His first attempt had not gone as planned. This was... putting it quite mildly, Loki considers, as he settles back in a chair, plush and tattered, to look out over his destruction wrought. It's a clear view, through the shattered window of this building, a fine human structure built tall and proud, piercing the sky rather imposingly. Loki likes humans. He likes how they expand and overtake, an intelligent virus overtaking the planet and planting the seeds of their own destruction. He finds them fascinating. He wants them to be his, his to guide and control, his virus, his warriors, his plague to mind and tend to and rule. Loki's fingernails, cracked and bloodied and still dirty from the battle he so recently was chased from, dig into the wooden arms of the chair. He will steal his father's prized creation and show him what can be done with it.
He stands, glass cracking beneath his feet, and makes his way to the shattered window, feeling a chilled wind push at him, caressing his face and his hands. Blue shimmers over his flesh, but he forces it away, narrowing his eyes. He is neither that nor what he was told. He is his own. He is the fire, he is the jackal, he is the liar and the trickster. He is mischief, and this world will be his.
Loki cocks his head as he looks down at what he has done, at the broken streets and buildings, at the milling lost few who venture into the city they love, trying to reconcile what the damage is to what it used to be. He smiles. This is only the beginning, he wants to tell them. This is the first step, and he might have been fought back from completing it fully, it was enough. It was enough to warn them that he was here, that he is there, overlooking, watching, waiting, lurking, using shadow and bending it all to his will, because this will be his, his and his alone--
He inhales, closing his eyes. He must not lose his calm. He has tasks to accomplish, threads of history to begin spinning, tales to begin weaving. He will rewrite the future of this planet and all of the small souls inhabiting it.
He will cultivate his virus.
Finally, he turns away, glancing about the shattered townhouse that he is currently standing in. It really is quite grandeur, something that he might have been interested in keeping, where it not so... ruined. He could not waste the effort to repair something so frivolous. He needed not rest, no sleep and no sustenance... Not for some time, at least. His fingers curl in the air, and in a whirl of dust and frost and smoke, his staff materializes, a chilled and comforting weight in his hands, thrumming with a dark power. He holds it tighter, and a grin curls on his lips.
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