Matters of Asgard, naturally, require seeing to almost immediately. Where Loki is one to allow the broth to simmer, until it boils over the edge; he knows he must, on occasion, tend to them. The new found freedom he possesses is still pungent in his veins, and he deeply desires a chance to display that; like the bird of paradise displays it’s colourful wings.

                               Still; things often go wrong.

              One little mishap with a spell, and he’s suddenly sent careering back through the mess of stars and planetoids, straight to the ground from seemingly nowhere, of-… of Midgard.

                                                     "… - Ah-…“

                 A dull pain awakens in his abdomen, as a pianist’s hand moves to clutch at it. The God sits himself up, green hues trained on the world around him for a moment; before he stands, brushes himself down, and takes a moment to think. Should anyone have witnessed that little display of colour and light; the rip in reality; especially in the darkness of night; they may be a little… skeptical.