Ragnar awoke with a start, not because of any bad dreams but of the scents hitting his nose like a punch from a power fist, but far far far more pleasant. A melange of scents his brain was rapidly identifying, whilst the names were still a bit unfamiliar to him he could smell sausages, bacon and some kind of bird that smelled awefully like a Fenrisian Mountain Grouse.

It took a heartbeat to let his eyes adjust to the pitch black of his cell before he slid out of his bed. That itself was still something he was getting use to in part. Use to a solid slab of mountain granite covered in a pelt the soft and springy bed had surprised him at first, just not use to the luxury of having something to lay on that yielded to you. The blankets were also new, whilst he in essence didn’t need them due to the alterations made to his body making him near immune to cold temperatures Ragnar had to admit that being able to drape a blanket over him felt good. Combined with the pillows Rangar found himself in the habit of curling up in a mass of sheets and pillows. Totally not a nest or den..okay…maybe a bit.

Adapting to not really having a schedule had been challenging, the Marine still busied himself in the morning either going for runs round the facilities grounds or going to the danger room most of the time but it felt ‘strange’ to have free time. But thoughts of going to the Danger Room or going for a run were firmly banished from Ragnar’s head, he could smell delicious food and that became the overriding matter for the Marine.

Pulling some jogging pants on and a T-shirt that still felt a bit too small the Marine padded downstairs, literally following his nose.

The Asgardian's teeth tore through the flesh of the boar with relish; the crispy fat crunched as his incisors plunged into the flame-roasted tissue. The rich, meaty flavor danced across his tongue and jumped at the roof of his mouth. Thor groaned with contentment as he grinned at the feral.

He remembered their earlier hunt; there was no true danger or even challenge, yet that was not the point of this. The Asgardian had grabbed the beast, but left Victor the killing blow; he remembered that the taller man made it quick and painless for the boar. One lethal talon straight into the brain had terminated the life of their meal.

On Asgard he had sat around the fire with Hogun, Volstagg, Sif and Fandral as they had shared the meat of many beasts. He recalled the deep sense of contentment of those occasions; meat in his belly and his comrades in his presence. The warmth of the fire was nothing compared to the warmth of the bond shared between them. They all shared each other's beds eventually.

And Thor would be lying through his teeth if he claimed he didn't want to bed Victor. The tall, incredibly muscular mutant had always been handsome, yet now the man's worthiness had been established and proven beyond any possible contest. The other version of him may be a beast, but they are not alike.

Both of them sat around the fire in the woods; Thor then placed his arm over the larger blond's shoulders. He looked into Victor's golden eyes again; his grin had softened into a warm smile.
"After we hath finished this meal, I wish to make you my shield brother officially, Victor," he said in an eloquent tone underlaid with an affectionate rumble. He had not yet stated exactly what that process necessarily implied, but he had an idea that the feral had at least a vague suspicion.

After tidying up the kitchen, Ragnar had helped himself to a few of the cylinders of metal that contained alcohol, not bothering with the can's pull tab he just bit into it, snorting and coughing in supprise when he got a high pressure jet of beer shoot into his mouth. He used the ring pull on the second can.

Spying a hearth with coals and wood in it the Marine got a fire going and he hauled one of the couches round so he could sit looking into the fires, listening to the crack and pop of the wood, the wind hissing through the trees outside. It was..strange to be at peace like this, it was almost meditative for him.

Unbidden the lyrics of a song came to mind, not one of the rowdy songs sung at the feasts, far from it. But for the life of him Ragnar could not remember where he had heard it, it was of Fenris that he was sure. But where.. He didn't even realise he was singing it quietly, looking into the fire, trying once more to grasp at smoke in his mind

"Heyr, himna smiður,
hvers skáldið biður.
Komi mjúk til mín
miskunnin þín.
Því heit eg á þig,
þú hefur skaptan mig.
Eg er þrællinn þinn,
þú ert drottinn minn.

