( Honour the ancestors, guard sympathy for elders. Spare them the choicest cuts of feasting meats and lend them the great breadth of your back when their frail limbs wither, and they need carrying across a cold, cruel world.
These are the guidelines. Less set in every stone Thor that would now wish to take in his two hands and summarily crumble is this: this old knot of bones and gristle who keeps springing up from hard ground to prick Thor's calves with his needle-stick is a pest. A nuisance. Worthy of stumping, swatting, and other such hardships that, on close scrutiny, Thor suspects have already been visited on the man's dentures.
Bad enough, to be summoned to a strange new world like an awkward second-grade meteor bereft a convenient waiting gallery of overgrown lizards, lined up for extermination. Now, trotting merrily and wine-free down every winding path, he is forced to breathe in the fresh air, take in the roses, bask in the brilliance of the idyllic apocalyptic pinked sun —
And not crush the old man who suddenly blitzes out of a bush to thwap his knees — again. How is the old man this fast? Worse still, how does he retreat, shivered and cackling, behind a wall of vines and think he goes unseen?
Thor's fists fingers roll and, knuckles snowed, curl into tight fists. Release. Pulse closed again. And he mutters, to whoever's been stranded cruising the maze beside him: )
He... tests me. Like rot tested his teeth, and shiny things test the friend Hulk.
ii. kitchens
( The cauldron soup recipe du jour, such as a rug-apron Thor has been obediently observing under the careful watch of thirteen specters, each more particular about about his julienne, paysanne, baton and chiffonade than the last: pinch of salt, pile of despair, sprinkling of three-headed snake's scales, gleaming leather of a thrice boiled boot, and now —
No. No, he searches their faces, stern. The ceiling, unresponsive. The floor, crackling and sympathetically wetted, but unhelpfully not opening up to consume him whole. Then, finally landing on his assistant in this matter: )
A children's knock-knock jest. ( A beat. ) For seasoning. ( Here, the specters all nod in perfect harmony that Thor grudgingly falls in line with, the giant ladle in his hand waved like a conductor's baton. ) Go ahead.
( They're getting out of this kitchen, dignity be damned. )
iii. dungeons | the prisoner
( Here is the trouble with angst-ridden, arrogant, likely overly skilled and questionably moral agents of imprisoned chaos: they're always neatly deposited behind bars for a reason.
Not that Thor has experienced precedent (Loki), that he knows precisely the kind of creature of trickery who takes ultimate advantage of a gentle stranger's rescue (Loki), or that Thor looks at this prisoner's gaunt, disheveled and haughty manner and suffers a flicker of familiarity (Lo... ki). No, no. He has crossed the dungeons' level whole, shrugged off a meteor's weight of dust off his shoulders, then politely dived back into it to retrieve a pitifully meek slate of token stone — and now he gets to enjoy the privilege of taking standing orders from a watered-down version of his brother.
This is a farce. Worse, it's family dinner.
And so, being the most experienced man in this world and the next (ten), he gently intercedes with an oily grimace and a hand held up high, when his companion seems, however minutely, to consider collecting up the hound's keys. No, no. )
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii do not think it wise.
iv. network | username: strongest avenger
Henceforth, one and all, your bear privileges are removed.
It is not the way of my people to take that which we did not give. You have your birthright. I honour it.
...unless it is a bear, mad, raving and snuggle-prone. The bear is banned. No more bear for you, or you, or you.
thor | mcu | tourist
( Honour the ancestors, guard sympathy for elders. Spare them the choicest cuts of feasting meats and lend them the great breadth of your back when their frail limbs wither, and they need carrying across a cold, cruel world.
These are the guidelines. Less set in every stone Thor that would now wish to take in his two hands and summarily crumble is this: this old knot of bones and gristle who keeps springing up from hard ground to prick Thor's calves with his needle-stick is a pest. A nuisance. Worthy of stumping, swatting, and other such hardships that, on close scrutiny, Thor suspects have already been visited on the man's dentures.
Bad enough, to be summoned to a strange new world like an awkward second-grade meteor bereft a convenient waiting gallery of overgrown lizards, lined up for extermination. Now, trotting merrily and wine-free down every winding path, he is forced to breathe in the fresh air, take in the roses, bask in the brilliance of the idyllic apocalyptic pinked sun —
And not crush the old man who suddenly blitzes out of a bush to thwap his knees — again. How is the old man this fast? Worse still, how does he retreat, shivered and cackling, behind a wall of vines and think he goes unseen?
Thor's fists fingers roll and, knuckles snowed, curl into tight fists. Release. Pulse closed again. And he mutters, to whoever's been stranded cruising the maze beside him: )
He... tests me. Like rot tested his teeth, and shiny things test the friend Hulk.
ii. kitchens
( The cauldron soup recipe du jour, such as a rug-apron Thor has been obediently observing under the careful watch of thirteen specters, each more particular about about his julienne, paysanne, baton and chiffonade than the last: pinch of salt, pile of despair, sprinkling of three-headed snake's scales, gleaming leather of a thrice boiled boot, and now —
No. No, he searches their faces, stern. The ceiling, unresponsive. The floor, crackling and sympathetically wetted, but unhelpfully not opening up to consume him whole. Then, finally landing on his assistant in this matter: )
A children's knock-knock jest. ( A beat. ) For seasoning. ( Here, the specters all nod in perfect harmony that Thor grudgingly falls in line with, the giant ladle in his hand waved like a conductor's baton. ) Go ahead.
( They're getting out of this kitchen, dignity be damned. )
iii. dungeons | the prisoner
( Here is the trouble with angst-ridden, arrogant, likely overly skilled and questionably moral agents of imprisoned chaos: they're always neatly deposited behind bars for a reason.
Not that Thor has experienced precedent (Loki), that he knows precisely the kind of creature of trickery who takes ultimate advantage of a gentle stranger's rescue (Loki), or that Thor looks at this prisoner's gaunt, disheveled and haughty manner and suffers a flicker of familiarity (Lo... ki). No, no. He has crossed the dungeons' level whole, shrugged off a meteor's weight of dust off his shoulders, then politely dived back into it to retrieve a pitifully meek slate of token stone — and now he gets to enjoy the privilege of taking standing orders from a watered-down version of his brother.
This is a farce. Worse, it's family dinner.
And so, being the most experienced man in this world and the next (ten), he gently intercedes with an oily grimace and a hand held up high, when his companion seems, however minutely, to consider collecting up the hound's keys. No, no. )
Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii do not think it wise.
iv. network | username: strongest avenger
Henceforth, one and all, your bear privileges are removed.
It is not the way of my people to take that which we did not give. You have your birthright. I honour it.
...unless it is a bear, mad, raving and snuggle-prone. The bear is banned. No more bear for you, or you, or you.