The Merchant of Jotenheim
‘The Light of the Nine Realms’ Introduces Captain Barnabus Grymm
Chapter One: Barnabus Grymm, The Merchant of Jotenheim
Barnabus Grymm had trouble sleeping for the first few days after returning to any shore in any realm. The hum of the Shadowspire's engines and the sound of the waves against the hull were part of what it took for him to fall asleep, confident in the fact that only the horrors of the deep surrounded him. In a city, he was never nearly as safe.
He heard the messenger as he approached the door. A knife appeared in his hand, just in case it was a different kind of message. A strong steady approach, no subterfuge. An official knock and the message slid under the door. Exactly what he didn't want to see: an official summons.
It arrived in the dead of night, written on black vellum with silver ink and an ornate penmanship which annoyed Grymm, without knowing why. The letter had been sealed with silver wax—Kaelith Vorcalis’ sigil pressed into its surface like the weight of a sentence yet to be carried out.
Grymm turned it over in his calloused hands, studying the curling edges, the scent of ink still fresh. The Upstart Prince was making a statement. Summoning him officially meant dragging him into the light of Svartálfheim’s power brokers, forcing him into the gaze of those who had whispered of his presence but never dared acknowledge it outright.
It meant scrutiny. It meant danger. It meant Kaelith wanted something, and Grymm wasn’t sure if he would live long enough to regret answering the call. He preferred getting his missives with a coded set of instructions, a shopping list and a payment notice, half up front, the rest on delivery. Deliveries handled second hand and no one the wiser.
Flicking the letter to the shadow standing at the other door, he waited until she looked up and her glittering eyes indicated her simmering rage. She hated the Upstart Prince more than he did.
This meant becoming part of the Great Game of the Twelve Houses. As free agents, they came and went. To be summoned was to be put into open play, Nalfar pieces, on the political board of Svartálfheim. A game he wanted no part of. It's why he joined the Merchant's guild in the first place.
Lyra Synn, lounging against the doorframe of their rented safehouse, lifted a single brow as she finished the letter. Her white hair was pulled back and tucked under her cloak. Handing the letter back to him, she replaced the last of her knives, indicating she was ready to go.
"It could be a trap," she mused. "Or an opportunity. Hard to say which." She slid her flute into her sleeve, and turned her smile toward the giant who towered over her. She drew a rune on his fine black tunic, and it glowed brightly before vanishing.
Grymm exhaled through his nose, slipping the missive into his coat. "With Kaelith, it’s both."
"Cheer up. He is sure to serve some of his best food for a merchant of your reputation. When was the last time we didn't eat something that wasn't flash-dried, barely dead, or just tried to eat us ten seconds before dinner? I miss seasoning." Synn's hedonistic nature was her only concession to appearing normal. In all other ways, most people found her unnerving. Everyone except Grymm.
The journey through Svartálfheim’s cavernous expanse was a procession of whispering shadows and watchful eyes. The Underways twisted in labyrinthine elegance, threading through the realm’s subterranean marvels.
"We have an errand."
The tavern in Svartálfheim’s Lower West district was the kind of place where shadows carried weight and whispered secrets bought more than drinks. The air hung heavy with the mingling scents of spiced mead, sweat, and the sharp tang of steel poorly concealed. Grymm, cloaked in the muted brown of a well-traveled wanderer, stood at the counter, his presence an undeniable mass of quiet tension.
"You're hiring for Jotunheim?" The voice came from behind him, low and amused. Grymm didn't need to turn to feel the smirk that accompanied it. He caught the faint scrape of a chair, the sound of someone rising deliberately—a man who wanted his movement noticed.
The legionnaire, still thumbing through his logbook, barely glanced up, muttering, "Mercenary business is your own. My role is logistical. I keep the books; I don’t referee squabbles."
But this wasn’t a squabble—it was a performance.
"Quite the reputation you’ve got, Grymm," the man continued, louder now, for the benefit of the room. "The merchant of Jotunheim. Funny, I always thought merchants traveled to places people wanted to visit, not lands where you’re more likely to be eaten."
