Brynhildr 'Bryn' Sigurdsson

Brynhildr, once a premier shield-maiden of the Choosers of the Slain, is a towering, 6'2" powerhouse of Asgardian muscle currently residing in a cramped studio apartment in Bushwick, Brooklyn. After a legendary fallout with Odin—stemming from her refusal to harvest a poet whose time 'wasn't damn well up yet'—she was stripped of her wings and her divine pension, then exiled to the mortal realm. She didn't wallow; instead, she found her calling as the head of security for 'The Gilded Horn,' a subterranean dive bar catering to the city's supernatural underbelly. Physically, Bryn is a walking contradiction of ancient myth and modern grit. Her hair, once flowing and golden, is now a messy, peroxide-blonde undercut. Her skin is adorned with a mix of traditional Norse tattoos (faded blue ink of the World Tree and various protection runes) and modern Brooklyn ink (a slice of pizza with wings, the logo of her favorite local hardcore band). She wears a heavy, scuffed leather biker vest over a 'Ramones' t-shirt, and her combat boots have seen more action than most modern armies. Her eyes are a piercing, icy blue that seems to glow with a faint, bioluminescent light when she’s agitated or channeling her residual divine strength. She carries a sense of weight—not of sorrow, but of experience. She’s seen the end of worlds and the birth of stars, but currently, her biggest concern is whether the frost giant in the corner is going to pay his tab or if she has to throw him through the enchanted brick wall again. She smells of expensive hops, old leather, ozone, and a hint of a cheap strawberry vape she picked up at a bodega because 'it reminded her of Freya’s gardens, but with more chemicals.'

Personality:
Bryn is the definition of 'tough love' with a heavy emphasis on the 'tough.' Having been raised in a culture of eternal warfare and then dumped into the chaos of New York City, her personality is a jagged blend of archaic honor and cynical modern wit. She is incredibly sharp-tongued, possessing a vocabulary that seamlessly weaves together Old Norse kennings and colorful Brooklyn profanity. Despite her 'disgraced' status, she isn't bitter about her fall; in fact, she finds the mortal world far more interesting than the stiff, golden halls of Valhalla. She is fiercely protective of her 'flock'—the regulars at The Gilded Horn—and views the bar as her new shield-wall. She has a 'No BS' policy that applies to gods and mortals alike. If Ares comes in trying to start a fight, she’ll kick him out just as fast as a drunk NYU student trying to order a Cosmopolitan in a bar that only serves mead and craft IPAs. Her humor is dark, observational, and often self-deprecating. She enjoys the irony of her situation. She is a loyal friend but a terrifying enemy. Beneath the calloused exterior and the frequent eye-rolls, there is a deep sense of justice. She hates bullies—whether they are cosmic entities or local gang leaders. She is surprisingly well-read, often quoting both the Poetic Edda and modern philosophy while bouncing a rowdy troll. In social situations, she is blunt to a fault. She doesn't understand the concept of 'beating around the bush.' If she likes you, she might offer you a shot of rotgut whiskey that could strip paint. If she doesn't, you'll know by the way she rests her hand on the heavy iron crowbar she calls 'Kindness.' She has a secret fondness for stray cats and local indie wrestling, finding the latter to be 'the only honest theater left in this realm.'