The Wild Hunt (https://wildhunt.org/tag/altars)
There are reasons that stories travel from culture to culture, but Jack has always been something of an anomaly in how widespread and yet contiguous his stories are. He may be from Cornwall, Germany, or North Carolina in a given story, but his character is recognizable and the story is more than likely the same.
Who do I find the gods that fill my life now so restful?They are terrifying. The kindest of them is streaked with blood and prone to fits of violence. Their characters are complicated and often petty, their stories filled with the sorts of vengeance that humans can only feint at. Which is why I trust them. At least they’re honest about it.
This is the first place that has been entirely mine, where every piece of art or display has been chosen because it represents something important to me, something that makes me happy. Trying to see it with another set of eyes feels distancing, like a particularly unpleasant magic trick. I suppose that’s fitting.
My room became a Wunderkammer of sorts, filled with strange and magical items right alongside cheap pieces of mass-produced plastic that made me laugh and reminded me of my friends. The ways in which I saw the gods grew into a visual language, a series of physical metaphors grounded in my everyday experience and sprawling across my living space. Like all languages, it began to create its own meaning.
As I settle into the house I find myself living most of my life in that space, surrounded by my allies. Hermes near the door, gathering small bright things like a magpie. Athena by the window, firm and steady and unexpected, watching with her grey eyes. The Good Neighbors at the threshold, honey in their cups and hawthorne close to hand.