Month: February 2014


My attempts at alchemy failed, I admit. It took all night to grow my hair back in, and I’m *tired.* And itchy.

So. Fall back on what I do best: watch, wait, plan, and, yes, sneak. (Grow up in a “family” like mine, and see if you aren’t forced to make your own way while all the fuss and opportunities go to big-blond-and-dumb.)

I am out for another little walk on campus, surveying my domain, looking for things I could.. appropriate and trade for my horse and a meeting with Sigyn.

I have encountered this statue. Obviously the local Midgardians revere him. Must have been a scholar or statesman–clearly, he is no warrior. He is identified as Lawrence Sullivan Ross. Why is it that all the big men in this part of the realm seem to have three names? I scarcely have two–I am not Odinson, nor do I wish really to be Laufeyson. Loki Friggafosterson? What a mouthful! And even that leaves me one name short. The mortals will just have to get used to having one ruler with one name, at whose mention all shall kneel. In any case, my statue will look better atop this plinth than this old fellow.

But what’s this? Monetary offerings? It is the custom to leave tributary or propitiatory coinage at the feet of this Lawrence? I shall stand here and intercept the funds!

The Secrets of the Alchemists (p.s.)


I was going for "glitter + shiny = rich," not "stink + flash = BOOM! + ow"

Curse that Paracelsus for a braggart and a liar. I suspect he recorded a fraudulent recipe on purpose, just to throw others off his trail.

Dammit to Hel. I am *so* done with this. Tomorrow I go back to what I know best.

The Secrets of the Alchemists…

…shall soon be mine! And I shall surpass them all, seizing for myself alone the ability to transmute base, lesser substances (like Thor’s brain) into purest gold. Wealth beyond measure shall be mine, along with the beauteous Sigyn, a fine black stallion, and my place as rightful ruler of the campus and of Midgard!

I have made careful preparations. The stars and planets are harmoniously aligned. I have meditated. The flowers of sulphur, the salt, the phosphorus–all have been added. I have heated, cooled, purified, and refined.

Lest anyone think my science is Medieval, take note that I am working in a well-ventilated room and am wearing proper blue nitrile gloves. Frigga didn’t raise no crazy…Oh. Right…

Just one more stir…

Still searching…

…for my dear Sigyn and for real money. (I could, of course, buy a horse with illusory coinage, and I quite like the thought of the look on Gunnehilde’s fat face when the gold eventually and inevitably turns to sand and oak leaves. (No, wait. Mud. Mud and nettles. Mud and nettles and small dead creatures. Yes.) However, she might take it out on Sigyn, and I cannot risk that.

I am also still exploring the campus, looking for the perfect place to site my palace. It must occupy a place of command and be imposing yet comfortable. Most of the newer buildings are uninspired boxes. It is as if there were a stiff tax on curves for several decades running and the mewling regents were too pinch-pursed to pay it. Take, for instance, the Architecture Buildings. I am told they are the ugliest two on campus, and I believe the tale. I may be weary of Asgard and its more irksome denizens, but even I will admit that its buildings soar and shine.* These two piles of concrete make its merest cowsheds look like temples. I have them penciled in for a loud and spectacular demise when next I feel the desire to really break something. If, however, once Sigyn is safely mine, Gunnehilde is found to be under the rubble when the dust settles, so much the better.

>|: [          (I have been learning about “emoticons”  Do you think this suits?)

* Odin’s giant golden throne, though?  Much as I may have coveted it, it’s just plain ostentatious. He’s obviously over-compensating.

Release the…

…whatever this is. *I* think it is a kraken. Behold those terrifying arms, if you please. The human female insists it not a kraken but something called a "brittle star." We have agreed to disagree. Translation: I humor her because she is a useful minion.

While amassing my fortune, I am exploring options for ridding myself of an unpleasant sister-in-law. This beast looks to be capable of mayhem. I wonder if it is carnivorous? If not, holding Gunnehilde under until she drowns is quite acceptable, as long as it can be made to look like an accident.

That does make more sense…

Apparently those other purple flowers are like those of *peas*, not, um, the other. (My helmet, while fearsome yet stylish, can occasionally make it hard to hear.)

I think I like these purple flowers even better. Look closely. Do they not look as if they are shouting? "All hail, Loki, rightful King of Asgard and future ruler of Midgard!" Spring is unfolding apace. Oh, when will I have my beloved to share it with?

Curious beasts…

While I ponder how to raise the funds to purchase both my horse and a meeting with my beloved (is there no way to Sigyn save through that vicious she-dog?!) I am wasting no opportunity to learn everything I can about this realm I am to rule.

Today I have accompanied the human female on a "field trip" to study the local flora and fauna. Our "staging area" includes a multitude of intriguing reptiles. Two questions come to mind: Firstly, are they the fire-breathing sort? And secondly, could they be induced to do so on command? I can think of a few souls who desperately need to be cinder- fied.

Oh, no! Where’d she go?! (the full story)

I confess it. I have become obsessed. I arose at what the human female calls "sparrow-fart" this morning and went in search of my beautiful maiden. A King needs a consort, does he not?

After hours of fruitless traipsing through dew-spangled grass, soaking my cloak, boots, and armor, I at last located the herd of horses and their caretaker.

But instead of my chestnut-haired beauty, the equines were being minded by an armed and helmeted giant of a besom! I knew at once–she is of the Aesir, like my dear foster mother, Frigga, and that strapping warrior Sif. The air of assurance (or in Sif’s case, smugness) on top of the muscles is unmistakable. Whatever is she doing in Midgard?

Hiding my disappointment, I marshaled the silver tongue for which I am justly famous. I greeted her politely and introduced myself. She was unimpressed. Keeping one eye on the vicious brute who bit me (I could indeed pick him out, and I swear he bared his teeth at me and licked his lips) and another on her sharp-looking broadsword, I inquired whether any of her horses were for sale. She sneered! At me! It took all my self control not to twist her ugly horned head from her lumpish shoulders and invent a new fieldsport with it.

When she was finished looking down her potato nose, she named a price so presumptuous I near slew her anyway. But if there is one thing at which I excel, it is biding my time. I pretended to consider and casually asked who it was I had seen minding the horses the other day.

What? That vision is the sister of this battleax? This harridan, Gunnehilde, is flesh and blood of my chosen, who is called Sigyn? Oh, fair Sigyn, how well I know what it is to have truly lamentable relatives!

In the end, I agreed to purchase one of the horses–the black looks a likely beast, with no taste for man-flesh–on the condition that Sigyn be present when I bring the payment as proof that she agrees to the sale. After all, how am I to know that Mistress Cow Horns is not busy selling someone else’s property? It is something I would do… (But I did not say all this out loud.)

So now I have but a few days to raise what amounts to a king’s ransom. But by Heimdall’s helm, I will have steed and maiden both!