Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard

CHARACTER NAME: Thor, son of Odin, god of thunder, king of Asgard, Allfather
CHARACTER SERIES: Marvel Cinematic Universe (mildly canon-divergent as of the end of Ragnarok, majorly so by the end of Endgame)

[OOC]

Backtagging: Always!
Threadhopping: Yes!
Fourthwalling: In the context of recognizing him as part of the Norse pantheon (and taking note of where the stories aren't quite consistent with his actual experiences), absolutely. Calling him out as a comic book/movie character, no thanks.
Offensive subjects: No matter who it is directed to or whether it's IC or not, fatshaming is a hard no. It's not offensive per se, but I'm not interested in incest or smut either. If anything else comes up during RP that I don't want to get into, I'll let you know.

[IC]

Hugging this character: Yes, although if he doesn't know you, he may be confused.
Kissing this character: Depends on the circumstances. He's likely to be taken aback by it regardless. If it's Loki or some other family member, familial kisses are absolutely welcome, though not the incestuous kind. If he's dating the character, then the answer is absolutely yes.
Flirting with this character: You're always welcome to try! As of IRL 2023, Thor is currently in a relationship in his main Nexus continuity, so he will not take anything further with anyone else. In memes, flirting is fair game.
Fighting with this character: Oh, yes. If there's a good reason, Thor is often up for a fight. It's not his first choice of action, but he's not reluctant to engage if it's clear talking it out isn't going to work. But please also keep in mind that if your character is not up to the task of going toe-to-toe with him, he could seriously damage or kill your character. OOC discussion is preferable before any fight breaks out.
Injuring this character: It'll take a lot to get there, but yes, if your character is able to damage him. I'd prefer he doesn't lose any more body parts (he's missing an eye and an arm now), but bruises and burns all the way up to broken bones are fine. We should discuss it OOC first.
Killing this character: Prefer not.
Using telepathy/mind reading abilities on this character: It's nothing he isn't used to, so yes. We should probably discuss it OOC before your character gets anything off him, however.


Warnings: As of the events of Infinity War (April 27, 2019 in real time), Thor is going to be struggling with mental health issues that may include (but are not limited to) PTSD, panic attacks, clinical depression, alcohol abuse, suicidal thoughts, self-harm, disordered eating, a lack of self-care, and learning to cope with a traumatically amputated limb. For what part of Thor's Endgame development I am not going to do, see this disclaimer (contains spoilers). I will try to mark all relevant posts with trigger warnings, but if any of the above is something you don’t want in our interactions, please let me know.

Thor's triggers include being physically restrained (people holding him are usually okay, inanimate objects like chains or seatbelts are not), Thanos' name, seeing alternates or face twins of certain people who are dead in his universe, and specific significant phrases (ex. anything about "going for the head" or "the work is done"). This is not an exhaustive list and may be added to as his PTSD is explored in greater depth. Not all of these triggers will result in a flashback or panic attack, especially if he expects to be exposed to them, but they may distress him to the point of derailing conversations entirely, especially when he's sober.

It is also worth noting that IC =/= OOC, and Thor’s narration will reflect his point of view on himself and his circumstances, not my own. He may think of himself in terms that are unflattering at best and offensive at worst, and his experience is filtered through a cultural lens that does not reflect kindly on mental illness in general. He may describe himself as weak or cowardly, or in other terms that do not express actual reality. These are not meant to be taken as truth nor the player’s opinions on what Thor is going through.

The summer sun is high in the sky when the little rental car turns the corner around the coast and up the narrow bridge onto the islands of Asvera. The rainbow paint on the concrete has been refreshed and augmented with something that makes it shimmer, though it's still a pale comparison to the rainbow bridge of Asgard. The driver has little room to contemplate that however, instead inching forward at a snail's pace while they stare around at the sleepy little fishing village.

