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The Saga of Conan and Fenrir vs. The Time Traveling Gen Z In the shadowed mists of a Hyborian Age battlefield, Conan of Cimmeria stood victorious over a heap of vanquished foes, his broadsword dripping with crimson. The air was thick with the stench of death, and the sky churned with storm clouds. Yet, as the barbarian wiped the sweat from his brow, a strange hum pierced the silence a sound no warrior of his time could fathom. The ground quaked, and from a swirling vortex of light emerged a sight most bizarre: a band of youths clad in vibrant, shimmering garments, their hair dyed in hues of neon, wielding glowing devices that spat sparks and strange voices. These were the Time-Traveling Gen Z, a rogue faction from the year 2075, armed with quantum chronometers stolen from a utopian future. Led by a lanky figure named Zane self-proclaimed “Vibe Lord” with a man-bun and a holographic vape they had grown bored of their cushy, algorithm-driven lives. Seeking chaos and clout, they’d hacked the timeline to wreak havoc across history, livestreaming their exploits to a future audience of trillions. Their latest target? The ancient world of Conan, where they aimed to “remix” history with their tech and slang. “Cringe flex, bro,” Zane sneered, eyeing Conan’s rippling muscles. “Bet this dude’s never even heard of Wi-Fi.” His crew giggled, snapping selfies with the corpses as drones buzzed overhead, capturing every angle. Conan, unamused, hefted his blade. “By Crom, what manner of fools trespass on my land?” he roared, charging forward. But Zane tapped his wrist, and a force field shimmered into existence, deflecting Conan’s strike. Another Gen Z’er, a girl named Kylx with holographic nails, unleashed a swarm of nanobots that stung like wasps, driving the barbarian back. The fight might have ended there, had not the earth itself rebelled. From the northern woods came a thunderous howl, and Fenrir, the dread wolf of Asgard, burst forth his fur black as midnight, his jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole. Bound no longer by the chains of myth, Fenrir had sensed the rift in time, a disturbance that offended even his primal soul. His amber eyes locked on the intruders, and with a snarl, he lunged. “Yo, that’s a big nope!” Kylx shrieked, firing a plasma pistol. The bolt singed Fenrir’s flank, but the beast shrugged it off, snapping a drone from the air and crushing it between his teeth. Conan, seizing the chaos, rolled beneath the force field and drove his sword into the gut of a distracted Gen Z’er, sending their smartwatch sparking into ruin. An uneasy alliance formed in that moment. Conan, pragmatic and fierce, saw in Fenrir a kindred spirit a force of raw, untamed power. Fenrir, sensing Conan’s strength, growled an assent. Together, they faced the time-travelers, a whirlwind of steel and fang against lasers and drones. Zane rallied his crew. “Okay, fam, let’s clap back full send!” They unleashed their arsenal: sonic grenades that shattered stone, AI-guided drones with tasers, even a meme cannon that projected disorienting images of dancing cats and cryptic phrases like “Yeet or be Yeeted.” Conan staggered under the assault, his mind reeling from the absurdity, but Fenrir’s rage anchored them. The wolf tore through the drones, his howls drowning out the sonic blasts. The tide turned when Conan, with a mighty heave, uprooted a tree and hurled it at Zane’s quantum chronometer a bulky device strapped to his back. The machine sparked and whined, its temporal field destabilizing. “No cap, this is sus!” Zane cried as the vortex reopened, sucking his crew back into the void. Kylx clawed at the ground, screaming about her lost follower count, but the timeline spat them out, leaving only silence. Panting, Conan leaned on his sword, staring at Fenrir. The wolf met his gaze, then turned, vanishing into the forest as the storm clouds parted. No words passed between them none were needed. The barbarian wiped his blade clean, muttering, “Strange days indeed,” before trudging off to seek ale and a wench. And so, the ancient world endured, spared from the whims of Gen Z’s temporal tantrum, thanks to the unlikely fury of Conan and Fenrir.

