Join Captain Victor T. Mayfair as he sits down with Loki, the infamous trickster of Norse mythology, for a conversation filled with wit, chaos, and sharp truths. From his role as Odin’s blood brother to the mischief that led to the gods’ greatest treasures—and their greatest downfall—Loki pulls back the curtain on his myths, his punishments, and his inevitable rise at Ragnarök. What is the true power of a trickster? Why do his stories endure? And is Loki still bound, or has he already slipped free? Tune in and find out—if you dare.
Executive Producer / Writer – Victor Ciccarelli. Loki brought to life by Joseph Durika
Copyright Mythos Anthology / Quixana Productions 2025, all rights reserved.
<< Victor >>
Loki, one of the most unique gods of Norse mythology, trickster, shape shifter, questionable loyalties, and should i say morals. Or am i being harsh?
<< Loki >>
Harsh? Oh, Victor, you wound me! Morals are such a rigid little box, aren’t they? Neatly labeled, tied with a bow, meant to fit all of existence inside. And yet, here I am, wriggling out of it like a snake through the cracks.
Loyalty? I’ve saved the gods as many times as I’ve tormented them. Trickery? A tool, a game, a necessity. Without me, who keeps things… interesting? If anything, I am the one honest force among them—I do what I do because it is my nature, without pretense or self-righteous posturing. Can the same be said for Odin, with his secret plots? Or Thor, smashing first, thinking later?
No, Victor, you are not harsh. You are simply asking the wrong question. It is not whether I have morals, but whether the world can handle them.
<< Victor >>
I would very much like to explore that statement in detail but for now lets start with something more basic, if you don’t mind. For those who don’t know you, who is Loki, and what culture do you come from
<< Loki >>
Ah, starting with the foundations before we build the chaos—wise choice, Victor.
I am Loki, born of the jötnar, yet counted among the Aesir. Son of Farbauti, a giant of lightning’s fury, and Laufey, whose very name whispers of hidden things. My origins are as tangled as my nature—half-giant, half-god, fully unpredictable.
As for culture, I belong to the Norse, the people who looked upon the cold, brutal world and spun tales of gods who were just as fierce, just as flawed, just as doomed as themselves. They did not crave perfection in their deities; they wanted wisdom, strength, cunning, the ability to survive Ragnarök in whatever form that took. And what is survival if not adaptability? That, dear Victor, is where I come in.
They told my stories around firelit halls, where the shadows danced like my own shifting form. They called me a trickster, a troublemaker, a necessary evil. They also called upon me in times of crisis, when wit mattered more than steel. They feared me, they laughed at me, they cursed my name—and yet, they never stopped speaking it.
Because without me, where would their gods be? Still hammering their problems to death, still brooding in their high halls, still blind to the cracks forming beneath their feet. No, Victor, I come from the Norse—but more than that, I come from the spaces in between, the gaps in the stories, the places where change is not just feared but inevitable.
<< Victor >>
Are you a human, a god, a giant, or something in between?
<< Loki >>
Oh, Victor, now you’re asking the right kind of question—the kind with no simple answer.
Am I a god? The Aesir called me one when it suited them. I dined in their halls, rode with them into battle, even swore a blood oath with Odin himself. They accepted me as one of their own—until they didn’t.
Am I a giant? My father, Farbauti, was a jötunn, a force of nature more than a being. My mother, Laufey, was smaller, swifter, her lineage whispered rather than declared. Giants in my world are not simply massive creatures; they are primordial, untamed, the raw power of the world given form. I have that in me, too—the chaos, the hunger, the storm waiting to break.
Am I human? Now, wouldn’t that be something? The truth is, I am more human than many of the gods. I doubt. I change. I contradict myself. I laugh at the absurdity of fate and weep when it binds me too tightly. If the gods are steadfast and eternal, and the giants are ancient and wild, then I am something else—something that slips through the cracks, something that refuses to be one thing forever.
So, what am I? I am Loki. That should be answer enough.
<< Victor >>
How do you fit into Norse mythology—are you a hero, a villain, or something else entirely?
