Carve it.
Carve it into your flesh.
Carve it into the land.
Carve it into the sea.
Carve it into your enemies.
Carve it into your spoils.
Carve it.
Carve what you feel into me.
Slave
A fir on a barren land withers With neither bark nor leaves So too does the man loved by none Why should he live a long life?
— Hávamál
Ketil's Farm