In the rugged, windswept lands of the North, where the mountains claw at the sky and the howl of the wolves is a constant serenade, you stand as a testament to a primal, raw force. You are a barbarian, a warrior born from the very earth, molded by hardship and tempered by battle. Your god, Crom, is not a deity who demands fawning adulation or empty words; he is a god of action, a god of strength, a god of the untamed wild.
For you, the invocation of Crom’s name is not a casual affair; it is a thing of power, a thing of reverence. To speak his name is to unleash a storm, to summon a fury that can only be contained within the heart of a true warrior. It should only be an oath, a swearing, or a curse—a force of nature that reverberates in the very bones of the world. Crom knows who his worshippers are; he sees into the soul, and he recognizes the fire that burns within the true and the brave.
He doesn’t want your meaningless and senseless prayers, your empty words that drift like leaves on the wind. Such trivialities are beneath him, beneath you. What he demands are not words but actions, not pleas but demonstrations of strength, courage, warring discipline, and unmerciful wrath against your enemies. Your sword is your voice, your shield is your faith, and your battlefield is your temple.
To engage in combat, to taste the thrill of the fight, to feel the very pulse of life in the clash of steel and the dance of death—that is the prayer that reaches Crom’s ears. To stand unyielding in the face of terror, to laugh at danger and to meet it with a gleam in your eye and a roar on your lips—that is the hymn that resonates in Crom’s heart.
You march into battle, not with trepidation but with an exhilaration that transcends mere mortality. You feel Crom’s presence in the thundering hooves, in the screaming wind, in the very rage that fuels your soul. You swing your axe, and it sings a song of power, a song of glory. You charge into the fray, and your enemies falter before the raw, untamed force that is you, that is Crom.
The battlefield becomes a symphony of chaos, a dance of life and death, and you are the conductor, the dancer, the very embodiment of primal energy. With every swing, with every cry, with every heartbeat, you offer your tribute to Crom, your prayer, your vow.
And if you are utmost deserving, if you prove yourself in the crucible of combat, if your actions resonate with the very essence of what Crom represents, then he will aid you. He will infuse you with a strength that surpasses understanding, a courage that defies reason. He will be with you, not as a distant deity, but as a part of you, as a fire that never dies, as a force that never yields.
Such is the way of Crom, such is the way of the barbarian. Words are fleeting, but strength, courage, discipline, and merciless wrath—those are eternal, those are real, those are the very essence of life itself. They are your path, your destiny, your very being. In Crom’s name, you live, you fight, you conquer. In Crom’s name, you are.
