foolyoutwice: He may or may not be smarter than you but he sure thinks so. (Default)
It takes a fair amount of open space to cut down one flying ship in order to repair another. In the end, Pearl and Loki had set up shop in the grass outside the garage. His skiff--scorched, dented from bullets, gashed along one side, crooked-winged--sits next to a larger Asgardian craft, one built on similar lines but considerably more ornate. Even by Asgardian standards. The hull is covered with inlaid twining patterns that work themselves out into serpents and wolves and falcons.

It's splendid. Beautiful craftsmanship in the style of two thousand years ago. And Loki is gleefully marking off portions of it to chop up. With a flaming torch thing that he certainly hopes is adequate to the task. Pearl had thought it might be.

"Do you think we'll need to replace the entire wing? Or just the damaged section?"
foolyoutwice: He may or may not be smarter than you but he sure thinks so. (Default)
The soul of courtesy, Loki of course lets Pearl lead the way outside--to a sparring-ground of her choosing. He's seen some spots laid out for it around the place, but she might pick something more interesting.

So. She uses a spear? Interesting. It hasn't always been exactly his weapon of choice, not the spear as such: but oh, how well Gungnir had answered to his hand when it was his. As it should be his now, damn it all.

Still, he has his knives.
foolyoutwice: He may or may not be smarter than you but he sure thinks so. (Default)
The private chambers in this place are horrible. Oh, they're better than the unfathomable sensation of the wormhole, there's no argument about that. On the other hand, they're just good enough to be--depressing? Loki would almost rather sleep hard under the trees than in this bland impersonal domain of plastic and wood veneer, ugly overhead lighting, and dingy wall-to-wall carpeting.

There's also a piece of Art on the wall. Presumably it's Art. He's been staring at it ever since he woke up: a green footbridge arched over a green pond filled with water-flowers, all surrounded with more green. It's probably peaceful; it reminds him of the swirling lights of the void. Loki amuses himself for a few minutes with substituting other illusory images over it. A painting from Frigga's study. A moving illustration from a book he'd read a hundred times as a child. An image of those same swirling lights that he's been staring at for months, or however long it's been.

Well. He doesn't want to be caught lying around in bed. Thor had proposed (heartily) that they meet for breakfast. You must try this new Midgard drink, brother. They call it coffee! Presumably he'd discovered it in that dusty settlement where the Destroyer had found him. So Loki washes in the cramped bathing room, dresses (one pleasant surprise: fresh clothing, his colors and his styles, in the drawers), and strides down the hall to pound on Thor's door.

Hopefully he's waking him from a luxurious sleep.
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