#broken--lies

[google-drawings-warriors]

The Erins probably didn’t intend for him to look like this but the fandom writes Warriors now and we’ve decided that characters can look however we want them to.

[jumpsparrow]

145. Broken feather

[jumpsparrow]

146. Brokenstar

[google-drawings-warriors]

You’ll see when I post Fallen Leaves that her orange and white colors are the inverse of his :)

[i-created-inangard]

Loki found Sigyn!

It was a Saturday, so Sigyn didn't have to work at the daycare today. However, it was such a nice day out that she couldn't help but go for a walk through the town, reminiscing about when she used to be on Asgard in the marketplace almost every single day. When she had been in Jotunheim, in Utgard, it had been only every other day, but then again, her husband had convinced her that she didn't need to go grocery shopping every single day.

The day was slowly winding down, however, and night was beginning to fall. The streetlamps had not yet turned on, so Sigyn decided to detour through the park on the way home. It was a path she had taken many times before, so she didn't understand why she felt so uneasy in such a small park on Midgard.

Then, her eyes fell upon someone sitting on the only bench in the park up along the path. The person was slouched slightly, and Sigyn frowned when she felt the faintest spark of magic from them before it petered out. She continued in her steps, but her feet slowed as she neared the bench. She could now see that it was a man, and he looked like he was in pain.

Concern swept through her.

"Sir? Sir, are you alright?" she asked him as she stopped in front of him.

[caedemrex-blog]

The noise, disorganized, yet somehow in line beat of rubber and leather beat against the expensive floors in a stable pattern - one, two, one, two, one, two... before it suddenly stopped abruptly, the heel creating an ever so slight, high-pitched squeak which echoed off the Golden Halls - the Golden Halls of what? Ah yes, this wretched realm, this wretched place that he dared call home for all of these years. But as those damned Midgardians said (and Yggdrasil knows why he was quoting those pathetic beings, if they could even be called beings), 'Home is where the heart is' - no, he had never loved a damn being who dared roam these halls and feel safe... the Aesir were not deserving of his love, that, or he was not deserving of theirs. A small snort escaped his nostrils at this, irritated - yes, of course he was deserving of their love, even more than that - they should be bowing down to him, praising him - but no, that was just a dream. A dream, a simple dream that had been destroyed. The deity had been banished, yes, cast out, never to return - and yet, return he did, to simply, well, bother himself - his past self. The edges of his lips turned upwards in a mischievous smirk at the thought, and he turned towards the large, double doors to his left, and with a single, horizontal hand motion, he was in. That's when everything started to change, warping, dissipating, like amoebas under a microscope (damn, another Midgardian mechanism) - and he knew that this was not real, none of it was, none of this had been - it was all a dream. Another dream that had been destroyed. The Trickster's mind quickly returned to reality, which was nothing interesting - just a simple cell... a cell in Midgard, a prison - a Midgardian prison - now, this was pathetic. The god snorted faintly in annoyance again before standing up and making his way towards the metal bars, placing his hands on them, wrapping each cold digit around two equally cold bars - he could easily break free, yes, but what fun would that be? It was like kicking over an anthill instead of grabbing a magnifying glass and burning the life out of each of the small insects. And if a few escaped, let them flee, let them warn the others of his power -. Yes, an ant does have no quarrel with a boot - but with a magnifying glass, power, God-like power, there is still no quarrel - but there is torture, pain, just like what every damned Asgardian (if not more races than that) caused him. The God of Mischief frowned deeply once more, letting a yawn pass through his thin, lightly chapped lips soon after, letting his eyes lid momentarily before moving back to the metal bed - he would wait here for someone to find him, or until he grew bored and restless - then he would attack for the second time... yet he still could not believe that these idiotic Midgardians could not point out that he was Loki, the being who had attempted to destroy New York City (or, well, more than attempted), and the whole world (ah, now that was more of an attempt.) It was pathetic, the fact that this race had turned on themselves to protect the living, the unscathed. it was selfish.  ---------

[secretlysentimental]

broken--lies started following you

"Hello."