[Upon Arrival... || Active || Open]
Who: Loki and YOU!
Where: The parlor to start, then wherever.
When: Day 004, whenever Loki arrives.
What: The God of Mischief arrives in the house and insurmountable problems ensue.
Warnings: None yet.
As a master of magic, Loki had come to expect that, in general, when he used it it would respond the way it was supposed to. Years and lifetimes ago when he had been new at the art, he could anticipate some disappointments - things which had rankled at him as surely as the resulting jests of his brother and the Warriors Three (though none of them had been warriors yet), and indeed even the Lady Sif - but now it was certainly not at all common for him to fail at a magical task. Not when it was as simple as transporting himself from one place to another.
Yet it seemed he'd missed his mark. Perhaps it was a completely reasonable mistake, Loki could not say that his mind had been its clearest of late, but it did not seem likely. In these matters, one had to have a clear mind and a clearer intention, or else everything would go astray.
He had intended to go back to the residence of the man known as Eric Selvig, the man whom he had used to take him to see the strange new power source that the man with the eyepatch had had in a silver box. Loki had felt its power pulse through him, as he had felt it with the Casket of Ancient Winters, though it had not elicited any change in his appearance. While his plan was becoming clear, the elements he would need to defeat this group his brother was joining up with (the Avengers, what an absurd name), Loki had much to do and more to plan out before he could hope to see anything begin to bear fruit.
Leaving the room he'd arrived in, Loki crossed a darkened entryway to the huge doors. His hands grasped the handles, pulled and pushed; his lips moved as muttered spells passed them. Nothing had an effect. The frustration at this second failure rose, and he quashed it.
"Damn," he murmured to himself. The single syllable called him back to another time, before he had known he was Laufeyson and not Odinson (even though none of that really mattered anymore, did it, it wasn’t like he was going to go back to a place where it did), and Loki irritably pushed it away. He had no time for the doubts and the pain of loss that gnawed at him, not right now. There were more pressing matters at hand.
Where: The parlor to start, then wherever.
When: Day 004, whenever Loki arrives.
What: The God of Mischief arrives in the house and insurmountable problems ensue.
Warnings: None yet.
As a master of magic, Loki had come to expect that, in general, when he used it it would respond the way it was supposed to. Years and lifetimes ago when he had been new at the art, he could anticipate some disappointments - things which had rankled at him as surely as the resulting jests of his brother and the Warriors Three (though none of them had been warriors yet), and indeed even the Lady Sif - but now it was certainly not at all common for him to fail at a magical task. Not when it was as simple as transporting himself from one place to another.
Yet it seemed he'd missed his mark. Perhaps it was a completely reasonable mistake, Loki could not say that his mind had been its clearest of late, but it did not seem likely. In these matters, one had to have a clear mind and a clearer intention, or else everything would go astray.
He had intended to go back to the residence of the man known as Eric Selvig, the man whom he had used to take him to see the strange new power source that the man with the eyepatch had had in a silver box. Loki had felt its power pulse through him, as he had felt it with the Casket of Ancient Winters, though it had not elicited any change in his appearance. While his plan was becoming clear, the elements he would need to defeat this group his brother was joining up with (the Avengers, what an absurd name), Loki had much to do and more to plan out before he could hope to see anything begin to bear fruit.
Leaving the room he'd arrived in, Loki crossed a darkened entryway to the huge doors. His hands grasped the handles, pulled and pushed; his lips moved as muttered spells passed them. Nothing had an effect. The frustration at this second failure rose, and he quashed it.
"Damn," he murmured to himself. The single syllable called him back to another time, before he had known he was Laufeyson and not Odinson (even though none of that really mattered anymore, did it, it wasn’t like he was going to go back to a place where it did), and Loki irritably pushed it away. He had no time for the doubts and the pain of loss that gnawed at him, not right now. There were more pressing matters at hand.