Grymm turned then, slowly, the movement deliberate and calculated to show neither fear nor impatience. He had learned in Jotunheim that predators took note of how their prey moved. His eyes—a pale, icy gray that seemed forged in the snowfields of his homeland—met the speaker’s. The man, tall by Midgard standards but a boy in Grymm’s estimation, leaned against a wooden pillar with a lazy confidence. His armor, polished to a gleam, bore the marks of a well-funded mercenary guild. His sword, however, was pristine—a weapon that had seen more polishing cloth than battle.
"You’ve got questions," Grymm said, his voice low, gravelly, and carrying the weight of a man who measured words like coin. "Spit 'em out, then. You’ve earned the floor."
The room quieted at this, the mercenaries and rogues in the corners eager for the show. The speaker didn’t disappoint.
"Only one question," the man said, flashing a grin that showed too many teeth. "Why should anyone sign up for a suicide mission to Jotunheim when the only thing waiting there is a violent death? Even for someone like you."
There it was—the moment when doubt was cast like a net, testing how many fish would scatter. Grymm didn’t take the bait. He stepped forward instead, his cloak falling away to reveal the breadth of his shoulders, the thick arms crossed over his chest like granite slabs.
"The thing about violent deaths," Grymm said, his voice carrying a tone of cold inevitability, "is that they’re everywhere. You might find one in Jotunheim. Or you might find one here—tonight."
The smirk faltered, just slightly, as Grymm’s size and scars took fuller focus. The room, now leaning in, hung on the silence that followed. Grymm let it stretch, let the speaker stew in the attention he’d so loudly invited.
"You think you know death," Grymm continued, his voice cutting through the quiet like the first crack of thunder before a storm. "But you don’t know Jotunheim. It’s not the land that kills you. It’s the ignorance. The arrogance. The thinking you can outfight, outsmart, or outrun it. Jotunheim doesn’t care about your skill or your charm. But me?" He paused, the faintest of smiles touching his lips. "I do."
With that, Grymm stepped closer, his towering presence now unmistakable. The speaker tensed, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his sword—a motion Grymm clocked without so much as a glance.
"I’ve seen men survive Jotunheim because they listened, because they learned. You don’t follow me for the gold. You follow me because you want to live. And if you think you’ve got what it takes, I’ll show you how."
There was no challenge in Grymm’s tone, no bravado. Just an iron certainty that swept through the room like a gale. The speaker’s smirk evaporated entirely, replaced by a thin veneer of unease. He hesitated, weighing his options, and in that hesitation, Grymm turned away, as if the man no longer existed.
"Eight," Grymm said to the legionnaire, his voice calm once more. "That’s the number I’ll need. And I’ll take them now, if they’re willing to sail."
The man behind the counter nodded, his fingers flipping through the ledger with renewed urgency. Around the room, others shifted— mercenaries sizing themselves up against the legend of Grymm. The man who had challenged him retreated to his seat without another word, his bravado deflated. Grymm paid him no mind as he counted out his gold, letting the weight of his reputation speak for itself.
As Grymm strode toward the door, a figure stepped out of the shadows to block his path. Smaller, leaner, and cloaked in crimson, the figure tilted their head, studying him with an intensity that felt surgical. A slow, amused voice followed.
"Bold words, Grymm. But the question is—can you fight as well as you talk?"
For the first time that evening, Grymm’s lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible grin. He didn’t stop walking, his low voice trailing behind him like a warning. Grymm let the silence stretch, let the tension tighten like a rope about to snap. Then he spoke again, his voice softer, more deadly.
"I'd kill you but then I would be late for my appointment. If I was late someone might ask why. Then I would tell them I had to stop and kill you. Then the Upstart Prince might get upset. He's right mercurial when you think about it. He'd get your name and kill your family, all your neighbors, your pets and likely salt the earth for good measure. How about we skip the disagreement you are going to lose and all of those unnecessary extra deaths for a change?"
The mercenaries, frozen in fear at the name, cowered as Grymm and Synn—the Giant and the Songbird—slipped past quietly, their footsteps vanishing into the night. Within moments, they were gone, leaving behind a room full of relieved patrons grateful for the avoided conflict.
Horenheim Forge awaited them, the iron-black heart of Kaelith’s rising empire. Fires burned low in the city’s depths, casting molten reflections against walls carved with ancient runes. The sigil of the Vorcalis house adorned the gates—an obsidian wolf with its fangs bared, devouring the moon.
