My name is Buliwyf. My father was a great man, a warrior and king but I have never known him. Never knew him except for tales, the stories and songs, told in the Halls, spoken by the bards, sung at the Fire. I was too young to remember him, only that his eyes were dark and proud. I am my father’s son, they say, in size, in strength, contenance and pride. They say I am wise for my age, but I am not. They say I am brave and true, but even now, my heart doubts itself. My steps are heavy and even though I take honour in each abomination I strike down, I find myself finding less….joy…in battle, even as Osteyad sings with each blow. I stand and count some of the greatest warriors I have ever met at my side, as companions and friends and yet I find myself troubled. Is this my path….am the man my father was…or have I led my new brothers into a sad end? I have already lost one of us, not once, but twice. Can I be counted to not fail the other two? These are things that trouble me, but I cannot allow them to rule me, for I have the blood of kings and giants. I will not let my courage wain, for I am the Northman. When I die, it will not be for vengence or blood or gold. It will be for glory. And perhaps, in the Halls above, my Father will look down upon me and see the man I have become.