Of Idi, Son of Ivaldi

Propped on a slippery rock face, the little red fox stuck its nose into the air and sniffed carefully before diving onto the stony path once more. Its coat showed only as glints in the moonlight while it scuttled between thorny bushes and up steep slopes securely, following the scent of smouldering metal. Its sensitive ears rang with the deep clanging, growling, snorting sounds of the earth beneath its feet. Men and Jötnar in neighbouring villages on either side of this giant mountain did not venture up it readily. As was the case with any mountain a Dökkalfar Guild made their home, it was traitorous. Trolls, wraiths, revenants and other monsters lived in its deep caverns, inhabited its pools of icy water. Its peaks smoked, sometimes chortling out melted rock, and thunder echoed from beneath its surface if one put their ear close to the sweating stones. It was precisely one of those that the fox was looking for now: a stone which did not freeze over in the depths of night but instead collected little droplets of perspiration on its mossy underbelly. It knew that such a stone hid a vent, and only a little digging around it would stretch its entrance wide enough for the fox to slide inside and follow it into the deep.

Despite the dark and all that noise to distract him, Loki still found it without difficulty. The grey boulder, half way up the mountain, was glistening with water, catching his eye and filling his nostrils with the scent of the forge. He let his fox's tongue dart out over the droplets and found they tasted metallic, tinged with sulphur and soot. It was the right place. Loki began to dig. The earth was not as hard as he would have expected. The master of the forge must have made it recently. And here he was, ruining his good work. Loki promised himself he would repair the damage later on, but now he was busy crawling on his belly through black earth, interspersed pillars that kept the construction sound the only hint he wasn't really crawling into a fox's den. It took several hundred yards worth of scuttling through the stifling dirt before the walls around him became paved. Now he was in a maze of old tunnels, chimneys and vents, able only to follow his nose in the absolute darkness. Loki swallowed a pang of claustrophobic panic and kept moving forward. Sliding his body against the sandstone, he counted the openings to his right, two, three, then the puff of hot air telling him he was getting closer to the workshop. He took a turn, counted again, hot air and darkness rushing down his throat, choking him. Just as he became agitated again, thinking he'd missed it, he felt the outline of an older, granite vent. Loki dove into it quickly. Idi was not only at home, he was working.

It was hard to guess the daily rhythm of the Svartalfar. The middle of the night was as good a time as any to find them awake and active. They did not venture into the sun – it was harmful to them, and so did not hinge their habits upon its movements. They slept when the work was done, when they were tired or drunk. They could tone down their furnaces to create absolute darkness, open up the vents to air their rooms and sleep for days, weeks on end, burrowed beneath coarse mattresses and pillowed against clothes they'd stolen from peasant women. It was almost as though they went into a winter slumber between spurts of intense labour except, unlike bears, they still had to wake to relieve themselves and chomp down a pickled root or some dry, black honey, mumbling inventive profanities all the while. If disturbed, the mumbled threats tended to take a quick, violent turn towards actual deeds so Loki thought it just as well he hadn't arrived to disrupt Idi's down time.

The noises and smells grew ever more intense. Smoke, metal, oil and steam mixed with the less lofty smells of a living being, all enveloped in the mossy, mouldy fragrance of the earth's interior. Set against the cacophony of hard work, it all conspired to make Loki nostalgic so when he finally reached the vent opening, heavy brass bars in his way, he crouched, peering inside, bushy tail happily upturned. As planned, he had come out to one of the quieter, mezzanine levels where Idi kept his milling stones, his kegs of oil and water. But just beyond the open doors, Loki could see the golden heart of the workshop. Idi was there, pulling on a chain with a heavy, hairy hand. He was getting ready to heat the flame in one of the many giant forges at his disposal. The iron monster Loki hid beneath his house was a feeble little field snake compared to these dragons, and could never be heated quite to the same searing temperature as Idi's ancient furnaces, one of several left by Ivaldi for his sons. "They don't even make 'em like that no more," Loki could practically hear Ivaldi's grunt.

Of Ivaldi's many sons, Loki probably liked Idi the best. His brothers were all accomplished craftsmen, of course. Some were superior artisans, others were greater smiths. But Idi had the best grasp of alchemy, or the keenest interest in it. Most Dwarves tended to stick to what they knew, as their Guild Master had taught them, but Idi was the rare inquisitive sort, an inventor, an investigator. Besides, he was the greediest, most adventurous little bastard of the lot. If any of Ivaldi's sons knew anything of the Mead of Poetry, and could be persuaded to share that knowledge, Idi was Loki's surest bet.

