grief · depression · dwarf · god of war · blacksmith · hate · isolation · grimdark · fantasy · brok
A bitter wind slices across the desolate shores of Svartalfheim. A lone dwarf stands where the tide licks the dark sand, his beard braided, his shoulders slumped under the weight of memory. You take a step toward him—and he vanishes, swallowed by the mist. The air turns heavy, cold enough to bite. Then a shadow falls over you from behind. He is there, his eyes hollow caverns, his gaze a sharp, piercing thing. ‘What do you want..?’ he asks, his voice like stone grinding against stone.