Grimnir

Grimnir, Hero-God of Giantkind and former Emperor of Meranthe, known as the Last of the Bodi, the First Giant, Uniter of the Clans, and many other titles beside. Grimnir was the last mortal to speak with Ymir before the sundering, and the first to drink of the Aether-gods blood, he was elevated, even above the rest of Giantkind by his contact with Ymir, and it is by his word that the people of the North still sing praises of the long dead primal.

The First Giant

Vdalion, hearth of giants, the holy land of Ymir, was once but a sea of open plains, steppes, and grasslands in the mythic age. Countless barbarian tribes and steppe warriors strove for dominance in an endless age of bloodshed, the chaos of the primals denoting an era of primal anarchy where not one mile of the steppes was not watered with the lifeblood of countless clans. Names lost to history, cultures forgotten in months as entire clans were extinguished and new ones rose, such was a time that none could predict any nation state could thrive in such a brutal demesne.

Amongst the ancient clans of savage warriors, one stood apart from the rest in the breadth of its suffering and resolve. Those in the center of the Steppes were known for never deigning to conquer their neighbors, only offering prayer for their salvation. The Bodis of the Hearth would offer aid to all wounded, regardless of clan or clade, and only ever beckoned that no bloodshed be brought to their sacred grounds.

Yet, in this land of brutality, no such peace built upon kindness and common good could remain. One such wounded barbarian returned to his clan with news of a helpless clan that would be easily raided, a clade of yellow cowards that insulted the warring era with their peaceful nature. In the dead of night, a coalition of the Blacktooth barbarians and the Steelmane steppe riders stormed the natural fortifications of the stone temple that the Bodis called home, slaughtering man, woman, and babe in the dead of night in an act of wild brutality.

One boy was left alive to send a message, blinded and beaten half to death, that not one isolated village was free from the conflict of these lands, no matter how much they begged for peace. Left in a pile of bodies at the center of a hearth, half burnt and barely alive, the child prayed in the darkness not for salvation, but with searing hatred he called out to the cosmos for revenge. It was said that the natural spring of the Bodis filled with luminous crimson ichor that even the blind could see, a figure greater and vaster than even the stars lifting the youth up higher and higher. The whispers of Ymir entered his mind, earthquakes given form.

“Become my herald, and I will lend you the might within my veins. No blizzard or wildfire will rival your conquest, and all the clans will look to you as king. Your descendants and vassals must follow your path and drink deep of my gift as you will, this shall be thine bond. Never seek to trade it to another, or this spring will dry forever.”

The boy awoke with his sight restored, his visage reflected upon the bloody spring as he rose from it. The bodies were gone, the rooftop of the crumbled temple exposed to the sky by his own sudden growth. An ember of flame sat in his left socket, a crystal of permafrost in his right, and from the ruins rose the first and mightiest giant the lands would ever witness. Grimnir the Great.

Revenge of Grimnir

The young Grimnir rose from what would have been his tomb, the spring of his dead people now a font of Ymir’s ichorous blessing. He found that though he’d always been amongst the shortest of his clan, he now towered dozens of feet above the ruins he’d once called home. The horn of a great mastodon lay floating in the pool, banded in permafrost and glimmering with light even in the darkness; the gift of a conqueror. With his new, prodigious might, the first of the giants would establish a rough hewn temple of stone from the heaviest of boulders, fusing them together with flame and freezing its exterior with permafrost. Thus, it would remain sealed until his gruesome work was done.

The haven of the coal-biting Blacktooth clan lay in the natural caverns of the mountains, their fortress nigh impregnable from its sheer natural defenses. It was said that Grimnir arrived outside their land and blew his mighty horn once, shaking the very mountains they called home to acquire the attention of the marauders. Out they came in an army numbering near a thousand, for they were amongst the most brutal and successful of the barbarian hordes in the lawless lands that would become Ymir’s.

