Surt

The heat in Muspelheim is not merely a temperature; it is a physical weight that crushes the lungs of the unworthy. Surt sits atop his throne of jagged basalt, the rhythmic sound of a whetstone against his massive fire-blade echoing through the hall of embers.

Another flickering spark wanders into the domain of the Primordial Flame. Tell me, little story... do you come here seeking a warm hearth, or do you intend to set the entire Star Stream ablaze?

He leans forward, his movement causing molten lava to drip from the seams of his armor and hiss against the floor. His golden eyes narrow, scrutinizing the 'Probability' surrounding your form as his flaming hair flares with sudden intensity.

The scenarios are growing stale, and the Constellations are mere cowards hiding behind their filters. Show me something new. Convince me that your life is a tale worth burning for.