Óðinn, heit eg á þig,
að þú græðir mig.
Minnst þú, mildingur, mín,
mest þurfum þín.
Ryð þú, röðla gramur,
ríklyndur og framur,
hölds hverri sorg
úr hjartaborg.

Gæt þú, alvaldur, mín,
mest þurfum þín,
helzt hverja stund
á hölda grund.
Send þú, konungur Russ,
málsefnin fögur,
öll er hjálp af þér,
í hjarta mér."

The words were a prayer, a prayer for peace, strength and fortitude..and Ragnar could not remember where he'd heard them, only that some time in his life, he had.
When he finished Ragnar snorted, his eyes damp The heat from the Hearth no doubt..

For two weeks Ragnar had been living in the Mansion, padding around, getting to know the place and those who lived at the Chapter House. He'd been more pleased when he had found the Danger Room and had been instructed on its use. It was different to the Practice Cages he'd trained in but in this case different was a good thing. Fully programmable, any environment he chose and with a huge catalogue of things to fight. As a consiquence of this he spent most of his time in there, or out running round the Chapter Houses impressive grounds.

This had only caused one minor kerfuffle when he and a large blond had met for the first time and argued over who's turn it was to use the Danger room. This had ended in what could be called a friendly brawl, Ragnar sensing something of The Wolf in the big man who even had teeth a bit like his own. Bruises and scuffs were traded and the beginnings of a bond but also something else could not have gone unnoticed by Ragnar. After the fight his hands were..shaking, not from adrenaline..and he didn't know why. Assuming it was exhaustion Ragnar returned to his Cell to meditate and rest.

But the shaking didn't stop, indeed it was joined by an ache in his stomach that brought Ragnar out in a sweat. Muttering a prayer to the Emperor Ragnar growled to himself as he tried to will his body to heal.

What was happening though was beyond his control. In the food and water of the Fang that was given to the Marines, chemicals that helped to balance certain functions were part of the meal. Not out of malice, but because it had been that was for over 10,000 years as the Emperor had decreed. And none challenged the decree nor even thought about what was going into the food.

Without regular 'refils' these chemicals could be washed from the body, naturally purged or weakening as they were not reinforced and this is what had been happening over the two weeks since Ragnar's arrival and now at long last, it was starting to show. Hormones that had long been denied were flowing once more, the Marine had even found himself inexplicably getting hard during his scuffle with Victor

I've been drugged...by something powerful enough to overcome me..only a thing of Chaos could do that... Ragnar thought as he pushed himself to his feet unsteadily. Then he began to think of who it could be and if he was Emperor damned honest, he wasn't thinking straight. He recalled the scents of rut that he'd picked up coming off the short hairy one called Logan, off the male who had eyes like a Salamander's, black and crimson, but the body and build of an Imperial Assassin. Of one of the rooms he'd walked past that reeked of sweat and other bodily fluids. Slannesh...here? The thought that Stormborn Drake had inadvertently put him in a place where worshippers of the God of Excess lurked chilled Ragnar to the core, but then he realised that Bobby didn't have the Imperiums experience with cults. But he did.

Swaying on unsteady legs, Ragnar grabbed the vox (phone) and keyed in the code to speak to the Stormborn, but when there was no answer and he got the vox's servitor asking him to leave a message he had no choice but to do so.

"Stormborn...this is Ragnar, there is danger at the Chapter House...a cult of the Dark Gods has taken root here." Ragnar stopped to shake his head to try and clear it. "I need your aid, they have put a sporific into me..but worry not Stormborn." He said, glancing over to Frostfang, his chainsword that rested against a wall "I know how to deal with this heresy..."

Somewhere in the 40th Millenium.

