The nine realms might sound excitingly diverse, in theory, but Thor has grown bored of listening to the God's bicker and decided to wander the expanse of Midgard; Viking territory. Humans were at least entertaining enough to wage wars against themse...
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There were a plethora of Gods that resided in Asgard, but by far the oldest and wisest among them was Odin. He held every single secret that the world had to offer in his mind's eye. More than that, he had an incredible knack for runes, and for that power, he had sacrificed part of his immortal soul at a young age.
Odin had once hung from the world-tree, Yggdrasil, for nine days and nine nights. His side was pierced by the point of a spear, which wounded him gravely. The winds clutched at him, buffeted his body as it hung. Nothing did he eat for those long hours stuck amongst the magic vein, and nothing did he drink. He was alone there, in pain, the light of his life slowly going out.
He had tried, in his youthful optimism, to focus not on the burning agony that shot through his body and instead mentally listed the nine realms that attached themselves to Yggdrasil. It made him feel as if he were back with his father, Borr, being lectured on his lack of interest in anything other than combat. A trait his son would later inherit.
Niflheim; the world of fog and mist. The branches that reached toward that realm were frozen solid, with ice so dark that it appeared before Odin like spindly fingers beckoning him towards the cold embrace of death. A dragon, Níðhöggr, guarded the way. It's behemoth claws made the tree shake with each step, and yet the icicle-like sticks beneath the fire-breather remained sturdy.
Muspelheim; the land of fire. Flames shot up from mountains of lava, scorching Yggdrasil's bark but never leaving so much as a scorch. Odin wondered how this could be - that even the hottest fire known to man or God, still had no sway over the the tree of life. Even the ash, as it blanketed the thick wood, seemed to vanish beneath its surface. There was a moment in which the young deity almost lost his grip, and in the shock that followed, he swore he could see surtr's flaming sword nearly consume him.
Jotunheim; home of the Giants. As one would expect, this realm required the widest girth. Everything was just as large as one's mind could comprehend, and limited only by the extent of someone's imagination. The sight alone brought Odin a peace he thought he could never find in the last potential moments of his life. Jotunheim was a haven for bloody battles and sex, two of Odin's favourite things, and he had found many lovers within its gates.
Vanahein; home of the Vanir. The Vanir were an old branch of Gods, and masters of sorcery. They were widely acknowledged for their talent to predict the future and desperately sought after by ambitious men, hoping to be told that they would one day rule over their entire kingdom or get a good fucking in a weeks time. The difference with this realm, however, was that the branches leading toward it were woven with potent threads of magic. Only those truly worthy of the Gods time could make it the whole way across without plummeting to their death.
Asgard; home of the Gods. Odin felt his arms begin to ache, but the sight of Asgard gave him the strength to hold on just that little while longer. This realm floated high above Yggdrasil's leaves, barely accessible. It looked so close, and yet Odin could not reach it. In this moment he found himself regretting ever defying his father's wishes to travel through the other realms. It had been what lead him here...sparked the desire to create life in Midgard; a place of much wonder, but occupied by none.
