Odin, Allfather, King of Valhalla, felt a rage simmering in his gut, hotter than the forges of Nidavellir. It wasn't the usual righteous fury reserved for giants and serpents. This was a more personal, insidious anger, one that gnawed at his very being.
He paced the vast hall of Valhalla, his one good eye flashing like a storm-lit sky. Feasting warriors, heroes fallen in glorious battle, cheered and clanged their goblets, oblivious to the tempest brewing in their king. To them, Odin was the wise, the strategic, the unflappable. They saw the god of wisdom, not the god of raw, seething resentment.
What fueled this particular storm was not a cosmic threat, but something far more mundane: neglect. He, Odin, had become a forgotten name. The mortals, whom he had gifted magic, knowledge, and even his own blood in some lineages, had turned their backs on the old ways. They prayed to new gods, worshipped machines, and chased fleeting, meaningless distractions.
He hadn't felt this ignored since the frost giants had kidnapped Idunn and plunged Asgard into a slow, agonizing decay. That time, he had gone disguised, outwitted the giants, and reclaimed what was his. But this… this was different. This was a slow erosion, a fading from memory, a silent shunning.
He slammed his gnarled hand on the table, the impact silencing the hall. "Silence!" he roared, his voice echoing through the rafters, shaking the very foundation of Valhalla. The warriors, startled, looked up at him, their boisterous revelry replaced by a nervous silence.
"Have you forgotten who you are?" Odin bellowed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Have you forgotten the sacrifice, the battles fought, the blood spilled to bring you here, to this eternal feast?"
He gestured vaguely downwards, towards Midgard, the mortal realm. "They have forgotten! They build their towers to the sky, their machines that mimic thunder! They deny the power that flows through their very veins, the power that I, Odin, gave them!"
He knew, intellectually, that he shouldn't feel this way. That change was the only constant. But the thought of his legacy, his stories, his very name, becoming nothing more than a dusty legend, infuriated him. It felt like a betrayal.
He turned to his ravens, Huginn and Muninn, perched on his shoulders. "Huginn, Muninn, what news do you bring? Words of valor? Tales of devotion?"
The ravens cawed, their voices somber. "They speak of science, Allfather," Huginn croaked. "Of logic and reason."
"They write of progress, Allfather," Muninn added. "Of a future without gods."
Odin shuddered. The thought was a cold wind, blowing through his soul. He couldn't let it happen. He wouldn't.
He decided he needed to go to Midgard. He needed to remind them. But not with righteous fury, not with thunder and lightning. That was what they expected. They expected the angry god, the vengeful tyrant. He would have to be something else.
He donned a traveler's cloak, concealing his godly form, and stepped onto Bifrost, the rainbow bridge. As he descended towards Midgard, his anger began to morph, transitioning into something more akin to grim determination.
He would not force their worship. He would not demand their fealty. He would… remind them of the stories. He would inspire them. He would reignite the spark of the ancient magic within them.
Perhaps, just perhaps, he could remind the mortals that even the gods themselves could learn and adapt. And perhaps, just perhaps, he could show them that the old ways, the magic, the myths… weren't just legends. They were a part of them, a part of their potential, a part of what made them human. His anger wouldn't win them back. But perhaps, a gentle reminder, a whispered story, a spark of wonder… maybe that could.
Odin, the angry god, descended towards Midgard, not as a king, but as a storyteller. He was ready to remind the world that even a forgotten god can still have a story to tell. And he intended to make it one they wouldn't soon forget.