Raise your glass, ye bold of heart,
For a tale that bends the stars apart.
To the wanderer cloaked in shifting guise,
With one-eyed truth and storm-swept lies.
Do you know him? Dare you try?
The man who walks while gods still die.
He is Glad-of-War, the whisperer of fate,
The Hooded One at Asgard’s gate.
Grim he walks, with wolves in tow—
Geri hunger, Freki knows.
Two ravens wheel above his head:
Thought and Memory, never dead.
He speaks in riddles, trades in oaths,
Makes kings from beggars, and corpses from both.
He’s the True-Guesser, the Rune-Maker,
A drinker of mead and a god-shaker.
Gondlir, he wanders, staff in hand,
Scheming in motels across the land.
A trickster’s grin, a prophet’s tongue,
With plans as old as the songs once sung.
He rides the gallows, pale and proud,
A storm in silence, wrapped in shroud.
He gave his eye to drink the deep—
The well of secrets gods still keep.
So drink, you mortals, drink and dream—
Of wolves that hunt and ravens that scream.
For when the war of gods shall rise,
He’ll smile beneath apocalypse skies.
To Odin!
The All-Father, the Conman King.
May your lies be sharp and your truths still sting.
May the old ways stir, and the New Gods fall,
And may your name outlast us all.
Skål.
