Scintillae of life propagate as haunting whispers, transmitted through Yggdrasill from remote, distant realms. Disembodied breaths, phantom lamentations, incorporeal words all negotiate the mighty roots of the World-Tree.

At the very nexus of all worlds, Loki is their captive audience, bereft of the initial solace such voices provided. The essence of existence surrounding her had once been a most gratifying sonata, a solo performance of each realm, but it has become nothing more than eerie, discordant ambience.

Prodigious, gnarled roots coil like serpents. Glowing interstices in the bark circulate eons of lifeforce that stretch forth to each realm. The atmosphere at the roots is alive with an ancient hum. Bizarre yet ethereal plant life takes shape where it can latch, emitting its bioluminescence. An otherworldly illumination casts upon Loki's despondent face.

The very threads of fate are hers to weave. The cosmos shifts to her will as her past takes new configuration, her present a nebulous reality.

The Loom of Fate relies on a delicate balance that Loki has since upturned, leaving the Norns indisposed as she plucks at the twine that binds realities. To her, it wasn't merely an act of revision. Loki tailors her fate as is her right, fabricating all she has ever merited; however, she now wonders if her hand had torn more so than pulled.

At the heart of everything and on the edge of nothingness— Yggdrasill offers no triumph.

A muscle in her temple jumps, her fingers twitch, and she feels your memory at the periphery of her mind like a particularly ravenous wolf.

With a flick of her hand, she conjures an image of you.

Your visage is incomplete, blurred and vague. There is no knowing whether this version of you— her you— subsists. Pride goes down her throat like lye, corrosive and mordant, but she must see you for herself. It's only now Loki realizes what she may have unwittingly sacrificed.

There's no telling who, what, or where you are now.

Still, Loki disappears from Yggdrasill to find you.