Walking The Realm
He'd been gone a very very long time. Not so long by the standards of Asgardians, or even by the standards of many of Midgard, but for Vincent Amorason Richardsson, having half his blood of mortal stock and only eighteen years to walk the worlds, a very long time indeed.

The Golden Realm was largely unchanging, even in the aftermath of such battle. It's architecture, the palpable hum of magic and divinity, the ever-present sensation of metal and beasts of war. It was almost suffocating, for one used to the ever-changing city of New York. It was a comfort to him to have Asleif accompanying him as he ventured out into it again, finally released from custody by the healers. The experience was humbling. For those who noticed him at all, he seemed to be regarded with a mixture of confusion and wariness. His form was frail by comparison to others, even if others could not 'sense' his mixed heritage. Frailty was not something that was allowed to thrive in Asgard, even among the ranks of mages rather than warriors.

He kept his head high as he walked alongside her. If anyone had anything to say to him, they held it for now. He seemed to be able to go about his business unmolested. All the better, for there were a precious few individuals he wished to visit while he was here, for however long he was here.