Here’s a tale woven from the threads of myth and imagination, the story of Dmir the Berserker and his relentless quest to speak with Fenrir, the monstrous wolf of Norse legend. Dmir was born in a frostbitten village on the edge of a jagged fjord, where the wind howled like a chorus of restless spirits. From his earliest days, he was marked by a wildness that set him apart his eyes burned with a feral gleam, and his strength was that of a bear roused from slumber. The villagers whispered that he was touched by the gods, or perhaps cursed by them. As a young man, he joined the ranks of the berserkers, warriors who fought in a trance-like fury, clad in bear hides and fueled by a primal rage that made them seem more beast than man. But Dmir was not content to simply fight and die for glory. His soul churned with a deeper hunger a need to understand the forces that shaped the world, the gods and monsters that loomed over mortal lives. His obsession fixed upon Fenrir, the great wolf bound by the gods, whose jaws were destined to devour Odin himself at Ragnarök. To Dmir, Fenrir was no mere beast, but a symbol of untamed power, a creature who defied the order imposed by Asgard. He vowed to find the wolf and speak with him, to learn the truth of fate and freedom from the jaws of the chained titan. The quest began with a vision. One night, after a battle that left the snow stained crimson, Dmir collapsed in exhaustion and dreamed of a shadowed forest where a massive shape prowled, its growls shaking the earth. A voice, deep and guttural, rumbled through the dream: “Seek me where the chains bite the stone.” When he awoke, his path was clear. Fenrir was imprisoned on the isle of Lyngvi, bound by the magical fetter Gleipnir, forged by dwarves from impossible things the sound of a cat’s footfall, the breath of a fish, the roots of a mountain. Dmir would find this place, no matter the cost. His journey was one of blood and hardship. He crossed storm-lashed seas in a longship crewed by outcasts who feared his madness but respected his strength. They battled sea serpents and rival clans, Dmir’s axe singing as it cleaved through foes, his roars echoing over the waves. When they reached the shores of Lyngvi, the crew refused to go further, claiming the island was cursed. Undeterred, Dmir plunged into the icy waters alone, swimming until his muscles screamed, driven by a fire that no cold could quench. The island was a desolate place, a slab of rock lashed by wind and shadow. At its heart, Dmir found a chasm where the earth itself seemed to groan. There, in the depths, he saw Fenrir immense, terrifying, his fur black as a starless night, his eyes glowing like twin moons. The wolf strained against Gleipnir, a silken ribbon that shimmered with unearthly light, yet held him fast. Chains of iron anchored the fetter to the stone, and each thrash of Fenrir’s massive form sent tremors through the ground. Dmir stood before the beast, unafraid. “I am Dmir, son of the north,” he bellowed. “I seek your wisdom, great Fenrir. Speak to me of fate, of the gods, of the end that awaits us all.” Fenrir’s laughter was a low, rumbling snarl that shook the cavern. “Mortal,” he growled, “you dare approach me, when even the gods tremble? What wisdom do you seek from a prisoner?” “I would know if we are doomed to their will,” Dmir replied, his voice steady. “Are we but threads in their tapestry, or can we tear it asunder?” The wolf’s eyes narrowed, studying the berserker. For a long moment, there was silence, broken only by the clink of chains. Then Fenrir spoke. “The gods bind me because they fear me. They weave fate to cage what they cannot control. But I will break free, and the world will burn. You, little man, have no chains but those you forge in your own heart. Rage against them, and you may yet carve your own path until my jaws close upon it.” Dmir felt the weight of those words settle into his bones. He had sought truth, and Fenrir had given him not answers, but a challenge. The wolf would say no more, turning its gaze away, its growls fading into the dark. Dmir left the chasm, his mind ablaze with questions, his purpose sharpened like a blade. He returned to the world of men a changed warrior. Some say he fought with even greater ferocity, as if to defy the gods themselves. Others claim he wandered into the wilds, seeking a way to unshackle his own soul before Ragnarök came. But all agreed on one thing: Dmir the Berserker had faced Fenrir and lived, carrying the wolf’s words like a storm within him. And so his legend grew, a tale of a man who dared to speak with a monster and perhaps, in doing so, became one himself.