Loki looked on as Idi moved easily between the hungry muzzles of his smaller kilns and furnaces, mumbling to them the same way Sigyn mumbled to her plants. He was not bothered by the many levers sticking from walls, fat chains, hammers and pincers hanging overhead, a man entirely at ease with his surroundings. Wiping the sweat from his low slung brow, he rested on his haunches. His eyes were huge, bright and round, with enormous pupils well equipped to see in the dark. Half-closed, they stared into the vivacious fire lazily, lovingly, wiling it on. Like his father's, Idi was bald, but he sported a mangy beard which he now twirled between two fingers. He looked tanned when in fact cleaned of all that grime his skin would be ghostly white, having never experienced direct sunlight. He wore a dirty loincloth and a tight leather apron which supported his barrel-shaped torso and protruding belly. While he would barely level out at Loki's hip if he stood up straight, his arms were as long as Loki's own, and therefore reached all the way to the floor, packed with hard muscles and covered in burns and calluses. They were sprinkled with tufts of dark, wiry hair, as was his bare, soot-covered back. His short, stubby legs ended in elongated, flexible feet, more similar to those of cats or badgers than those of men. While they did not look it, the Svartalfar could manage short bursts of surprising speed if the occasion called for it, scampering on all fours like their Elfish ancestors. In Loki's opinion, a running Dwarf was at the same time one of the funniest and one of the most disturbing sights in all the worlds. A creature so perfectly designed to do what it did would always look undignified doing anything else.

Loki started to yelp and woof from behind the brass barrier, unwilling to touch it lest Idi had secured it with some enchantment. This went on for some time before Idi finally looked away from the fire for, like all of his kind, he was quite deaf. Finally, the Dark Elf scuttled to investigate the noise only to discover a fox in his ventilation system.

"Shoo! Go on! Shoo, you furry little fuck, how'd you-," he shouted at the yelping animal before his eyes caught the V-shaped scar on the side of the fox's muzzle. Loki panted at him with all the friendliness his fox-face could muster. "Oh, Skywalker!" Idi said in recognition. He caught the brass bars and twisted them open. "We're alone, it's alright," he told the fox and then watched it take the shape of a naked man.

"Idi Ivaldason," Loki greeted him with a smile, crouching at eye level with his host. There was nowhere for him to straighten up anyway. "It's been ages."

"Indeed!" the Dwarf slapped him over the shoulders. "Indeed! Make yourself at home! Come, come," Idi went on loudly, guiding the way through his workshop and up a level to the more comprehensible surroundings of his kitchen and dining room. Following suit, Loki un-warped space to produce a large satchel filled with gifts for Idi. It clinked with promising weight when he set it against Idi's tiled floor. As he'd hoped, the Dark Elf eyed it hopefully. "Here, here. You'll have a drink," Idi went on hospitably.

Unwilling to sit butt naked on the soot covered benches, Loki first plucked out a cloth he could tie around his waist. "I will drink but not that hag's piss," he told Idi's bald patch, seating himself at his table. Idi scowled at him over his shoulders, already holding a huge flask of that murderous spirit the Svartalfar brewed.

"Ungrateful cunt," grumbled Idi. "It's the finest root brandy there is!"

"Beg your pardon. The finest hag's piss then," Loki shrugged, "I've brought something for us to share." Loki went on rummaging through his bag of goodies until he finally pulled out several bottles. "You'll like this. Southern grappa, has a nice bite."

"Oh," said Idi and quickly broke the seal on one of the bottles, poured himself a cup and started to sip it judgmentally. In the meanwhile, Loki produced an entire leg of dry-cured ham, pickled vegetables and salted fish in little barrels, sugared fruit, flour, fine cheeses, spice, herbs, oil, a bundle of wool and cloth, hemp and all the other things that the earth-dwelling Svartalfar had trouble getting. These would not be enough for the trade, but they would certainly go a long way towards getting Idi in the right mood. He arranged them all on the table between them like a tradesman at the market and observed happily as Idi's eyebrows rose in appreciation, his curiosity peaked nicely. "Not bad, not bad," the Dark Elf commented the alcohol. "A little bit on the spicy side."

