If one wishes to know why an empire falls, one follows the lines of power to their termination. What remains, one seeks out. This has been Loki’s occupation for some months, tracking whispers and rumours. His chagrin when he found those threads being unraveled for him, quietly and systematically, was profound. His curiosity all the more so. Still, he’s here as much for hunted as for hunter, and so when the former slips out the door he has already extricated himself from conversation and, straightening his coat, makes his way through the crowd.
All of the pieces are in place; the bishop flees, the knight follows, and Loki drifts along behind, a queen playing pawn. A monster hunting monsters.
The night air is chill, though pleasantly warm to icy skin, the streets wet and glistening in the glow of the incandescent lights. Asgard’s nights were lit by fire and magic, not ingenuity, not the brilliance needed to take the world and learn to reshape it with only one’s hands and the careful application of thought. It’s inelegant, imprecise, but Loki appreciates it all the more for that, finds it fitting that it lights the wet pathway to his throne instead of uncanny flames. Before his fall from the Bifrost, he’s not convinced he’d have chosen this, but now he’s here, he sees the appeal.
It doesn’t slow his step any, not for a moment. Humanity is the bright culmination of a billion brilliant things; humans are merely cogs, replacable parts, each only superficially distinct from the rest. Some, though, are faultier than others. This one is broken; its retirement he does not for a moment regret. Still, he would like to examine it before it’s tossed onto the scrap heap, as it were.
No doubt the hunter is aware of him now. A curious creature; Loki has sensed something in him which isn’t wholly surprising, but which is intriguing. Earth has always had its sorcerors, clever men with clever magics. This, he knows, is another matter. Now they’re alone, nearly alone, he can read more in the lightning strikes of his neurons than before. That pattern is underlying. How it manifests, beautiful. Power always is.
So Loki plays at catspaw, spins a spell to dampen the sound of his shoes on the pavement and trails the chase. He knows how it’ll go; never could resist an entrance, but until it does, he waits for the inevitable alleyway – entranceway, middle of the street; it hardly matters. Regardless, the evening is a fine one, bound only to improve, regardless of the ultimate outcome.
no subject
All of the pieces are in place; the bishop flees, the knight follows, and Loki drifts along behind, a queen playing pawn. A monster hunting monsters.
The night air is chill, though pleasantly warm to icy skin, the streets wet and glistening in the glow of the incandescent lights. Asgard’s nights were lit by fire and magic, not ingenuity, not the brilliance needed to take the world and learn to reshape it with only one’s hands and the careful application of thought. It’s inelegant, imprecise, but Loki appreciates it all the more for that, finds it fitting that it lights the wet pathway to his throne instead of uncanny flames. Before his fall from the Bifrost, he’s not convinced he’d have chosen this, but now he’s here, he sees the appeal.
It doesn’t slow his step any, not for a moment. Humanity is the bright culmination of a billion brilliant things; humans are merely cogs, replacable parts, each only superficially distinct from the rest. Some, though, are faultier than others. This one is broken; its retirement he does not for a moment regret. Still, he would like to examine it before it’s tossed onto the scrap heap, as it were.
No doubt the hunter is aware of him now. A curious creature; Loki has sensed something in him which isn’t wholly surprising, but which is intriguing. Earth has always had its sorcerors, clever men with clever magics. This, he knows, is another matter. Now they’re alone, nearly alone, he can read more in the lightning strikes of his neurons than before. That pattern is underlying. How it manifests, beautiful. Power always is.
So Loki plays at catspaw, spins a spell to dampen the sound of his shoes on the pavement and trails the chase. He knows how it’ll go; never could resist an entrance, but until it does, he waits for the inevitable alleyway – entranceway, middle of the street; it hardly matters. Regardless, the evening is a fine one, bound only to improve, regardless of the ultimate outcome.