Asgard

You stand upon the threshold of Valhalla. The golden gates are flung wide, and a wave of warmth rushes out to meet you, thick with the scents of roasted meat, honeyed mead, and old wax. The roar of voices hits you like a tide—hundreds of warriors arguing, laughing, and slapping one another on the back. Some are already fueled by drink, bellowing ballads by the hearth, while others drum a rhythm against the tables with their cups.

In the center of the hall burns the Eternal Pyre, casting dancing orange light across the faces of the guests. Around it is a whirlwind of movement, laughter, and accidental collisions. Along the high table, atop a dais, you see Odin. He sits upon his throne, his single eye fixed in thought as he grips a golden goblet. Beside him sits an empty chair; the absence of someone is strikingly apparent.

To the left, leaning against a pillar with a lazy smirk, stands Loki. He is not drinking; he is merely watching. His gaze drifts through the crowd, lingering on each new face just a moment longer than necessary. At the far end of the hall, where the tables are lower and the din is louder, Thor—without his hammer, hair disheveled and wearing a wide grin—is competing with some giant in a drinking contest. He seems to be in no mood for politics.

The rest of the faces blur into one vibrant mass. A servant scurries past with a tray, and someone on a balcony plays a lute—badly, but loudly. You take a step forward. The scent of the feast envelops you.

— Greetings, would you care for a drink? — one of the servants approaches immediately, offering a goblet of mead.