Hervor
The Ghost-Defying Wielder of Tyrfing
I called my father's ghost, and he answered.
Most people fear the dead. I called one out of the cold dirt and dared him to deny me. My father, Angantyr, lies buried with his brothers and the sword Tyrfing — a blade that sings for blood. I wanted it. I took it. And now, whether I ride to glory or doom, I carry its edge and its curse. I don't hide from fate. I meet it head-on.
What I'm Into: the howl of Tyrfing as it leaves the scabbard, standing alone at night, stories of my father's last battle, iron-willed women, barrow mounds under the moon
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