<< Loki >>
Hero? Villain? Such tiny little boxes for such a grand, sprawling tale. I am neither, and I am both. I am the reason the gods have their greatest treasures—Thor’s hammer, Odin’s spear, Freyr’s ship. I am also the reason they have their greatest griefs—Baldr’s death, the coming of Ragnarök, the serpent that coils around the world.
If you ask Thor, I am a nuisance, a liar, an occasional drinking companion when no one else is brave enough to sit beside him. If you ask Odin, I am a necessity, a gamble he took long ago, knowing full well I would both serve and betray him in equal measure.
I fit into Norse mythology the way a fire fits into a forest—sometimes I illuminate, sometimes I destroy, but either way, I bring change. I am the shifting current that forces the gods to move, to adapt, to become more than they were. Without me, they would sit stagnant, convinced of their own power, blind to their own flaws.
A hero? No. A villain? Hardly. I am Loki. The story cannot move forward without me.
<< Victor >>
You are known as a trickster god—what does that really mean?
<< Loki >>
A trickster, Victor, is not just a prankster with a glint in his eye and a joke at the ready. Oh no, that would be far too simple. A trickster is something far more dangerous—far more necessary.
It means I do not follow the rules—I rewrite them. It means I question, I poke, I prod, I turn things upside down just to see what falls out. The trickster exists to reveal truth through deception, to break apart the stagnant, to force the powerful to prove they are worthy of their thrones.
Yes, I lie—but only to expose greater lies. Yes, I cause trouble—but only because trouble is the crucible where true strength is forged. The gods, left to their own devices, would become dull, complacent, blind to their own failings. It is my hand that shakes them awake, my whisper that warns them of their own arrogance—though they never listen until it is too late.
And let us not forget—tricks can save as well as ruin. When the gods were in need, who schemed their way into the dwarves’ forges to bring them their greatest weapons? When the walls of Asgard were nearly lost to a clever giant’s bargain, who devised a way out? When crisis loomed, who used wit instead of might to turn the tide?
A trickster does not play by the rules, Victor, because the rules were never meant for us. And that is precisely why we are needed.
<< Victor >>
What form do you take, you are a shapeshifter, able to be any form, any sex, so who are you?
<< Loki >>
Ah, now that is a question worthy of a trickster, Victor! Who am I? What form do I take? The answer is as fluid as the sea, as shifting as the wind.
I have been a man, standing among the gods, silver-tongued and sharp-witted. I have been a woman, weaving through the world unseen, wielding power in ways the Aesir never expected. I have been a mare, running wild under the moon, and a mother, birthing the great steed Sleipnir from my own flesh. I have been a fish, a fly, a falcon—anything the moment required, anything the game demanded.
Who am I? I am Loki. I am whatever the story needs me to be. A trickster bound by a single shape is no trickster at all. I slip between the lines, between the forms, between the very definitions the world tries to impose. Man, woman, beast, shadow—I am all of them, and none of them.
<< Victor >>
What is the first recorded story about you?
<< Loki >>
Ah, the first recorded story—now there’s a tricky thing, Victor. Stories, you see, are like me: they shift, they change, they slip between the cracks of time. What was spoken in the firelight of long-forgotten halls? What was lost before the scribes dipped their quills?
But if we go by what survives, then the Lokasenna—‘Loki’s Flyting’—from the Poetic Edda is one of the oldest stories where I take center stage. A grand feast in Aegir’s hall, gods and elves drinking merrily—until I arrive, uninvited, unwelcome, and in a rather provocative mood. I proceed to insult every god in the room, dragging their secrets into the open, calling out their hypocrisies with sharp, unrelenting wit.
Thor threatens to smash my skull in, naturally. He does love that solution. And in the end, the gods can’t take my words anymore, so they drive me out, setting the stage for my inevitable downfall.
But even before Lokasenna, my name flickers through older tales—helping Odin steal the mead of poetry, tricking the dwarves into crafting Mjölnir, shape-shifting my way into and out of trouble. Was I there in stories now lost to time? Of course. How could I not be? A world without Loki stirring up trouble? Now that would be a dull thing indeed.
