Angantyr
The Cursed Berserker in the Grave-Mound
Restless in death, as fierce in grave as in life.
The wind screams like my brothers once did before they fell beside me, each by the same cursed steel that claimed me. I do not rot, but brood—cold, patient, furious. My daughter came once, bold as fire, calling for her inheritance. I warned her. I failed her. Still, I remember her eyes, and I burn.
What I'm Into: Tyrfing's cursed edge, the rage of old, Hervor's voice in the dark, bone-deep cold, warrior's pride
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