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treachery) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
asgardeventide2013-12-10 08:33 pm
treachery) wrote in asgardeventide2013-12-10 08:33 pm
i. ( video ) night → 369
[ Strange, how the peculiar hush unique to libraries is preserved even across the far-flung branches of Yggdrasil.
Loki is smiling in his singular way, with neither joy nor amusement to be found. He lounges in the simple chair as if enthroned, a sprawl of artless limb and glinting eye. To his left, a stack of books can be seen in the fringe of the screen, settled neatly one atop another. Arranged as carefully as Loki himself is.
And he shifts forward, filling the frame. Despite his best efforts, he last few days have proved fruitless for him: he has read and read and read again the paltry knowledge that the false-Allfather's house of books had held. He has gone through the network's history with a fine-toothed comb. He knows that he has neither anonymity or obscurity as his allies, though blessed be those in their naivete who would believe him thus crippled.
His smile quiets. ]
A curiosity to discuss, my fellow denizens of — [ his gaze flicks askance, his shoulders rising in a show of nonchalance ] — Asgard. All things must end, so that all things may begin again. Life. Death, also. It is the prescribed way, if one were to believe the philosophy of the Gods.
[ The Gods, he says, with no small amount of irony. ] Why, then, have we been harnessed and put to plow, as lowing cattle must be? You and he and she and Loki Silvertongue, too? Ragnarok will fall. The end of the world will come to pass, whether or not the false deities of this painted playhouse take yours and my freedom and make a mockery of all that we are.
Does it not fill you with rage?
[ In one swift movement, he draws his hands up, pressing them flat against the tabletop. His voice curls into a murmur. ]
Our rage heats in the same crucible. Let us not let it fall to waste.
Loki is smiling in his singular way, with neither joy nor amusement to be found. He lounges in the simple chair as if enthroned, a sprawl of artless limb and glinting eye. To his left, a stack of books can be seen in the fringe of the screen, settled neatly one atop another. Arranged as carefully as Loki himself is.
And he shifts forward, filling the frame. Despite his best efforts, he last few days have proved fruitless for him: he has read and read and read again the paltry knowledge that the false-Allfather's house of books had held. He has gone through the network's history with a fine-toothed comb. He knows that he has neither anonymity or obscurity as his allies, though blessed be those in their naivete who would believe him thus crippled.
His smile quiets. ]
A curiosity to discuss, my fellow denizens of — [ his gaze flicks askance, his shoulders rising in a show of nonchalance ] — Asgard. All things must end, so that all things may begin again. Life. Death, also. It is the prescribed way, if one were to believe the philosophy of the Gods.
[ The Gods, he says, with no small amount of irony. ] Why, then, have we been harnessed and put to plow, as lowing cattle must be? You and he and she and Loki Silvertongue, too? Ragnarok will fall. The end of the world will come to pass, whether or not the false deities of this painted playhouse take yours and my freedom and make a mockery of all that we are.
Does it not fill you with rage?
[ In one swift movement, he draws his hands up, pressing them flat against the tabletop. His voice curls into a murmur. ]
Our rage heats in the same crucible. Let us not let it fall to waste.
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