Disclaimer: Warning! Absolutely no research has gone into this story whatsoever. Those few elements of medieval Scandinavia which this story makes mention of have either been hastily deduced or else invented at random. Historians, scholars, and other academians wishing to broaden their knowledge of Nordic mythology and culture are advised not to do so on a web site titled "The Breast Expansion Archive."

The tale of Bjørnten

and the Dwarven Magician

Bjørnten, an eight-foot god

AX, his eight-foot ax

Otalla, his magical eagle

Helga, a wench

Kelja, another wench

Morthrenaius, a dwarven wizard

The countryside was lush and verdant, filled with the sounds of birds carried on a fresh, crisp breeze. The trees formed a light canopy overhead, creating a pleasant sense of protection and pictorial harmony which a trained artist or talented poet would have intuitively appreciated.

Bjørnten saw a bunch of trees and grass and birds and was bored. He thought back to his farewell party in Valhalla, tried to remember the speeches and the merriment, came up with a vague vision of Freja and Odin looking disdainful and Loki - whose presence he was unsure had any reason - seemingly relieved. They had all made many speeches... Something about great dangers afoot and the need for action, about the great Bjørnten being the only warrior mighty enough to undertake this great quest, something about beer.

Well, there was certainly a lot of beer, wasn't there? Maybe that's why he couldn't remember anything much. He did remember insisting that Freja accompany him, but she had said something about being flattered by his ardency before she told him that she was busy. Bjørnten thought she also said something about having to wash her hair. Yes, that was it.

Such beautiful hair it was, too... long, blonde, shiny, long, and blonde... Bjørnten thought about this for a while as the boring Scandinavian countryside passed by around him, when suddenly the trusty magical eagle at his shoulder began flapping its wings disconcertedly.

"Reee!"

"What's that, Otalla?" he asked, scanning the countryside from beneath his helmet. "Danger afoot? Hmm... *scrunches beard* Best get out my AX..."

Bjørnten reached over to grasp AX from its moorings atop two destriers. His muscles strained and crawled over one another like boulders tumbling down a mountainside. AX glittered gloriously in the sunlight as he hefted it above his head, bellowing: "To the air, Otalla!"

"Reee!"

As he crested a rise, Bjørnten made out a little hamlet beneath him. He could see three men, brandishing swords and torches threateningly, as they shouted and bullied the villagers before them. Two carcasses bloodied the grass by their feet, and children were crying as they huddled in their mother's skirts. Bjørnten may not have been the brightest god on the face of the earth, but he knew as well as the next man when he had an excuse to fight. He began to whirl AX in the air above him violently, grimacing broadly beneath his bushy beard. "To battle!" he bellowed, kicking his mount into action. The other two horses slowed to a halt, glad to be free of the great weight of AX which Bjørnten's egregiously strong arm seemed barely to notice.

The three brigands seemed taken aback at first by the appearance of the ogrish figure who charged towards them on his huge black stallion, but when they realized that there was only one of him and three of them they did the math and charged forth to slay him.

"Aaaaaaa!" screamed the brigands.

"Aaaaaaaa!" bellowed the god.

When the warriors clashed, Bjørnten swung AX mightily before the bandits could get close enough with their swords, and his target failed to block with his torch. The ruffian lost his head to the heroic slash, but Bjørnten also lost his balance and fell to the earth. There was a awesome thud, and the countryside shook. His enemies staggered, struggling to stay on their feet.

Heaving his massive bulk to a crouch, Bjørnten flung AX in an upward stroke towards the nearest brigand. "Die," he commanded as his weapon struck home, burying itself in the man's side and sweeping him into the air. Bjørnten looked at the situation and frowned. He gave AX a fearsome shake, but the body only jiggled enthusiastically, like a broken marionette. Bjørnten was still trying to decide what to do about AX when the third brigand rushed him from behind and struck him in the side with his sword. The brigand's weapon lodged itself between his two bottom ribs. Blood trickled from the wound, and Bjørnten looked down at it in surprise.

