The Muspel people, the primary intelligent race of this fiery realm, are descendants of the mighty Surtur.
As one of the ancient beings among the Nine Realms, Surtur has an enduring lifespan and countless progeny.
Some of the eldest Muspelians are only marginally younger than Surtur himself, yet the gap in power is astronomical. Surtur remains one of the top two powerhouses in the Nine Realms, while his descendants, the Muspelians, mostly fall under the category of ordinary mortals.
Upon receiving news regarding the area, Rowe decided to venture into the nearby Muspelian village for firsthand understanding.
As he traversed the rugged terrain, he opened the Book of Holy Deeds to examine the recent entries.
The Holy Light Pointer typically responds to serious offenses suitable for divine retribution. As expected, following the execution of two fire demons, Rowe had received two reward notifications:
[Blessing of the King (Fragment)]
[Aura of Sacrifice (Fragment)]
Both were magical fragment rewards—respectable in utility—especially the King's Blessing, a rare and potent artifact. With this addition, Rowe now possessed three such fragments.
The mountain ridge was not far off. After a few hours of climbing and crossing narrow paths, he arrived at a settlement nestled within black stone ridges and fiery magma channels.
The Muspelian village unfolded before him—its aesthetics defined by obsidian-black structures and red-orange magma veins. The buildings, mostly crafted from volcanic stone, had a jagged design reminiscent of obsidian fortresses.
"Who goes there?" barked several Muspelian sentries guarding the entrance. Upon spotting Rowe, they immediately tensed up.
Their appearances resembled humanoids, though their skin was a scorching crimson hue, and horns protruded from their skulls. Their body heat radiated intensely; any ordinary Terran would be seared from close proximity.
Rowe offered a calm smile. "My name is Ragnaros. I hail from the distant planet Northrend."
"Northrend?" The guards exchanged confused glances.
"It's a flame-based world, not unlike Muspelheim in climate. Most inhabitants there are born of fire." To add credibility, Rowe summoned a flicker of flame into his palm.
The display of flame quickly eased their suspicion.
"What brings you to Muspelheim?"
"I'm a Lorewalker," Rowe replied. "I document and study flame-based civilizations across the cosmos. Muspelheim, being the realm of the legendary Surtur, has long fascinated me."
"Do you have gold?" one guard asked. Compared to the brutish fire demons, the Muspelians were more restrained but still opportunistic.
Rowe silently cursed their greed. These guards were clearly accustomed to fleecing outsiders.
Still, it was their realm. Begrudgingly, he reached into his pouch and produced a few melted-down fragments of Asgardian gold coins.
"Northrend doesn't use gold widely," Rowe said as he handed the pieces over. "So I only brought a modest amount."
The guards weighed the gold with mild disappointment. "You can enter, but only for one day. Cause no trouble—or you'll regret it."
Rowe nodded and passed through the village gate.
The Muspelian lifestyle was radically different from other realms, especially when it came to food preparation.
"Careful. Don't splash the water," an elderly Muspelian chef cautioned his apprentice in an open-air tavern.
Water? Rowe blinked. He had assumed flame creatures would avoid water entirely.
Curious, he stepped closer to observe the cooking process from a distance.
The apprentice held a large bucket and gingerly poured its contents into a basin. It appeared to be regular water—nothing arcane or magical.
He poured it with painstaking care, underscoring the danger water posed to their fiery physiology.
Nearby, the older chef was preparing a dish with a large red-fleshed worm—nearly the size of a calf. Despite being butchered, the worm was still squirming faintly.
"Outsider, want to try Muspelheim's finest? Magma worms?" a Muspelian at a nearby table asked.
This one stood out—his horns were green, a rare deviation from the common gray or black, clashing with his glowing red skin.
"Uh... sure," Rowe said hesitantly. "I'll try a small portion."
"Coming up," the chef replied.
Rowe watched as the apprentice finished seasoning the water—carefully avoiding flame interaction—before the elder chef tossed in the segmented magma worm.
Hiss—crack!
The contact between the boiling-hot meat and the cold water sent up thick clouds of steam and a sizzling chorus, as if the ingredients were deep-fried in reverse.
The magma worm's vitality finally ceased as it went limp, bubbling at the edges and turning a crisp golden-brown color.
A few minutes later, the dish was served.
Rowe tasted it cautiously.
The flavor was surprisingly decent—not delicious, but tolerable. He chewed thoughtfully.
"You're from Asgard, aren't you?" the green-horned Muspelian at the next table said again.
Rowe blinked. "No. I'm from Northrend."
The stranger chuckled. "That lie won't help you. If anything, being Asgardian would bring you less trouble here."
"What do you mean?" Rowe asked, puzzled.
He had always believed Surtur's realm to be a hostile force to Asgard. His fabricated Northrend identity was meant to reduce scrutiny.
The green-horned Muspelian leaned closer. "Lord Surtur once received a prophecy. No one knows the exact details, but since then, he ordered Muspelheim to avoid interfering in the politics and conflicts of the Nine Realms. That includes not antagonizing realms like Asgard, Alfheim, or Vanaheim."
He took a gulp from his mug, which appeared to contain a molten beverage.
"That's why you'll find less harassment if you just declare yourself an Asgardian. Pretending to be from some unknown flame planet makes you an outsider worth taxing."
Finishing his drink, the green-horned man stood up and left without another word.
Rowe sat in thought, absorbing the revelation.
After a time, he wandered further into the village. Eventually, he found a herbal apothecary and entered with interest, his alchemical instincts piqued.
"Asgardian?" the shopkeeper inquired.
Rowe hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."
The shopkeeper nodded without concern. "What are you looking for?"
Rowe's gaze scanned the cluttered shelves, finally settling on a tiny crystalline vial. "How much for the Ice Worm Powder?"
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