Loki made a rude noise. "Merciful fuck, you are more like your father every time I come to see you. Always something to criticize."

"I have to keep you on your toes. Or you'd think a little spread like this will be enough for whatever you came here for." He tipped his head to the side, shiny eyes blinking expectantly. When Loki only smiled at him pleasantly, giving away nothing, Idi poked the pork leg moodily. "Besides, you used to bring my father greater gifts than this."

"Nope," Loki murmured. "This is about all I can carry."

"You used to bring him milkmaids and peasant girls," Idi shrugged.

"Oh, you should have said. Those are much easier to carry than all this."

"And gold, jewels," he went on suggestively. "Quality ore."

"You have those. Also, I am interested to learn you value metal over pussy. Good to know for next time."

"Metal keeps longer," Idi sighed.

"Certainly, but it is significantly less pleasant to squeeze against than a woman."

"Tell me about it."

"Besides, Idi Ivaldason, I never brought women down into the mountain," Loki pointed out. "I took your father out to the villages and helped him along as it were. How else do you think he'd been able to have as many of you as he did?"

"He could have had slightly less of us, if you ask me," Idi grunted. Idi and his brothers shared the mountain their father had made his own as reluctantly as bears shared a river during salmon hunting season. It was a mighty mountain, protected, alive and well positioned bordering Midgard to the South and Jötunheim to the North, so none of the brothers were eager to leave it.

Loki laughed and waved his head. "How's work?"

Idi shrugged, "I can't complain."

"But you're going to."

"The mountain is becoming bare," the Dwarf said, refilling his own cup and pushing a smaller one Loki's way. "I'll have to move shop soon."

"Oh? How soon?" Loki inquired.

"In another hundred, hundred and fifty winters," Idi said, smacking his lips.

Loki snickered. "Time passes slowly for you groundhogs, doesn't it? Hundred and fifty years? Who knows what'll happen by then!"

Idi jerked his powerful shoulders. "Maybe Jötunheim will melt. Maybe the Vana will come down in droves to screw us. Either way, the mountain will be bare and I will have to move."

"Maybe you will find a new vein. Maybe one of your brothers will find it first," Loki suggested evilly, sipping his drink. "Maybe one of your brothers has already found it."

Idi glowered at him but, eager to get through the small talk, limited his comments to, "Maybe. So do you have a commission for us?"

"Not this time," Loki said, getting down to business. "What can you tell me about the Mead of Poetry?"

Now it was Idi's turn to slurp his brandy coquettishly, his round eyes scrutinizing Loki with interest. "For a price, quite a bit."

Loki shook his head. He was not about to trade blindly. "Do you know what it does?"

"I do."

"Do you know who made it?"

"I do."

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yes," Idi nodded. "Or I know where it was, last I've heard of it."

"The price goes down," Loki noted. "And do you know how it is protected?"

Idi snorted. "Haggling already? No, I don't."

"Start haggling early, discourage greed," Loki concluded happily. "What is your price?"

Idi scratched his thigh. He looked to his furnaces, contemplating them intently. As if on cue, one of them barked hungrily. "I am looking to make a fear-sword," he said.

"Distil fear into steel?" Loki quirked an eyebrow.

"It hasn't been done before," Idi said proudly.

"No, because fear is not unbeatable."

"Your thinking is narrow," the master smith shook his finger. "I am looking for universal fears, the primal ones. Fear of the unseen, fear of falling."

"I see," Loki mumbled. "Not just fear of death and pain."

"Right," said Idi contentedly.

"Subtle. That might work if you had a way to protect the bearer from the sword's effects," Loki fished around. "Otherwise it is useless as a weapon."

"Let me worry about that," Idi smirked, declining to be fished. "I need the fear of a vicious beast."

"Certainly. How do I fit into all of that? You want me to go hunt mountain lions for you?" Loki snickered.

Idi looked him straight in the eyes, large forearms anchored on the table between them. "I want the Wolf's tooth."

It took Loki a moment to understand what he meant. "Fenrir's tooth?"

"A fang," Idi nodded. "There is no beast which is more thoroughly feared than him, and you are in a unique position to get the essence of that fear."

Loki snorted. "Forget it! I'm not gonna pull my son's fangs out for you."

