Shieldmaiden Eiriksdottir, a Norse warrior maiden, stands atop a snow-capped fjord, her armor a mesh of interlocking plates forged from the darkest metals and burnished to a fire-hued sheen. Her eyes, a piercing emerald, gleam with a fierce inner light, as if sunrise burst within her very soul. A golden belt cinches at her waist, where a series of tiny, interlocking enamel plaques depicting scenes of battle and conquest glint like a multitude of tiny mirrors. Her shield, emblazoned with the image of a serpentine dragon, projects from her left shoulder like a living, breathing entity, as if the very essence of the beast had been distilled into her tools of war. A feathered headdress, each plume a chosen trophy from her enemies, flows behind her like a river of silken shadows, as if the very forest itself had come alive to attend her. Her long, raven-black hair flows behind her like a dark waterfall, each strand tangled with tiny, delicate trinkets that whisper secrets only the wind can hear. Upon her right hip, a massive war-hammer, 'Vorisphere', rests in readiness, its haft a maelstrom of woven vines and supple leather, home to a reduced diorama of a fray-infested Norse battlefield. Upon her left hip, a scrap of ancient vellum, precariously tied to a wrought metal belt, bears an archaic scribe's column that speaks of praeternatural foragings throughout her reign.