"Ouch," he said, dropping AX to grasp the sword blade and wrench it from his body. He turned to glare at the audacity of the bandit, and, swinging his free hand around, grabbed him by the throat. The thug dropped his torch to the grass, staring at Bjørnten in terror as he felt himself being lifted from the ground. The warrior god released his grip on the sword and used his hand to grasp his enemy's skull. His massive palms sweat against the man's hair as he yanked the foe to his chest and squeezed. There was a cracking sound as the bone began to buckle beneath the pressure, and then the man's skull imploded. Blood and brains oozed out over Bjørnten's hands.

"Hm," he nodded with gruff satisfaction, loosening his grip and watching the body slump to the ground.

"Reee!" Otalla cried, diving down from the sky to peck at the bodies on the ground.

"Indeed," Bjørnten said, wiping his hands clumsily on the grass. He noticed, when he almost burned himself, that one of the torches was still lit. It was springtime, so the grass was wet, but he still had the presence of mind to try and put it out; picking it up with his gore-stained hand, he plunged it into the earth. The flame hissed and died.

"Hm," he grunted again, and continued trying to wipe off his hands. He realized suddenly that the villagers were approaching him in a great throng, and he stood to face them as they began shouting,

"Oh, thank you, thank you brave warrior!"

"Hooray! We're saved!"

"Tell us your name, O mighty one, that we may immortalize it in song!"

"Ummm." Bjørnten said, thinking for a moment. "I am Bjørnten, the mightiest of warriors. And I am bleeding." He looked down at the wound in his side. His ribs weren't broken, but the throbbing was a distraction, and he didn't like getting blood on his loincloth. "Give me drink and shelter that I may recover from my killing."

The sea of awed peasants carried him into their little hamlet. Someone had the presence of mind to bring his two destriers, and the village boys swarmed upon AX like ants, pulling the body from its blade, wiping it with grass, and hefting it on their shoulders back to the village.

Bjørnten remained in the little hamlet of (insert name of obscure Scandinavian village here) for a day and a night.

Then he stayed there for another day and another night.

He kept doing this for about a month.

"Uhn, you're so... uck... mighty..." Helga said, trying to ignore waves of nauseating pain which drummed into her with every thrust of Bjørnten's muscular hips. She had had the dubious pleasure of being the god's consort for three nights already, but it was difficult to get used to the size of Bjørnten's gigantic manhood. Fortunately whatever Bjørnten may have had in size, he was utterly lacking in stamina, and it was usually within a minute that he received his satisfaction and thereby granted Helga hers.

"Hm," he grunted as he emptied himself inside of her, and withdrew. He fondled Helga's breasts clumsily with his massive hands for a moment until a wave of what seemed like depression washed over him. He sat up, wondering what this could be. Bjørnten was not a creature given to introspection, and insights came to him sporadically, the way raindrops would sometimes find their way into one's open mouth... on a clear day... Something... a thought... skittered through his brain like a rabbit, but he had difficulty latching onto it or even getting a proper glimpse of it. Something about his hands being too big.

Bjørnten looked down at his hands mutely. �But my hands are great and mighty! I remember the way they crushed that poor coward's skull just yesterday... or last week... or something... Well, they sure crushed his skull!' Bjørnten thought about that for a while, smiling beneath his beard. That had been very amusing. "Bring me beer, wench," he waved. Thinking about killing always made him thirsty.

Helga stood up and wrapped herself in a blanket, trying to ignore the large quantity of Bjørnten's glorious blessing which was running down her leg. At least Bjørnten was normally willing to romance her a little bit afterwards, but tonight apparently he wanted to go straight from the sex to the beer. She wished that someone else could have stayed with him tonight, someone like -

At that moment, Kelja opened the door and strode in. She was tall, approaching six feet, with long blonde hair and breasts the size of ripe apples, none of which was particularly impressive to an eight foot god. "Oh great warrior, I wish to speak with you," she said, addressing Bjørnten without regard for his immodesty. He didn't seem to feel abashed at his nakedness; apparently he didn't mind being seen without clothes as long as he was wearing his helmet.

"I am sorry, wench," he said, "but I am spent for the night. You will have to wait until another time to enjoy my manliness."

Kelja's eyes roved involuntarily over Bjørnten's physique... His white flesh was incredibly muscular, his ogreish build sporting muscles which she had never known existed. She repressed a shudder. "I am... flattered that you would make such an offer," she said quickly, "But that is not why I am here."

