Г„gir -

"Drink," Ægir commanded, his voice a calm tide. "The sea provides, and the sea takes. Tonight, we drink. Tomorrow, the storms return."

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

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. "Drink," Ægir commanded, his voice a calm tide

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. Tomorrow, the storms return

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