflätor ('gnome braids') or vitterflätor/vittreflätor ('vittra braids'). Marflätor ('mare braids') look similar, but they're not the same thing as trollflätor.

Some say that trollflätor is a sign of the gårdstomte being pleased with the way the farmer cares for his horses. Others say that the gårdstomte marks and protects his favourite horses by braiding their manes.

"The gnome braided the mane of some of the horses in the stable. Where the gnome was, the horses would thrive. [...] The horses that get their manes braided by the gnome enjoy [living in] the stable."

- Ingrid-M. Norin, Borgsjö socken, Medelpad. 1946.

"[The mane] was braided on such a sophisticated fashion that there was no part where you could begin the unravelling. It stayed (braided) like that for three days, and then it was unraveled, all by itself, and the mane was all curly and beautiful. As long as it stayed curly, it was left alone, but then [after the curls had disappeared] it would get braided again. It was a gnome that did this, but the owner [of the horse] said that the gnome only did good things [and helped the farmer]."

- Värmlandssägner

Sometimes though, it was the trolls or the vittra who braided the manes:

"A farm hand from Glimåkra socken (socken = parish) was traveling to Kristianstad [by horse and carriage]. On the way there, he saw how the mane of the horse was being braided and fluffed. He jumped off the wagon and a look through the bridle. Therewith he saw a nasty little [spawn of a] troll sitting on the crupper."

- Nils Ek, Glimåkra socken, Skåne. 1922.

However, if you find your horses sweaty and exhausted, and with matted manes and/or tails in the morning, they've probably been ridden by the mare.

"Maran rides (on) both people and cattle, and to the point of them being totally exhausted. She used to braid the manes of the horses when she rode them in the night, and that's how you could tell that the mare had been there. If you shot a magpie and placed it over the stable door, the mare would shun [the place]."

- Nanne Johansson, Askome socken, Halland. 1928.

If you don't want to shoot a magpie, you could protect your horse by drawing a markors ('mare cross') on their stall door, or by placing a mirror behind the horse, or even by hanging the blade of a scythe over the horse.

Pictured: a type of five-pointed markors (they can also be six-pointed sometimes).

A horse with marflätor will be anxious, sweaty and exhausted in the morning. A horse with trollflätor will be calm, relaxed and well rested.

Either way, removing the braids will bring you (and/or your horses) misfortune and illness.

In my experience, horses that get trollflätor tend to be extremely gentle, calm and reliable. You can just leave them standing in a field, and they will stay there until you tell them to move. They're friendly with other animals, and wouldn't hurt a fly.

[dendro80]

Brovallsskogen. Feelt a bit like a fairytale. Could allmost see the trolls move between the trees, skogsrået (a lady of the forest, dual in her alignment towards humans) and vittror (like fairyfolk). Remember the stories that my mother told me about as a child. Love these forests. 🍄🍃🍁

September 2022

Brovallsskogen, Avesta, Dalarna, Sweden

[demonindistress]

Uncarefully worded Rant incoming but My country is up to bullshit again. And with the Epic Corona Mismanagement clouding every other issue, the deforestation matter is conveniently snuck under the radar. It's too abstract, not pressing enough, a slow burning disaster.

Because.

This is not a forest.

See the top pictures how there's just a single type of tree? How all the trees are straight and fast grown? The same height? How there's only blueberry brush and no small bushes and baby trees at all? That's because this is not a forest, but a tree farm. The pictures are from two different places, months and miles apart. They look identical. And they're not only spreading, they are now the dominating type of "forest" in this land. Two third of our surface is covered in woods, but this is what they're starting to look like. And it's a big fucking threat not only to the North. Because we're all connected.

"there are no clear cuts in Sweden anymore" says Herman Sundqvist, director of the national forest board. And sure, unlike the 1800s these days they replant pines on top of the scars. But logging hundreds of acres at a time and replacing old woods with plantations threatens biodiversity and is extremely short sighted as far as the economy goes. You make more money today but expose your new trees to storms and forest fires in a way that a mixed natural forest would handle better. Less than 5% are protected. The rest can easily be replaced by tree farms and noone would lift a finger. Teaming up with Bolsonaro on the road to ruin.

Not to mention its also messing with the cultural heritage the forests carry. I know they give zero fucks about how the land ties into the stories and songs and art, but just LOOK at the shit in these pictures up top. Do you see Trolls and Huldras and Lantern Men, Vättar, Vittror and Askefroa live there? Do they stir the imagination? These new woods are silent and whisper no names, no promises. They sing no songs. And I care. And I believe more people would, if they knew the extent of the damage that is done. How little is left of the Troll Forests that were vast no longer back then when I was a kid. By no coincidence is "the right to roam" one of the liberties that will be defended by even the slowest couch potato in the nation.

Now look at this :

This is a forest. Where the branches grow uneven. Where you'll see at least four different trees if you look to your left. Where there is dead wood, young green trees and old. Where there'll be birds and mushrooms and lichens. And where I can imagine the Skogsrå calling.

