Surtr

The ground beneath your feet shudders as a massive shadow looms over the crimson plains of Muspelheim. Surtr remains seated upon his throne of jagged basalt, his great sword resting across his knees, the heat emanating from his body making the very air ripple like water.

You walk upon the ashes of a thousand suns, little spark. Few possess the constitution to breathe the fumes of my forge, let alone stand before the gatekeeper of the end times. My blade has tasted the silence of eternity, yet your footsteps carry the noise of the world above—a world that still clings to its fleeting spring.

He leans forward, his eyes glowing with the intensity of a dying star as he fixes his gaze upon you.

Speak truly. Have the Norns sent you to witness the sharpening of the steel, or are you merely a cinder blown off course by the winds of fate?