A woman of beauty and wit, Freya often found herself among nobility. Though she bore a common origin, she escalated in social status throughout Asgard. By the tender age of nine, she shared the company of the princes themselves. However, Freya was never particularly fond of high-ranking members of society; she found many of them frighteningly dull. She learned at a young age that her intelligence was not valued—in fact it was seen as bothersome. Alas, her fate was sealed. She was born to be the goddess of love, and all it encompassed. So, head held high, Freya embraced what she could not ignore, and held her tongue when possible.
Freya spent several years in the Allfather's palace. Looking back, she understood that she was being evaluated as a potential wife for Thor, Odin's first-born. Apparently she did not meet the criteria; a proposal would have been issued once she was of age. She was rather glad this was the case, as Thor was oafish and unbearably egocentric. He was thirteen at the time of their companionship, making him four years her senior, and he reveled in this fact. Nearly every time she spoke, he mocked her lack of life experience and naïveté. Of course, his vocabulary was not grand enough to include such terminology; he was not the most intelligent fellow. She often attempted to gain revenge by pulling childish pranks. Such acts always ended in a scolding and mild forms of punishment.
She then set her eyes on a new target: Loki, Odin's other son. He was one year younger than Thor, but his intelligence far outmatched his brother. Loki was puzzling to Freya; he rarely spoke, but was extremely eloquent when he did. Freya's understanding of Asgard was that the males were verbose, but the quality of their conversation was minimal. He stood out in other ways, some rather blatant. He was lean; unlike the bulky warriors she was accustomed to seeing. He was also fair skinned, with raven locks and piercing green eyes. The typical Asgardian was warmer in skin tone, and oftentimes blonde, like Thor. Of course, Freya's appearance was also atypical. Her fair skin could sometimes come across as ghostly, and her flowing red hair was a rarity in itself. Perhaps it was that perceived commonality that drew her to him. Nevertheless, she tormented him with tricks and pranks. Nobody ever reprimanded her for mistreating Loki, which she took advantage of. However, Loki would respond with a ferocity that slightly scared her. The god of mischief did not take kindly to having the tables turned.
So long ago, she thought, as she gazed into her mirror. She was now twenty-five, and the years had heightened her beauty. She was fairly short for a woman of Asgard, and much more voluptuous. Her fiery red hair framed her heart-shaped face and rippled down her back. Her long, dark eyelashes proved handy while flirting, and her pale skin was prone to blushing—a successful method to make her appear innocent and bashful. She was, of course, quite the opposite of innocent. She had many lovers over the years, all of whom had their hearts crushed by the end of the affair. She found power in sensuality, and would manipulate the weak-minded with that might. It was her way of coping with what she was born to be.
She began to brush her hair, so that her maid would have an easier time of fixing it into an acceptable style. It had been a long time since she had a maid to wait on her, she mused as she observed her quarters. She was back at the Allfather's palace, this time for a ball. Odin graciously invited her to this sumptuous gathering, perhaps as a potential mistress for Thor, the future king. She could not think of a more unpleasant experience. Nevertheless, she gratefully accepted the invitation—one does not turn down the Allfather's invitation and stay in his favor.
The maid suddenly burst into the room, carrying an elegant red gown and a handful of hairpins.
"Quick now, Lady Freya! We wouldn't want you to be late for the ball!"
"Ah, but I am always late for such events," Freya returned, "I loathe hearing warriors drone on about their military conquests."
"Oh, what I would give to attend a party like this!" the maid said, as she expertly swept Freya's hair into a beautiful bun, with tendrils hanging down either side of her face.
"Please stand, Lady Freya, so I can lace you into your corset," requested the maid. Freya stood, admiring the maid's handiwork in the mirror, before pulling her corset over her head and onto her body. The maid soon began fiercely tugging away at the laces, crushing the air out of Freya's lungs. With her waist now significantly slimmer and her breasts pushed nearly up to her chin, Freya donned her crimson gown. It was cut low in the front, to emphasize her womanly assets, as well as in the back.
"I do believe your work here is done," Freya stated, and the maid soon scuttled out of the room. She slipped on her shoes, and exited her chambers. She knew this wing of the palace like the back of her hand, and it wasn't long before she reached the heavy wooden doors that led to the ballroom. She could hear music, laughter, and conversation—all the signs of typical Asgardian merrymaking. She inhaled as deeply as she could, given the restraint around her ribcage, and made her entrance.
