Prologue:
Unheard Prayers
"Fools" He mutters as he watches the desperate congregation from the outside of the local pub, "Who do they think they pray to? Ragnarok has come and gone, the Apocalypse an old memory. There are no gods left. Even if there were, those that survived have long since turned their backs on us." He was an average man, looking to be in his mid to late thirties. Although, the hard life of this world had aged him beyond his years, as he was no older than 25 in truth. He wasn't very unique; not especially tall, only around 5'10", and his muscle bulk was what was to be expected from hulling heavy workloads around. Dressed in a simple pair of jeans, a faded blue shirt and an old coat, he was leaning against the wooden wall of the pub, drinking one of the run of the mill beers it offered.
"They pray for hope, stranger. That's all we have left in these dark times." He turned to face the voice behind him. It belonged to the barkeep; an older man, worn face, white hair, looked like he could handle himself in a fight if he needed to – probably did sometimes, what with all the gangs nowadays. His most notable feature was his missing eye, covered by a makeshift eye-patch of white cloth. He grunted in response and turned back.
"All they need is to gather their wits and fight back." He said gruffly, "Heroes are made, not born nor given."
"And what? You willing to go into that grave pit and take Mjolnir yourself?" The other man replied, "It won't take you, no-one is worthy of that thing since Thor-" He cut him off.
"No-one has even tried!" He growled, "How can anyone know if no-one has tried?"
"You really think no-one has tried?" The barkeep replied, "Hundreds have tried to move that hammer. Most don't make it past the dead. I can understand why though, the thoughts of so many dead and decaying heroes of old… walking by though their grave as your mind convinces you that you can hear their unearthly cries… some even possessing magic still residing in their cracked bones, causing all kinds of bizarre and unnatural effects. It is like a barrier of the soul; a warning to any who do manage to get to the hammer that they will not succeed and to turn back, even if they can lift the damnable thing." He shook his head, "Although they pray for a hero, it is not for the lack of trying. As they say, only the worthy can lift Thor's Hammer and control the forces in wields." He stood in silence as the words of the barkeep sunk in and then took a swig of the beer he was holding before speaking.
"True enough." He sighed, "Trying only gets you so far, I guess." He threw his bottle into a near-by trash can and walked off. Three ravens perched on the roof watched him, the sole observers of his path bar the barkeep.
"Hey ol' one eye, that's one strange ol' dude we got, in' he? What cha make of 'im?" Came a call from inside. The barkeep shook his head and walked back in, telling the other patron to keep his yap shut.