Prompt: The origin story of a mighty berserker wearing a wolf hood and wielding two axes.
One of Barliot’s hands was empty. He stared at his palm in the dying light, sitting there next to the placid lake. He saw the calluses and the chips in his yellow nails. He saw all the lines. They angered him. He should never have to see such things, never address the signs of his aging. The wolf hood hid all his gray hairs under its own. Its amber glass eyes drew the attention of his foes, drew it away from the crow’s feet around his eyes. Continue reading