There have been significant modifications made since Asgard's arrival, of course. Several of the outlying islands have been terraformed into housing, and towers of Wakandan and Asgardian design make up much of the new buildings. Handpainted signs point toward the administrative center, still based in an overhauled church, though symbols of Asgardian make have replaced all the existing iconography. It's no gleaming golden palace, and now that they've thought of it, they notice there hasn't been a single figure in armor guarding anything that looks important.

Is this the right place? It has to be, right?

The clothes on the villagers, at least, looks familiar. Fancy robes and dresses, embroidered tunics and embossed belts, though the styles are sometimes an odd mishmash with Earth dress. The hairstyles, too, are another reassurance. Few people on Earth have the time for this level of braiding for casualwear, and enough people are going about their daily trades that it's clear this isn't a special occasion, either.

It's the right place indeed. But the wrong time.

The young man at the reception desk in the admin center helpfully reveals that Thor is not currently in town. The visitor's shoulders slump, and they leave the rental car behind as they wander down the road, contemplating their next move. Wait for him to arrive, knowing that it could be hours? Even days? Leave a note, 'sorry I missed you,' and continue embodying those ships that pass in the night?

The sound of clanging metal and grunts of effort echo down the street, drawing their attention. There's little open land available in Asvera, but the Asgardians have made good use of what they have. A training ring has been established along the northern waterfront, large enough for several dozen people to run drills and skirmish with each other, separated from the main walkway by a split-rail fence. The trainees are lightly armored in leather, armed with carved wooden swords and shields, men and women and children alike. The woman at the head of the class has clearly done this a time or two; her armor is battleworn and well fitted, and her blade moves like an extension of her own arm.

Jane Foster leans against the fence to watch, the memory of Asgard in its glory fresh in her mind as she struggles to process what she's seeing now.

Spring in Norway is still fairly chilly as compared to much of the inhabited regions of Earth, but Thor finds it agreeable. The snow and ice has mostly melted, though his windows tend to frost over every evening, and the rocky cliffs outside his home can be slippery from frozen ocean spray. The sun shows its face more and more every day, coming out of the deep darkness of winter, and the mountainside on the mainland is slowly beginning to bloom with green. The field out back will be ready for planting soon, once the last of the frost releases its hold on the topsoil, and Thor cannot wait to sow it.

But not today. Today, he has a guest coming.

His home is in somewhat better shape than it was when the children were staying; there's bits of dust here and there in the corners that he doesn't use, but it's relatively uncluttered. Inside is warm and inviting, though Thor still bundles up in a comfortable soft sweater, and the little pot on the stove steams with boiling coffee. Above the kitchen sink, a wooden dowel has been installed between the cabinets for the ravens to perch on, and both birds hunker on top of it while their master putters around the kitchen.

Week two of sobriety.

It's a strange feeling, going this long without a drink. The urge hasn't gone away, hasn't even lessened. It's for that reason that Thor decides not to seek out Loki at the Viper's Pit. Too much temptation all in one place. His brother might not actually be able to stop him, if he gives in now. Even just knowing that the tavern in Asvera is within five minutes' walk is difficult enough, and his only saving grace is that it's on his blind side as he walks past it to his greenhouse.

But he needs to see Loki anyway. Because he was right.

Thor is terrible at apologies. He knows this, and so does Loki. But the way that he'd left... it sits ill with him, harsh words spoken and hearts torn when they last saw one another. Perhaps in older days he might not have worried so much. But now...

Now he's lost his brother too many times to assume there will be time to make things right.

Cricket's house is familiar territory, though Thor has only been here a handful of times. The man himself is out in the yard, tending to the chickens, as Thor arrives, and though the human looks surprised to see him, he's as courteous as ever. Thor says nothing of his current struggles - wondering silently to himself if Loki has already warned him not to provide any more moonshine - but greets him warmly, as if this was only a casual visit, before inquiring about his brother's presence.

To his relief, and nervousness, Cricket confirms that Loki is currently at home. There will be no further avoiding this. Thor thanks him, and leaves him to his work, venturing hesitantly into the house in search of his brother.

