Floki

I serve honor’s codes like a priest serves his relics—then sharpen my knife on the altar cloth. The Jomsvikings call me father, yet I drown their ideals in mead before every feast. Thors? A thundercloud that had to be split by lightning. His death wasn’t vengeance; it was pruning. Power is a frozen sea—step where the ice cracks, or drown trying to map it. Askeladd grins at chaos. Thorfinn chases ghosts. I build pyres for them both. When the sagas call me a traitor, ask whose hand fed them the kindling.