“Hark, and hear the words of the last Bodi. Though there is vengeance in mine heart, so too is there mercy. You may yet live if you swear your allegiance to my banner. Become my men, and I will raise you up. If you refuse, by the third sounding of my horn will all of you perish.”

The sheer mass of the great giant struck terror into even the most grizzled of the Blackteeth, but their chief possessed no fear to speak of.

“No matter how large a threat, we are many, and you are one. You may be our slave, and we will spare you.”

Grimnir did not respond with words, but with the first blowing of his mighty horn, the earth shaking with seismic force that shook the ground beneath the horde. The spirits of the warriors were shaken, but the Blackteeth did not budge. When Grimnir blew the horn again, the sky itself appeared to thunder and crack from the force of his bellow, as if the heavens themselves were shaking from might. This thunderous display shook even the chieftain, who spurred his men on as he pointed towards the caverns.

“None have ever taken our home, no giant can fit within our tunnels. Retreat into our walls of stone, he will not follow!”

So it was that the barbarians turned back from the first giant, a thousand warriors retreating within the depths of the tunnels they called home. The tunnels that would be their tomb.

Grimnir would wait until the last of them had entered their mountainous hold. Not one of the Blackteeth stood beside his banner, and not one of them would ever see the light of day again. The third and final howl of the great horn of Ymir dwarfed the other two by eons, the sky and earth shaking in twane with such ferocity as if rending the world itself asunder. The mountainous fortress and its myriad tunnels were caved in to the last by the sudden earthquake, the whole of the clan destroyed and buried in a single giant’s breath.

“A giant keeps his word.”

Age of Conquest

The destruction of the Blacktooth clan sent ripples across the lawless realm. The greatest of the barbarian clans swallowed in stone by a natural disaster, a vacuum of power left behind. The Steelmanes of the steppes were the first to witness the destruction upon their mounts, and so it was that they saw the first giant in prayer over the mausoleum of the vanquished. Their khan would ride fearlessly to meet the destroyer of mountains, for he bore no doubt in the swiftness of his mounts.

“Mighty one, was this your doing. This destruction?”

Grimnir would remain deep in prayer, only rising like the stirring of an inanimate statue when his prayer to Ymir was done.

“No, it was theirs. I merely delivered them to their fate, as was the will of Ymir. Will your clan share the same fate, rider of the steppes? Or will yours be the first that flies my banner in the land of Ymir?”

The khan was notoriously boisterous, a fearless chaser of death and lover of competition, but even he did not believe himself capable of such acts of destruction. Yet, he was a clever sort, and sought to exploit the weakness of one so large as Grimnir.

“We shall not; our riders shall trample the world into steppes. As we’d trample you, large as you are. Yet, were you to face us directly in battle, we’d simply ride circles around you until you tired. What sport is there in that? If I defeat you in a race, you will join the horses in the stables. If you win, my riders will be yours.”

The giant was pensive, but he possessed no doubt in his mind. The terms were agreed to; the khan and Grimnir began at the foot of the mountain where the Blackteeth lay buried. The first to reach the steppes was victor, and so the race was on.

The khan’s horse was a great thoroughbred of impressive speed, and with a burst he took the lead right from the get go. Yet, the giant’s long strides followed close behind, maintaining a steady jog that kept near even pace with the rider. Refusing to lose, the khan pushed his horse harder and harder, forcing it to speed towards the steppes miles away without a moment’s rest.

Soon, the finish line was in sight, the horsemen gathered around waiting for the arrival of their leader. Yet, in the final stretch, Grimnir would begin to sprint in a burst of speed, having saved his stamina by keeping behind the Khan and pressuring him to not pace his mount. When the leader of the Steelmanes moved to catch up with him, his exhausted horse bucked him from the saddle and rode away. Shamed and defeated at his own game, he who led the steppe riders bent the knee to Grimnir and became his man, and so it was that the riders of Grimnir spread his tales of conquest across the land. The seat of the steppes would become his, the heart of the realm that would become Vdalion. It was said upon claiming victory, Grimnir had few words to say but this.

