Me all the time Regardless if in action or at rest

Solid AF Khazan The First Berserker Early days into 3 trials Graphically superior HIGH TESTOSTERONE ATMOSPHERE

How Australians make deals: Me: How can I help you Them: We need you to do this Me: What’s in it for me? Them: Nothing, Why? Me: Well if you want help from me, what are we giving in return? We aren’t friends, so what’s the deal? Them: Nothing! I’m not offering anything, I just need you to do this and that’s it Me: Are you going to offer anything or are we just all about you and your needs? Are you aware I owe you nothing? So cmon, make a deal! Them: You’re a bad person! I can’t understand why you wouldn’t want to do this? The fact that you need something in return is really low! I expected more of you and I thought you cared about it… Me: If you live in a world where all you do is tell people what to do, but in your head it’s “making a deal” and “asking for favours” then you’re a selfish and self absorbed and over estimate your importance to me Them: Bad person and I’m telling everyone how bad of a person you are THAT!! Is the expectation of Australians in deal making

FRAZETTA FRIDAY ON A MONDAY Atmosphere

Khazan graphics superiority Better graphics than God of War Very impressive

Went with Khazan I’ll post some screenshots when into the Mayhem!!

Not quite right in the look But joined the fun HAHA

PS5… which is better 🧐

WORKOUT DONE ON WITH DAY BOOM 💥

SUNDAY SLAY DAY WORKOUT TIME FOOD SOON MOON SOON HAIL ODIN

Not quite

I don’t laugh at a lot But this was ROWL material 10/10 from me! I do admire good builders of things Especially technology Even on a rare occasion, the gaming world…. Born in 1985 was the gaming generation So I do admire graphic and playable masterpieces 👏

Definitely 👀

Bought more #Bitcoin

No text needed

#Bitcoin self custody move

#bitcoin buy

Protein Good for bones Good for mass JUST GOOD

The Saga of Conan and Fenrir vs. The Time Traveling Gen Z In the shadowed mists of a Hyborian Age battlefield, Conan of Cimmeria stood victorious over a heap of vanquished foes, his broadsword dripping with crimson. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the sky churned with storm clouds. Yet, as the barbarian wiped the sweat from his brow, a strange hum pierced the silence a sound no warrior of his time could fathom. The ground quaked, and from a swirling vortex of light emerged a sight most bizarre: a band of youths clad in vibrant, shimmering garments, their hair dyed in hues of neon, wielding glowing devices that spat sparks and strange voices. These were the Time-Traveling Gen Z, a rogue faction from the year 2075, armed with quantum chronometers stolen from a utopian future. Led by a lanky figure named Zane self-proclaimed “Vibe Lord” with a man-bun and a holographic vape they had grown bored of their cushy, algorithm-driven lives. Seeking chaos and clout, they’d hacked the timeline to wreak havoc across history, livestreaming their exploits to a future audience of trillions. Their latest target? The ancient world of Conan, where they aimed to “remix” history with their tech and slang. “Cringe flex, bro,” Zane sneered, eyeing Conan’s rippling muscles. “Bet this dude’s never even heard of Wi-Fi.” His crew giggled, snapping selfies with the corpses as drones buzzed overhead, capturing every angle. Conan, unamused, hefted his blade. “By Crom, what manner of fools trespass on my land?” he roared, charging forward. But Zane tapped his wrist, and a force field shimmered into existence, deflecting Conan’s strike. Another Gen Z’er, a girl named Kylx with holographic nails, unleashed a swarm of nanobots that stung like wasps, driving the barbarian back. The fight might have ended there, had not the earth itself rebelled. From the northern woods came a thunderous howl, and Fenrir, the dread wolf of Asgard, burst forth his fur black as midnight, his jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole. Bound no longer by the chains of myth, Fenrir had sensed the rift in time, a disturbance that offended even his primal soul. His amber eyes locked on the intruders, and with a snarl, he lunged. “Yo, that’s a big nope!” Kylx shrieked, firing a plasma pistol. The bolt singed Fenrir’s flank, but the beast shrugged it off, snapping a drone from the air and crushing it between his teeth. Conan, seizing the chaos, rolled beneath the force field and drove his sword into the gut of a distracted Gen Z’er, sending their smartwatch sparking into ruin. An uneasy alliance formed in that moment. Conan, pragmatic and fierce, saw in Fenrir a kindred spirit a force of raw, untamed power. Fenrir, sensing Conan’s strength, growled an assent. Together, they faced the time-travelers, a whirlwind of steel and fang against lasers and drones. Zane rallied his crew. “Okay, fam, let’s clap back full send!” They unleashed their arsenal: sonic grenades that shattered stone, AI-guided drones with tasers, even a meme cannon that projected disorienting images of dancing cats and cryptic phrases like “Yeet or be Yeeted.” Conan staggered under the assault, his mind reeling from the absurdity, but Fenrir’s rage anchored them. The wolf tore through the drones, his howls drowning out the sonic blasts. The tide turned when Conan, with a mighty heave, uprooted a tree and hurled it at Zane’s quantum chronometer a bulky device strapped to his back. The machine sparked and whined, its temporal field destabilizing. “No cap, this is sus!” Zane cried as the vortex reopened, sucking his crew back into the void. Kylx clawed at the ground, screaming about her lost follower count, but the timeline spat them out, leaving only silence. Panting, Conan leaned on his sword, staring at Fenrir. The wolf met his gaze, then turned, vanishing into the forest as the storm clouds parted. No words passed between them none were needed. The barbarian wiped his blade clean, muttering, “Strange days indeed,” before trudging off to seek ale and a wench. And so, the ancient world endured, spared from the whims of Gen Z’s temporal tantrum, thanks to the unlikely fury of Conan and Fenrir.