They were met by a retinue of masked guards, their silence punctuated only by the clinking of their armored footfalls. The escort wound through halls filled with the low murmur of unseen observers, whispers curling through the air like smoke. The nobility of Svartálfheim rarely watched openly—they preferred their knowledge to arrive secondhand, filtered through layers of spies and informants.
Kaelith had ensured they had no such luxury tonight.
At the doors of the Shadow Council chamber, Lyra’s steps faltered just enough for Grymm to notice. A figure leaned against one of the grand basalt pillars—tall, angular, his dark leathers pristine, his silvered hair swept back with effortless elegance.
One of her brothers. His name eluded Grymm for the moment, but the resemblance was unmistakable. The same sharpness of bone, the same coiled tension that the Alfar carried like a birthright. Unlike the others, however, this one wore no disdain on his face, only cool amusement.
"Rumors travel quickly," he murmured as Lyra approached. "Tell me, sister—should I be worried that you are still standing beside the Merchant of Jotunheim? Or should our house be preparing for war?"
Lyra’s lips curled into a half-smile. "You give me too much credit. If I were planning a war, you’d already be drowning in it."
The brother chuckled, shaking his head. "Come find me after you survive whatever fool’s errand this is. I’d rather not explain to our mother how you ended up dead for an outcast’s ambitions." She leaned forward and touched her forehead to his. He barely contained his smile, bound by the need for decorum. Nobility had its privileges.
With that, he stepped back, allowing them to pass, but Grymm could feel the weight of his gaze long after they had entered the chamber.
Kaelith Vorcalis waited at the center of the Shadow Court, seated atop a throne of polished nightstone, his fingers laced together in an imitation of ease. His silhouette was stark against the burning runes lining the walls, his expression unreadable.
"Barnabus Grymm," Kaelith drawled, his voice a knife’s edge wrapped in silk. "I have a venture that requires a man of your… particular talents. A journey into Jotunheim. One that will make or unmake the both of us."
The room hummed with anticipation. Grymm did not move, did not blink. He only tilted his head slightly, his voice steady, unreadable.
"You assume I’ll accept."
Kaelith’s smile sharpened. "You assume you have a choice." Kaelith wore a mask—one that smiled when he did—but it was a work of magic. Rumored to hide a face disfigured in a catastrophe of magic, now, few knew or remembered his true face, this macabre simulacrum was all most knew of him.
Grymm had seen beneath the mask back when the Upstart was still young and vain and as Kaelith's star rose and the two grew apart, the Upstart Prince still called upon him, preying on their past affiliation, often with great gusto. But never publicly, until today.
Why today?
Barnabus Grymm, the legendary and infamous Merchant of Jotunheim, is a man of iron will and unmatched cunning. Alongside Lyra Synn, his enigmatic Elven partner and sorcerous bond mate, he dares to tread where even the gods fear to walk—the savage, untamed expanse of Jotunheim, Land of the Giants. The adventure continues…
VISITING THE NINE REALMS: JOTUNHEIM
Mythic Adventure Series: The Light of the Nine Realms by Thaddeus Howze
A brief tour of Jotunheim, Land of the Giants
Our first stop on the tour of the Nine Realms is one of the most legendary domains of Norse mythology: Jotunheim, the fabled home of the mighty Jötnar. Many of the most iconic tales of Thor, the god of thunder, unfold within this rugged and untamed realm. With their enduring popularity, it’s safe to assume these stories captured the imaginations of the Norse people, resonating with their sense of awe and wonder.
For Light of the Nine Realms, I wanted to reimagine Jotunheim as more than just a backdrop for mythological battles. It’s a land of primal chaos and boundless potential—a dynamic, heroically inspiring world for the modern reader to explore. In this retelling, the legends are not just remembered; they are lived anew, infused with fresh perspectives and breathtaking adventures.
Jotunheim: Lands of the Jötnar
In classical Norse mythology, Jotunheim is the realm of the Jötnar—near-divine beings often referred to as the adversaries of the gods. These giants are far more than monolithic enemies; they encompass a wide variety of cultures, psychologies, and technological advancements, including mastery of potent magics.
