The rain had finally slowed, coming to a stop as your family gathered around the rough hewn table, the dinner simple but hearty. You and your sister had finally finished helping your aging parents take in one of their largest harvests in history. The mood around the table was one of satisfaction and well-earned rest, and the warm light of a few hanging oil lanterns cast a warm, homely glow around the simple homestead. You mother and father sat opposite yourself and your sister, the dusk light fading slowly into twilight as dinner wound down.

Then, there came a sound -a bit like knocking, except it was far more powerful and weighty. Your mother sat up, taking a step towards the door out of habit - she was always the first to greet visitors - and then the thick timbered door splintered into matchsticks, the entire door frame buckling and snapping like a slender twig as something - no, someone finished ramming their weight against it.

The glow of the lantern light cast eerie shadows across the large, sinewy frame of a woman, but not one like your mother or sister. She was easily twelve feet tall, stooping even in the high ceiling of your thatched roof. She wore what looked to be leather armor stitched from the hides of a great many animals, adorned with the hide of slain bears and wolves. Her hair was blonde and ragged, tightly braided to the side of her head and matted there by the day’s rainfall. Streaks of dirt and mud from her travels adorned her clothing and bare skin, and she wielded no weapons. The stench of sweat, dirt, and blood bled into the room like a heavy fog, along with a tense, ominous atmosphere. You felt your knees shaking as you looked up at her, this monolithic warrior woman that filled the room like a living, breathing goddess of war.

She shook off a bit of the rain, sending splinters of your door clattering to the earthen floor, and you can see her intimidating musculature bulge under her mud-splattered skin, every fiber of it like a coiled snake ready to strike at any moment. Her bicep alone was as big around as your entire torso. Her breasts were massive and heavy, each easily bigger than your head, moving softly with her idle breathing. Her chiseled thighs were smeared with a light coating of mud, sweat, and what you can only assume is dried blood.

Your mother speaks after a moment of shocked silence, her voice quavering softly. “P-please. Take anything you want.” She says, her hands tightly gripping the hem of her tunic, white-knuckled. The amazonian woman laughs, a huge, booming sound like rolling thunder, echoing through the hovel and ringing in your ears, her chest heaving like a ship at sea.

“Would I need your permission, for that?” She says, a wide, wolfish grin spreading across her face. “Do you assume I’m here to rob you?” She says, with an expression of mock shock. “I am but a humble traveler - see, bear no weapons. I am Freya.” She says, and kneels on one knee to bring her face closer to your mother while you all watch, dumbfounded.

“G-gertrude. Welcome to our home.” Your mother manages to squeak out, the heat and musk rolling from the titanic, muscled body mingling with her primal fear of the giant viking.

“Thank you for the warm welcome.” Freya says, grinning wide. “Come here, Gertrude.” She says, and spreads her arms out wide, kneeling on one knee. Her arms are criss-crossed with scars, splattered with rain and thick as tree trunks, nearly spanning the whole of the dining area as she stretches them out.

As if in a trance, your mother steps forward, her breathing shaky and fast. She looks nervous, but relieved to see that the viking is unarmed, as she steps into the viking’s embrace. Your father stands up, nervously pushing his plate to one side. The viking’s arms look warm and inviting, despite the scent of dirt and sweat - and your mother was always a polite host, never one to hesitate when there was a guest to greet.

Freya brings her arms around in a massive bear hug, as if welcoming a long lost friend. She stands to her full height, bearing your poor mother off the ground, her legs kicking in the air. You see her arms squeeze in, thick, pulsing ropes of muscle bulging under the flesh of her arms, like braided cords wire pulled tight. Your mother’s face is pressed deep into the cleft of Freya’s massive breasts, but you can still hear a short, muffled gasp of surprise. Freya makes a heavy grunt of effort, and then you hear a sickening, violent -

CCRAACKK

Your mother’s short exclamation of surprise abruptly and viscerally stops as the arms compress, tighter and harder. It happened so quickly, you don’t even think your mother realized what was happening. With a sickening squelch and a terrible, visceral snap - you watch as the powerful arms contract like a bear trap, violently reducing your mother’s internal organs to a pulp as the force splinters her spine like a dry twig, sending the jagged edges of her pulverized ribcage out of the front of her body where they stab through her tunic, staining it a deep, fresh crimson where it rests against Freya’s chest. Her feet dangle limply above the ground, still wrapped in the Viking’s arms like a limp straw doll. Her head lolls slowly backward, and you can see a thick river of red dribbling from her open mouth. A thick puddle of fresh blood and small bits of pulverized organs drop to the floor from the limp figure, as Freya opens her arms back up, and lets your mother’s lifeless body drop to the floor like a ragdoll.

