Legacy

Welcome to Hel

Physical pain was nothing new to Loki. The many colorful experiences of his life had made him grow accustomed to it. He had no choice, really, when growing up beside a pair of very expressive fists that reacted mercilessly to each and every trick played upon their wielder, or when defending himself against onslaughts of foes on countless battlefields. Being a prisoner of a barbaric alien race would also build one's pain threshold, as would a one-on-one encounter with Midgard's Hulk. And let's not forget what giving birth to an eight-legged horse can do to a body.

Yes, physical stresses and throbbing aches typically came hand-in-hand with the Trickster Prince's plots, such as the kinks and bruises he was feeling now as he peeled his body from the iced-caulked cobblestone and rose to stand on wobbly legs. He took it all in stride like he always did. What Loki couldn't stomach, however, was the gelatinous bile clinging to his body from head to toe, permeating his fine leathers with an ungodly odor and slicking his hair even more than normal to the back of his neck. He refused to believe such a foul substance could have come from the digestive track of something born of his own body. Jormungand must have received the heaviest dose of dark magic during his conception in order to have mutated Loki's genes so extremely.

Loki shook some slime from his hands, resigning himself to accept the price one must pay for a free, living passage into Helheim, and hoped the realm had the courtesy to offer him a bath.

He cast his glance around the frozen courtyard which the monstrous serpent had deposited him in. The architecture was reminiscent of French Baroque, masterful craftsmanship (for mortals at least) rich with carved embellishments and roof peaks that reached heavenly heights. A false symbol of hope perhaps for a realm populated by the damned? It was quite an impressive setting, especially since the eaves were weighted with deadly-sharp icicles, and the mortar holding all the masonry together was also ice. The interwoven translucency of the design was a rather brilliant choice. The integration of ice allowed what little light the realm received to bleed into the nooks and crannies through warped refraction. Hel always had a flare for style, something she no-doubt inherited from her father.

The façade of Helheim changed frequently, based on its Queen's ever-changing interests and moods, but there were always elements that remained static, or so Loki had read about. In all his travels, he had never actually been here before, solely because an Aesir's trip here was typically one-way.

Fortunately he wasn't a typical Aesir.

The unchanging elements of this cursed realm were laid out above and all around the misty court. Bordering the cobblestone streets were a couple of steaming rivers, the heat from their boiling waters in perpetual combat with the neighboring ice, therefore creating the permanent layer of fog that hovered just off the ground. The both flowed from one source, the central spring, which pulled its heat from the unforgiving lava core of Muspelheim.

Loki knew if he followed the rivers to their source, he would find his daughter's throne. However, he would follow the rivers a safe distance away from their flesh-searing steam. Just because he had a high tolerance for pain, didn't mean he intentionally sought it out.

Another familiar landmark was one of primordial and eternal nature: the very roots of Yggdrasil which snaked along the cave-like ceiling of this peculiar realm. Helheim knew not the expanse of sky and the heavens the way other realms did. It only knew enclosure, darkness, and subzero temperatures. It was lit dimly by the flickering of flame, borrowed from Muspelhiem to offer the bare minimum of visibility without melting the ice. The Great Tree's roots were the only sign that the realm even existed beyond the tortuous memories of those life-starved souls who resided here.

The entire realm had always been widely open to speculation. It was the final resting place of all Aesir, Vanir, and a few select humans, who died of natural causes rather than valiantly at the hand of another's blade, martyrdom the ultimate act of nobility. But one had to wonder why illness and old age were undeserving of a rewarded afterlife. Was it truly a mark of poor character if one stricken by disease or lameness abstained from the front lines? Loki had always felt the system of judging the afterlife was highly biased and flawed, and once he was crowned King, that would be something to change.