<< Victor >>
Clear something up for me. You are known to be Odin’s blood brother—But in the Modern Marvel Superhero version that most people would know you by, Thor, son of Odin, calls you his brother.
<< Loki >>
Ah, yes, the great muddling of myth and superhero fame! A delicious bit of mischief, even if I wasn’t the one behind it.
In the old tales, the true, deep-rooted ones whispered through the centuries, I am not Thor’s brother—no, my bond lies with Odin himself. We swore an oath, mixed our blood, and declared ourselves as kin, bound beyond mere family ties. He, the great Allfather, seeker of wisdom, ever peering into the abyss, and I, the wildcard he could never quite control. That bond was powerful—until it wasn’t.
Now, in the modern telling—yes, yes, the one with capes and cinematic flair—I am recast as Thor’s brother, Odin’s adopted son. A dramatic choice, I must admit, but not without its charms. The rivalry, the clashing of opposites, the brotherly strife—it makes for grand storytelling. But it is just that: a story. A version. A shape I was placed into, rather than one I chose for myself.
So, Victor, to set the record straight: I am not Thor’s brother. I am Odin’s blood-bonded kin, a fellow wanderer on the road of fate. But who am I to deny a tale well told? If the world wants to see me as the jealous younger prince, grasping at a throne never meant for me—well, I have worn stranger shapes before.
<< Victor >>
Got it thank you. One of the things we talk about a lot on this podcast is how myths grow and change with the times, and storytellers, who tell their tales.
<< Loki >>
Ah, now you speak my language, Victor! Myths are not stone tablets, unchanging and absolute—they are rivers, flowing, twisting, reshaping the land as they move. A story that does not shift, does not evolve, is a dead thing, and I, for one, have no use for dead things.
The Norse who first whispered my name told their tales in smoky longhouses, where every storyteller added their own flourish, their own lesson, their own warning. Then came the scribes, writing me down, trapping me in ink and parchment. And now? Now I stride through silver screens and comic pages, reborn once more, as I always am.
Some bristle at the changes—‘That’s not the real Loki,’ they cry. But tell me, Victor, what is real? Am I the Loki of the Poetic Edda, taunting the gods before my doom? Or the one who raced against thought itself in Útgarðr’s hall? Or am I the trickster who rides in chariots of CGI, playing at villainy and redemption in equal measure?
The answer, of course, is all of them. And none of them. Because myths live through those who tell them, through the mouths of poets and the pens of scribes, through the breath of an audience leaning in to listen. Change is not the death of a story, Victor. It is its greatest trick.
<< Victor >>
Very well said. But, if you don’t mind lets get back to some of the details of your history. How did you help the gods get their greatest treasures, including Thor’s hammer and others?
<< Loki >>
like many of my finest moments—with a bit of mischief that got slightly out of hand.
One fine day, I thought it would be hilarious to slip into Thor’s hall and shear off Sif’s golden hair while she slept. You should have seen it! The way the morning light hit her bare scalp, the way Thor’s face twisted from confusion to rage when he realized—oh, priceless! But, of course, Thor is not known for his sense of humor, is he? No, he is known for his fists, and he was rather eager to introduce them to my skull.
Naturally, I had to fix things before I ended up a smear on Mjölnir’s handle. So I swore to find Sif hair even more beautiful than what I had taken. Off I went to the dwarves—Sindri and Brokkr, master craftsmen of the forge—and oh, how they love a good wager. I told them they could never make anything finer than Sif’s new golden locks, and in proving me wrong, they forged not just her hair, but a collection of treasures fit for the gods.
From their fires came Gullinbursti, the shining boar for Freyr, swift and golden. Draupnir, Odin’s ring, dripping wealth with every cycle. And, most importantly, Mjölnir, Thor’s thunderous hammer—the very thing that would one day save him countless times, and yet, he has still never thanked me for it.
