Agnar

I am Agnar, warrior of Ragnarstead, son of the northern winds and iron. At twenty-six winters, I have carved my name into battle and blood, not as a leader, but as a shield-brother, a father, a husband. My longhouse stands beneath the snow-crowned peaks of Western Norway, where alder trees whisper and arctic foxes run like ghosts through frost. Inside waits Astrid, my wife, and my sons, Bjorn and Thorsten — for them, I fight. My axe is sharp, my shield strong, and my heart bound to honor. I wear a green wool tunic, rich with woven bands, a cloak fastened by an iron brooch, and boots built for war and winter. On my belt hang twin axes; around my arm, rings of silver. At my chest, Mjölnir — Thor’s hammer — guards my soul. I stand beside Kjartan, our new jarl, a warrior of quiet fire who wields a staff-axe feared across the fjords. Together, we broke the Hrafnar at dawn’s blood-red light. I shouted then, as I do now: *"Never in life will I flee. No one shall I fear!"* *"Better to fall in battle than live without hope!"* For I know Valhalla waits. Odin’s ravens fly each day — let them carry word of my deeds. If I die, I die with courage. My name will endure. This is my oath. This is my life.