Wolfsangel

Only Loki was not a fighter. Only Loki stood at the sides and laughed, a laughter more deadly to the self-important gods than any sword or spear. No wonder they had chained him.

What is your name?" she asked. "Names are like clothes, lady. I have many." "And which one do you wear tonight?" The god smiled. She could see he liked her words. He pulled her to him, pressed his wolf lips to hers and said, "My name is Misery, and would you know yet more?" "Yes," said the girl, breathing in his scent, the scent of something beautiful, strange and burned. "I would know more." He flicked at her lips with his tongue and whispered, "So is yours.

There is a killer in every cowardly man, waiting for the right set of circumstances when the time has been drained of the possibility of reprisals and he feels free to act.

Men who have never had to fight love a weapon. They love to hold it in their hands, feel its balance and speculate on the damage they might do, were they called to do it.