Visitors are not too uncommon in Asvera, usually strangers making deliveries of supplies or equipment, whether they hail from this Earth or somewhere beyond the Nexus. At first, the Asgardians who’d arrived with the ships watch Prometheus with detached curiosity, but distant politeness gives way to warmer looks as the children run to him fearlessly, familiarly, and a few of the adults he’d helped shelter greet him in passing.
Even when Asgard had been at the height of its glory, then-prince Thor’s comings and goings had often been known to the people, mostly because in those days he had flown overhead with a none-too-subtle crack of thunder in his wake, or lit up the horizon with the rainbow flare of the Bifrost. Now, his presence is quiet and subdued, but the population of the tiny islands is so small and intimate that it is more difficult not to know what one’s neighbors are doing, at times. Prometheus will not need to ask many before one young man has an answer for him. “I saw him walking toward Odin’s Tower this morning,” he says, pointing toward the next island across the bridge. There is a tall rocky bluff on one side, overlooking the sea to the east and topped with greenery. The clouds seem to hang lower there, a shade or two darker, though the air smells only of sea salt rather than an oncoming storm.
Upon arrival, Prometheus may note the Bifrost rune burned into the earth, near a blackened patch that has withered as though death itself touched it. Toward the edge of the bluff is a large boulder wide enough for three men to sit on, and it’s there that he will find Thor, looking out over the sea. His hair has grown long enough that the ends escape from beneath the knit hat he’s wearing, and the fullness of his beard is rivaling Prometheus’ now. Even from the back, the slump of his posture makes him look weary, and the bottle he raises to his lips might be partly to blame.
no subject
Even when Asgard had been at the height of its glory, then-prince Thor’s comings and goings had often been known to the people, mostly because in those days he had flown overhead with a none-too-subtle crack of thunder in his wake, or lit up the horizon with the rainbow flare of the Bifrost. Now, his presence is quiet and subdued, but the population of the tiny islands is so small and intimate that it is more difficult not to know what one’s neighbors are doing, at times. Prometheus will not need to ask many before one young man has an answer for him. “I saw him walking toward Odin’s Tower this morning,” he says, pointing toward the next island across the bridge. There is a tall rocky bluff on one side, overlooking the sea to the east and topped with greenery. The clouds seem to hang lower there, a shade or two darker, though the air smells only of sea salt rather than an oncoming storm.
Upon arrival, Prometheus may note the Bifrost rune burned into the earth, near a blackened patch that has withered as though death itself touched it. Toward the edge of the bluff is a large boulder wide enough for three men to sit on, and it’s there that he will find Thor, looking out over the sea. His hair has grown long enough that the ends escape from beneath the knit hat he’s wearing, and the fullness of his beard is rivaling Prometheus’ now. Even from the back, the slump of his posture makes him look weary, and the bottle he raises to his lips might be partly to blame.