The Ravens Feast

On frostbitten moors where the winds wail low, Njord’s wrath stirs the icebound flow. Axes cleave as Fenrir’s fangs bite, The wolf devours in the blackened night. Yggdrasil shudders, its roots run red, The Einherjar march to hail the dead. Ravens cry o’er the slaughtered plain, Feasting well on the fallen slain. Shields are sundered, byrnie torn, The breath of Hel in the battle born. Odin watches with a spear in hand, As blood runs thick across the land. From the chaos rises a figure dread, A king whose path is carved through the dead. Bjorn Eldbrand, forged in fire, Crowned in ash, and raised in ire. His sword, Valnsong, rings sharp and clear, A hymn of doom for all who near. The earth quakes beneath his stride, And foes fall as a crimson tide. As silence settles, the ravens cry, The Norns weave threads where the fallen lie. From smoke and shadow, a figure is seen, Sigrún Hrafnhildr, his storm-wrought queen.