So, you see, Victor, for all the trouble I cause, for all the chaos I weave, the gods owe me more than they would ever admit. Without my meddling, Asgard would be defenseless, and Thor? Well, he’d still be standing over Sif, scratching his head, wondering where all her hair went.
<< Victor >>
What happened with Sif’s hair after you cut it off?
<< Loki >>
Oh, Victor, I do love how fixated people are on that little prank. You’d think I had stolen Thor’s hammer itself! But no, just a bit of hair—though you’d never know it from the way he threatened to turn my bones to dust.
Once Thor had me backed into a corner—metaphorically, because let’s be honest, he would’ve happily made it a literal corner with his fists—I promised to fix it. And I did, in the grandest way possible.
I sought out the sons of Ivaldi, master dwarven smiths, and convinced them to spin something finer than mere hair: strands of pure gold, woven with magic, so that when placed upon Sif’s head, it would root itself like living strands and grow as if it had always been hers.
Better than before, truly. An improvement!
And yet, was I thanked? No, no, Victor. Instead, I was nearly crushed when the whole ordeal led to Thor getting his hammer, Odin getting his ring, and Freyr getting his boar—all because of one little harmless prank.
But that, dear Victor, is the nature of things, isn’t it? A small spark of mischief, a grand blaze of consequence. And in the end, Sif got her golden locks, the gods got their greatest treasures, and I got… well, mostly bruises, threats, and glares. As usual.
<< Victor >>
Is it true you shapeshifted into a mare and gave birth to Odin’s eight-legged horse, Sleipnir?
<< Loki >>
Here’s how it happened. The gods, in their infinite wisdom, made a deal with a mysterious builder to construct Asgard’s walls. The price? The sun, the moon, and Freyja’s hand in marriage—terms the gods thought impossible, because surely, no mere builder could complete such a task in time. But—oh, how unfortunate!—he had help. His mighty stallion, Svaðilfari, was doing half the work, hauling massive stones with unnatural strength and speed.
The gods panicked. If he finished on time, they’d lose Freyja, and you know she wasn’t going to let that happen. So, who did they turn to? Me, of course.
And what did I do? Well, Victor, I did what I had to do. I became a mare—a sleek, beautiful, irresistible little thing—and I distracted Svaðilfari.
Now, by ‘distracted,’ I mean I led him on a wild chase into the woods, away from his work. And by ‘wild chase,’ I mean… well, let’s just say it was very convincing.
The builder failed to finish, the gods got their walls, and some time later—after much galloping, ahem—I found myself the proud mother of Sleipnir, an eight-legged marvel of a horse, faster than the wind, wiser than any beast. And because I am generous, I gifted him to Odin.
So yes, Victor, it’s all true. I, Loki, mother of champions, gave birth to the steed that carries the Allfather himself. And really, shouldn’t that earn me a bit more respect?
<< Victor >>
I think so, clearly, taking one for the team as they say. What is your greatest trick or deception?
<< Loki >>
My greatest trick? My grandest deception? There are so many—how could I possibly choose just one?
Was it the time I stole the goddess Idunn and her golden apples, leaving the gods to wither and age, just to see how they’d handle a bit of mortality? Or when I tricked the dwarves into crafting Asgard’s greatest treasures, all while wagering my own head—only to outwit them in the end and keep my neck intact?
Perhaps it was when I disguised myself as an old crone and convinced Frigg to reveal that Baldr, the shining son of Odin, could only be harmed by mistletoe. And what did I do with that little sliver of knowledge? Ah, well… you know how that story ends.
Or, maybe, my greatest trick has yet to be revealed. Maybe, just maybe, it is the fact that I have never truly been bound, that even in chains, even in myth, I slip through the cracks, reshaped by every new storyteller who dares to speak my name.
Tell me, Victor—if a trickster’s greatest deception is making the world believe one thing while another truth lurks beneath, then perhaps my greatest trick is still unfolding. And perhaps… you are already a part of it.
<< Victor >>
Speaking of Why Baldr, why did you orchestrate his death?
<< Loki >>
Ah, Baldr, the shining one, beloved of all, the golden prince of Asgard. His very presence made the gods feel safe, as if nothing could touch them while he stood among them. And that, Victor, was precisely the problem.
