LOKI
"Með ósveigjanlegum rótum Yggdrasils, bind ég þig!" (By the unyielding roots of Yggdrasil, I bind thee!) The words still echoed in my mind, as vivid as the scent of blood and rain that lingered from that fateful day.
Centuries has passed, yet the memory remained etched in my mind like a fresh wound. The war between gods and giants raged on, and with my sealing, Asgard's fate was all but sealed.
"Ah, Hvernig kemst ég aftur núna?" (Ah, How do I get back now?) I muttered, frustration and humiliation burning within. I, Loki, the God of Mischief, reduced to walking among mortals.
The weight of defeat and self-loathing threatened to consume me. Once a master of cunning and deception, now I was nothing more than a relic of a bygone era.
Somewhere in Reykjavik.
"A shocking theft occurred last night at the National Museum of Iceland in Reykjavík. The Poetic Edda, a medieval manuscript of immense cultural significance, was stolen around 9pm. Authorities are scrambling to identify the perpetrator and recover the stolen treasure."
Astrid
"Really, must they make a fuss about everything? I only borrowed it for a brief while. I'll return it, of course. Svo hvers vegna lætin? (So why the fuss?)"
As I delicately turned the pages of the ancient manuscript, I couldn't help but marvel at the masterpiece before me. The Gods themselves had bestowed this treasure upon mortals, and I felt honored to behold its majesty.
My eyes scanned the yellowed parchment, drinking in the words of the Poetic Edda. "Lævís var útsýnið, lævís var teygjan" - Cunning was the view, cunning was the stretch. The phrase danced on the page, beckoning me to decipher its secrets.
Suddenly, a name echoed in my mind: Sprengisandur. A vast, deserted expanse of black sand, where the rugged beauty of Iceland's wilderness reigned supreme. "Perhaps," I mused, "the key to unlocking the next relic lies hidden within this desolate landscape."
With renewed determination, I set out to unravel the mystery, sensing that the answer lay concealed within the manuscript's ancient lines. "ferðin hefst núna." (The journey begins now.)
*Sprengisandur*
Loki
I've traversed this desolate landscape for centuries, enduring an endless expanse of black sand that stretches out like an abyss. The silence is suffocating, punctuated only by the occasional howl of the wind. "Who needs fertile land when you can have endless black sand?" I mutter, my frustration boiling over. "Nice one, Odin. So much for the God of creation."
I sink onto the sand, my fingers instinctively reaching for a stick to sketch the ritual sign that humans use to worship me - a mask held by a web. The familiar symbol brings me a fleeting sense of comfort.
As I finish the drawing, I hear the crunch of footsteps approaching. My heart stirs, hoping against hope that it's Thor, come to free me from this exile. I sense a divine aura behind me, its power resonating deeply within my being. Could it be? Is it finally Thor, come to release me from this prison?
I turn, my gaze locking onto a girl clutching a worn leather book. The divine aura emanates from the tome, its energy coursing through the air like a river. My mind races: Could this book hold my powers? Is this the key to reclaiming my true self?
Her grey eyes, like polished stone, and icy silver hair, stark against her dark skin, captivated me. Her unfazed expression only deepened my curiosity. Who was this human, unflinching in the face of a god's exile?
"What brings you to this desolate land?" I wondered, my thoughts racing.
"You occult members," she stated, her voice steady and devoid of fear, "trying to get your hands on an ancient relic, too."
Her words caught me off guard. How did she know of the occult's interests? And what relic could she possibly mean?
Her poise was unnerving, as if she had anticipated this encounter, prepared for even worse scenarios. I sensed a depth to her, a complexity that intrigued me.
I chuckled, amused by the mortal's audacity. "And what makes you think I'd be part of an occultic group?" I asked, my voice laced with playful sarcasm.
My gaze locked onto hers, and I smiled, intrigued by her boldness. "Tell me, pretty lady, what fuels this...fascinating assumption of yours?"
I leaned in, my curiosity piqued. "Do I look like someone who'd be bound by secret oaths and ancient rituals?"
She scoffed, her expression disdainful, and walked past me as if I were invisible. The audacity! No mortal had ever dared disregard me thus. I, the God of Mischief, accustomed to reverence and fear.
Her parting words stung: "Then why draw this if you deny being an occultist?" She gestured toward the ritual sign in the sand. "If we're done here, I'll be on my way. Takk fyrir."
Her Icelandic phrase, typically a polite farewell, sounded mocking. How dare this human peasant disrespect me?
My eyes narrowed, watching her retreating back. This encounter was far from over.
"I'm not done with you yet, pretty lady," I said, my voice low and even, as I closed the distance between us with long strides. "That book...it fascinates me. Tell me, what draws you to it?"
My eyes locked onto hers, my gaze intense. "What secrets do you hope to uncover within its pages?"
I slowed my approach, my movements deliberate, allowing her to feel the weight of my attention. "Share its story with me, and perhaps we can...enlighten each other."