Magic!Anon: Time to walk a mile in Chaos's shoes. As of this moment, you are far more like to speak in cryptic poetry and lies than tell the truth, and bitterness, mistrust, and a craving for destruction overtake you. There is no rhyme or reason, only retribution. Best of luck to you for the next eight hours, wretched son.
[His grin at the audacity of this, admittedly curious, magic-wielding being slowly falls away; it's as if the seidr working has taking a soaped cloth and scrubbed at his smile like a stain on his laundry. When it has been well and truly wiped away, he feels heaver, the magic now seeping into him-- insidious, capricious. Dangerous.
For a beat of his heart, his head is light, mind strangely blank, unable to recall even the smallest of details; even those before his very nose. As empty as he is, it is little wonder the sudden rush catches him off guard.
It is a single moment, filled with power, emotion, knowledge. Though Thor is sure he never knew those things, they suddenly are as familiar to him as Mjolnir's shaft.
Mjolnir--
The weight of it brings him to his knees with a grunt. Of course he isn't able to lift it, of course, for he isn't worthy like his oh-so-perfect brother. Daddy made sure of that.]
Argh--
[Movements lethargic, as if drugged, he manages to undo his trusted weapon's holster at his waist.
But why was it at his waist to begin with? It is not his weapon, never would be. That hope was ruthlessly slaughtered shortly after he chopped off that silly wench's hair and risked his very own head to attain the damned thing.
The pain in his head is of a strength he's never known, and he's foolish to think that if he presses his palms to his temples hard enough it will cease--
And then, in a flash of white, hot and swift and potent like a bolt of lightning, it's gone.
His eyes, usually as blue and welcoming as the summer sky, are little more than chips of ice. With an elegance that would surprise anyone who knows him, he stands and brushes off his robes, lips pursed in disgust. What he was thinking as he dressed this morning he knew not, but he certainly knows now that he will have to change.
Since when did he have red in his wardrobe, anyway?
Casting a cursory glance at his brother's weapon at his feet, he tries to test the area around him with his magic, but cannot.]
Hmm.
[Eyes darting about the room, decidedly more suspicious (not worried, never worried) he confirms that Thor--his name is like acid on his tongue--is not present, nor is anyone else. Good. He does not need their eyes following him, judging his every damned breath.]