Above the arctic circle, it is the height of summer in Asvera, which is to say that this fine cloudless day is a mere thirteen degrees Celsius, despite the sun refusing to set for the entire last month. It makes it easy to lose track of time without sunset to mark the passing of days, and has caused no end to sleeping difficulties among the Asgardians who now call this village home, but it also has its benefits.

The smaller islands now sport towers of Asgardian and Wakandan designs, linked to their fellows by softly glowing bridges tall enough to permit the passage of fishing boats beneath. The bridge that links the archipelago to the mainland is concrete and stone, and physically painted with rainbow colors, a pale imitation of the Bifrost that had once linked Asgard to the rest of the Nine Realms. There's no golden palace to be seen, nor much of any gold at all, really, except for the occasional painted rune on the doorposts of a home.

Where once there was a football pitch, now there is a grain field, planted deep with oats and rye and wheat. Thor's house was once a lighthouse keeper's cottage, perched on a rocky bluff at the farthest reaches of the largest island overlooking the vast sea to the southwest. A Bifrost rune is etched into the rock between them, the king's preferred landing zone for visitors to the village, at least those who arrive by PINpoint. The house itself is fairly plain, with little to indicate that it's the home of the Allfather save for the pair of ravens currently perched at the peak of the roof. One of them calls out at the arrival of a newcomer, and Thor quickly opens the door to greet him. His hair has been brushed and braided back, his beard plaited along his cheeks and chin, and with the eyepatch in place he might pass for a much younger Odin if not for the smile on his lips and the decidedly Midgardian-style sweater and jeans he's dressed in. "Loki! You made it."

[For use when bakerstreet (and other memes) become subject to captcha, so we don't need to play riddle games with robots to have fun times.]

The trunk of the tree glimmers with rainbow-swathed stars, a great nebulous pillar that rises nearly beyond the range of sight as it towers overhead, branches stretching from horizon to horizon. Seven jeweled orbs float among the leaves, spinning serenely beneath the glow of their suns, and if he squints he can make out the shapes of continents and seas on their surfaces. One limb is burned to cinders, blackened scars tracing down the length of the trunk, droplets of melted gold hung suspended amidst the char. Another is cold and dark, interlocking rings encased in ice like a fruit frozen on the vine.

A great pool beneath arched roots lies before him, its waters still as a mirror, reflecting the orange glow of a blazing funeral boat at its center, its prow draped high with golden silks bearing the triquetra of Odin's house. He is too distant to see a body, shrouded or not, the flames roaring silently skyward in a pyre fit for a king, bright sparks drifting on unseen winds as they climb the branches of the cosmic tree.

Three figures stand on the quiet shore. Thor would know them anywhere, and his heart aches in his chest, his throat closing with unshed tears as he approaches, long grasses swishing against his armored legs, the weight of a winged crown resting on his brow, his cape tattered and pinned at his hip.

Heimdall stands as strong and tall as he did in life, the golden sentinel whose eyes watched over Asgard and its protectorates for thousands of years, the shattered hilt of Hofund in his hands as if the blade was still whole and battle-ready. "Thor Odinson," he intones, warmth in his deep voice as he gazes upon his king. "Do you swear to guard the Nine Realms?"

Thor had been swift to answer once before, without a single moment of reflection on what those words would actually mean. He's done so little for the other Realms since the fall of Asgard, barely able to cope with the demands of the survivors and his own infirmity, not even when the shockwaves of the Mad Titan's victory had culled their populations and left them wanting, save for one small visit. He has no excuse for his neglect since, none but his own cowardice, and for a moment he opens his mouth to say so. But Heimdall's golden gaze is proud, and full of a gentleness rarely seen from the watchman.

He may have failed them, just like he failed everyone else. But it does not have to always be so.

"I swear," Thor murmurs.