Jotunheim is a realm of untamed power and primal chaos, populated by diverse giant species occupying every environmental niche. Their adaptability reflects the land’s raw and ever-changing nature.
The Landscape Of Jotunheim
Terrain: A rugged, untamed expanse of jagged mountains, dense and shadowy forests, frigid tundra, and icy peaks. This is a realm of primal chaos where nature itself is an overwhelming, ever-shifting force.
Climate: Harsh, unforgiving, and often inhospitable. Life flourishes here not through comfort but through survival, endurance, and domination.
Settlements: Fortresses of immense scale, scattered among the wilderness. These fortifications are rare outposts of order in a land otherwise ruled by savage creatures and unrelenting weather.
WELCOME TO THE LIGHT OF THE NINE REALMS
Each of the Nine Realms embodies a primal aspect that defines not only its environment but also its inhabitants and their relationships with other realms.
Jotunheim — Primordial Savagery
Essence of the Realm: Jotunheim is a world of raw, untamable nature, where the forces of life are wild and unpredictable. It is teeming with mythical beasts, colossal creatures, and dinosaurs that dominate the land, sky, and seas.
Wilderness: Ancient forests, vast volcanic plains, and prehistoric swamps shape the realm. Every region is dictated by its dominant predator, which influences the survival strategies of the giants.
Society: Tribal and nomadic, Jotunheim’s giant clans adapt their lives to the cycles of nature and the dominance of local monsters. Leadership among the giants is earned through acts of strength, cunning, and survival. Their reverence for the land borders on spiritual worship of its wild forces.
The Giants Of Jotunheim
Primal Power: Giants in Jotunheim are physically unmatched, embodying the raw strength of their environment. They are larger, faster, and more attuned to the natural world than any other inhabitants of the Nine Realms.
Despite the expectations, giants can be of varied sizes — with the smallest appearing as very large and massive humans to beings of immense size, as tall as trees, depending on their connection to the primal energies of their homeland.
Survival Masters: Giants adapt to the monstrous challenges of their land, mastering its dangers and living harmoniously—or violently—within it.
The Jötunn are adept wielders of mystical forces, having successfully beguiled, tricked, and even outmaneuvered both Loki and Thor on multiple occasions. Their mastery of magic is so potent that it has, at times, disrupted entire sections of Midgard.
Jotunheim’s Unique Dynamics
Prized Creatures: The wildlife of Jotunheim is highly coveted across the Nine Realms. The hides, bones, and magical properties of its dinosaurs, manticores, and other mythical beasts fetch extraordinary prices for their enchantment potential.
Poachers Beware: Adventurers and poachers often enter the realm in search of these treasures. Few survive the attempt, as the land itself—and its giants—do not tolerate such incursions. Poachers’ remains frequently become ingredients in the stews of local Jötnar tribes.
A Savage Truth: Despite the dangers posed by the Jotunheim giants, the realm’s wildlife is often far deadlier. The giants consider the land’s natural forces the true masters of their world.
Jotunheim is a realm where nature reigns supreme, where survival is the only law, and where primal savagery shapes the lives of its inhabitants. To venture here is to face the raw, untamed essence of existence—and to risk becoming just another meal for the giants or their monstrous predators.
Jotunheim is but one piece of the larger mythos, each realm a reflection of a primal aspect of existence. Dive deeper into the Nine Realms to uncover the mysteries, marvels, and dangers awaiting those brave enough to explore.
Who is Barnabus Grymm?
Title: Merchant of Jotunheim
Race: Human (?)
Home Realm: Jotunheim (Nogford, a human settlement)
Age: 30 summers
Height: Towering (due to his Jotunheim upbringing, resembling a Jötunn in stature)
Skills: Survivalist, Strategist, Negotiator, and Stealth Expert
Overview:
Barnabus Grymm, often simply called "Grymm," is a human born and raised in the harsh wilds of Jotunheim. Growing up in Nogford, a small human settlement surrounded by the savage beauty of Jotunheim, Grymm endured a childhood marked by constant survival battles. By the age of five, he had already fought predators to the death and emerged scarred but alive, instilling in him an unshakable resilience.
His towering stature and muscular frame, products of his Jotunheim upbringing, often lead others to mistake him for part-Jötunn—a misconception Grymm neither confirms nor denies, as it works to his advantage.