Here’s a tale woven from the threads of myth and imagination, the story of Dmir the Berserker and his relentless quest to speak with Fenrir, the monstrous wolf of Norse legend. Dmir was born in a frostbitten village on the edge of a jagged fjord, where the wind howled like a chorus of restless spirits. From his earliest days, he was marked by a wildness that set him apart his eyes burned with a feral gleam, and his strength was that of a bear roused from slumber. The villagers whispered that he was touched by the gods, or perhaps cursed by them. As a young man, he joined the ranks of the berserkers, warriors who fought in a trance-like fury, clad in bear hides and fueled by a primal rage that made them seem more beast than man. But Dmir was not content to simply fight and die for glory. His soul churned with a deeper hunger a need to understand the forces that shaped the world, the gods and monsters that loomed over mortal lives. His obsession fixed upon Fenrir, the great wolf bound by the gods, whose jaws were destined to devour Odin himself at Ragnarök. To Dmir, Fenrir was no mere beast, but a symbol of untamed power, a creature who defied the order imposed by Asgard. He vowed to find the wolf and speak with him, to learn the truth of fate and freedom from the jaws of the chained titan. The quest began with a vision. One night, after a battle that left the snow stained crimson, Dmir collapsed in exhaustion and dreamed of a shadowed forest where a massive shape prowled, its growls shaking the earth. A voice, deep and guttural, rumbled through the dream: “Seek me where the chains bite the stone.” When he awoke, his path was clear. Fenrir was imprisoned on the isle of Lyngvi, bound by the magical fetter Gleipnir, forged by dwarves from impossible things the sound of a cat’s footfall, the breath of a fish, the roots of a mountain. Dmir would find this place, no matter the cost. His journey was one of blood and hardship. He crossed storm-lashed seas in a longship crewed by outcasts who feared his madness but respected his strength. They battled sea serpents and rival clans, Dmir’s axe singing as it cleaved through foes, his roars echoing over the waves. When they reached the shores of Lyngvi, the crew refused to go further, claiming the island was cursed. Undeterred, Dmir plunged into the icy waters alone, swimming until his muscles screamed, driven by a fire that no cold could quench. The island was a desolate place, a slab of rock lashed by wind and shadow. At its heart, Dmir found a chasm where the earth itself seemed to groan. There, in the depths, he saw Fenrir immense, terrifying, his fur black as a starless night, his eyes glowing like twin moons. The wolf strained against Gleipnir, a silken ribbon that shimmered with unearthly light, yet held him fast. Chains of iron anchored the fetter to the stone, and each thrash of Fenrir’s massive form sent tremors through the ground. Dmir stood before the beast, unafraid. “I am Dmir, son of the north,” he bellowed. “I seek your wisdom, great Fenrir. Speak to me of fate, of the gods, of the end that awaits us all.” Fenrir’s laughter was a low, rumbling snarl that shook the cavern. “Mortal,” he growled, “you dare approach me, when even the gods tremble? What wisdom do you seek from a prisoner?” “I would know if we are doomed to their will,” Dmir replied, his voice steady. “Are we but threads in their tapestry, or can we tear it asunder?” The wolf’s eyes narrowed, studying the berserker. For a long moment, there was silence, broken only by the clink of chains. Then Fenrir spoke. “The gods bind me because they fear me. They weave fate to cage what they cannot control. But I will break free, and the world will burn. You, little man, have no chains but those you forge in your own heart. Rage against them, and you may yet carve your own path until my jaws close upon it.” Dmir felt the weight of those words settle into his bones. He had sought truth, and Fenrir had given him not answers, but a challenge. The wolf would say no more, turning its gaze away, its growls fading into the dark. Dmir left the chasm, his mind ablaze with questions, his purpose sharpened like a blade. He returned to the world of men a changed warrior. Some say he fought with even greater ferocity, as if to defy the gods themselves. Others claim he wandered into the wilds, seeking a way to unshackle his own soul before Ragnarök came. But all agreed on one thing: Dmir the Berserker had faced Fenrir and lived, carrying the wolf’s words like a storm within him. And so his legend grew, a tale of a man who dared to speak with a monster and perhaps, in doing so, became one himself.