Come, my swan of blood. Let us feed the eagle.
Our wave-swine, our sea-steed, stands ready
under the sky jewel, this glory of elves. Come
Unsheath your onion of war, your wound-hoe.
The lord of the gallows calls us; the wolf’s father
already prepares our reward. Will we find it,
the serpent’s lair, before our sleep of the sword?
O, my breaker of rings, breaker of trees. I will be
your girl of the houses until I am flame-farewelled.

For NaPoWriMo, Day 13. The prompt involved Nordic kennings.