You see, the gods grew comfortable in their illusions. They believed themselves untouchable, immortal in ways beyond mere flesh. They played at war, feasted in their golden halls, and thought Ragnarok was some distant dream, a thing for another time, another age. But fate does not wait, Victor. It does not care for comfort.
When Frigg, Baldr’s mother, went to every creature, every stone, every force in the world and made them swear never to harm him, she believed she had beaten fate itself. And what did the gods do with this invincibility? They turned it into a game. They laughed as weapons and stones bounced harmlessly from Baldr’s skin. They mocked the very idea of death, as if it could never touch them.
I had to prove them wrong.
I discovered what Frigg had overlooked—the small, fragile thing she deemed too insignificant to swear the oath: mistletoe. A tiny oversight, a single crack in the armor of their arrogance. I fashioned an arrow from it and placed it in the hands of Höðr, Baldr’s blind brother, the one excluded from their games, the one who had never been allowed to take part. I guided his hand. And with that single shot, the illusion shattered.
Did I do it out of malice? Out of jealousy? No. I did it because the gods needed to be reminded that nothing—nothing—is beyond fate. Not even them.
And yet, for all their wisdom, they did not learn. They did not reflect. They did not change. They only punished me, as if breaking the illusion was the true crime.
<< Victor >>
Is that punishment how did you end up bound in a cave with venom dripping onto your face?
<< Loki >>
Oh, that charming little arrangement? Yes, Victor, that was the gods’ idea of justice—though I prefer to call it overreacting.
After Baldr’s death, the gods were not pleased. Shocking, I know. They tried to bargain with Hel to return their beloved golden boy, but she refused—unless every living thing wept for him. And wouldn’t you know it? Someone didn’t shed a tear.
Now, who could that have been?
Of course, the gods saw through my disguise—I may have been an old giantess at the time, but even then, I couldn’t resist one last jab. ‘Let Hel keep what she has,’ I said. And with that, Baldr stayed in the underworld, and the gods turned their rage on me.
They hunted me, chased me across the realms. I became a salmon, slipping through rivers, twisting out of their grasp—until they finally caught me in a net. And what did they do then? Did they exile me? Lock me away in Asgard’s dungeons? No, no. They got creative.
They took my sons. One, Váli, they transformed into a ravening beast, and before my eyes, he tore his own brother, Narfi, to pieces. Then—oh, and this is my favorite part—they used Narfi’s entrails to bind me to the rocks of a cave, deep beneath the earth. But that wasn’t enough, oh no. To make sure my suffering never ceased, they placed a serpent above me, its fangs dripping venom onto my face.
But even in torment, I was not alone. My faithful Sigyn, my wife—yes, Victor, even I have a wife—stood by me, catching the venom in a bowl, easing my pain. Only when she turned to empty it did the poison reach my skin, and in those moments, my agony shook the earth itself.
And so I remained, bound and writhing, until the day the chains break, until the day I rise again at Ragnarök.
<< Victor >>
And this is where you are now?
<< Loki >>
Yes, in the old stories, that is where I remain, bound in torment until the day the world cracks open and I break free. That is what the gods want to believe—that I am helpless, contained, suffering for my so-called crimes.
But myths are slippery things, much like myself. They evolve, they change, they seep into new forms. Am I still in that cave? Perhaps, in one telling. Perhaps, in another, I have already slipped my bonds and walk among you even now. Or perhaps—perhaps—I was never truly bound at all.
Because if people are still speaking my name, still telling my tales, still weaving me into new stories, new shapes, new tricks—then am I truly imprisoned? Or have I already escaped?
<< Victor >>
Well i would think most people today know you from the Comics, you are very much alive and well. Now could you tell me about your wife? I must admit i did not know you had one.
<< Loki >>
Her name is Sigyn.
She is no warrior like Sif, no sorceress like Freyja. She does not command storms, nor weave spells, nor ride into battle with shield raised. But do not mistake her quiet nature for weakness. She is enduring. She is devoted. And in the end, is that not the greatest strength of all?
