Lóki woke to the sound of dull thuds against wood. Buried under a heap of animal pelts and several bodies unencumbered by anything resembling clothing, he managed — barely — to tear his booze-petrified head from the vast bedstead and attempt to piece together his surroundings.
He cast a bleary, contemplative look around the squat interior of the peasant hut. Asgard? Vanaheim? Or had fate dumped him all the way down in Midgard?