The thin linen shirt stuck to the cold wet skin of the powerless god as the rain beat down relentlessly. His raven hair now exhibiting his natural curls as they surcome to the downpour, his eye store from the excess water seeping into them.
Never had he been so cold, never had he felt so much discomfort. His back felt cold against the dirty brick wall he sat against, his legs ached, unable to fight against seeping cold. The gods breath visible in the cold winters air.
Cars and chatter filled the air as the city continued about it’s day unaware of the fallen deity slouched in one of the many alleyways. Loki could taste the pollution in his tongue, a bitter and unpleasantly chemical taste. No magic, no immortality. The god of mischief was but a man lost amongst the inhabitants of Earth.