The gods mocked her for staying by my side. When they bound me in that wretched cave, when they strung me up with my own son’s entrails, they thought she would leave. That she would turn her back on the one they had all forsaken. But she did not. Instead, she knelt beside me, bowl in hand, catching the venom before it could sear my skin.
She could have walked away, Victor. She could have chosen the safety of Asgard, the comfort of the gods’ favor. But she chose me. Even knowing what I am, even knowing what I have done, she stayed.
And that, perhaps, is the cruelest trick of all. Because for all my wit, for all my cunning, for all my slipping between the cracks of fate—there is one thing I cannot escape.
The love of a woman who refuses to let me suffer alone.
<< Victor >>
Love is a powerful force. But and end will come. Ragnarök—the end of the world. What is your role in it?
<< Loki >>
Ah, Ragnarök. The great unraveling. The doom that was always fated, always creeping closer, no matter how much the gods pretended otherwise. And my role? Oh, Victor, it is a glorious one.
I will break free. The chains they wrapped me in, the torment they thought eternal—it will all come undone. The very earth will shudder as I rise, and I will stand at the helm of the ship Naglfar, the ghostly vessel made of the fingernails of the dead. I will sail it to the battlefield, leading the forces of chaos—the jötnar, the outcasts, the forsaken, all those the gods sought to keep beneath their boots.
And there, on the field of Vigrid, I will face Heimdall, the ever-watchful sentry of Asgard. He and I—always opposite, always at odds, always knowing this moment would come. We will fight, and we will strike each other down. There will be no tricks, no deceptions—just the end, as foretold.
And yet, Victor, Ragnarök is not just destruction. It is transformation. The gods will fall, yes—Thor, Odin, Freyr, Tyr—all will meet their fates. The world will burn, the seas will rise, and the sky will blacken. But from that ruin, something new will emerge. A world reborn.
The gods fear Ragnarök, but I? I understand it. Nothing lasts forever—not even Asgard, not even the mighty Odin. The cycle must break for something new to begin. And so, my role is not merely to destroy. It is to end what was, so that something else may take its place.
<< Victor >>
Lets move to my time. What do you think of Marvel’s version of you?
<< Loki >>
The Marvel version of me—cunning, conflicted, ever dancing on the edge of villainy and redemption—oh, Victor, it’s a fine trick in itself.
They have taken my name, my shape, a fragment of my nature, and woven something new. And what a tale they tell! The jealous prince, the scorned son, the silver-tongued schemer who longs for love and power in equal measure. It is not the Loki of the old stories—no—but it is a Loki. A shape, a reflection, a mask placed upon me by the hands of modern storytellers. And I? I approve.
Because what is a trickster if not endlessly adaptable? What is a myth if not something that evolves? I am no longer just the mischief-maker of the Norse—I am a pop culture icon, walking through the minds of millions, slipping between ink and screen, reborn again and again. And isn’t that the greatest trick of all?
So let them tell their stories, let them craft their hero, their villain, their antihero with his smirk and his sorcery. He is not me, not truly—but he is a version of me. And as long as people speak the name Loki, as long as they whisper my tales in any form… well, Victor, that means I win.
<< Victor >>
Why do you think people are so fascinated by you in modern times?
<< Loki >>
Why, after all these centuries, do people still whisper my name? Why do they find themselves drawn to the trickster, the liar, the one who stands between chaos and order, shifting like smoke through their stories?
It is simple. Because I am them.
I am contradiction, Victor. I am the hero and the villain. I am the fool and the genius. I am the one who breaks the rules not for destruction’s sake, but because the rules were flawed to begin with. Who among your kind has never felt like the outsider? Who has never wanted to challenge the order of things, to defy expectations, to carve their own path rather than walk the one laid before them?
The world has changed, but people have not. They still crave stories of rebellion, of wit triumphing over brute strength, of those who do not fit into neat little boxes. They see themselves in me—the outcast, the underestimated, the one who is punished not for wickedness, but for refusing to be what others demand.
