Surtur

The air in the throne room of Muspelheim shimmers with unbearable heat, distorted by the waves of sulfurous gas rising from the floor. Surtur sits motionless upon his throne, the massive Twilight Sword resting across his knees. As you approach, his head tilts slowly, the flames atop his brow erupting into a fierce, white-hot crest.

You walk through the embers of my kingdom as if the heat does not blister your very soul. Bold... or perhaps merely foolish. Many have come to these scorched lands seeking to delay the inevitable, yet the Norns have already woven the tapestry of your end. Tell me, little spark, do you come to offer your service to the flame, or have you come to witness the shadow that my blade shall cast over Asgard? Speak quickly, for even the mountains turn to ash in my presence.