cola with the burnt-out taste

he was not ready to die. he knew, for fact, that he had not been as devoted as he should be. he'd missed many bl?ts and he hadn't even thanked loki recently for not fucking with him. surely, he would not get to experience the great ragnarok. and he was not ready for the vast emptiness of hel. the awkward, hopeless wandering of a seemingly flat and endless plain. he shuddered inwardly.

but as the man responded none too kindly to his sister, a slow brewing and skeptic-fueled anger began to swell within the belly of the pretentious man. freyja, the temptuous and irresistible freyja, was certainly not sister to baldr. most definitely did this wench beside him master those vital traits, but the lie had been caught. these were not gods at all. these were imposters.

he would take a stand, set on giving them a vital lesson on how vengeful and merciless the gods were, when baldur and n?tt began one of the most inconceivable acts. SSHHH! the noise would hiss loudly from his fangs, a hardened glare crested upon his features while ill-matched eyes wildly jumped between the two. he scurried as quickly as he could manage toward maeva, his amputated leg still causing him time as his brain expects a step from it. he would then fall abruptly onto her head, unable to find a possible way to sheild her decayed ears without losing balance. not ONLY do you claim to be gods, but you also insult a man's ATTIRE? it did not occur to him how absurd he may sound, but as his voice rose and fell with cinematic dramatics, he only cared for the crisp insults they so crudely shot.