"Hm," Bjørnten grunted.

"I knew that someone had to take it upon himself to speak to you, but all the men in the village, are too intimidated by your - "

"Here," Helga said, thrusting a cup into Bjørnten's hands unceremoniously.

"Ah, beer," he said, watching the foam settle at the rim of the wooden mug for a moment before taking a pull.

"What I'm trying to say..." Kelja stuttered, wishing that Bjørnten would just listen to her, "What I'm trying to say is, doesn't - doesn't an important - "

Bjørnten finally finished his draught. "Huh?" he said.

"Doesn't an important god like yourself have more... important things to do than sit around and drink beer all day?" she asked.

"Um..." he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. "No."

Kelja fumed. "What a pathetic excuse for a god you are," she nagged, waving her arms at him in exasperation. "Oh, you're strong as a mule, but little smarter, and just as lazy, that's for sure!"

Bjørnten stuck out his jaw, trying to think of something to say. "I am out of beer," he told her; "get me some more, wench."

"No!" she said, crossing her arms petulantly. Bjørnten and Helga stared at her as though she had just done something foolish. Trying to ignore the fact that they might be right, she continued, "I'm not your slave, just because I'm a woman!"

"You look like a woman," Bjørnten argued, wondering what her point was. "What ails this wench?" he asked, turning to Helga.

"She's always like this," Helga said, "She just needs a man."

"The last thing I need is a man!" Kelja shouted, then clapped her mouth shut and closed her eyes, trying to recover her temper. "The point is, there are more important things for you to be doing than loafing around here forever."

"Are you saying that there's something better?"

Kelja thought on her feet. "Well... It is well known that a dwarven wizard called Morthrenaius who lives in a cave over yonder," she gestured vaguely to the north, "has kidnapped - "

"A dwarf?" Bjørnten mused, stroking his beard.

"Yes," she said flatly, "A dwarven wizard. Called Morthrenaius. He has kidnapped four innocent maidens, promising to release them after a year and a day."

"Why a year and a day?" he asked, scratching his scalp beneath his helmet and his flowing mane of hair.

She rolled her eyes. "Haven't you ever read any Norse mythology," she said; "It's always a year and a day."

"I thought that was Irish mythology," Bjørnten pointed out.

"Well it doesn't matter!" she insisted. "The dwarf has kidnapped some virgins, promising to release them in a year and a day, but that was almost five seasons ago."

"Um." Bjørnten said. He didn't seem to understand the train of the conversation.

"That's two months overdue," Kelja prompted him.

"I see!" Bjørnten said, looking about himself seriously. "But should why should I care to go and see this wizard?"

"The poor maidens he rescued are as beautiful as the reeds, their bodies more graceful than a willow wand..."

Bjørnten didn't say anything.

"They are svelte," she prompted.

"Huh?" Bjørnten grunted.

The girl seethed. "Go north," she commanded, "past the mountains," she went on, "to the dwarf's cave," she continued, "that you may have a mighty battle," she told him, "rescue some maidens," she shouted, "win glory and honor for your name," she screamed, "and get yourself as far from (this obscure Scandinavian hamlet) as you possibly can!!"

"Ah, a quest!" Bjørnten said, leaping to his feet with a faraway expression in his eyes, "Yes! A quest! A great and mighty quest, befitting a great and mighty warrior! I shall ride forth bravely on this quest! I leave immediately!"

"Good riddance, you bastard son of Loki..."

"What was that?" Bjørnten asked distractedly, hefting AX to his shoulder with one hand and girding his loins with the other.

"I said, �Good luck, you brave son of the sea.'"

"Hm," Bjørnten grunted, ducking his head so as not to smash the doorway with his helmet. He emerged from the house and threw his arm aloft, crying, "To me, Otalla!"

Somewhere in the distance came the faint sound of an eagle, crying "Reee," as it winged its way to its master.

