21 May 2012
Sigmund was a berserker, he was fierce, as he was brave. He excelled in blood and battle, sending countless to their grave.
His blade was legendary, forged by Völundr's hand. The greatest blade, that Völundr made, the greatest blade in the land.
Sigmund's shield was bitten, of armour, he wore none. He relished every battle, slaying enemies his fun.
He would rip and he would render, he was carnage, he was death. He would fight beyond exhaustion, body aching, out of breath.
His swings where wild, though accurate, his strength was unsurpassed. He would carve his way through everything, with his fury building fast.
Sigmund never met his equal, in any man, or beast. Neither did he find his equal, in the mead drank at a feast.
Sigmund was a berserker, in battle, the only way, that Sigmund could express himself, in his special berserk way.
He was viscous, he was crazy, when he went on the attack. His fellow warriors had all since learnt, in battle, to stand well back.
He was Happy, up front, on his own, swinging his deadly blade. Knowing death in battle, was the way that Legends where made.
Sigmund Saga • Opuss № I