"He's not using them anyway!" Idi protested but quickly stopped his mouth, seeing the expression on Loki's face.

"No," Loki said slowly, clearly, frostily. "Thank you for the talk, I'll find another source." He began to rise from the table.

"Wait, wait!" Idi pleaded, extending his arms to catch Loki's. "I need Fenrir! It won't work without something of his!"

This, he could work with. Loki thought it over carefully. "I can get you Fenrir's hair, spit," he mumbled. "And an impression of his bite on copper, will that do?"

Idi considered the offer. "Blood?"

"A vile of his blood," Loki agreed.

"I suppose," the Dwarf said after a moment. "You have a deal." Grudgingly, Idi spat into his palm. Loki took it without hesitation, sitting back down and refilling their cups. Business out of the way, he settled more comfortably against the wall, ready to pay attention. "What is the Mead of Poetry and who made it?"

Idi too leaned back and scratched his forehead. "I am surprised you don't know that, actually. From what I understand, you know its makers."

Loki frowned. "I do? Where are they?"

"Dead," Idi said. "You killed them."

"What?" Loki barked.

"Father said you'd kept their bodies as stones in your garden, so I guess they are in Asgard, to answer your question," Idi shrugged.

"The-, what? The two fucking Dwarves I killed for Ivaldi? Made the Mead?" Loki shouted, thinking of the thousands of times he'd passed the stone idols, the Dwarves' desecrated corpses, utterly unaware of who they'd been. He barely remembered the circumstances under which Ivaldi had ordered their deaths. It was a non-event, just one of the many methods of payment the Guild Master had demanded for his tutoring and, by Loki's reckoning, neither the most arduous nor the most peculiar one. He felt cheated, he felt tricked. He felt like a total idiot.

"Fjalar and Galar," Idi nodded, delighted by Loki's outrage. "They had once been perhaps the greatest alchemists ever to come from Sindri's line."

Loki hyperventilated. "You're fucking shitting me. So the Mead is lost?"

"No. Well, as I said, maybe it is now. But to my knowledge the Jötnar hold it," Idi went on steadily, enjoying immensely the look of desperate confusion Loki must have had plastered all over his face. "That's why I was so surprised you didn't know about the Mead to begin with. Last anyone's heard of the Mead, it was in the possession of the lord of Hnitbjörg."

"Hni-?" Loki stuttered trying to make sense of what Idi was telling him. He rubbed his face to get the look of dumb surprise off of it. "You need to start at the beginning, mate. First of all, what in the name of all fuck is it?"

Idi sighed, finally giving up his sport. As much as he liked teasing Loki, it was difficult to win in a battle of knowledge without actually sharing it. "You have to know, all of this is ancient history. Some don't even believe the Mead ever existed."

"But you do."

"My father was sure of it," Idi nodded with pride.

"Good enough for me," Loki agreed.

Idi emptied his cup only to have it refilled immediately. Loki was not going to risk him shutting down now that he was finally on the roll. "Originally, Fjalar and Galar were going to present it to the Vanir as appeasement. This was when the world was very young, and there was a lot of that going about."

"I see," Loki said content that Freya's account was thus far confirmed.

"But the Mead was too… strange. It was not selected to be given to the Vanir and it was largely ignored by the Greater Guild. Fjalar and Galar were properly offended. You see, I don't think most even understood what it was. Nowadays, some say the most powerful object ever created. They swear by it, those who believe in it, I mean. Do you know it is also called Kvasir's blood?"

"I've heard that, yes."

"Well, there you go, that's what it is," Idi waved his hand as if that settled it.

"Blood?"

"The distilled essence of Kvasir, his wisdom, his qualities, his will," he recited. "And his life."

Idi's smirk was entirely dark and Loki understood why some did not believe the Mead of Poetry ever existed, why some might not wish to believe it could even be made in the first place. He took a gulp of his drink, feeling himself go pale. "Not things that he gave voluntarily, I don't suppose."

"Hardly," Idi snorted. "Fjalar and Galar murdered him and stole his essence. And if you believe the stories, it was a right gruesome murder at that. I mean, how deep do you have to dig into a man before you get to his soul?"

"The distilled essence of a living thing…" Loki repeated, frowning at the thought.

"If you believe the stories."

"And why Kvasir? Who was he?" he inquired.

