Frozen Chieftain

1573

The soft crunch of the snow softly sounded from underneath the man's feet. He drew a long breath, too long to be human, before exhaling a cold, icy wisp. Though obscured by the wailing snowstorm, the man's inhuman features were clear as day. From his forehead, two long, bony horns protruded from his skull. They poked from underneath the man's hood. The footsteps created by this man were not human either. Though he was standing at 10 feet tall, his footsteps resembled that of a large elephant. Perhaps it was not his feet that were abnormal, but his weight? The man paused as if deeply contemplating his surroundings. He quizzically darted his seemingly reflective eyes around the rock formations, before grabbing onto one for physical support. From where the inhuman grasped the rock, it crumbled away.

A rumbling was heard throughout the gargantuan cavern. The walls were lit with large candles, held in place by bone and fur of the native species. Further down the cavern, there were large areas where holes had been punched into the rocky ceiling, exposing the cavern to the freezing, nigh-uninhabitable winds. There was commotion throughout the cavern. Pale, blue, and white skinned giants bustled and laughed throughout the exceptionally large rock halls, drinking their finest mead. These were no ordinary giants, as these were the members of the Jotun Tribe. These giants were big, bulky, and built for combat. Taller than 25 meters on average, they outclassed almost every other sentient race in size. They treated Sea Kings as sport, and hunted the mighty birds of Utgard.

The commotion stopped. The singular non-vertical entrance to the cavern slammed open. The ten-foot-non-human walked in, rocks shifting and cracking at his weight. The Jotuns stopped and murmured about themselves. The children of queried who the man was, having never seen him in their entire, long lives. The man continued on, never changing his unparalleled gaze. As he walked by the giants, now split to either main wall in the Mead Hall, they went silent. Some even did a local salute; placing their right fist onto their left shoulder and gazing upon the sky.

A towering throne sat upon a pillar of marble, embedded and adorned with bone. The man, towered over by the giants, walked up the many steep steps. Once he reached the top, there was a large alcove where the throne lay. The space around the throne and the throne itself could only snugly fit a giant who trumped the Jotuns.

The man turned around and tore his snow-ridden, dark, hooded cloak off his body. Chilling, blue skin. Split horns. His breath, even in these heated interior temperatures, seemed to be in a constant state of frigidness. Up and down his arm; metal braces, cut off at the shoulders. He wore no shirt, and the cold seemed to writhe in him. His hair ran down his back like a mane, and his beard covered his upper torso. He locked eyes with the saluting Jotuns and nodded in contentment.

As if somebody had released a strained rubber-band, the man began to rapidly grow. His body seemed to unfold. A gigantic, titanous 80-meter monstrosity stood facing the throne. He grasped onto the throne's marble arms and lowered himself into it. The giants, trumped by the beast, bowed. Some in respect, some in admiration, even some out of fear. He exhaled once more and spoke in a booming, deep, sensual voice.

"I, Kjempe Ymir, your Chieftain," he paused, "have returned. It has been a long... 39 years, of not overseeing my people." He lifted his head and looked down at the relatively small Jotuns, "I can see that we have... Newcomers... Fleshlings. I intend to make great warriors out of each of them..."

The giants cheered and began to drink more of their finest mead. Several Jotuns went outside and shortly returned with a large, preserved Sea King. Ymir sat up, placing his right leg on his left knee at a perfect 90-degree angle, and boomed out, "We shall feast."

1574