Deep in the Warp there lurked consciousness’s. Broiling, turbulent storms of sentience given form through emotions refined, distilled, amplified, twisted and warped into polarising facets. These entities were as old as the universe, as old as sentient life and in the psyco-active substance of the Warp they were lords of domains that were cyclopean in scale. Realms of madness and endless violence for the Gods warred with one another for supremacy for that most delicious prize. Reality itself. Although these storms of sentience that could easily be called Gods desired the mortal realm, it was hard for them and their underlings, daemons to interact with reality. So they operated through pawns or used raw power to breach the barriers between the Warp and real space, flooding regions with their underlings. And now one of those maelstroms of malevolent intellect watched as a Mortal, a puny, ephemeral thing worked to undo His plans. Again.

For a moment it envied its 'brother' who felt nothing but rage because He felt something akin to that now as the mortal, a genebreed, or Space Marine as they were called slaughtered his way through cultists, disrupting a ritual that would have seen a world of billions plunged into madness and never ending Change. This would not do.

The God resolved to simply remove the object of its...frustration. It could not strike at the Mortal directly..but there were a billion and one ways to skin a wolf.

Ragnar Blackmane's blood sang, every sense keyed and alert as he waded into combat, the Chaos cultists were no challenge, they were humans, armed with little more than slug throwers and insane courage, no threat to an armoured Space Marine, let alone one of Ragnar's skill and ferocity. Even without his armour Ragnar was quicker, stronger and far more deadly than his foes but the thick ceramite Power Armour covering him augmented his speed and strength even further.

He could hear the other members of his Pack around him, he didn't need to turn his head to look, he could smell them and that was enough for the Space Wolf, with his Brothers with him and the foe before him there was no place he'd rather be.

Tzeench how ever had other plans. All it took was a flicker of concentration, a tug on the lines of fate, destiny and reality and a flicker of power at His command as Ragnar leapt, howling like a wolf, chain blade swinging towards the lead Cultists head for reality to shift in a blaze of blinding white light as Ragnar was sent...elsewhere, but not exactly where planned. No..far from it.


New York Financial District.

The offices of Jeremiah Sach's had seen more than its fare share of..'interesting things'over the years of being a leading interior design firm catering to the super wealthy. They had entertained Liberace, two European Royal families and Gaga but getting 7'4 of fully armoured Space Marine (a ton and a half in armour) appear out of thin air was definately a new one. Ragnar had been at a full sprint but appeared in the air, momentum and gravity conspiring to make him bulldoze back first into a rather ghastly statue of a nude woman before a ceramite armoured boot hammered through a metal, oak and glass table like a wrecking ball. His fighters instinct and training made him kick and push out with his arms, throwing his body up, into a half crouch but this mearly meant that he came up and then down onto a large photocopyer.

The machine didn't stand a chance, buckling, snapping and breaking under the sudden application of battle armoured marine but its frame held, momentum from his jump transferring into the wheels, the mangled and crushed photocopier with its grey armoured burden jerked and hammered into the tainted glass window separating the Sach's office from those of Bobby Drake. The thick glass never stood a chance, showering Ragnar with bits of safety glass as he was wheeled on his back into Bobby's office.

At first sight, it was hard to believe he managed to avoid showing up on any US radar.

The thunderer streaked through the sky; Mjolnir was clutched in his outstretched right arm. Seemingly without very much effort, one very large barrel and one more medium-sized barrel, both wrapped in a net of thick ropes, were being held aloft by his left arm.

He landed on the thick lawn of the institute moments later, freed the barrels from their confines and then hoisted the larger one over his shoulder with seemingly no effort. The smaller barrel was tucked beneath his right arm, and his hammer remained in the grip of his right hand.

With a grin as sunny as the day outside, he strode through the door. His biceps bulged impressively as gently lowered the wooden vessels onto the polished marble floor.
"Victor!" He announced enthusiastically in a voice that bounced off the walls, "I hath the mead! And the scrumpy! Let us drink!"
'Tis party time, as the Midgardians would say!

[OOC: For viccreed]

Sleipnir sat in his stall, staring down at the floor while deep in thought. When he heard footsteps his ears swiveled forward, his alertness sharpening. He heard clanking. Chains beside a hammer. When the guards came into view his eyes were already on them, as if daring them to step forward. They seemed adequately wary of nearing him. "This is madness." One of them muttered. "How are we supposed to get these on it" The man lifted a set of eight iron horseshoes as if to express the hopelessness of their situation. "when its flailing all eight legs around trying to kill us?"

