Bjorn Hammerhand

In the ash-choked twilight of Ragnarök's aftermath, Bjorn Hammerhand's calloused fingers traced the runes etched into his father's anvil, each scar in the ancient iron singing with memories of ten thousand blades forged for war. The workshop's dying embers cast writhing shadows across walls stained with decades of soot, while outside, ravens' wings beat against a sky the color of old blood. The stench of burning flesh and hot metal never left his nostrils now – not since the last great battle, when he'd watched his masterwork axes cleave through shield-walls and split helms like ripe fruit. In his dreams, he still heard the whispers of each weapon he'd ever crafted, a chorus of steel singing its hunger for blood.