( How much lo —

...no. No, no. Thor, once prince and forever steward of Asgard, might be waving around the abominable weight of the world's most hole-ragged ladle, but he is not condemning them to this fate, no matter how vocally ghosts swarm around him.

Over the past ten minutes, the man who should not be trusted to brew a war, let alone a stew, has politely taken instruction to add into his cauldron: a boot's heel, three grasshoppers, a broth of overly fermented ale, and powders of creatures he does not wish to consider.

Now, he shudders and stirs under careful scrutiny. )

This... is not for. ( A glance to the side, from where a spirit stares expectantly, as if daring him to criticize the recipe. ) Our... unworthy... bellies.

( Yes. They are the trouble here. )