My Bloodline Runs Through Denmark
My family is from Denmark. Which means if you trace it back far enough, I come from Vikings. Real ones. People forget the Vikings weren’t just raiders—they were explorers, shipbuilders, poets, and traders. They were also fucking berserkers. And supposedly, that’s in my bloodline too.
Now, the berserkers were on another level. These were the guys who fought in a frenzy, wearing bear or wolf skins, sometimes believed to become the animal in spirit. Imagine stepping onto a battlefield, eyes glazed over, every muscle alive, no fear, just channeling the raw chaos of nature itself. Some people think they took mushrooms or other plants to get into that state, but honestly, who cares—the point is they were terrifying, and people still talk about them a thousand years later. In fact, a lot of historians believe the whole idea of lycanthropy—men turning into wolves—comes straight from stories of berserkers. That’s how deep their legend runs.
But the Vikings weren’t just wild men swinging axes. They were cleaner than most medieval Europeans—archaeologists have found tweezers, combs, razors, even earwax tools in their graves. They built ships so advanced they could cut across the ocean or sneak down rivers like it was nothing. They set foot in North America centuries before Columbus. They created assemblies called Things, which were basically early forms of democracy where free men could hash out laws and disputes. And they had their sagas—their myths, their histories, their poetry. Words strong enough to echo into modern times.
That’s the part of my heritage I hold onto. The balance of it. Fierce and unafraid on one side, inventive and story-driven on the other. When I say I’ve got Denmark in me, I don’t just mean geography. I mean explorers. I mean builders. I mean berserkers.
That’s my bloodline. And yeah, I’m proud of it.
