Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard

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.

Summer has come to Asvera, and the locals will swear it has never been so green. Sure, the weather is still a cool thirteen degrees Celsius, and the stiff sea breeze often makes it feel just that little bit more drafty, but the mountain on the mainland seems to have exploded in a carpet of wildflowers and grasses, the greenery flourishing in the village itself along the edges of the roads. The juniper trees' twisted boughs are full, the lavender planted along the footpaths tall and thick. Fluffy clouds cast shadows across land and sea as they drift across the endless blue sky, the sun never quite dipping below the horizon, and every day the fishing boats return with their holds laden heavy with cod and coalfish and halibut. The wooden frames of the hjell along the shoreline of the islands are packed full of drying fish, and inside the greenhouse and in the field before Thor's home, crops ripen underneath the polar sun.

The village is a bit more crowded these days, between the Asgardians and the Sakaarans and the humans, and new housing has been built on neighboring islands and on the mainland. But Thor's house is where it always has been, up on the bluff apart from the densely packed homes on the little archipelago.

Inside the house is a little more chaotic than it once was. Today has been a more trying day than many of late. Thor's head aches from hangover and not enough sleep, having awakened a little too early by Eindrid seeking solace from some night terror, and then Una demanding breakfast since he was already awake. The kitchen is a bit of a mess in the wake of the children's breakfast, sugary jam fingerprints on the table and bits of cheese on the floor, though the ravens are making short work of the crumbs and squabbling over who gets the largest piece. Sigrid and Agnarr gather up the dishes to put in the sink while Eindrid toddles away in search of the television remote, and Thor has Una seated on his knee at the table while he tries to tame her hair. A half-eaten slice of salmon toast sits at his elbow next to a coffee mug that contains little more than the dregs, and smells faintly of mead under the roasted coffee flavor.

More than once he's had to start over already, and Una is fussing under his hands as he undoes yet another braid. They're due to have a visitor today, and normally he's much better about making sure the place is presentable - well, as much as a house with four children can be - as well as the children, but today he is dragging. What time is it, anyway?