Somewhere, on one of the Nine Worlds, The Thunderer is angry,
His eyes glowing ,his beard and hair bristling with sparks,
As his rage darkens the skies above him.
His lips form into a cruel smile as his hair whips in the wind,
His laughter booming like the thunder bursting through the clouds,
Amused that the Giants before him dare challenge him.
The Giants pause in their advance, cowed by the lightning and fire that falls from the sky,
Realizing that they may have made a dread mistake, but knowing it's too late
For retreat or surrender to the Thunderer.
The Master of Storms raises his hammer, smouldering and burning,
Pointing at the giants, roaring his battle-cry, his chariot goes forth,
Pulled by his huge, black goats, Toothgrinder and Toothgnasher.
Not a single Giant escaped the Thunderer's wrath, not a Troll or Goblin lived,
All met their doom, by hammer, by hoof, by chariot-wheel, by lightning and fire,
By tooth and by crushing fist, Hel's halls were filled.
Here, in this One of Nine worlds, the skies were dark, and the thunder rolled,
The rain fell , and the winds blew from the North, the only evidence here,
Of the battle that took place on the plains of Asgard.