Idi shrugged. "No idea. He was either a man, or As. Some say even Van. But some sort of great man, in any case."

"A Van? I see why it was not an appropriate gift. Apart from everything else, they wouldn't know what to do with it," Loki mused, thinking of Frey's sword, of Freya's easy dismissal of the text she'd found in Loki's workshop. Idi snorted his heartfelt agreement. Among the Dökkalfar, there was a deeply rooted belief that their former masters bargained an unfair deal when they'd received all the wonderful gifts of Dark Elf making without any additional recompense. As if freedom and peace were not recompense enough. The Dökkalfar certainly did not see it that way. "So how did it end up with the Jötnar?" Loki asked, breaking open a disk of pulped carob, figs and almonds, thoroughly sweet and comforting. He took a modest pinch of it and offered the rest to Idi who crumbled a handful greedily.

"The story goes that Fjalar and Galar had three containers full off the stuff," the Dwarf munched. "And with it they were working alchemy such as no one had ever heard of. As time progressed, they discovered they could do more than alchemy with it. They became dependant on it, for it to perform magic for them. I mean magic tricks, enchantments, not distillation. They could shapeshift, they could distort reality. And they used what they could do to steal, to play tricks."

"They borrowed Elder Magic. To play tricks," Loki growled.

"If that's what you call it," Idi shrugged. "Over the years they squandered most of it until there was only one container left. They bought their lives from Hnitbjörg's master with it, when he came to avenge his father, whom they'd played."

"I see."

Idi helped himself to more of the sweet pulp. "I don't know whether he still has it. Or maybe he's used it all up. Drunk it and gone mad."

"They never remade another thing like it?" Loki frowned.

"Not as far as I know."

"Why?"

"Couldn't, I suppose, how the fuck should I know?"

Loki poured more grappa into Idi's cup. Himself, he started very much yearning for the stronger, Dwarfish alcohol. His head ached with the idea of what the Mead was, the monstrous fashion in which it had been created. Its tame title seemed like a sick joke. Loki broke the waxed paper enveloping one of the hard cheeses and presented it to Idi before asking, "They didn't have the Mead when your father sent me after them. Did they?"

Appeased with fine treats, Idi completely forgot to be coy. "My father wasn't interested in the Mead," he shook his head firmly. "He considered it impure, to use it. Why did he send you to kill them in the first place?"

"To test me, I had always assumed. They were encroaching on his mountain," Loki shrugged. "How was such a powerful object overlooked though? How did your kind let it be in the hands of this landlord and his ilk? I would've thought you'd know better. It is things like that, forgotten mysteries, that will ruin the world."

"You are paranoid in your old age, Shapeshifter," Idi laughed at his exasperation. "Besides, the Underground has nothing to do with your shallow up-top life. You say time flows slowly for us here. That is not our fault, but yours. You hurry up there, that's why your magic is so unstable."

"That is not the reason," Loki shook his head. This time he did reach over for the flask of Dwarfish poison and poured some of it into his cup.

"Still," Idi dismissed it. "Ruin the world? Fuck! We share only the deepest roots of the oldest trees with your world. What is Fimbulvetr to us? What is the great fire? Bird shit on the roof of a castle."

"Hubris, Idi Ivaldason," Loki growled. "You must be fucking drunk or fucking stupid. Ragnarök will find you no matter how deep you dig."

"Ragnarök! What is it to us that the Thursar[1] would duke it out with Asgard?" Idi sneered, staring Loki in the face. "Your two races can drown the world in each other's blood a second time, it would not seep through to our halls! It is your prophecy dealing with your lives. Just like your destruction destroys only the things that you have built. So fear your own fears."

"The End Time would touch you, Idi, the Dwarf, make no mistake about it," Loki replied steadily, returning the insult by likewise calling Idi the name humans called his kind. "It touches the fabric of existence."

"Whatever you say. But life is more overbearing then the thing which is alive. It is a principle enchantment," Idi frowned, drawn deeper into the debate. "The world doesn't end because a wolf kills a fucking deer! You confuse essence with the material it is tied to."

"No, you confuse binding with being," Loki breathed. "Life is not the overbearing principle of being, it's the other way around. The End Time is the end of being, not only of life. If there is Ragnarök, the mountain will never be bare because the mountain will not be."