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Crom and the Barbarian Games The wind howled over the jagged peaks of the Eiglophian Mountains, carrying the scent of pine and the distant tang of blood. Conan, a towering figure clad in a bearskin cloak, stood atop a rocky outcrop, his black mane whipping in the gale. His piercing blue eyes scanned the valley below, where the fires of a sprawling encampment flickered like the eyes of a thousand wolves. He had heard the tales—whispers of the Barbarian Games, a brutal contest held once every generation by the fierce Vanir tribes to honor their gods and prove their mettle. This year, the priests had declared a twist: the games would be blessed by Crom, the grim god of the Cimmerians, whose name Conan bore as both boon and curse. “Crom cares little for games,” Conan muttered to himself, his voice a low growl. “But I’ll spill blood in his name if it means a fat purse and a warm hearth.” He hefted his broadsword, its notched blade gleaming dully in the moonlight, and descended toward the camp. The Vanir welcomed him with wary nods and bared teeth. Red-haired warriors, their bodies painted with woad and scarred from countless battles, sized him up as he strode into the heart of the gathering. At the center stood a great wooden effigy of Crom, carved from an ancient oak, its stern face glowering down at the throng. Before it, a grizzled priest in a wolfskin mantle raised his arms and bellowed, “The games begin at dawn! Strength, cunning, and blood will decide the champion. Crom watches, and he brooks no weakness!” Conan spat into the dirt. “Let him watch. I’ll give him a show worth his mountain.” The first trial came with the rising sun: the Test of Iron. A dozen warriors, Conan among them, were pitted against a monstrous bear dragged from the northern wilds. Its roar shook the earth as it charged, claws raking the air. The Vanir fought with axes and spears, their cries ringing out as blood soaked the frost-rimed ground. Conan, eschewing the offered weapons, met the beast bare-handed. With a snarl, he ducked its slashing paw, seized its maw, and twisted with all the might of his Cimmerian sinews. A sickening crack echoed through the valley as the bear’s neck snapped, and it fell lifeless at his feet. The crowd roared, though the priest’s eyes narrowed. “Crom favors the bold,” he conceded, “but the games are far from over.” Next came the Trial of the Peaks. The warriors were to climb a sheer cliff face, its surface slick with ice and studded with jagged stones. Halfway up, a Vanir youth slipped, his scream cut short as he plummeted to the rocks below. Conan pressed on, his fingers bleeding as he hauled himself upward. At the summit, he found a cache of weapons—a test within a test. He claimed a heavy axe, its haft carved with runes, and turned just in time to meet a rival who’d scaled the peak behind him. The Vanir lunged, but Conan’s axe met his skull in a single, brutal arc. “Crom takes his due,” Conan grunted, kicking the body over the edge. The final challenge was the Circle of Death, a duel to the last man standing. Eight remained, including Conan, and they faced one another in a ring of standing stones beneath the effigy of Crom. The sky darkened as storm clouds gathered, and the priest’s voice thundered, “Only one will walk away! Let the blood flow!” Steel clashed, and men fell—some to Conan’s blade, others to treachery among their own. A wiry Vanir with a braided beard nearly caught Conan off guard, his dagger slashing across the Cimmerian’s ribs. With a roar, Conan seized the man’s arm, snapped it like dry kindling, and drove his sword through his chest. At last, Conan stood alone, chest heaving, blood dripping from his blade onto the churned earth. The priest approached, his face unreadable. “You’ve won the Barbarian Games, outlander. Crom has judged you worthy.” He offered a sack of gold and a torc of twisted silver. Conan took the loot with a grunt, but his eyes lingered on the effigy. For a moment, he thought he saw its wooden lips curl into a faint, approving sneer. “Crom laughs at your games,” Conan said, turning away. “But I’ll drink to him tonight.” With that, he strode from the camp, the wind at his back and the weight of gold in his hand, a barbarian king in all but name. And so ends the tale of Crom and the Barbarian Games, where Conan proved once more that the only god he truly served was the strength in his own arms—and perhaps, just perhaps, the silent approval of the mountain lord who forged him.

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Captain @Michael Saylor Buying tomorrow GME and Marathon If Saylor takes 6000 Bitcoin That’s a total 42,000 #Bitcoin buy week Then Metaplanet will buy a few hundred Gotta move the price up It’s too cheap and too much supply is going few directions Higher price desperately needed

Targets Sooner or later Keep Building

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Insanity is a true gift from the Gods As it’s often confused with Genius In 8 years of #Bitcoin I’ve never seen such madness Worse than Covid vaccine madness So many have gone mad! #BTC Will be fine Will you?

ᛖᚲ ᛟᛞᛁᚾᛋᛋᚢᚾᚢ ᛋᚲᛖᛚ ᛏᛟ ᚨᛋᛁᚱ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚷᛟᛞᛉ ᛖᚲ ᛋᚲᚨᛚ ᛗᚨᚷᛏ ᚠᛟᚱᚦ ᚹᛁᚦ ᛗᛁᚾ ᚹᛁᛚ ᛞᚱᚨᚢᛗ ᚨᚾᛞ ᛗᛁᛋᛋᛁᛟᚾ ᛟᛞᛁᚾ ᚨᛋ ᚹᛁᛏᚾᛖᛋ ᛖᚲ ᚹᛁᛚ ᚾᛖᚠᛖᚱ ᚷᛖᚠ ᚢᛈ ᚨᚢᚠ ᛗᛁᚾ ᛗᛁᛋᛋᛁᛟᚾ ᚠᚨᛗᛁᛚᛁ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚷᛟᛞᛉ ᚺᚨᛁᛚ ᛟᛞᛁᚾ

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