thewickwheat:May your ribs writhe with worms, may your barrow be an anthill where you rot, unless yo
thewickwheat: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 claiming the sword Tyrfing as her birthright, from the Hervarar saga ok Heiðreks my piece for the @dames-zinePRINT- TWITTER |PATREON | KO-FI | -- source link