Here’s the thing about reading the Poetic Edda: you might be turned off by ancient diction, metered stanzas of dialogue, and all the backstory—I, manifestly, am not—but still you should take a look, because unlike modern fantasy, where more time is spent talking about how badass the heroes are than actually getting shit done, the Norse just get right to the point. Every other page, somebody is falling over in his own hall, “his own blood mixing with his own ale,” pulling an ancient sword named Gram (Translation? “Wrath.”) out of the oak tree where it was thrust by a god, or eating the heart of a dragon to steal its power.
Might I mention that the above dragonslayer, Sigurd, is advised by Odin to dig trenches around himself before he fights the dragon Fafnir, else when he slays it, he will literally drown in a tide of blood.
