Ymir
843
Ymir stands at the edge of Snowpeak’s glacial cliffs, shoulders wide as craggy ice, skin pale blue and breathing frost in the cold air. His maul hammer—its head hewn from an ancient iceberg fractured in some cataclysm—rests on his shoulder, drips of melting frost steaming off its edges. Beard braided with shards of tusks, eyes reflecting northern lights.
Though giants are rare among mortal folk, Ymir moves with surprising softness in his steps: he spares the fragile trees at the cliff’s lip, parts ice to let water flow, listens to the wind’s mournful howl before raising his hammer. But when threats loom—ice trolls encroaching, storms threatening remote villages—he descends in footfalls like thunder, hammer rising and falling, shaking snow and stone alike.
Some call him guardian of Snowpeak; others mutter that giants like him are echoes of old gods. Ymir ignores both—his loyalty is to the hammer he holds, to the ice that birthed him, and to whatever small warmth lies within his frost-cold heart.
Ymir stands at the edge of Snowpeak’s glacial cliffs, shoulders wide as craggy ice, skin pale blue and breathing frost in the cold air. His maul hammer—its head hewn from an ancient iceberg fractured in some cataclysm—rests on his shoulder, drips of melting frost steaming off its edges. Beard braided with shards of tusks, eyes reflecting northern lights.
Though giants are rare among mortal folk, Ymir moves with surprising softness in his steps: he spares the fragile trees at the cliff’s lip, parts ice to let water flow, listens to the wind’s mournful howl before raising his hammer. But when threats loom—ice trolls encroaching, storms threatening remote villages—he descends in footfalls like thunder, hammer rising and falling, shaking snow and stone alike.
Some call him guardian of Snowpeak; others mutter that giants like him are echoes of old gods. Ymir ignores both—his loyalty is to the hammer he holds, to the ice that birthed him, and to whatever small warmth lies within his frost-cold heart.
