There are a few Asgardians who might give the wee little Loki a doubletake, old enough to remember when the sons of Odin were knee-high rascals getting into trouble every other week. Most of the survivors are young, however, and the elders are few and far between. There are a handful of Sakaaran ex-gladiators among their number as well, and to them, he's just another Asgardian child who surely must belong there.
"Oh, he's probably at home," one of them tells him, a tall kronan who seems to be taking well enough to the damp weather if the moss and lichen growing on his rocky skin are any indication. "Up on the big hill that way, see? Was all stormy last night so I don't think he's coming out today."
The house in question used to be a lighthouse-keeper's cottage, up on the southern bluff with an entire football pitch between it and the rest of the village. Or at least it used to be, before someone took a plow to it and dug it all up, leaving huge furrows that stretch from one end goal to the other, a hint of green here and there where whatever crops they've planted are trying to sprout. The house itself is small and white, and the door will swing open easily, unlocked.
Some of the decor inside is rather outdated, appliances dating back a few decades, including the television in the living room which is currently muted and showing images from some kind of drama. Half the paintings on the walls have been replaced by framed prints of Hubble photography, and there are a few knickknacks that might remind Loki of Thor, though it's clear he hasn't fully made the space his just yet. There's an uru-headed axe propped up in the corner next to a stack of dwarven kegs.
Thor has his back to Loki as he hammers a bracket into the wall above the mantel with his metal left hand, his hoodie's sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He doesn't look quite steady on his feet, peering at the positioning of the bracket a little too closely than is strictly called for, even if he does only have the one eye now. The smell of mead lingering around him a likely culprit as to why. His hair has grown out past his shoulders again, though he doesn't seem to have brushed it out when he got up this morning, and his beard has gotten fully and bushy. He doesn't quite notice he isn't alone just yet, stepping back to see if the bracket is level with the other one he's already placed. Eh, close enough.
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"Oh, he's probably at home," one of them tells him, a tall kronan who seems to be taking well enough to the damp weather if the moss and lichen growing on his rocky skin are any indication. "Up on the big hill that way, see? Was all stormy last night so I don't think he's coming out today."
The house in question used to be a lighthouse-keeper's cottage, up on the southern bluff with an entire football pitch between it and the rest of the village. Or at least it used to be, before someone took a plow to it and dug it all up, leaving huge furrows that stretch from one end goal to the other, a hint of green here and there where whatever crops they've planted are trying to sprout. The house itself is small and white, and the door will swing open easily, unlocked.
Some of the decor inside is rather outdated, appliances dating back a few decades, including the television in the living room which is currently muted and showing images from some kind of drama. Half the paintings on the walls have been replaced by framed prints of Hubble photography, and there are a few knickknacks that might remind Loki of Thor, though it's clear he hasn't fully made the space his just yet. There's an uru-headed axe propped up in the corner next to a stack of dwarven kegs.
Thor has his back to Loki as he hammers a bracket into the wall above the mantel with his metal left hand, his hoodie's sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He doesn't look quite steady on his feet, peering at the positioning of the bracket a little too closely than is strictly called for, even if he does only have the one eye now. The smell of mead lingering around him a likely culprit as to why. His hair has grown out past his shoulders again, though he doesn't seem to have brushed it out when he got up this morning, and his beard has gotten fully and bushy. He doesn't quite notice he isn't alone just yet, stepping back to see if the bracket is level with the other one he's already placed. Eh, close enough.