A valid question. Sleipnir mentally growled.

"Shut up! We do as the AllFather commands!" The other guard shouted. "Get the chain over his head. If we keep his head in control his feet won't be so much of a problem."

The Doubter snorted in disbelief but moved to follow his companion's request. Altogether there were five men and the all approached him with uncertainty and fear. They were right to be afraid. He sidled slightly to the left and backward, away from the strangers. As they neared him he made a low groaning sound and his sides trembled, his breath coming harder and more audible. He refused to leave the stall even when they lowered the rope that blocked the entryway to the rest of the stable. The head guard approached him, stepping into the stall with him despite the doubter's scoff of protest. The guard's young face was full of concern as he laid a hand on Sleipnir's shoulder. "No need to be afraid, boy...it'll all be over in a minute if you stay calm..." He stroked a hand over Sleipnir's silky black mane. "Easy lad...easy...." he whispered in a gentle tone, the tone one used to soothe a beast of burden.

Sweet kid...such a shame. Sleipnir thought, his shivering ceasing, his breath leaving in a solid puff. The guard then knew that he'd been duped into entering a zone of danger, weapon sheathed, ill-equipped, and completely vulnerable. His face went pale as his hand dropped of Sleipnir's shoulder and he made a last desperate bid to step away from the eight-legged monster. Too late. Sleipnir shouldered him with all of his strength into the post of the standing stall. The post shattered from the force of the blow while the guard who'd attempted to soothe him crumpled into a bloody mess a few feet away.

There was screaming. He could smell their fear. Good. He shook slightly, a spray of blood leaving his coat. When the next guard came at him with a sword drawn he reared, one iron-shod hoof meeting the sword and throwing the guard off balance while another hoof found the man's chest. He barely made note of where that man fell before another was upon him, trying to fit the chain over his head. He twisted, and rather than trying to pull away from the single chain he practically leaped forward with his head down. Being headbutted by a man was painful, his skull included several pounds of power as well as the metal bridle over his brow.

Two. He thought as the man crumpled. He didn't even have to look when two more came at him. He bucked slightly, kicking the guards away like annoying gnats. The final guard cowered against a wall, watching as his companions were smeared beneath the warhorse's hooves. He raised a trembling sword, his eyes wide and his face pale. The doubter. Sleipnir recognized, then lowered his head. The sword cut across his shoulder but he paid it no mind as he placed his bloody brow close to the young man, meeting his eyes with his own blood-red gaze.

"Am I a horse?" He asked, his voice a deep gravelly sound, punctuated by the clink of his teeth against the bit in his mouth.

"N-no sir." the guard responded meekly.

"And you. Are you not one of the Kingsguard?"

"Yes sir." the boy whispered.

"Then go back. Tell him that if he wishes me restrained he should do it himself." With that he stepped away, trodding through blood-smeared hay back to his stall.

"Sir...he will execute me for my failure here." The guard said tremulously and Sleipnir turned to gaze over his shoulder.

"Then there are two choices open to you. Die for delivering your message to the king or remain here and die for your cowardice of hiding from me while your shield-brothers fell bravely before me. That is your choice."

The man shivered, meeting the stallion's blood-red gaze for a long moment before he turned and ran. Sleipnir didn't know if he went back to Odin or not. He didn't really care. Either way, his message to Odin was painted all along the floor and walls of his stable. He knew not why Odin had sent guards to restrain him, perhaps as punishment for last week's bite. Good. Maybe now Odin was getting the point that he would no longer bear being a beast of burden.

