This is the life of a master liar,
A tale of one whose tongue shall never tire.
His life is built on secrets and spells,
Of blatant bluffs and the tiniest tells.
His schemes rely most upon his magic;
woven through tales triumphant and tragic.
When fire could not tame his wild heart,
Mischief became his new-found art.
His wife did weep while he lay, chained,
Catching poison to ease the pain.
He bore three sons and a daughter as well.
She held power like his: the girl named Hel.
The great Fenris Wolf, trapped and bound,
Now lays motionless underground.
He bore Odin’s Sleipnir, Norse horse of old:
Eight-legged, swift and strong, hooves shod in gold.
Jörmungandr yet devours his own tail:
When his jaw releases, the Realms will quail.
From Loki’s off-spring Ragnarök will loom,
Ruthlessly. For the Nine, they carry doom.