"And a skirmish between old enemies would trigger that?" Idi snorted. "Oh, come on. Sell that to Man, they like gloomy stories with nasty endings."

"You are a fool, Ivaldason. Do you think there is any magic which lasts forever?"

Idi balanced on his heels, considering Loki's question intently. His fist-sized eyeballs glinted with shrewd interest. "No," he admitted.

"So why would the magic of creation?"

"Enchantments fade. But they do not implode in on themselves. You are talking about total destruction."

"Fade? It cannot fade!" Loki hissed. "What would it fade into?"

Idi kept quiet for a while. His unhandsome face screwed up in deep thought. "You truly believe this? You believe the End Time?"

"Belief is shit," Loki stated flatly. "I know that it can be."

"And you fear it?"

"I am terrified," he nodded. Loki had never discussed the End Time with any of the Dökkalfar and suddenly found himself amazed that they did not believe in it. That, in fact, they dismissed it outright. For the first time he began to wonder what their role would be at the End Time. Or would they be the unwitting victims of other people's folly? Collateral damage, like the rest of the world. Suddenly, he felt a tremendous, pressing responsibility. This was what Angrboda had been telling him, about his blunderings through a misty ocean of cause and effect. He was not playing for the lives of his children, for the peace of two peoples. He was staking the world. And what right had he to do it in the first place? But not to do it, as he'd told her, was a greater treason. It was unfair. And it changed nothing.

Idi and Loki drank a while more, the food forgotten while they contemplated their own personal mysteries before Idi spoke, slow and pensive, "Our father told us often about how he had you kill Fjalar and Galar. He said, hey, Redhead, there are these two cunts who invade my mountain."

Loki laughed softly at the old nickname. "Redhead, yeah, I forgot."

"Redhead, go and deal with them. Deal with them? Take their heads!" Idi went on, playing both parts of the conversation as it had taken place a very, very long time ago.

"Fuck them up," Loki hummed. He could see Ivaldi's crooked fingers, fingernails yellow, thick and twisted, drumming on his knee while he gave his orders. "Fuck them up, that's how he'd put it."

Idi nodded. "And you simply said, when do you want it done, Ivaldi?"

"Your father didn't exactly take no for an answer."

"No," Idi chuckled. "No, he didn't. He spoke fondly of you, you know."

"Of course he did. He'd've never gotten laid without me," Loki snorted. "Loved me better than the rest of you, I bet." His voice was becoming hoarse from the alcohol, just as his thoughts were becoming dark.

"Well, you bring in good business," Idi mumbled, mouth full of cheese. "He certainly loved good business."

Loki smiled at the vision of Ivaldi's wrinkled, burned face. "That he did. Idi, I'd take a few supplies. A few fire stones and so." He gestured to a basket full of brown cobbles.

"Very well. You'll pay me when you bring the Wolf's blood and all," Idi washed the cheese down with grappa.

Loki hissed. "Greedy little cocksu-! Look at all the shit I've brought you!"

"Trinkets. You know the rules. Metal for metal, magic for magic and meat for meat," Idi stated gesturing with his large hand. "Besides, you are treating yourself to my fine hag's piss for this meal."

"I should've waited until you were drunker methinks," Loki grumbled.

"Father taught me well," Idi toasted him.

"Well enough to barter."

"Well enough to know how to handle you, Shapeshifter," Idi popped his chapped lips, tongue darting across them quickly. "Let me tell you something else. The story of how you killed Fjalar and Galar? Father didn't tell us anything just because he was nostalgic. It was a parable of sorts."

"Oh? And what was the lesson?"

"That we may be alchemists, but you are a magician," the Dark Elf told him. "A sound piece of advice, I think." Loki frowned, not entirely sure how to take this, but Idi exhaled a long breath, keeping his thoughts to himself. When he spoke again, his ragged, accented voice was heavy and serious. "Loki, I don't know what you want the Mead for. But even though I doubt it would mean the destruction of the worlds… use it sparingly," he said, returning to his drink. "Use it with respect. And use it only once."

[1] Thurs ("drinker"; pl. Thursar; Hrimthurs being "ice-drinker") is one of the many generic names for the Jötnar (a words which itself means "the eaters"). Rather than offensive, Thurs would be misguided and as such I made it into a name the humans give them. If Idi wished to be truly offensive, he would have called Loki a giant...

I am bored with my usual disclaimer.