[ it's impossible to have a conversation with valkyrie without the inclusion of alcohol. this, thor cannot really complain about, given the amount of ale that's been thrust upon them from who knows where in honor of who knows what — the resettlement, perhaps? or the ongoing festivities celebrating thor's coronation now that they're safely on midgard? thor finds it hard to remember what they were talking about at all, if it was even important. he's starting to think it probably doesn't matter. ]
[ a warm buzz courses through his veins, similar but not in entirely the same as the way lightning crackles beneath his skin. he hears valkyrie address him, and then give me your hand and he almost responds what for? until he looks down and realizes his knuckles are still bloody. right, of course. they'd been sparring. hand-to-hand, it seems. without mjolnir, and the loss of asgard's armory, he hasn't been left with many options. there are plenty of swords, collected from those who had fought valiantly against hela's hoard, but he still hasn't found one that carries the right weight, the right balance — and valkyrie won't let him have hers. he's asked. frequently. and very nicely. as her king. ]
[ it take him a moment to finally offer his hand to her, the volume of alcohol he's ingested in such a short time making his movement sluggish. the last time he drank this much, he was much younger and half as wise. if he listens closely enough, he can almost hear the boom of volstagg's laughter and the lilt of fandral's jests, a distant echo of another time. ]
Thank you. [ he hears himself say, and perhaps he means for this distraction, or for something else. everything, maybe. ]
no subject
[ a warm buzz courses through his veins, similar but not in entirely the same as the way lightning crackles beneath his skin. he hears valkyrie address him, and then give me your hand and he almost responds what for? until he looks down and realizes his knuckles are still bloody. right, of course. they'd been sparring. hand-to-hand, it seems. without mjolnir, and the loss of asgard's armory, he hasn't been left with many options. there are plenty of swords, collected from those who had fought valiantly against hela's hoard, but he still hasn't found one that carries the right weight, the right balance — and valkyrie won't let him have hers. he's asked. frequently. and very nicely. as her king. ]
[ it take him a moment to finally offer his hand to her, the volume of alcohol he's ingested in such a short time making his movement sluggish. the last time he drank this much, he was much younger and half as wise. if he listens closely enough, he can almost hear the boom of volstagg's laughter and the lilt of fandral's jests, a distant echo of another time. ]
Thank you. [ he hears himself say, and perhaps he means for this distraction, or for something else. everything, maybe. ]