Fields of green now rust red
A scattering of shields and swords lay among the heaps of fallen flesh and bone. Men gasping their final breaths as the last drops of blood drips from open wounds. Death was everywhere. As the sun slides below the horizon a chariot, pulled by two cats, looms ever larger against the sky. Freyja reaches out her hand, pointing to her chosen. Her gentle voice falls on them, “Rise and follow me, warrior, to your rightful new home in Folkvangr. Dine with me in the hall and drink with your countrymen. Rest your weary body until we join those in Valhalla at the Ragnarok.” And they rose, their maille and bodies whole again. Not a coward among them, for there is no honor in a coward’s death. She, the goddess of war and mother of Valkyries, receives only the brave.
Will she choose you?
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