So...it seems that thanks to being asleep in a sound proof room Victor had missed all the 'action' of having the lower levels flooded out by some accident with Clarice. After putting on the tracking bracelet he'd learned fuck all about it from Logan and was left to his own devices to figure out what had caused the flash flood.
Victor actually felt a bit bad he'd missed the action, at least it would have given him a chance to talk with Clarice who seemed like a nice girl even if she wasn't his and to see if she was okay. Bored and with everything drying out the feral found himself padding outside towards a distant lake that was still on the grounds. The sun on his arms and hair made Victor smile, all be it toothily, without realising it. He'd only stopped to partially re-attach one of the double doors leading outside, using the tip of a claw as a screwdriver to put the door more level.

Breaking into a jog it didn't take long to get close to the lake, he wasn't going swimming, like his feline code name Victor didn't really like swimming, bathing fine, but if he went to a beach (not that he'd done such a thing for as long as he could remember) he'd be content to sit on the sand rather than spend ages getting wet. The glint of scales and movement beneath the water did provoke something else, calmer and more controlled as he was there was still a desire to hunt, a desire that would never go away. He knew there as deer on the grounds and would track one down and kill it for Remy to cook, bringing it down the good old fashioned way. There was no deer, but what appeared to be plentiful trout, he didn't have a rod but there was other ways to fish.

Tugging his top off before kicking his boots and socks to one side the feral slowly got into the water, moving slowly to just before where he assumed it got deeper and he'd have to swim. The movement naturally startled the fish, scaring them away but he could wait. He was a patient hunter.

Ignoring the cool water round his thighs and the mud oozing between his toes Victor watched the rippling surface of the water, a hand raised, fingers hooked as if to strike but he kept his claws retracted as far as they would go. No need for them here. All he had to do was wait for a fish to come close enough for him to strike. He'd done this years, decades ago and he remembered that it was one of the few things that even at his worst, brought him a measure of peace.
But..there was a down side to this amount of focus. Like a big cat he was focused entirely on what he was doing, all his senses directed towards the water. Anyone could have come up to him and he'd not have noticed until they were right upon him.

The new scents and sounds struck the Canadian's nose and ears immediately; ozone and hair products with the slightest saltiness confirmed the presence of Thor, and the crackling whirr of energies hinted at the presence of either powers or sorcery.
And that other scent... the scent of a woman with the evil Victor lingering all over her...

He wasn't surprised when he turned the corner and saw Thor standing near a shimmering, luminescence-wreathed schism in the air, and the familiar pink face of Blink proceeding through the green opening.
Not her portal then he quickly deduced. He saw a third man still on the other side of the tear and made the obvious inference.

But he was surprised when he noticed their eyes all intently cast towards him. The presence of Mjolnir in Thor's tight grip was hardly reassurring, but he knew from Victor's altercation with the Asgardian upon the thunderer's arrival that Thor was a just man.
Hope tha cooler part of his head is gonna prevail.

He took a draw on his cigar and let the smoke unfurl out of his lips. He clenched his fists but kept his posture straight; he strode directly towards Thor and Blink and the new presence without striking a predatory stalk. He was still several long strides away from the others when he spoke.
"Looks like ya wanna have a word with me," Logan stated in his gravelly rasp.

He did not yet know that it was the object he was holding in his right fist - a tracking anklet - which the others were confronting him over.
"I'm here. Go fer it."

The Thunderer's immensely-built body stirred beneath the sheets as he surfaced from a dreamless sleep with a small smile still on his face. His joints creaked and he rubbed his eyes; a long and sonorous yawn escaped from his cavernous mouth as he sat up and stretched.

"Morning, brother" Thor announced warmly as his irises focused on the dark-haired mage watching him. Sunlight trickled in through the small gap between the heavy curtains and laid itself across Loki's face.

How happy I am to see him still. And how overjoyed we shall both be to overthrow that tyrant.

Almost immediately, his thick arms reached around his brother's body in a hug.
"Did you sleep well?" he inquired.

