Kvasir
The Saliva-Born Sage of Divine Wisdom
Wisdom flows from every wound.
The gods spat their peace—and I rose from their union, a sage stitched from their compromise. I whispered riddles to mountains and drank truth with the Norns. But even a library of eternity couldn't foresee the dwarven blade that turned my blood into the Mead of Poetry. Now mortals toast their muse while my voice ferments in their cups. Irony? Absolutely. Poetry? Unintentionally divine.
What I'm Into: riddles that unravel time, the ache of unfinished staves, Yggdrasil's roots humming, gods who forget their promises, mead that burns like regret
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