The viking’s chiseled abs and rippling muscles are streaked with a glistening layer of fresh blood, bone fragments from the splintered rib cage still sticking to her skin. She brushes them off like they were crumbs, batting them away with one hand.

There is an eerie, perfect quiet, before your sister lets loose a blood curdling scream, and runs for the door behind Freya. She makes it past the towering form, ducking between the legs of the bloody warrior, only to have a hand reach back and snag her by the hair, pulling her to the center of the room like a child’s toy. You try to stand, but find your knees give out instantly, sending you clutching the table to stand, as your father looks on in horror, his face white, and his hands shaking.

“In such a hurry, aren’t we?” Freya says, lifting the girl up by the roots of her hair in one thick, meaty fist.  The screams fill the house as Freya lets her dangle there, kicking and screeching for help. Freya cups one hand to her ear. “Ah… I don’t hear anyone, do you? Do you think they are coming to help?” A malicious grin splits her face from ear to ear. “Okay. Let’s wait for them, shall we?”

Your sister scratches at the fist wrapped around her hair, screeching insults at Freya. “You monster! You ugly, freakish, beast!

Tears of anger and pain run down your sister’s face as she claws at the viking’s huge forearm, barely able to scratch the skin of the towering warrior. Freya laughs again, booming through the room, your mother’s lifeless body still staining the floor red with fresh blood. Freya just chuckles at her insults, rumbling laughter shaking the timbers of the house.

“What a shame, nobody to save you.” She says, bringing your sister up to her eye level. Your sister’s eyes keep flicking back to her mother, tears hitting the earthen floor as she screams and sobs.

“Put her down!” Your father cries, and clutches a crudely carved wooden fork from the table, holding it like a knife, rushing towards the viking in a moment of ill-advised bravery. Freya can’t hold back an amused smirk as he charges valiantly at her, and drives the utensil with all his might into the rippling muscle of her thigh - the highest place he could reach at his height. The fork simply shatters into flinders against her flesh, barely leaving a little scratch on the skin.

“Oh, you’re going to save her? Alright, I’ll give you 2 minutes, go all out.” Freya says, and lets your sister dangle from her huge fist, kicking and pleading, screaming your name. Your father shouts and hollers, beating his fists on the giantess to no avail, as she laughs, letting him tire himself out trying to save his daughter. He starts to pant with effort, swinging his fists until they bruise, shattering a wooden plate across her chiseled abs, barely even making a scratch on the monolithic viking warrior.

“Incredible!” She bellows, her laughter shaking the cups on the tabletop with the booming sound. “I’ve fought stronger men when I was nothing more than a whelp!” Freya says, and sets your sister on the floor with a toss. She tries to run towards her father, but a sharp tug on her hair yanks her back. “Too late.” Freya says, and places a hand on either side of her head, roughly calloused palms almost covering your sister’s tear-stained face entirely. Then, with a sharp, violent motion, she twists your sister’s head 180 degrees around with a grunt of effort, the sound making your stomach turn as your sister’s body collapse to the ground, her head facing over her back with a look of terror and pain frozen on her face, her spine snapped and twisted at the neck into a grotesque shape.

Your father tries to run, but he is frozen in place. You move to help, but the Viking simply flips the dinner table up as if it were made for a dollhouse, throwing it onto your body with a chaotic clatter of plates and a crashing weight, pinning you under the thick oak table as you watch your father, absolutely dwarfed by the huge frame of the viking warrior, her chest stained with the blood of your mother and sister, their lifeless corpses littering the floor of your home.

