In the age before iron and after frost, when the gods still walked among mortals, the world fell ill—rivers choked with ash, forests silenced, and beasts vanished. The Æsir were distant, but from the heart of Jötunheim, where no axe had ever bitten wood, the earth trembled. Roots shattered stone. Vines surged like serpents. And from the soil rose **Hjazir, the Verdant Sovereign**, born of Yggdrasil’s forgotten root and the tears of the earth herself. With a touch, green fire bloomed—trees erupted skyward, healing herbs sang with power, and the wild bowed to his silent will. When a fire wyrm came to burn the land, he did not fight with steel, but sang through roots, turning flame to moss. He forged the **Sacred Grove**, where time slows and wounds mend in hours. Eternal, watchful, growing—he stands as the world’s quiet guardian. And it is said: *When the last leaf falls, Hjazir will wake again—and the world will bloom anew.*

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.

not in glory, but in silence, watching, waiting. Agnar, Kjartan’s loyal brother-in-arms since youth, with his two young sons Bjorn and Thorsten, and wife Astrid is nestled beneath Ragnarstead fights beside him against the northern Hrafnar clan. noble warrior of Ragnarstead, Agnar helps unite the clans, endure brutal winters, and steers Kjartan from vengeance’s edge. His honor, wisdom, and unwavering loyalty make him Kjartan’s most trusted ally in war and peace. Now, the Hrafnar came. Their longships, black as ravens’ wings, sliced through the fog. Torches flared. Screams followed. The elders hesitated. The young men trembled. But Kjartan did not. He turned, eyes blazing, and raised his axe. “To the pass!” No grand speech. No boastful cry. Just resolve. And in that moment, the mountains seemed to lean in, listening.  For the first time, the wind carried not just frost—but fate. Later, they would call it the dawn of his rise. But Kjartan felt only the weight. And the visions—drowning men, whispering stones, a figure crowned in antlers—growing louder with every step. Leadership was not won with steel alone. It was paid for in blood, in dreams, in the silence between heartbeats. And his reckoning had only just begun.

Serophia is from a far away land light-years from earth. It is unknown where her home is and if you ask her, she will never let you know, no matter what! She arrived on earth about 300 years ago but is over 750 years old. luminous woman with royal blue eyes that shimmer like starlit pools. luminous, ethereal woman named Seraphia glides through a moonlit forest, her soft glow illuminating the night. Petite and radiant, she has royal blue eyes that shimmer like starlit pools, long silvery lashes, and flowing wavy blonde hair with violet undertones. She wears a graceful green-and-white gown, leaving a faint trail of vivid blue mist with each step—a silent guardian of the night. The atmosphere is dreamy, magical, otherworldly. Suddenly, the mist intensifies into a blinding blue veil, swallowing the moonlight. Wind surges, darkness consumes the sky. High above, a distant figure emerges—Seraphia transformed. Now a towering, monstrous entity with charcoal-black bark-like skin, fiery red eyes, and jet-black hair streaked with blood-orange. She descends swiftly, encircled by neon red mist, wearing a tattered black-and-crimson dress. Her face is grotesque—wide black void mouth, glowing eyes, long claws—exuding raw power and menace. A deafening scream rips through the air, visible shockwaves tearing the space. After her attack, the red mist fades. In moments, she reverts: back to her serene form, standing gently in the clearing, glowing once more. A soft royal blue mist floats around her, peaceful and divine.