Another magician would normally be a boon, Loki thinks, as they struggle through the gales and the rain - and the illusions. Huginn and Muninn swoop low, their talons snatching at his hair as they croak mocking laughter, and he bats at his head with his free hand even though he knows they're not truly there.

"Neither is mine. Believe me, I have some gifts for whoever is responsible for that."

The outlines of the ruin are scarcely visible through the debris blown about, and Loki's glad for a hand to hold: not just a reminder that something is real, but a small sort of comfort. The fact alone that Constantine stopped for him is already endearing.

"Which, the towering oaf in the red cape that stood between us? My brother, Thor."