At last, finally, some of the answers he has sought. These beings, the Fallen, are far from kin to him, but they're interesting in their own right. When the largest of them lands to fight, he pauses in his tracks to watch, fascinated. A lord or a king, he judges, based on the reactions, but one who is not too high and mighty to stand with his army.
It's a hierarchy not unlike Asgard and Jotunheim, actually. And in their kingdoms' heyday, both Odin and Laufey took to the field with their armies, to conquer. Odin erased that history of his, but Laufey leaned into it. They were both fools in that respect. What's been done cannot be undone, but dwelling in past glory is pathetic. What, he wonders, does this kingdom hope to gain here, aside from territory?
The explosion shocks him from his distraction, and he senses rather than observes Harley's body go flying. For a second his heart is in his mouth: that would unquestionably kill a normal human. Thank the Norns, then, that she is not one of those. He makes a move toward her side, but some of the newly-dropped foes are in his way. Whether they intend to face him or whether they are merely milling, seeking places to join the chaos, he cannot tell, but the moment of frustration snaps the thread of his patience.
The glamour hiding him sizzles and snaps like sparks on a hearth as it drops. And as it drops, his cobalt skin glimmers in the light from gunfire and glowing eyes. Drinking in power, he lets himself grow, unfold. He is a runt of a Frost Giant, but he's a consummate shapeshifter, and if he wants to be more, he will be. When his height matches his murdered progenitor's plus a little extra, he reaches out and down and swings, batting aside any of the Fallen small enough that he can do so. Blades flash in either hand, and he makes for the spot where Harley landed.
He needn't have worried, perhaps. She's up before he closes in on her, laughing and pulling out her own sword. The flames dazzle his red eyes and he finds himself laughing with her.
Because he is not merely Laufeyson, not merely a Jotun, but also Logi the fire-god. An etymological accident, perhaps, but reality is so malleable when it comes to the divine and its providence. One of his twin blades vanishes, tucked into hammerspace, leaving his hand free. And then, as he runs a few steps to catch up with her, scarlet flames streak around him, clearing his path.
He is ice, and he is fire, luminous from within, warring contradictions turned outward against whoever, whatever, he chooses to strike at.
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It's a hierarchy not unlike Asgard and Jotunheim, actually. And in their kingdoms' heyday, both Odin and Laufey took to the field with their armies, to conquer. Odin erased that history of his, but Laufey leaned into it. They were both fools in that respect. What's been done cannot be undone, but dwelling in past glory is pathetic. What, he wonders, does this kingdom hope to gain here, aside from territory?
The explosion shocks him from his distraction, and he senses rather than observes Harley's body go flying. For a second his heart is in his mouth: that would unquestionably kill a normal human. Thank the Norns, then, that she is not one of those. He makes a move toward her side, but some of the newly-dropped foes are in his way. Whether they intend to face him or whether they are merely milling, seeking places to join the chaos, he cannot tell, but the moment of frustration snaps the thread of his patience.
The glamour hiding him sizzles and snaps like sparks on a hearth as it drops. And as it drops, his cobalt skin glimmers in the light from gunfire and glowing eyes. Drinking in power, he lets himself grow, unfold. He is a runt of a Frost Giant, but he's a consummate shapeshifter, and if he wants to be more, he will be. When his height matches his murdered progenitor's plus a little extra, he reaches out and down and swings, batting aside any of the Fallen small enough that he can do so.
Blades flash in either hand, and he makes for the spot where Harley landed.
He needn't have worried, perhaps. She's up before he closes in on her, laughing and pulling out her own sword. The flames dazzle his red eyes and he finds himself laughing with her.
Because he is not merely Laufeyson, not merely a Jotun, but also Logi the fire-god. An etymological accident, perhaps, but reality is so malleable when it comes to the divine and its providence. One of his twin blades vanishes, tucked into hammerspace, leaving his hand free. And then, as he runs a few steps to catch up with her, scarlet flames streak around him, clearing his path.
He is ice, and he is fire, luminous from within, warring contradictions turned outward against whoever, whatever, he chooses to strike at.