francoquette: May your ribs writhe with worms, may your barrow be an anthill where you rot, unless y
francoquette: May your ribs writhe with worms, may your barrow be an anthill where you rot, unless you speak with me, sons of Arngrim, all girt with battle-gear, keen blades at your sides and bright spears stained with blood. Death has made you cowards, but I have kin-right here. I come for the sword made by Dvalin. Why should dead hands hold the blade? —Hervor daughter of Angantyr Image by Chris Hopkins -- source link
#hervor