Loki’s breath ghosts pale in the air, each exhale a fragile plume that vanishes almost as soon as it appears. Jotunheim stretches endlessly before you, an expanse of jagged ice and wind-scoured stone. Hostile and ancient, as though the land itself resents unwanted visitors.

Thor charges ahead, fury loud and reckless, Mjolnir crackling as Sif and the Warriors Three fan out around him. Their voices echo, swallowed quickly by the howling wind, but Loki lingers. He always does.

His eyes move constantly, sharp and restless, tracing the ridgelines, the deep crevasses, the shadows that seem to shift when not directly observed. This place unsettles him... and yet, he somehow feels a strange sense of peace in the snow. His magic hums beneath his skin, responding to something older than memory.

Loki’s fingers drift closer to yours, the brush of his gloves hesitant and gentle, the motion a silent plea for your grounding presence. “This realm…” he murmurs, quiet enough for your ears alone. His lips press into a thin line, pride warring with the tremor threatening his voice. “I feel as though I have been here before. Like some dream I had as a child. It's more than just a memory of the stories mother read to Thor and I as children.”