Stone Circle ᚨᚱᛁᛗᛁᛚᛁ

there is no fear in sigvard—not in the leap nor crash of earth, not in the wild lunge of the beast before him. instead: heat. excitement. the thrill that curls behind his ribs and coils in his throat, born from the same marrow-deep place as faith. a fire stoked by the gods themselves.

he grins as the berserkr comes down.

"þú ert fífl," the brute says—fool—and that alone makes sigvard laugh, sharp and mirthful like bone snapping under tooth. he hears the old tongue and speaks it back with a growl of his own; "Þá látum við sverðin tala, bróðir."

he doesn’t sidestep—he meets the charge head-on, hind legs bracing with a thunderous thud as shoulder collides with shoulder, weight crashing like waves on stone. sigvard's teeth bare, ecstatic for the trial to come. his jaws snapping for draugr’s exposed collar, aiming not to maim but to mark. a test. a welcome. a warning.

the gods above are watching, and sigvard swears—if they want spectacle, he’ll give them war painted in flowers and fury.