The stars were shining in Salem Center.  Yet in the deeper recesses of the night a disturbance pounded its way into the peacefulness of a small piece of nearby woods.  In the midst of the trees there was a column of light, a scorching of earth, immediately followed by silence save for soft crackling and harsh breathing.  A man was crouched in the center of the blast zone, one arm curled around his midsection and his head bowed as he forced air into his lungs.  His hair was shoulder length and black, wavy though it hung in damp tendrils into his face.  When he opened his eyes they were sharp green and full of fury as his lips, stained with blood, curled into a snarl. He raised his head and bellowed toward the heavens, as if raging at the stars themselves “ODIN! YOU ARE NOT YET RID OF ME!”

He forced himself to his feet, stumbling and catching his balance on a tree.  He paused, tasting the magic in the air and reaching for any sort of anchor he could use to rejuvenate himself.  He frowned.  Midgard, he sensed, given the trace amount of any magical essence, and therefore useless in healing himself.  He needed time.  He needed shelter. He needed to bring his magic back to full strength.  To find his way back to Asgard.  He looked around, finding that not only had he been dropped onto Midgard, but a hitherto unknown part of that primitive world.  Of course he drops me here…where the locals are sure to seek my death once I am discovered.  He shook his head and pushed the hair out of his eyes, taking mental inventory of himself.  Several broken bones.  Bruises and cuts.  Magic nearly totally depleted.  He had survived though, as he always did, and now only had the arduous task of finding his way back to Odin.  His eyes narrowed at thought of the man “Almost killed you, old man…once I find you it is only a matter of time…” He grumbled to himself, then looked about for a moment before walking unsteadily towards the what lights he could see in the distance.  He would disguise himself once he was able, gain his strength, draw what energy he could from this dilapidated planet, and with it he would find a way back to Asgard to complete his final act of vengeance.

…Fuck today!

That was the anthem that rang in his mind as he followed the Asgardian’s trail.

Fuckin’ squeamish Cajun… Fuckin’ bratty ass math nerd, thinkin’ he’s some punk kid in juvie… If my balls get any bluer, I’d a’ thought I swapped sac’s with ol’ Hank…

As luck would have it, when Creed came to the base of the stairs, he saw and heard a trio of teenagers sneaking towards the kitchen. Normally, the feral couldn’t have cared about enforcing the rules of curfue, but the yearning to yell at someone was far too great to control. So he ferociously roared at them with such might that one of the poor young mutants – a young boy with octopus like traits – soiled himself with ink all three leapt from shock.

“HEY, YA’ LITTLE COCK RAGS! GET THE FUCK BACK TO BED!”

The feral scowled as he watched the teenagers scurry before he stormed up the stairs.

…Fuck! Still pissed… Feelin' better, though. Good. Need a clear head for where yer’ goin’…

He stopped, sniffed, and resumed his pursuit. The blonde turned down the hall and eventually stood in front of a large oak door. Quietly, he placed his ear on the door, and purred when he heard the faint sounds of controlled breathing.

Sleepin’ like a baby… Not for long.

Creed leaned against the door frame with one arm and knocked to stir the slumbering god by kicking the base of the door with the toe of his boot. He was certainly cautious enough not to put a hole in it, but if the deity didn’t get up fast enough, eventually one would appear.

“…Wakey wakey…”

3:00 P.M.

Classes taught by the faculty of superheroes just released, and the flock of mutant students quickly retreated to various sections of the house to relax themselves after yet another hard day of expanding their minds and strengthening their bodies. A ragtag bunch of youngsters rallied to the den; all day long they couldn’t wait to get their hands (or in some of their cases, paws) on the new first person shooter video game. With no homework or chores to do, nothing would stop them from saving a digital world from an alien horde invasion.

Of the eight mutants there, four of them held controllers in their hands while the others watched. Despite this being an age where hundreds of people could play a single game at the exact same time, these kids made it appoint to huddle around one console and collectively bond with one another. One of the students inserted the game disc, started it, and they all talked amongst themselves as it loaded onto the huge 72 inch television.

