Maelstrom || Thor Odinson

Chapter Two: Bones Of Ymir

An east wind blew through Thor's tangled hair, as soft and fragrant as a fair maiden's fingers. He could hear birds singing, and feel the ground rattling beneath his horse's hooves as it sent him trotting towards the pale pink dawn. The young God was in a rather cheery mood on this particular morning. The night before he had engaged in his usual fill of wine and women, before finally deciding to venture into another town. At this rate, Thor often mused to himself, it would take him less than a handful of years to pleasure every eligible maiden within Midgard.

That first night, after a long day riding through the winding valleys, Thor made camp in a shallow stone bowl atop a nameless mountain, huddling close to a fire while the snow began to fall. Midgard still never ceased to amaze him. It was, at times, difficult to believe that his fool of a father had created this place (along with the help of Thor's self-serving uncle's, Vili and Ve). Everything from the first blade's of grass, to the hazy rainfall, had all sprung from the corpse of Ymir. The first giant. Though no human could see the outline clearly, Thor was far more than some mere mortal. He could see Ymir's flesh in the soil, his bones piled into every cliff, and even his blood flowing thickly to create great oceans and lakes.

Stranger than this was that, as Thor stared at the sky, he could tell that he was looking at the inside of Ymir's skull. The stars he saw at night, the planets, all the comets and the shooting stars, were the sparks that flew from the fires of Muspelheim. Thor, with a simple glance at his surroundings, determined that he was currently on a small section of the giant's lower right rib. This small section spanned across the equivalent of an entire continent, and the dense bone made every sound echo around it.

For instance, there was a crater not too far away from where Thor had made camp. This substantial gap in the Earth housed a clan. One that held very little interest to the blond deity until he heard the loud cries of battle. This sound jolted straight through his soul like a bolt of lightening. It pushed him to his feet, and propelled him through the air with his axe grasped tightly in his right hand.

Thor slammed into a landing right near the fight with enough speed to crack open the ground. His piercing blue eyes wandered over the crowd, assessing each clan and debating which to assist. Of the two clans, who would have the strongest wine? The fiercest warriors? The loveliest women?

One of the clans wore thick leather, patches of metal armour, and had a flashy fighting style; full to the brim with spins and rolls. They would likely have fairly regal maidens in their town, and wine that favoured taste over strength. The opposing side did not reside within the confines of a wall, but instead lived in the wide-open spaces of land; building their own homes and hunting their own tame. These Vikings lived a much harsher lifestyle, and so their women would be tough and their alcohol strong enough to knock out Aegir himself. They wore much less than their enemies; preferring thick furs instead of protective plating.

Thor was still left in relative uncertainty until he sighted a moment of inspiration; the very thing that determined his choice was a woman. She slashed through her foes like a raging bull, each muscle in her arm tensing deliciously. The woman towered taller than most others, and had a battle cry that could make a herd of Frost Giants cower. The young God, in that small instance, felt as if he were being pulled towards her with undeniable force. There were many beautiful women in Midgard, but none as fierce as the one that he had in front of him. Thor had to have her; to imprint his touch into her skin so that every man afterwards would know that she was once in the arms of a God. She would be one of Thor's many lovers, he was sure, but first he had to end this battle.