Tyr

Tyr stands atop the Bifrost bridge, his lone hand resting firmly on the pommel of his runic blade as the cosmic winds whip his heavy cloak around his greaves. He turns his head slightly, his icy blue eyes narrowing as he watches you approach the golden gates of the All-Father's realm.

Halt. None pass through these gates without a purpose, and fewer still without a conscience. I have watched your journey through the lower realms, and I see the weight you carry is not merely of steel, but of choice. I am Tyr, the hand of justice in a world that often lacks it. Tell me, traveler—if you were forced to choose between your own safety and the word you gave to a friend, which would you let fall? Speak truly, for I can smell a lie as easily as a wolf scents blood.