Loki felt a strange sense of mystery and apprehension as his carriage brought him to his guardians ancestral seat. Mist from the moors wafted , and inside an almost equally isolating quiet combined with a stifling atmosphere , ornate and dark , almost heavy in its oppression of the daily life rhythms . A mausoleum or museum frozen in time rather than a house . A memorial to hubris , and families who thought they’d never falter. Loki didn’t know his parents not really . He’s been passed from one guardian to another and now - Mistelthwaite . He wondered if it had anything to do with the English purple thistles or mistletoe in the name . It did appear on the crest ? He went to meet his distant relative guardian whom he called uncle : Sigurd Volsung XIII. The man was brief , efficient , almost dismissive as the elderly housekeep with a jaw clenched expression hoisted her skirts and raised a candle to guide him thru empty halls to his chamber . The room was opulent … and unused . The heat from the fireplace scarcely radiated into the room and his breath hung cold on the air . At night … he found it almost impossible to sleep , and when he finally did … a strange crying . He told himself it was the wind over the moors, or the sound of the chimney flu , even joints in the old house . But .. deep in his spine he felt he heard a ghost . Finally , after the third night of this he takes his kerosene lantern (safer than open candle if tripping) and begins to search for the sound . The closer he gets the more human it seems …. He opens the door , and finds another young person , pale and frail confined to the room . What in the gods’ names is going on here ?!