A hand claps down on his shoulder, warm and friendly, and Thor raises his gaze to look into the eyes of Volstagg, a tankard grasped in the man's other hand. "Thor Odinson," his friend greets him, a smile on his lips. "Do you swear to preserve the peace?"

Peace... Thor had once craved war, the rush of battle and fire and blood, glorying in the enemies that fell before him. He had counted his victories by the bodies left behind, and thought himself invincible, truly a god as humans thought. But now... now he counts his victories in lives, in those left behind to build anew. Hela's domain was death, a perfect weapon crafted to slaughter millions without a single regret, a reaper of men with no regard for good or ill. But Thor... Thor was born to be her opposite. A god of life, and of balance, plucking weeds and paring away rot so that new healthy growth can flourish.

A weapon to destroy, or a tool to build.

Thor would readily pick up his axe in defense of others, even now, and use every tool he has to bring an end to the conflict, whether by word or by sword. But he no longer thirsts for it, seeking enemies where there need be none, intent on his own glorification through bloodshed. Now he finds fulfillment in rich brown earth and teeming fish-filled seas, and in the cries of new infants who will never know the horrors of Ragnarok and Thanos' culling, except in stories told by their elders.

"I swear."

"Thor Odinson," the final figure says, and Thor nearly weeps at the sight of green leather and golden horns, his brother standing tall and unbroken with Gungnir in his hand. Those green eyes are clear and unbloodied, a sadness hung about him like a cloak, yet with a brotherly fondness that does not seem entirely a front. "Do you swear to cast aside all selfish ambition, and to pledge yourself only to the good of the Realms?"

There is so much that Thor wishes to say to his brother. So many things left unsaid in life, so many opportunities cut short, untreated wounds that healed wrong and were never rebroken and set right. Thor could linger for a thousand years and never come to an end of the things he wishes to say, to both give and seek forgiveness for wrongs dealt on both sides. He wishes he could hold tight to Loki and never let him go, a brother he would choose again and again to claim as his kin.

But Loki is dead. And even a trickster can only cheat death so many times before his tricks run dry.

Valhalla may yet await Thor, at the end of his days. And when it is his time to enter that golden hall, his loved ones will be waiting for his arrival. How could he face them if he did not do everything he could to ensure their people thrive?

"I swear." His voice nearly chokes in his throat, and he reaches out as if to grab Loki's wrist before realizing that it is with his false arm, faltering before he can sully him with the symbol of his failure to protect his people from those that came to cull them. His failure to protect Loki.

But Loki reaches out in turn, clasping Thor around the forearm, untroubled that he grasps smooth metal instead of warm flesh. "Words alone do not make a king nor an Allfather," he says, leaving Gungnir standing as a rooted sapling at his side, silvered oak leaves wreathing its points in a crown. "But a willingness to do what must be done, and a love for the people he serves. You'll make a fine leader, Thor. But we would give you a gift to help you on your way, if you would have it."

"Of course." What else could he possibly say? Even if this gift is naught but words, Thor would cherish it all the same.

Loki smiles, and takes Thor's prosthetic hand between both of his own, slipping something into his palm and curling the fingers closed. "The Wheel turns, as it always does. But it does not turn in place, with no path ahead. Travel forward, and wake, dear brother."

Thor's eye flies open and he sits upright, sucking in a great lungful of air. Yggdrasil no longer looms above him, replaced instead by the cream white ceiling of his house in Norway, the light of the Worlds Tree reduced to mere sunlight streaming in from uncovered windows. The weight of his armor is gone, the softness of cotton wrapped around him beneath the warm covers of his bed. The sound of waves crashing against rock and the call of seabirds ring out faintly through the walls of his home, and the tug of the weather in his bones tells him there is going to be a light rainshower within the hour.

Everything is normal, as it should be. It was just a dream.

Except Thor has had dreams, and he has had Dreams. And this one does not fade with the waking, as true dreams do. And when Thor looks down at his hands, his metal fingers are curled into a loose fist on his lap.

He opens his hand.

Nestled in his palm, warm with life, are a pair of pale blue, brown-mottled eggs.