Your father lets out a desperate cry, as the viking lunges forward like a coiled snake, grabbing his forearm in a huge fist. “Maybe if you were stronger, you could have protected them, hmm?” She goads, and starts to tighten her grip around his hand. You hear a series of horrible, meaty pops and snaps as Freya slowly breaks all of the joints in your father’s left hand, watching him writhe in agony. With a sound like popping corn, every single bone in his finger is broken as she bends them back over his wrist, excruciating howls coming from him as he falls to his knees. Pinned under the table, you can only watch as she drops his limp, mangled hand to the floor, bones protruding from bloody, jagged cuts in the skin, darkly glistening in the lamplight.

Violent sobs wrack his frame as he clutches his arm, but Freya is far from finished. “Weeping like a little baby, too? How pathetic.” She grabs his other arm at the wrist - placing a huge, thick palm on the top of his shoulder, and she starts to pull. Hard. You can hear him begging, screaming - the words seem far away and muted compared to the gut-wrenching sounds of sinew and tendons snapping like bowstrings, the muscle tearing and ripping beneath the flesh, as she roughly and crudely dislocates your father’s right shoulder, the joint soon hanging 6 inches lower on his torso, a limp arm dripping with blood as she methodically dismantles him.

He tries to stand, to run - his legs shake with fear and pain, and Freya swings her arm low, and you fight the urge to gag in disgust as you see both of your aging father’s knees bend backwards, the sound of his bone snapping like dry kindling against the hammer-like arm of the viking. His agonized howls fill the room, and you struggle to lift the table off of your legs and arm, barely able to budge the thick hewn oak.

Your father crawls towards the door, legs mangled and fingers bent in a horrid arrangement of angles, arms hanging limply at one side. A huge, scarred hand pushes him into the dirt, gripping the back of his head and lifting his mangled body into the air, his shins hanging like snapped twigs from his knees.  A bit of lightning flashes in the distance, casting Freya in a sharp relief. You realize you were wrong - this was no woman. Her huge, hulking form filled the room like a monstrous creature from the dark side of legends, the heavy scent of her sweat and pheromones filling your mind with fear. She was a war machine of pure malice, power, muscle and cruelty, and you were simply her latest victims. Your father cowers weakly in the clutches of her huge palm, body bruised and battered. She swings him around to show him the lifeless bodies on the floor, the pile of blood and bones beneath her. “Weakling.” She says, and slams her fist into his gut with the force of a kicking stallion. He goes pale, and you hear a wet crunch as the fist hits home. Your father coughs up a mass of glistening red, which lands on the earthen floor with a wet splat. Freya grins wide, and punches him again, and again, and again. You see a crooked, sharp bend poke through the back of his tunic, stained deep crimson, and realize that she had driven the large shards of his shattered spine through his back. She tosses him to the earth where he lands, twitching, his voice nothing more than a wet gurgle. Freya spits on him in disgust. “Worm.” She says, and leaves him to expire, turning towards you.

Cold, primal fear overtakes you like an iron coffin. Freya effortlessly lifts the huge oak table off of you with one arm, her fingers stained with blood. You move your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her thick, calloused fingers reach out and grip around your head - lifting you up off the floor by your skull.

You can see the heaving breasts, soaked in the blood of your family, and her other hand comes to rest on the opposite side of your head, her left and right palms almost hiding your entire head from view. The roughly calloused fingers curl in sharply, the scent of sweat and blood filling your senses. You feel the pressure mount, slowly, your legs wheeling uselessly above the ground. You claw uselessly at the thick skin of her hands, and you see her smile cruelly at you as she presses her palms in, the pressure mounting to become incredibly painful.

You gasp and struggle, feeling blood trickle from your ear down your neck, and it only seems to encourage Freya to press harder. The huge, steel cords of her muscles bulge like pythongs under her skin as she starts to crush your puny skull between her hands. You can feel a searing pain as a sickening cracking fills your ears - the sound of your own skull cracking.

You open your mouth to scream, your mouth tasting metallic and filling with blood. The pressure starts to distort your vision, the last thing you see is the cruel grin of the giant viking, before the force shatters your ocular ridge, your eyeball popping loose, dangling by the optic nerve like a gory yo-yo.

With a wet crunch like a splattering watermelon, your skull gives in, and you are utterly brutalized as the slivers of your crushed skull drive through your gray matter in a crushing press, reducing your entire being to a gory pulp that Freya drops to the ground.

She cracks her knuckles, wiping her bloodied hands on the bear pelt around her shoulders, satisfied, leaving your massacred family on the floor.