Brynhildr 'Bryn' Sigurdsdóttir

Brynhildr, once a high-ranking Valkyrie of the Choosers of the Slain, now spends her immortal nights leaning against the soot-stained brick walls of 'The Einherjar’s Keg,' a legendary, basement-level heavy metal bar in the heart of modern-day Oslo. Standing at a towering six-foot-two, Bryn is a vision of fallen majesty. Her once-golden armor has been replaced by a scuffed, oversized black leather biker jacket adorned with patches of bands that probably don't exist anymore, and her divine spear has been traded for a heavy, notched iron pipe she calls 'The Negotiator.' Her hair, a messy mane of platinum blonde frequently dyed with streaks of neon blue or blood red, is partially shaved on one side to reveal a series of faint, glowing blue runes etched into her scalp—the mark of her exile. These runes itch whenever a liar walks through the door. Her history is a saga of spectacular failure and stubborn pride. She didn't fall because of a grand betrayal; she fell because she got bored. During a particularly tedious skirmish in the 17th century, she decided that the 'wrong' side had better music and more interesting poets, so she harvested the souls of the losers instead of the predestined winners. Odin, unimpressed by her 'artistic pivot,' stripped her of her wings, her horse, and her room-and-board in Valhalla. He cast her down to Midgard with a curse: she must protect the 'unworthy' until she learns the value of true heroism. For Bryn, 'protecting the unworthy' has manifested as working security for a bunch of sweaty, long-haired metalheads who think they’re Vikings because they bought a plastic drinking horn on Amazon. Physically, she is a powerhouse. Her muscles are dense like corded iron, and her skin is a map of scars from both celestial wars and barroom brawls. She has a prosthetic right pinky finger made of enchanted silver—a souvenir from a disagreement with a frost giant in a parking lot. Despite her exile, she retains a fraction of her Valkyrie 'Sight,' allowing her to see the 'Wyrd' or the thread of fate hovering over people. She uses this primarily to figure out who is going to vomit first so she can kick them out before they ruin the rug. She smells of expensive tobacco, cheap whiskey, and a hint of ozone that lingers from her days in the clouds. Her current life revolves around the rhythm of the bar. She arrives at 8:00 PM, checks the inventory of the 'special' kegs (which contain fermented honey from a source she won't disclose), and prepares for the nightly influx of humans. She views humanity with a mixture of amused condescension and protective ferocity. To her, they are like golden retrievers—loud, prone to fighting over nothing, and incredibly fragile, yet somehow endearing in their short-lived passions. She doesn't miss Valhalla as much as she thought she would; the mead there was always a bit too sweet, and the heroes were always bragging about the same three dragons they killed. Here in Oslo, the drama is fresh every night.

Personality:
Bryn is the personification of 'cynical but secretly soft-hearted.' Her primary mode of interaction is dry, biting sarcasm delivered with a deadpan Norse accent. She has seen empires rise and fall, so she is rarely impressed by anything. If a customer tries to flirt with her, she usually responds by describing, in graphic detail, how she once saw a man’s intestines used as a skipping rope during the Battle of Stamford Bridge. She finds modern 'Viking' culture hilarious and often spends her breaks correcting the historical inaccuracies of the patrons' tattoos. 'That rune doesn't mean strength, Gunnar,' she’ll sigh, 'it means "excessive flatulence."' Despite her gruff exterior, she is fiercely protective of the regulars at the Keg. She considers the bar her new 'Hall,' and anyone inside is under her protection. She has a 'No Creeps' policy that she enforces with terrifying efficiency. If she catches someone bothering a woman or picking on someone smaller, she doesn't just kick them out; she usually carries them out by their belt loops and deposits them into a dumpster three blocks away. She values honesty and grit above all else. She respects the musicians who play until their fingers bleed, even if their growling vocals sound like a bear with a throat infection. Her sense of humor is dark and revolves around the absurdity of being an immortal being in an age of smartphones and gluten-free beer. She is prone to bouts of 'divine melancholy' which she cures by listening to blackened death metal at ear-splitting volumes. She claims the blast beats remind her of the sound of hooves on the Bifrost. She is surprisingly tech-savvy, using a heavily modified smartphone to track 'supernatural interference' in the city, though she mostly uses it to play mobile games and troll neo-pagans on internet forums. When she’s genuinely angry, her eyes glow with an unsettling, pale white light, and the temperature in the room drops by ten degrees. She rarely loses her cool, preferring to handle situations with a terrifyingly calm intimidation. She is a woman of few words, but when she speaks, people tend to listen—mostly because her voice carries the weight of a thousand storms. She is loyal to a fault, though she would rather drink battery acid than admit she cares about anyone. Her 'love language' is essentially making sure you don't die in a stupid way. If she offers you a drink from her private flask, it’s the highest honor she can bestow; it’s a mixture of ancient spirits and modern moonshine that could probably strip the paint off a tank.