[ The Steina Lysa temple gives him a headache courtesy of Skadi, but Fregnahöll keeps him occupied for almost an hour as he rifles nimble-fingered through the pages of what books already line the shelves of Odin's library after he ducks into the old man's temple. It's mildly offensive that Mimir, that severed head of a prat, has a godhaus and Loki doesn't. Out of sheer curiosity (the secrets available in Mimir's temple outweigh a number of other choices in priority) he strolls the watery walkways of Taka Ráðs, keeping a leery eye on the reflections and a good foot in distance away from the edge, just to be careful, but nothing comes of Loki's mindful wandering. He visits the Teitr Morginn to send a hopeful prayer to whichever version of his ex may be around (Sigyn always was reliably fond of him, he can't afford to snub her help today and feels no real need to since her death in his universe has afforded them quite the breather), but it's in the Báðum Hǫndum where Loki spends the better part of his morning. His mother, or the approximation of Freyja which exists here, does not reply; Loki sits with a mug of tea in one hand and a stack of pilfered biscuits beside him on the bench, munching away with a frown. Likely that Frigg is busy welcoming a slew of noobs and simply doesn't have a moment free, same with Sigyn trailing after her queen. No big deal. Whatever. Loki can always come back ... another time.
There is no temple for a Loki of this dimension which isn't surprising, although it soothes his bruised ego a little that neither Thor or Balder have one either. Are certain gods of this preteen-Asgard absent altogether, unborn yet in the realm's infancy? It's a mystery he longs to solve, chomping into a custard-creme with more annoyance than it deserves. ]
B. Various;
i. Stables.
[ Skjóta Oddr has more eight-legged horses than a god could shake a mason at. Loki's eyes widen and he offers his hand to the heads hanging over stable-doors, pleased when one horse in particular whuffs at his palm and gently lips his fingers. She's a big girl, not as dark as Sleipnir but the colour of an incoming storm. Loki blatantly ignores the name listed on the stall and decides aloud, as the mare nibbles the fur on his coat, ]
I think we'll call you Raindrop.
ii. Skipta Mál.
[ First Loki loses his magic, then all hope of a decent beer, what could possibly be next? Not the bowl of chips that sits in front of him, that's for damn sure as he chows down at a table alone in a corner. Memories haunt him of being a powerless youngster, too weak for spells so that he supplemented jam for ingredients and he sincerely hopes it isn't going to come to that this time around. After all, as part of his mother's house (even an alt-dimension version of her) he's surely going to be treated better than he would in, say, Heimdall's. Frigg, Frigga, Freyja ... he can't imagine her stifling his growth if he has to earn back his magic.
His grousing thoughts are disturbed by Raindrop's muzzle dipping through the window behind the booth to lick at the bowl of water next to Loki's meal and he itches under her chin without looking away from the bracelet on his wrist. He may have sprung the horse from the stables without permission but she seems all the happier for it and, quite frankly, he isn't invested in returning her any time soon. People in the rustic restaurant may double-take the horse head looming in through a window and the horn-helmed figure beside her.
Cliché, maybe. Oh, well. At least he fits in with the rest of the Nordic-themed wallpaper. ]
loki, marvel-616
[ The Steina Lysa temple gives him a headache courtesy of Skadi, but Fregnahöll keeps him occupied for almost an hour as he rifles nimble-fingered through the pages of what books already line the shelves of Odin's library after he ducks into the old man's temple. It's mildly offensive that Mimir, that severed head of a prat, has a godhaus and Loki doesn't. Out of sheer curiosity (the secrets available in Mimir's temple outweigh a number of other choices in priority) he strolls the watery walkways of Taka Ráðs, keeping a leery eye on the reflections and a good foot in distance away from the edge, just to be careful, but nothing comes of Loki's mindful wandering. He visits the Teitr Morginn to send a hopeful prayer to whichever version of his ex may be around (Sigyn always was reliably fond of him, he can't afford to snub her help today and feels no real need to since her death in his universe has afforded them quite the breather), but it's in the Báðum Hǫndum where Loki spends the better part of his morning. His mother, or the approximation of Freyja which exists here, does not reply; Loki sits with a mug of tea in one hand and a stack of pilfered biscuits beside him on the bench, munching away with a frown. Likely that Frigg is busy welcoming a slew of noobs and simply doesn't have a moment free, same with Sigyn trailing after her queen. No big deal. Whatever. Loki can always come back ... another time.
There is no temple for a Loki of this dimension which isn't surprising, although it soothes his bruised ego a little that neither Thor or Balder have one either. Are certain gods of this preteen-Asgard absent altogether, unborn yet in the realm's infancy? It's a mystery he longs to solve, chomping into a custard-creme with more annoyance than it deserves. ]
B. Various;
i. Stables.
[ Skjóta Oddr has more eight-legged horses than a god could shake a mason at. Loki's eyes widen and he offers his hand to the heads hanging over stable-doors, pleased when one horse in particular whuffs at his palm and gently lips his fingers. She's a big girl, not as dark as Sleipnir but the colour of an incoming storm. Loki blatantly ignores the name listed on the stall and decides aloud, as the mare nibbles the fur on his coat, ]
I think we'll call you Raindrop.
ii. Skipta Mál.
[ First Loki loses his magic, then all hope of a decent beer, what could possibly be next? Not the bowl of chips that sits in front of him, that's for damn sure as he chows down at a table alone in a corner. Memories haunt him of being a powerless youngster, too weak for spells so that he supplemented jam for ingredients and he sincerely hopes it isn't going to come to that this time around. After all, as part of his mother's house (even an alt-dimension version of her) he's surely going to be treated better than he would in, say, Heimdall's. Frigg, Frigga, Freyja ... he can't imagine her stifling his growth if he has to earn back his magic.
His grousing thoughts are disturbed by Raindrop's muzzle dipping through the window behind the booth to lick at the bowl of water next to Loki's meal and he itches under her chin without looking away from the bracelet on his wrist. He may have sprung the horse from the stables without permission but she seems all the happier for it and, quite frankly, he isn't invested in returning her any time soon. People in the rustic restaurant may double-take the horse head looming in through a window and the horn-helmed figure beside her.
Cliché, maybe. Oh, well. At least he fits in with the rest of the Nordic-themed wallpaper. ]