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In all honesty, Thor should have stopped after the tenth beer. He should have exercised the moderation and decorum expected of him as the son of Odin and prince of Asgard. And yet.
He hates that he can't leave Darrow. He hates that he can't back to his people, whom he left in the midst of fighting against his hellish older sister. He can't even communicate with Heimdall to check in and make sure his people escape. So, to say the least, he's a bit frustrated. Sometimes, he finds his way to the countryside, where he can vent some of these frustrations by punching lightning into the ground. Others, taking a page out of Valkyrie's book, he drinks his frustrations away.
Tonight finds him indulging in the latter. He finally leaves the bar, a dingy, mangy thing with halfway decent ale, and saunters up the street. He pauses when he reaches what appears to be what humans call a 'tattoo parlour.' He considers the art in the window for a moment before deciding, what the hell? Tonight's the perfect night to get a tattoo.
The artist on duty proves very patient (and attractive, with her cropped, black hair and eyes like pieces of chocolate) with him, which, considering his current state, means he'll have to leave her a decent tip. He doesn't mind.
There's no question of what he wants done, right on his right shoulder. He describes Mjolnir at length and with great detail, waxing poetic on his beloved hammer. He doesn't hear as the door opens, admitting another customer inside.
He hates that he can't leave Darrow. He hates that he can't back to his people, whom he left in the midst of fighting against his hellish older sister. He can't even communicate with Heimdall to check in and make sure his people escape. So, to say the least, he's a bit frustrated. Sometimes, he finds his way to the countryside, where he can vent some of these frustrations by punching lightning into the ground. Others, taking a page out of Valkyrie's book, he drinks his frustrations away.
Tonight finds him indulging in the latter. He finally leaves the bar, a dingy, mangy thing with halfway decent ale, and saunters up the street. He pauses when he reaches what appears to be what humans call a 'tattoo parlour.' He considers the art in the window for a moment before deciding, what the hell? Tonight's the perfect night to get a tattoo.
The artist on duty proves very patient (and attractive, with her cropped, black hair and eyes like pieces of chocolate) with him, which, considering his current state, means he'll have to leave her a decent tip. He doesn't mind.
There's no question of what he wants done, right on his right shoulder. He describes Mjolnir at length and with great detail, waxing poetic on his beloved hammer. He doesn't hear as the door opens, admitting another customer inside.
