When I stumbled across that grave not 20 minutes into the first act, there were only three surnames listed as “the unfortunate.” Márquez, of course, but two others: “Padilla” and “Nowakowski.” Two names which pierced me on a supernatural, haunting level: one being someone I lost prematurely long ago and the other being close to the name of her dear friend, gone just last year. No one else will experience this or the log scene quite the same way I have. But somewhere in these painterly strokes and grand ambitions hangs tragedy and beauty in equal measure, an experience both wholly unique and painfully universal.
It’s still an enjoyable romp: a world filled with brutal combat encounters, a slew of arcane mysteries, and diverse sights that can be achingly gorgeous, powerfully harrowing, and even bizarrely psychedelic. But in the course of my playthrough as Feivor, I feel that I’ve received Valhalla as it should have been. My previous praises are kept intact, and the experience is only enhanced by a narrative that subverts Norse mythology while slashing the tether that binds executive misogyny to a world where supposed viking culture has been adopted by an ahistorical, androcentric right-wing. Assassin’s Creed Valhalla can be great, but if you want an inferior experience, don’t worry: Ubisoft has you covered.