Loki grinned. Just then, in his mind’s eye, he saw an image of this place, hundreds of years before now, where a roaring fire blazed in a central hearth, free-flowing mead was being passed around, and everyone sat around sharpening their blades, or testing them on timber set up for practice. That was the place he went to when he threw here, and why he was so grateful to Nish for letting him play he was (more or less) on his best behaviour. Sure, the organization of the ‘sport’ was all wrong, the lights were too bright to be a proper mead hall, the music too different from what he remembered, but he still got nostalgia from the weight of a blade (lighter than he was used to, and machine made rather than smith made), the aiming, the throwing, the competition and the thrill of victory. He would often visit the humans in their halls, disguising himself as one of the common folk, only to best all of their warriors easily.
The memories flitted behind his eyes, making even Nish nostalgic for it, but then he was back in the warehouse, and the boy was looking up at him expectantly. He glanced at the target and his brows rose. “Wow, kid, you’re a natural,” he said, surprised. “Go ahead and get it and do a few more. The more you throw, the more you get used to the balance for better aim.” It was normal for a first-time thrower to hit all over the board, or even miss or over-rotate the axe so that it bounces off the wood. It can be discouraging at first, but you learn from each throw and get better.