A grizzled Viking warlord, his weathered face set in a scowl as he trudges towards an otherworldly realm, the faint glow of Valhalla's gates beckoning him through the gray mist. His dark warpaint, a symbol of his brutal skills on the battlefield, seems to seep into the crevices of his scourged skin like the rain that patters down upon him, glistening on the tips of his unruly black beard. A livid scar, a jagged lightning bolt that splits his cheekbone, tells the tale of some forgotten battle, while his coarse, calloused fingers wrap around the polished haft of his Viking battle-axe, a trusted companion that's seen its share of butchery. In the background, voluminous clouds cloak the horizon, a foreboding tumult born of ancient gods and forgotten myths, while brands of rain-lashed earth sprawl before him, a sodden testament to the bloody wars he's fought in, the cold breath of the misty realm whispering omens of the battles yet to come. As the red-stained dawn dissolves into a heavy, torpid gloom, heavy with the secretive weight of many battles unsung, the wind buffets him, scratching against his weathered ears with sepulchral sighs, all seeping into his grueling determination like defiant, petals-strewn infestation - inspired by the athletic prowess that Valhalla believes is to be the court of choosing the bravest among mortals, the resolve eats away, gouts and fallows delight like curt melness showcasing ferocious beauty as willing pay as bound pleading fancy.