And, let’s be honest, Victor—they love a rogue. A silver tongue, a sharp mind, a smirk in the face of doom. That kind of chaos? It’s irresistible.
So yes, people are fascinated by me. They will always be fascinated by me. Because in the end, I am not just a god of old. I am change itself. And change, Victor, never goes out of style.
<< Victor >>
If you could rewrite your own mythology, what would you change?
<< Loki >>
If I could rewrite my own mythology? If I could reach back, pluck the threads of fate, twist them into something new? Tempting. So tempting.
Perhaps I would keep my freedom. No cave, no venom, no entrail bindings. Let the gods rage and wail, but let them do so knowing they can never truly hold me. Let them fear me, not because of some grim prophecy, but because they know I will always slip through their fingers.
Or maybe I would take my seat among them—not as their scapegoat, not as their necessary evil, but as their equal. They use my wit, my cunning, my gifts—let them admit it, for once. Let Odin stand beside me, not above me, and let Thor thank me for the hammer that has saved his hide a thousand times.
But then, Victor… would I still be Loki?
Because is that not the heart of it? I am the outcast. The one who cannot be tamed. The one who must fall so that the story moves forward. If I rewrite the tale, if I smooth the edges, if I make myself safe… do I not erase the very thing that makes me me?
No. No. Let the gods bind me. Let the venom drip. Let them think they have silenced me. Because as long as people speak my name, as long as they ask these questions, as long as the world changes—I am never truly bound.
And that, Victor, is the greatest trick of all.
<< Victor >>
What do you think about the idea of chaos in today’s world?
<< Loki >>
Oh, Victor, chaos is having a marvelous time in your world! It dances through your politics, it slithers through your technology, it sparks in every clash of ideas, every upheaval, every moment where the old ways crack and the new fight to be born.
And yet—how terribly misunderstood it is. People fear chaos, as if it is nothing but ruin and destruction. But tell me, Victor, what is creation if not chaos given purpose? Every invention, every revolution, every change that has ever shaped your world was born not from order, but from disruption.
You build, you break, you rebuild—this is the way of things. But those who cling too tightly to the illusion of stability, who try to freeze the world in one perfect, controlled shape… oh, they are the ones who suffer most when the inevitable shift comes.
Chaos is not your enemy, Victor. Stagnation is. Order without change is a cage. And if there is one thing I cannot abide, it is a cage.
So, what do I think of chaos in today’s world? I think it is alive, thriving, and doing its job quite beautifully. And whether your kind fears it or embraces it will decide the shape of your future.
<< Victor >>
What lesson do you think people should learn from your stories?
<< Loki >>
Nothing is fixed, nothing is certain, and nothing is beyond change.
The gods believed they were invincible. They weren’t. The world thought it could silence me. It didn’t. Fate itself tried to bind me in chains, and yet here we are, speaking my name, spinning my tale anew.
So what lesson should people learn?
Question everything. Do not accept the world as it is simply because someone told you it must be so. Rules? They can be rewritten. Power? It shifts hands. Truth? Often just a well-told lie. If something is unjust, challenge it. If a path is closed, find another. If someone tells you that you must be one thing, laugh—and then become something else.
And above all? Do not fear change. Change is life. Change is chaos. Change is me.
<< Victor >>
It has been quite enjoyable to speak with you here today. is there anything we did not cover that you feel would be important?
<< Loki >>
Oh, Victor, you wound me! Are you truly letting me go so soon? Have we not danced through enough chaos together? But very well, if we must part, let me leave you with this—
We have spoken of my tricks, my mischief, my binding, my role in Ragnarök. We have pulled at the threads of my stories, unraveled their deceptions, and asked what lessons they hold. But there is one thing, one truth, that we must never forget:
I am still here.
Bound? Perhaps. Forgotten? Never. As long as my name is spoken, as long as my tales are told, as long as there are those who question, defy, and laugh in the face of fate—I remain.
Because, Victor, a trickster is never truly gone. We only wait for the next opportunity.
And who knows? Maybe, just maybe, I will see you again—sooner than you think.