Hel stood at the gates of Helheim, half-beautiful, half-rotted. "You tread on my roof, Titan," she hissed.
Gaia rose from the soil. She was not a woman; she was a landscape of moss and granite.
"I am the roof," Gaia rumbled. "I am the floor. I am the walls."
The Entombment
Hel summoned her army of the unhonored dead. Warden of Unhonored Bones. They clawed at the earth, trying to drag Gaia down.
Gaia didn't notice them. She focused on the tectonic plates.
Seismic Dominion.
She flexed. The crust of the earth groaned. The cavern of Helheim began to compress.
Hel screamed as her hall collapsed. The stalactites fell. The gates buckled.
"You exist because I allow space," Gaia said. "Space is revoked."
Rootbind Entombment.
Ancient roots, thick as cities, burst through the rock, wrapping Hel in a cage of living wood and stone. The Goddess of Death was buried in the womb of the Mother.