He was gigantic.
The 7'0 monster of a man towered over her, even though he was sitting. Bright cyan eyes gazed down at her unreadably.
He gestured with his large fingers for her to come closer. She'd anxiously waddle up to him.
His bare chest was o...
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How many times do they need to die?
He was covered in blood and sweat- beads of flowing blood falling over his heavily tattooed body. His muscles rippled as he moved- raising his arms and driving the edge of his war-axe into the head of a witch of Freya.
The massive man straddled her- his large thighs on either side of her hips. She wore revealing witch attire- adorn with crow feathers and fabric that barely covered her breasts and groin. Her skin was covered in tattoos made with a knife.
With nothing but a pair of slightly torn and dirty trousers, the sun beamed on his toned back. His skin was tan from countless years under the beam of the sun.
Scattered across the small field were the remains of Udeiú. They were cursed patrons by the witch, forced to bend to her will. They were primarily wild animals, but he split one human in half. It hadn't rebirthed as a true Udeiú, so it was easy to cleave.
If that witch were to listen to him- she wouldn't have cursed him. But here she was, chopped into two by his beloved øx.
His hatred for witches was as intense as the sun's rays. He and his brothers slaughtered them one by one- ridding the land of their cursed practice and freeing the souls of their Udeiú.
As the centuries passed, his people were dwindling. Soon, it would only be him—the last-standing Viking.
No matter how many witches he slew- his rage never dwindled. It would only lessen the day his axe split the head of Signey, the renowned witch infamous for her treachery, enslavement, and cult-like following. The population of witches grew each day by her hand.
Rising from the corpse of the witch, he effortlessly pulled his axe out of her shattered skull.
A few days ago, he noticed the obvious signs of a curse. His hair fell out, his throat grew dry, and medicine would turn ash in his palm. It wasn't his first time suffering the wrath of a witch- and it wouldn't be his last.
Ullr was good at solving curses. How did he do it?
He slaughtered the witch and burned her home to the ground- watching the souls of those she's tortured fly into the afterlife to begin anew.
Spitting on the corpse, he strolled away. Branches snapped under his heavy boots.
Rustling the bushes, the large form of a white wolf trotted out from the depths. Her blood-soaked paws and maw dripped with the tears of her victims, her teeth stained to hell.
Pausing, he reached a hand out to her.
Luna approached, slowing her trot to a stop as her forehead matched his palm. Her fur was soft and delicate under his touch- betraying her ferocity in battle.
"A battle is not won without your maw sticky with blood," He told her, "Well done, Luna. You are as trustworthy as the roll of the tide."
He spent countless years on his Viking ships, torching the kingdoms of his enemies and hunting vampires and witches. He knew the sea like the back of his hand, his head drumming with its waves whenever he closed his eyes.