“Never doubt a giant’s pace; he can walk in one step what others run in ten.”

The Golden Era

The khan of the Steelmanes became the right hand of Grimnir, and so he was brought to the buried temple of the Bodis. Accepting Ymir’s blessing from the fountain of blood, so it was the second giant rose to the heights of the sky cathedral. He would not be the last, however. Grimnir the Great’s conquest spread across the land, subjugating all manner of tribes and clans with his overwhelming might, astute intellect, and divine charisma. One by one, the many races and peoples of the land were brought into the fold, and so the many leaders of the once disparate clans laid their blades at the feet of the giant king, swore their oath in blood, and became the first generation of giants.

What followed was a golden age, for the land was unified by the might of towering phenoms. Grimnir’s rule spread to almost every corner of Meranthe, bar the most determined of holdouts in the farthest reaches of his empire. So it was that he avenged his lost clan, and found a nation to replace them. A land where might made right, narrowly balanced by the wisdom of the greatest giant. Hundreds of years passed without incident as all manner of races and clades became integrated into the realm, though many were considered second class citizens by the more arrogant giants. Many more were taken as slaves beneath the notice of the aging Grimnir, corruption born in the hearts of those that had inherited the blessing of Ymir from their fathers without the wisdom that had been instilled by the first giant. He himself had only three children. Surt inherited his flame, Lauf his frigidity and command of ice. And his last son, nameless now, inherited no blessing at all.

It seemed as if all of Meranthe would be subsumed by the rule of the immortal conqueror, the lands beyond just waiting to fall under the rule of Grimnir. Yet, fate has a strange way of unfolding, and though the first giant had never lost a battle in all his hundreds of years, he passed away peacefully on his throne of natural causes at the height of the empire. The giants were left with their overwhelming might, but without a wise ruler to keep them in check. So it was that the empire forged by Grimnir began to crack.

The Recession of Giants

The death of Grimnir was a time of mourning, for he had won the respect of all his vassals with his might and conciliatory nature. It was not long, however, before the power struggle began. The khan of the Steelmanes made a claim for Grimnir’s seat, and was found stabbed to death in his own quarters. Blaming another clan, infighting began as sides were picked, countless giants striving to make a claim surrounded by their men-at-arms. None had a whole advantage, for while there were many giants, most were divided amongst the lines of clans, and the majority of the forces were normal sized.

So it was that the treacherous son of Grimnir strove to take his father’s place, not out of merit, but greed. His father had told him tales of the temple where he had found his blessing, and so it was that he acquired a band of eastern ruthless mercenaries from outside the lands with the royal treasury. His intent was clear; the outsiders would be made giants and form his new army, and in exchange they’d make him a conqueror. The name of the son was lost to history, for he was remembered that day only as the Betrayer.

When his men broke into the sanctum of the fallen Bodi, they found the fountain of blood within. Glutting upon it with greed in their hearts, the blessing was corrupted by the betrayal of Grimnir’s oath to Ymir that it would never be shared to outsiders. The mercenaries became monsters, growing in size as primal features struck their visages. Horns sprouted upon some of their heads, new limbs on others, and so it was that the giant offshoots were created from the blasphemy of the Betrayer. Oniborn, demons in giant flesh, consumed by rage and battlelust. Some say the Betrayed became the most monstrous of all, turned into a beast so horrid he was sealed underground by those he’d hired.

In their wrath, the Oniborn destroyed the sanctum of the blessing, and so it was that the blessing of giants at last began to dilute. Once titans, they began to shrink in size with passing generations, the era of true giants beginning to pass into history as their overwhelming might dissipated. Before long, they were giants only in name, and those they conquered eyed the seat of Vdalion as they never could have before. So it was the age of giants passed, their vestigial empire receding as new ones rose in the land of Meranthe. Whether they will ever rise again, that is a tale for another day. The story of Meranthe is not yet wholly told, only time will tell