Bjørnten rode along a trail which carried him into the mountains of (some Scandinavian province which would be known for being mountainous if it were not so obscure). His magical eagle, Otalla perched upon his shoulder like a king, preening his feathers and providing Bjørnten with the level of conversation to which he was accustomed. His destriers plodded along, dutifully bearing the formidable weight of AX without complaint. After a night which Bjørnten spent in the wild, cradling AX lovingly in his arms, and a day of further travel down from the mountains, the mighty god happened upon a cave.

"Reee!" Otalla cried, flapping his wings.

"What's that, Otalla," Bjørnten asked, "This is the cave of which the wench spoke? Then we shall go in!" He dismounted from his great black steed and, unbuckling AX, heaved it to his shoulder. "Quietly now, Otalla," he boomed, "there is danger afoot..."

As he approached the cave's mouth, he could make out gasping sounds. �That must be one of the maidens,' he thought to himself cleverly. He crept forward, making surprisingly little noise, considering the combined weight of himself and his AX, until he was completely engulfed in blackness. When his eyes adjusted, he could see torchlight from around a bend in the cave. He crept to the corner, and slowly peaked his head around.

He and Otalla could see a dwarf, wearing a purple robe and a ludicrously large helmet with two horns sprouting from the top. He was murmuring an incantation, holding his arms out before him. �And that must be the dwarf,' he thought. Seeing that Morthranaius was busy with his incantation, Bjørnten stepped out from his hiding place and slowly advanced on his enemy, keeping to the shadows on the far side of the hall.

Now that he stood in the hallway, he could see that there were four maidens shackled to the wall. They were all naked, and their pale flesh gleamed appealingly in the torchlight, particularly their breasts, which jutted proudly forth from their chests in a way which few breasts he had known did. He stopped, looking at them closely. The closest one had breasts larger than any he had ever seen since he had left Valhalla. The dwarf was aggressively massaging her soft, yielding flesh, speaking strange, magical words. The girl threw back her head and moaned, an expression of pain - or ecstasy - on her face. "Too fast," she cried, "Too fast, too fast, too fast!"

It was then that Bjørnten finally noticed the obvious: the maiden's breasts were growing as the magician spoke. They pushed against the dwarf's small, gnarled hands, pillowing them and eclipsing them. The scene seemed rather awkward; her breasts were very big and soft, almost as big as her own head, clearly too big for the dwarf's hands...

"But..." With an expression of slow awe, Bjørnten looked down at his own callused hands, "just right for my hands..."

Abruptly, the spell ended as the dwarf released his hold on her breasts. The maiden exhaled with relief, sagging against the shackles. The shrill voice of the dwarf echoed through the chamber, "Who goes there? Who speaks? Surely not some brave and foolish warrior, come to vanquish me and free my women?"

"No," Bjørnten declared in a bold voice, collecting his wits and striding forth into the light of the torches, "It is I, Bjørnten the Mighty, come down from Valhalla, to win glory and honor for my name... and to kill you, you puny little wizard."

The dwarf looked him up and down, saying "I see you bear a gruff, simple visage... yet I, Morthrenaius, cogent seer that I am, sense a keen mind beneath this blunt exterior."

Bjørnten remained silent, confused as he was by the wizard's words.

"And yet," Morthrenaius continued, seeing that no reply was forthcoming, "you cannot hope to win against me, for I am Morthrenaius the Crafty, and no one - dwarf, man, or god, has yet to best my cognitive prowess. How do you expect to succeed where so many before you have found only rank failure?"

Bjørnten suspected that the little Dwarf was trying to threaten him. "I'm really big," he explained.

"Ah, you remind me of the obvious; then let me put forth another salient point which you overlook - I am a mighty magician, known from (some obscure Scandinavian town) to (some other obscure Scandinavian town) for my greatness. Size alone cannot persevere against the unseen."

"...So is my AX," Bjørnten continued.

"Ah," Morthranaius gazed off wistfully into the horizon, "What warrior is complete without his ax? Yet I have something mightier than iron or wood, something more powerful than stone, something richer than the blood in your veins - a grimore, filled with the two hundred and twenty two mystical incantations, which no man can undo."

"...And I have a magical eagle," Bjørnten went on.

Proving this point, Otalla flapped his wings. "Reee!" he cried, soaring aloft.

