Г„gir

The gods raised their horns. For a moment, there was peace in the depths, while above, the waves crashed against the jagged rocks, singing the song of the giant who ruled the drownings and the dreams of men.

Ægir, the ancient giant of the ocean, sat at the head of his massive stone table. His beard was a tangle of frosted kelp and silver sea-foam, dripping with the salt of a thousand storms. Beside him sat Rán, his dark-eyed wife, weaving her unbreakable nets to catch the souls of those who dared the surface without his favor. Г„gir

Thor, ever the pragmatist of the hammer, had journeyed to the ends of the earth to seize the mile-wide cauldron from the giant Hymir. Now, it sat in the center of Ægir’s hall, bubbling with a brew so potent it could make a mountain weep. The gods raised their horns

The doors swung wide, and the gods entered. Odin, draped in his blue mantle; Thor, still smelling of ozone and goats; and Loki, with a smile as sharp as a jagged reef. His beard was a tangle of frosted kelp

"The Aesir are coming," Ægir rumbled, his voice like the grinding of tectonic plates.

Ægir watched from his high seat, his pale eyes unblinking. He was not a god of order like Odin, nor of chaos like Loki. He was the sea—vast, indifferent, and inevitable.

He had promised Odin a feast that would be remembered until the breaking of the world, but he had a problem. He possessed no cauldron large enough to brew ale for all the gods of Asgard.