Introspection and Upkeep (open)
Vincent sat on the edge of the roof of the Baxter Building, looking out and down on the city. He rubbed his arms, the simple tunic and belt with pouches he was wearing offering only minimal protection against the cold. He let out a sigh, able to remember not only when the cold would not have registered, but when he could have thrown himself off without a second thought. Granted, even before the Demogorge incident, he would have had to do something before hitting the pavement, but he would have done so with his power. He had been a scion of both mortal and divine blood. Since then... he'd been something else.

He was still human, for all intents and purposes. What Odin had done to him, regarding his longevity, was more a matter of a job with really good benefits, rather than being a supernatural or divine being. Vincent's lifespan had a condition for its end, but he supposed he would still age and grow. (Not that he'd put on any height or muscle mass in the year-plus it had been since then...) He certainly got tired and hungry and cold and sick and all those insipid little things baseline humans had to deal with. Even Doctor Strange and his father had to grapple with the limitations of the sack of meat and bones they were born with.

The difference for him now was in his power. Certainly, he still had the mental aptitude for sorcery and inborn strength for it that his father and grandmother and who knows how many generations before them; but he could no longer give them the same 'kick' he had been accustomed to. Before the 'repairs' that Odin had performed with the ordeal on the World Tree, it had been like using someone else's hands. Afterwards, with the benefit of his new patrons, it had merely been like learning to write left-handed. He was, he supposed, as formidable as he ever was in terms of magical prowess; perhaps moreso, with how the ordeal had forced him to grow.

He furrowed his brow as one patron in particular stuck out in his mind. Loki. That was the second, perhaps third time in his life, that the God of Mischief had personally had some hand in his affairs. The escape from Doomstadt had come into focus, and he felt there was something else, but it refused to achieve the same clarity. Why? What was Vincent to Loki? Just a way to needle at his biological parents, random boredom, or something else on the part of the Liesmith?

That was enough navel-gazing for the time being. He had work to do. His patrons had yet to fail them, and he owed them a nod every so often, via not letting any of his skills in their respective domains grow tarnished. He got up from the edge and walked to the middle of the roof, drawing out the ritual dagger he used in his spellwork. It was a simple blade, but the edge was real enough.

"Tyr of Battles, you guide my hands." He speaks, almost sure that if his day were illustrated, his voice would need a different font. He then spends a few minutes doing basic combat exercises. Thinking of his blade slicing flesh, deflecting strikes, and so on. When he stops, he lays the knife to the back of one arm.

"Idunn of the golden apples, you mend my wounds." He makes a light cut across his arm, and with another gesture, closes the wound. He smiles, as his favorite ritual of tribute is next on his list. He forms a fireball in each hand, and tosses them high above him, and they arc slowly, before coming back towards him.

"Balder of light, you shield me from harm. Sigyn of victories, you remove my obstacles." One fireball splaches against a shield, while the other simply dissipates into the air. He smiles. No matter how old he gets, or how much better he is with illusions, fire is always cool. He cleans of the dagger, then bends his arm back.

"Bragi of wonders, warp that which is and should be." He hurls the knife hard into the rooftop, but by some wonder, it neither breaks nor even chips. Preservation enchantments, always so wonderfully practical, if not glamorous. Vincent smiles to himself as he retrieves the knife, then lets out a heavy sigh.

"Loki Liesmith, you deceive my foes." Vincent reaches for something not there, and pulls a conjured cloak about himself, making him invisible. While he's got another layer between him and the elements, he looks skyward.

"Thor, God of Thunder, you let me commune with the sky above..." He holds out a palm, and feels the winds swirl about him, bringing a gentle shower of rain with them, which quickly passes. He dispels the cloak, shakes off the excess water, then hurls the knife high over his head.

"Odin All-Father... you give me insight." He closes his eyes, and waits. When he feels a twinge of instict, his arm lashes out, and he catches the dagger neatly by the handle, before it would have pierced him. He smiles and puts it away, heading towards the elevator. He stops and lays his palms against the door-frame.

"Frigg of Hearth and Home... you shield my family from prying eyes and harm." He smiles, as he gives a tiny refreshment, the best he can manage without a proper ritual, to the various magical protections on the Building, before going inside and then headed to the common area to relax with a movie and as much food as his mortal stomach will bear.