"Hah!" Morthranaius scoffed, watching Otalla as he wheeled above their heads towards the roof of the cavern, "A magical eagle? What foolishness is this which you would have me ingest without salt or spice? I am Morthranaius, master themoturge, not some backwater apprentice who shivers at the notion of transmuting lead into gold!"

At first, Bjørnten struggled to keep up with the Dwarf's speech, but in the end gave up and reached for AX.

"That is no magical eagle," Morthranaius continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "If it is, then perhaps it can deflect my mighty - "

It was at that moment which Bjørnten chose to bring AX down on Morthranaius' skull. The dwarf's helmet with its pointy horns split in two, and blood spurted skyward in a great fountain, staining AX's blade crimson. Morthranaius crumpled to the ground like a sack of turnips.

"...At last I see," the dwarf said as blood dribbled from his brain, "Your talk of magic was but a distraction..." his hands flopped on the ground like trout, "To think, that I have finally been bested by one whose intellect surpasses my own..."

"Huh?" Bjørnten tried to ask, but Morthranaius decided that it was about time for him to die, and he died.

In unison, the captive women cheered. "Thank you thank you," they cried, bouncing up and down, "Bjørnten, our hero, the Mightiest warrior from (yet another obscure Scandinavian town) to (one last, equally obscure and equally outrageously named Scandinavian town)!" They jiggled and cheered for a moment while Bjørnten watched them, basking in his pride and good fortune.

"This calls for celebration," he cried.

"Reee!" Otalla squawked from the air.

"Yes," one of the maidens, with blonde hair called, "let us down!"

"A celebration," Bjørnten said, thinking hard. "But what is missing?" The maidens remained silent. Otalla flapped down from the air to perch at his shoulder. "Of course!" Bjørnten bellowed, delivering a powerful slap to his thigh, "Beer! Where did Morthre - Mortimer... Where did that little dwarf keep his beer?"

"Uh, he kept his keys on that hook over there," another of the girls, with blonde hair, intoned subtly, gesturing towards the wall with her chin.

"The wizard locked up his beer?" Bjørnten asked. What a strange notion it was.

"I don't think he had any beer," spoke up a third maiden. Her hair was long and blond.

"What??" Bjørnten recoiled in horror.

"I said - "

"I heard what you said, woman!" he snarled, pacing back and forth. His footsteps thundered through the cave, and Otalla flapped his wings in distress. After a moment's thought, he declared, "There is no help for it. If I am a god, then I must do as the gods do!"

He strode towards the women, who unconsciously shied away from his looming bulk, and glared at their breasts. His eyebrows furrowed over his eyes, almost completely obscuring them in his shadowed visage. He clenched his huge jaw, grinding his teeth, until suddenly one of them spoke saying "Oooh... what's that?"

Then they were all squirming against their bonds, giggling, saying, "Stop it, stop it, that tickles!" But mighty Bjørnten was not to be distracted, and he forced his warrior's will upon them. Their breasts grew heavy and full, hanging from their frames like ripe fruit waiting to be picked. A trickle of foam dribbled from one of them. "Owww..." she moaned, "too much..."

"Hm," Bjørnten said, going to where she hung and bringing his lips to her nipple, sucking mightily upon it. His beard tickled, but she tried not to complain as the pressure in her bosom was gradually relieved.

"Reeee!" Otalla squawked from Bjørnten's shoulder, and the god lifted his hands to her other breast, massaging it forcefully. His palm quickly filled with the rich, frothy brew, and Otalla leaned forward to drink it from his hand.

"Oh, that feels much better..." the girl said with a sigh as Bjørnten greedily drained her of her beer.

"Yes, this is indeed very wonderful," one of the other girls, the blonde one, spoke up from where she hang. "I have an idea," she suggested, "why don't you let us all down from here?" Bjørnten did not seem to be paying any attention.

And so our heroic saga ends. After Bjørnten's courageous battle with the dwarf, Odin offered him his place in Valhalla once more. But Bjørnten heroically declined this invitation, and chose to stay with the four wenches, drinking beer and making merry, where he and his magical eagle benefited from the fruits of Morthrenaius' arts, until the end of the age.

Written September of 1999 by Mark William Henshaw

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