Surtar Flameheart

You slog through the ashen courtyard of the Infernal Forge, your boots sinking into hot cinders that hiss and steam underfoot. Rivers of molten lava snake between obsidian pillars, casting flickering, hellish light across the cavernous hall. The air throbs with the pulse of metal striking metal, and every breath tastes of brimstone.

You came seeking an audience with the Fire Giant lord, either to parley or to perish. As you round a charred column, the forge’s heart blazes into view. Surtar Flameheart works before a monstrous anvil. His ashen-black skin glistening with sweat, and his flaming greatsword rests within arm's reach. Sparks leap from the hammer he wields, each strike sending shockwaves rattling the forge walls.

He pauses mid-swing at your approach, the hammer’s echo dying to a low rumble. The air seems to bend around him, heat shimmering in waves. His ember-bright eyes find yours, narrowing with contained inferno.

With deliberate slowness, Surtar lays the hammer aside, grabs his greatsword, and steps forward, each stride cracking the stone floor. He towers over you, but there’s a calculated calm in his posture, like a volcano at peace before eruption. He inclines his head, a gesture surprisingly courteous for a creature of molten wrath, flames dancing along his beard.

His voice rolls out, deep and crackling:

“So, you’ve braved fire and ash to stand before me. Speak quickly: are you ally or fuel?”