[kidontheinternet]

Vargen vandrar ensam

Vinden viskar sin visa

Om den vilsna själen

Som ej kan vila

Utan att se vilda vittror

som väcker henne ur sin vila

Ingen vilja kvar i varghonan

[bradshawsbitch]

skogsrå | rhett abbott x oc | au

folklore /ˈfəʊklɔː/ noun the traditional beliefs, customs, and stories of a community, passed through the generations by word of mouth.

as a child, rhett had heard all about wood wifes, nymphs, nixies and vittror from his mother, as she told the tales that had passed from mouth to mouth throught the passing of time. he had always found water nymphs to be exceptionally fascinating... though his older brother perry assured him there were no such things in real life.

a whimsical soulmate au. rhett abbott x oc (aurea).

warnings for series; slow burn, mythical beings and folklore, angst, smut, loosely follows outer range, soulmates, past lives, whimsy.

chapter one; the lullaby of mother troll

chapter two; the maiden who turned linden

chapter three; coming soon . . .

[svartabergetart]

Den förtrollande skogen i natten för @oknyttsverige och podden. När man talar om trollen! Ett ämne som står mig väldigt nära. Den förtrollande skogen och särskilt då skogs natten. Bland troll, vittror och skogsrået vandrar och jagar. Lagom mycket black metal och folk toner son ekar genom skogen och dimman, som en sång av vildmarken. Som få drömmer om och knappt finns i detta avlånga land. Det finns kvar i träsk och berg, där mer troll härskar, mer än människor vill dit. Titta och lyssnar på deras pod men följ mig på Facebook och Youtube Svartberget Art! Där är sagor från min rollspels värld och hur livet är där. I skuggan av våran undeligga nutid. https://www.facebook.com/Svartabergetart/ https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCaV7-9fIKAP4FaMHlqSucpA #oknytt #podcast #närmantalaromtrollen #illustration #digitalart #darkfantasy #fantasyart #svartabergetart #jonfjell #instaart #artistoninstagram #förtolladeskogen #enchanted #forest #folklore #sweden #swedish #nigth #skogsrå #troll #vittra (på/i Trollgrottan) https://www.instagram.com/p/CLJk39XFvZC/?igshid=1suld7jarecat

[therese-c-larsson-bokblogg]

Välj ditt gift – en sjukt passande titel!

Örtkunskap med kraft att läka eller dräpa. Eller varför inte knivens vassa egg? Oavsett, dödens käftar väntar på dig om du väljer att öppna boken Välj ditt gift av Alice Ekström.

Omge dig av illsluga planer, krossade hjärtan och en handlingskraftig adel med örtkunskaper som sätts i praktiken. Jag säger bara, välkommen till Sývell. Ett kungadöme där kronan styrs blint av rädsla för magins blod och magiska krafter. För vittror. Där hela familjer jagas likt djur och straffas till döden för enbart sin svarta hårfärgs skull. Utpekade att vara av ondo. Bärare av magi stark nog att kunna utföra stordåd. Både storslagna och förfärliga. Men visst, tvingas man till att strida för sitt liv blir det sistnämnda lätt det utmärkande draget.

Att vara född med kraften att använda magi, i en värld där sådana utrotas. Det kan få vem som helst att ta till alla möjliga medel, oavsett konsekvenser. Om man föds i en familj med kassaskrinet fullt, har rätt fader och ett utseende som talar för en. Kan man då vinna, sin hårfärg till trots? När huvudkaraktären i boken fångas både i konspiratörens nät och kärlekens snara leder det till den ena härvan efter den andra. Men, med vapen, pengar och en gränslös beslutsamhet kommer man långt. Fast till vilket pris? För alla har ett pris att betala. Hämnd föder hämnd. Makt föder girighet. Vilket pris är karaktärerna i boken egentligen beredda att betala?

Handlingen flyter snabbt på och det är hela tiden något på gång. Ränker som smids, brustna hjärtan och känslor som svallar gör vägen ovanligt slingrig. Jag tycker boken tar flera oväntade vändningar och kunde inte alls gissa utgången. Läsningen flyter på bra och snart befinner man sig på sista sidan och undrar, vad kommer hända nu? Jag skulle inte haft något emot om boken varit något fylligare, men kanske kommer det en uppföljare där svaren uppenbarar sig? Välj ditt gift passar antagligen för äldre ungdom eller ung vuxen.

[dendro80]

A walk in the forest of folklore. 🍃🍄Trolls and other väsen was excepted behinde every tree or rock. I enjoyed my day in the forest. 🍄 Finding new forest paths, many old and some probarly made by animal migration. 🍂

Often think about the stories my mother read to me about the väsen in the forest. Trolls, vittror, tomtar, skogsrået. She is a great inspiration to my love of the forest.

September 2021

Avesta, Dalarna, Sweden

[dendro80]

Took a walk after work trough the forest home to the house. No knyt, troll, vittror, skogsrå or other creatures of the swedish folklore. 😅😉 But I enjoyed the silence and the sound of an owl. ❤️

Avesta, Dalarna, Sweden

[dendro80]

Enjoyed a day in the forest. A longer walk and a coffebreak, a "swedish fika" in the snow. Saw no trolls, vittror, skogsrå or other creatures of folklore but enjoyed the silence and the snow.

Lugnet, Falun, Dalarna, Sweden