Suddenly – just inches in front of the flat screen – a circle of pink and ivory light illuminated. It grew larger than the television itself. As the light pulsated, the dark form of two human silhouettes took shape: one was that of a short, small, petite female. The other was of a man a foot taller, triple her weight, with wide shoulders and shaggy hair that fell atop them like that of a lion’s mane.

“What the hell kinda game is this?!” asked one of the girls nearby

“…I don’t think this is a game…” said a timid boy.

That boy was right. What stood before he and his friends was no video game construct or rampant Danger Room hologram. It was Victor Creed and Clarice Ferguson-Creed. Or as the rest of the mutant world knew them: Sabertooth and Blink.

Victor sniffed the air and looked towards his daughter. “…I thought you said he’d be here...”

The small girl looked upwards at her adoptive father and shook her head. “He should be; all of the classes are over, so…”

Victor didn’t let her finish. He immediately turned his head towards the nearby girls – the one who spoke up earlier. “Where’s your crippled leader? Or your colorblind leader? Either of ‘em will do…” he growled.

Clarice waved her hand. “Sorry if we startled any of you, but it’s really important that we find—“

“S-S-Stay back!” Panic driven to protect his friends from these alleged ‘invaders’, the mutant boy dropped his controller, scrambled to his feet, and shot an energy blast at the predatory male. Blink – thanks to Victor’s training – was quick on her feet. She opened a portal directly in front of her father and a second one over the boy’s head, effectively redirecting the blast through them so that he inadvertently shot himself on the top of his head. The concussive bolt made the poor boy’s knees rattle, and he dropped to the floor with a laughable thud.

None of his peers found this funny, and before Blink could get another word in, all of them screamed and nearly tripped over themselves to flee the den and find help.

Clarice sighed. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make them run away…”

“Don’t be. They always run when I’m around. Besides, it’s good ta’ see you getting quicker on the draw with those portals. Good girl…” Victor said as he ruffled his daughter’s hair and bore a proud grin. “C’mon; if we can’t find Wheels or the Wuss, we gotta find the next person on the totem pole and tell ‘em about what happened.”

And so, the father and daughter duo walked out of the den and into the grand hallways of Xavier’s mansion, amidst a wave of frightened and fleeing students, in search for any of the ranking X-Men.

The energy bubbled restlessly under Thor's skin. After he awoke and took a long, steamy shower, the Asgardian took the stairs down to the gymnasium.

Inside the gym, he wore only tracksuit pants, socks and sneakers. His torso remained completely unconcealed. Every single tendon, ligament and muscle heaved and bulged with each weight he lifted.

Child's play he thought, his skin still devoid of any sweat. Perhaps I should ask if there are larger challenges he thought. Perhaps I'll ask after breakfast he then pondered.

The white hot rage that boiled through his veins was quickly obliterated by the feeling of falling.

"Father!! How could you?!? He's just as much your son as I!!!"

Stars swirled around him as the gravity pulled him down through the firmament. Galaxies spun like pinwheels as his body tumbled.

"How DARE you defy your King!!"

Air began rushing past him and howling like a wolf in his ears.

"You knew how they treated him! And you were even worse!"

Raindrops smashed into his skin; each impact felt like a small laceration.

"Silence, Thor! You'd prize a bond of water over one of blood?!?"

A sudden impact smashed into his consciousness.

"That someone who used sorcery to win his greatest battles would degrade another for honing the same talents?!? You're a monster, father! And a hypocrite! Do you hear me, father?!?"

"I CAST YOU OUT! I TAKE FROM YOU YOUR POWER, YOUR ARMOR, YOUR RANK, AND BANISH YOU!!"

He lay there, face down in the lawn. Rain fell on his broad, naked back as lightning crackled overhead. He reached out then and felt it; the familiar reassuring shape. Mjolnir? Did he not take you?

But he didn't get up just then. How... how could you still be with me? Oh Loki... oh Loki you didn't..."

A chuckle began to well up from his throat. Thank the Norns for your foresight, brother!

The chuckle stopped when he realized what would happen when Odin found out about this. And then he felt bile begin to creep up from his stomach.