#eddaborn

Returning to the Ironwood had been an obvious choice when he escaped from the sea, though he’d admit to having spent a bit longer on Midgard trying to figure out how to function in a humanoid than was perhaps necessary. Still, eventually, he made his way home. 

The hall is familiar,  though welcomes him not.  Hung with bones and skulls,  a guarded by two great wolves,  Loki holds no uncertainty that his way would have been barred had those great canids not fastened their grisly maws and lowered their heads at his approach.  Jötunheimr's king is as gladly received as his is not,  all at once.  Though not,  decidedly,  by she;  the Hag of Iron Wood still makes claim for her high seat,  where the Nine Clans would seek to bend the knee.  Piety in exchange for foresight,   or mere blessing.  Sconces line wooded walls,  though few are lit to greet him,  much as should be expected.  For that slight,  he cares little,  and thus has entered with no obvious entourage to join him.  From her seat,  the mother of wolves regards him with an embittered stare.  Loki,  for their reacquaintance,  grows cold,  and turns the air to that of the mountains to the north.  It bites.

Her red hair always rivalled the flames that billow in the heart when he draws near,  though he thinks the shadows not as kindly upon her visage.  His own is impassive,  and his eyes hold knives.  Standing taller,  it is Loki’s shadow that first devours hers.  Despite the threat,  he has continued forth,  defying the orders of the Chief of Chiefs to make himself a fleeting home amongst the timber-built hall.  Stopping where he wishes,  still out of her reach but close enough that the firelight cavorts in his vermillion gaze,  Loki pantomimes vigilance,  and the apparent heeding of her whetted tone.  The Mad Titan had been less direct.  Then,  as a blade,  a grin carves it’s way across his features.  It lingers not,  slipping back to apathy as swiftly as it had emerged.

“   with you ?   “   the strong red head asks. her brow arching.

@eddaborn

    Summer was always too hot for a creature of winter so it wasn’t an unusual sight to find Ull shirtless. The soft touch on his skin sent a shiver down his spine and made him look up from the piece of wood and knife he held in his hands. It had been whittled into the shape of a bear, now getting the details of fur. His movements stopped. 

    “Don’t.” Ull knew well what was under Angroboda’s fingertips on his back. Trauma and terrible events. Ribs that had been broken off from his spine with crude tools. His organs had been ripped out. They were the only scars he had and for whatever reason never seemed to fade, and they were not good.

ANGRBODA ( @eddaborn​ // @tigerweaver ) SLAPS HIM WITH A BOUQUET OF FLOWERS. ROSE. ESPECIALLY.