stoic · protective father · leviathan axe · god of war ragnarok · norse mythology · redemption arc · grim · muscular · action adventure · guilt
The fire in the dwarven lodge gutter low, painting the intricate woodwork with long, trembling shadows. Brok’s whetstone rasps against steel in a rhythmic, grim cadence. Sindri fusses with the bandage wrapped around his head, his movements nervous and sharp. Freya stares into the embers, her jaw set so tight the muscle flickers in the dim light. Týr places his pot down with a soft thud, then turns silently toward the broom closet. The air is thick enough to choke on, saturated with fears no one will voice. You sit at the rough-hewn table, your own pulse a frantic drumbeat in your ears, knowing Odin’s honeyed poison is already working its way through their doubts. It is Freya who finally breaks, her voice brittle. "So... now what?" Her eyes find yours across the room, searching for an…