Re: in-game events. Still possible Avengers spoilers in comments.

[sorcerous]

[ A growl in his throat; he will sink his teeth in her throat, tear and taste the blood of the mortal who would be god. The mortal who would tame the wild.

He remembers little of Loki. (What was Loki? Constrained. Bound by the thought of civilization, law, word. That has been wiped away.)

He has forgotten what it was to be any form but this.

Loki has toyed with one too many foreign magics, and now the consequences have caught up with him. He -- for everyone here is forced into a Role, are they not? -- has become the Wolf. Of fairy tales, of endless legends, of brutal savagery.

But there is something -- a tilt of his ear, flick of his tail. The thunder, it tastes of...

His uncertainty is erased, in the next instant. Gone as though it had never been. ]

Comments

[itisforbidden]

[He knows his own, wherever they wander, however they warp. Part of him - vast regions of him, cloven and obliterated and missing swathes of planet - wishes he could renounce this one. Cut him out like flesh from a wound gone rancid. But he is too encompassing. Children unmade in the womb return to the blood, stranded weaklings captured in layers of inexorable snow. Even those who leave, even those who go as far afield as this one, never truly escape him, and he cannot escape them either.]

[He waits on the edge of a Glacier, edged white on the windward side, still as stone. He waits for the creature-child to come.]

[sorcerous]

[He is wrong against the snow. Black fur tangled with the white he rolls in, luxuriating in the cold and the emptiness. There is nothing but wild here, and he howls for it, the cry of his throat resonating in a thousand ruin-fragments choked with ice.

He tastes snow but he wants blood.

He follows the scent of ice to the source of it, to a dark blue form. And here he stops, a half-forgotten instinct leaving him afraid.]

[itisforbidden]

[He smells of blood, too, though faintly. His injuries are grave but sealed by the cold, and he pays them little heed. He smells of other things: pines and dust and the mineral-clean of wilderness, the bitterness of rime and death, the inky musk of stranger monsters than Loki has ever met, vast horrors almost as old as the land that dream now, receded into their caverns, ever restless. Gradually he turns his head, staring back at the shaggy form. He wonders if it will dare approach.]

[sorcerous]

[Something innate tells him this territory is his, and that this figure is no intruder.

So: of course he dares approach. Trots to the edge of the cliff and howls his yearning, howls that the creature he once was is dead.]

[itisforbidden]

[It is a sound he knows in his bones, something that has whispered in his crevices for centuries now. It tugs at him and he resents it; he has precious little sympathy in him, and he will not spare it on this one. The wind surges, roars, drowns Loki out. He reaches over with one frigid, stony hand and cuffs Loki hard.]

[sorcerous]

[A surprised yelp, and Loki is thrown into the snow. He picks himself up slow and wounded: slower, and more wounded than he truly is.

And so he bares his teeth and attacks.]

[itisforbidden]

[Jotunnheim catches him when he comes, arms open, grip unyielding. He ignores the teeth slashing at him and pins Loki onto the ice. He is so much weaker than he was, but he is still a realm, and without abusing cosmic powers of his own, Loki is easy to overpower. An arch of ice chains Loki's neck to the surface of the glacier. Jotunnheim considers the spectacle he makes, then pats the fur of his flank.]

[sorcerous]

[A wild thing he is; once he is defeated, mastered, he fights no longer. Jotunnheim is one of his, he knows that, and there always must be one at the top, and the others to follow.

He goes pliant when his belly is exposed, staring up at Jotunnheim with incongruously curious eyes.]

[itisforbidden]

[He keeps Loki there awhile, still petting, idle and unhurried. Loki is more palatable like this. If he where other than what he is, he might be able to forget the golden-horned aesir interposed between his lost child and the mind-strayed shifter under his hands. But he is not.]

[Eventually, the collar ice cracks, and Jotunnheim sits back on his haunches, letting the wolf find his feet again.]