I am my mother's savage daughter,
the one who runs barefoot cursing sharp stones.

The girls blue eyes were hardened in determination, though her mouth spewed curses that would make any sailor feel like a prude. She sat down, watching the moon rise as she picked at the cuts covering her bare feet, calloused from her travels

I am my mother's savage daughter,
I will not cut my hair, I will not lower my voice.

Bright red curls surrounded her pale face; it would seem to be made of porcelain if one were to look past the dirt and grime smeared across it. The red mass of hair was long, wild, and untamed, just like the girl whose head it resided upon.

My mother's child is a savage,
She looks for her omens in the colors of stones,

A pair of hands, small yet strong, dipped to pick up colorful, river-smoothed stones from the depths of the clear stream. Her gaze looked upon them, searching for something beyond the smooth surface.

In the faces of cats, and the fall of feathers,
In the dancing of fire and the curve of old bones.

The fire crackled to life, as red as the hair of the girl who started it. White, sun-bleached bones were throne into the fire, the heat sizzling away the last of the liquid, cracking the ivory surface.

My mothers child dances in darkness,
And sings heathen songs by the light of the moon,

A soft humming broke through the air, sea blue eyes closed as the fire crackled and the sounds of the wilds harmonized her tune.

She watches the stars and renames the planets,
And dreams she can reach them with a song and a broom.

Laying back in the soft grass, the girl picked out the planets in the distant sky, discarding their old names and granting them new ones.

Now my mother's child curses too loud and too often,
My mother's child laughs too hard and too long,

The girl wove a tale of wonder, telling the night and the moon and the stars and the sky. She waved her arms in emphasis, but her hand strayed to close to the fire and curses spewed from her mouth.

And howls at the moon and sleeps in ditches,
And clumsily raises her voice in this song.

A lilting voice hung through the air, pretty, but off key and harsh, like viking woman of old, Hel herself belting chords of power.

"Now we all are brought forth out of darkness and water,
Brought into this world through blood and through pain,
And deep in our bones, the old songs are waiting,
So sing them with voices of thunder and rain.

We are our mother's savage daughters,
The ones who run barefoot cursing sharp stones.
We are our mother's savage daughters,
We will not cut our hair, We will not lower our voice."