"I suppose you're right. Could be colder; at least it's summer here now," Thor agrees, absently sweeping his gaze over the gray sea before he rises, turning away from the vista to head back to the main road. He leaves his empty bottle where it's fallen, having entirely forgotten it was even there, and shoves his hat into his hoodie pocket rather than try to wrestle it back over wet hair. After the sudden rain, there are much fewer people out and about to see him like this, and with luck they'll reach the house before that changes too much.
Thor's house is at the far end of the village from here, an old lighthouse-keeper's cottage that's much cozier than the golden palace he once called home. The rocky ground has prevented most of the plant overgrowth from making it look too neglected, although there are a few weeds and wildflowers stubbornly sprouting here and there around the perimeter of the house. The interior is very Norwegian in decor, still shaped by the previous owner, who seemed to have a love for mountainscapes and sailing ships if the paintings on the wall are any indication. Most of the furniture and the appliances look decades old, though there are a few modern amenities scattered here and there. Even more out of place is the stack of kegs in one corner of the living room, stamped with dwarven runes, and Stormbreaker propped up in the corner, as gleaming and deadly-looking as ever.
At least Harley's help has kept the place from falling into the mess it would be if Thor was left to his own devices. There are a few empty bottles on the coffee table, and a few bottlecaps scattered on the floor, but at least it's only today's trash rather than weeks' worth. The couch isn't in pristine condition either, a small pile of blankets heaped on one end as if someone suspiciously Thor-sized has been sleeping there, even though there is a perfectly functional bed in the bedroom that he isn't using.
It's been a while since Thor has had hot mead, but right now that sounds like just the thing. The glasses he manages to find aren't exactly the right ones - too tall, too skinny, not even shaped correctly - but as long as they can hold liquid, that's all that Thor cares about. He taps one of the kegs and pours out a generous portion, sticking the glasses in the microwave to heat it up to the right temperature before delivering one to his waiting friend. "Skål," he says, tapping his own glass against Prometheus' before taking a deep drink of it. It's too soon for it to have a real effect on him, even as godly strong as it is, but his hands seem a little steadier already, soothing rattled nerves.
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Thor's house is at the far end of the village from here, an old lighthouse-keeper's cottage that's much cozier than the golden palace he once called home. The rocky ground has prevented most of the plant overgrowth from making it look too neglected, although there are a few weeds and wildflowers stubbornly sprouting here and there around the perimeter of the house. The interior is very Norwegian in decor, still shaped by the previous owner, who seemed to have a love for mountainscapes and sailing ships if the paintings on the wall are any indication. Most of the furniture and the appliances look decades old, though there are a few modern amenities scattered here and there. Even more out of place is the stack of kegs in one corner of the living room, stamped with dwarven runes, and Stormbreaker propped up in the corner, as gleaming and deadly-looking as ever.
At least Harley's help has kept the place from falling into the mess it would be if Thor was left to his own devices. There are a few empty bottles on the coffee table, and a few bottlecaps scattered on the floor, but at least it's only today's trash rather than weeks' worth. The couch isn't in pristine condition either, a small pile of blankets heaped on one end as if someone suspiciously Thor-sized has been sleeping there, even though there is a perfectly functional bed in the bedroom that he isn't using.
It's been a while since Thor has had hot mead, but right now that sounds like just the thing. The glasses he manages to find aren't exactly the right ones - too tall, too skinny, not even shaped correctly - but as long as they can hold liquid, that's all that Thor cares about. He taps one of the kegs and pours out a generous portion, sticking the glasses in the microwave to heat it up to the right temperature before delivering one to his waiting friend. "Skål," he says, tapping his own glass against Prometheus' before taking a deep drink of it. It's too soon for it to have a real effect on him, even as godly strong as it is, but his hands seem a little steadier already, soothing rattled nerves.