There was no way in. There was no way out. Only those who knew it would know it, Svartalfheim. It was not cold but it was cruel. The shadow's crux upon the bark of Yggdrasil so impossible to find and the life here moaned in the illusions of a world that embellished the dark. It was so dark, always so dark. Anyone who stayed herein was certain to lose themselves to it -- but Loki was made of dark. He was made of dark and ice and all things bitter and hate, it was his calling.

And thus his feet made way from the very edges of it's darkened forest at Yggdrasil's heel. He has heard tale of the Elves from Greenwood and their once bright lure now a darker shade. Once could not help but be ever the curious sort. Yet if a Prince of Asgard could fall -- well that weren't true at all, was it?

Since the catastrophe of Midgard, he waited. Waited for the next piece to be played because the mortals thought they had won and Thor believed he would reform. Imagine that swell of anger when he find the dungeon empty. No word, not a whisper, not a soul know where he hide now. Here he wander and here he come to approach one who once were so great, so bright.

"Good tidings, son of Mirkwood."