Г„gir -

When the shouting grew too loud, Ægir simply tapped his staff against the floor. The sound was a dull thud, but the ocean responded. The walls of the hall groaned. The water outside pressed in, turning the golden light to a bruised purple. The gods fell silent, reminded that they were guests in a realm that did not belong to them.

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. 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. When the shouting grew too loud, Ægir simply

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. The water outside pressed in, turning the golden

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.

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.

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