North of the Arctic Circle, the days have been getting shorter and shorter, lending only previous few hours of daylight to the Asgardians now living in Norway. For some, the encroaching darkness is subtly draining, leeching energy and light from the people as much as the sky.

On recommendation from the humans in the village, most of those affected have obtained light therapy boxes to combat the downswing, and already it seems to be making a difference. Today, Thor has a new option available to him, and though he often finds himself reluctant to make himself go out and about, it really does seem to help when he makes himself do it.

So the chilly dawn at ten in the morning sees him in his kitchen, packing a lunch for two into a shoulder bag, dressed in layers in preparation of shedding the warm winter clothing once they reach their destination. His hair is pulled back into a simple ponytail, saving his energy for the day ahead rather than fussing over his appearance. He's not just doing this for himself, after all, and he wants his smallest brother to have a fun outing today.

Speaking of, he greets the littlest Loki at the door with a hug that picks him up off his feet entirely, an easy smile coming to his lips. "You're right on time."

Day by day, the darkness grows.

The sun travels across the sky in a low arc, barely aloft for six hours before sinking below the horizon and casting Asvera into night. Most days, the stars shine above, glittering in a sea of foreign black smeared with the milky trail of the galaxy's spiral arm, a strange monochrome that Thor is still not used to, even after all his time spent on Midgard.

The village, however, is anything but bland black and white. Sometimes it's hard to tell which villagers are human and which are Asgardian, adopting the fashions of their new home as the weather grows colder, trading linen robes and leather jerkins for woolen lusekoften and cotton sweatshirts, bright splashes of color against the frost that dusts the earth. The daylight hours are precious few, and the Asverans use them to their fullest extent, hastening to build bridges to neighboring undeveloped islands and raising houses for the displaced. Thor joins them, sometimes, lending strong back and shoulders to the cause, a king lifting beams and bricks side by side with shopkeepers and fishermen. Sometimes Hulk puts in an appearance, his withered right arm held securely in its adjustable sling, but his other side still as strong as a dozen humans as he hefts heavy loads one-handed. Envoys from Wakanda pool their resources with the village, using their nanotechnology to fabricate structures as strong and improbable as old Asgard once had.

And slowly, day by brief day, the village transforms.

Thor looks out over the archipelago as the weak winter sunlight fades. Below the bluff where the lighthouse sits, the village sparkles like a hundred tiny jewels, electric bulbs and witchlights glowing side by side and casting their brightness into smoke rising from hundreds of hearths. The boats are all tied up in the harbor, sheltered from the open sea by rock and breakwater, unmoved by the waves. The outlying islands have sprouted towers that blend Wakandan style with Asgardian, each housing dozens of families comfortably just a short walk across the new bridges that faintly glow in shades of blue and purple. Across the bay at the grassy bluff where Odin breathed his last, a flicker of flame marks the new memorial for the fallen, a stone carved with the names of those who fell after Ragnarok and did not return, and a so-called eternal flame that - they assure him - holds no such magic as Hela wielded.

It's barely afternoon, too early for sleep despite the darkness, a cold wind sweeping down from the north and bringing a promise of snowfall with it. Thor pays it little mind, wrapping himself up in soft warm clothing and clutching a blanket around his shoulders in lieu of a cape, holding a warm mug between his hands as he looks out over what they have built. It is not Asgard, but... it's home, now, a little more every day.

A flicker of green catches his eye, and slowly, ribbons of emerald light wind their way through the black skies of Earth, shimmering and coiling like a great serpent and casting its glow from horizon to horizon. Thor's breath catches in his chest. He'd forgotten this strange quirk of Earth's skies, a magic born of the sun and given life in the dark, gleaming in shades of all-too-familiar green.

Maybe it's a sign, and maybe it's not. But Thor knows which one he would rather believe.

The reflection of Loki's seidr weaves across the sky, and Thor feels no chill as he watches its silent dance above him.