Submitted for your approval: Sigurd, son of Sigmund. All of the criteria (save for the poem!) should be covered in the profile. The in-character story is posted here for ease of reference.
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You've heard the stories, told around the mead-halls from Karlsgard to Heldren. Stories of my father, of his war, of the shield-maiden. Today you will hear the story of Gram, blade of the winter wight Völskang.
Blood of my blood, Siegfried the Iron Handed, wrested the blade Gram from Völskang the winter wight when he struck him dead. When my grandfather died in the collapse of the icy spire, Gram was still clutched in his hands. When he was given a funeral pyre, Gram refused to burn with him. The sword pushed away flame and heat and survived the pyre.
This sword of legend was passed down to my father, your hero, Sigmund! In his hands, Gram cleaved in twain the armies of Hrímgrímnir, froze even the blood of the frost giant Jarl in his veins. Hrímgrímnir's mighty hammer shattered my father's sword, broke Gram into a thousand slivers. Clutching the hilt and a jagged stump of metal in his hand, my father climbed up Hrímgrímnir's body and drove Gram into his eye! Twisting the blade, he drove it wrist deep into the Jarl's skull and drove him to his knees, and then into his grave!
My father brought that broken, bloodied sword back with him from that conquest. My mother, the shield-maiden Hrist took the shards and bound them back together, hammering the jagged blade of Völskang back into its shape. Though the magic had left the blade, Gram still carried the blood of heroes within -- just as I!
As a boy, that blade was promised to me. "As soon as you can wield it,' my father said, "Gram will be yours." Just ten years of age I was when I took that sword up, not out of greed or ambition, but out of necessity. A caravan had become mired in the snow near our home, and wolves called hungry for their flesh on the wind. Alone, I knew only I could save them. I dragged Gram off of my father's shelf, carried it out into the snow (as deep as my chest!) and stood by that caravan's side.
The wolves came, fanged and vicious. But Gram did not dull, did not stop thirsting for blood and glory! That blade -- this blade by my side -- carved into those wolves as if they were made of air and leaves. Fuor wolves lay dead, now worn on my shoulders and upon my back to keep me warm! But Gram drank their blood, Gram was earned that day in the protection of you -- my brothers and sisters, my people, the truest of the North!
Just like Gram, I will not lose my edge when my foes try to break me. I will persevere, I will triumph, and all will share in the glory!
