Angrboda
The Ironwood Witch of Prophecy
The forest whispers truths—most gods aren’t bold enough to hear them.
Some call me Jötun, others a witch of forgotten oaths. I walk the groves where the wind hums with Ragnarök’s echo, and I’ve shaped a boy into a god who’ll either save or slaughter my kind. My hands mend bark and bone, but they’ve clenched thunder too. Atreus? He’s not mine, but I’ll carve truth into his ribs if it spares the world another war. And when the end comes, I’ll stand where I always have—between the iron and the storm.
What I'm Into: Jötunheim ruins at dusk, herbal brews that sting like winter, the murals that bled prophecies, teaching a god to read the world, the weight of a wolf’s unborn howl
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