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A cold blue color crept up along the pale skin of Loki Odinsson's arm like water down a creek. The Jötun warrior had shattered his arm braces with the ice of his hands and exposed his skin to the elements. Loki thought that his arm would blacken from frostbite at the Jötun's touch, just as it had with his brother's friends. He never expected a reaction quite like this.
The Jötun warrior stared at him and took notice of his arm's color, smirking at a secret nobody yet knew. Loki bared his teeth in rage, so not like the poised second prince everyone in Asgard knew him to be. He shot out his seiðr in the form of light bolts, hitting the Jötun and instantly killing him where the wretch stood.
The blue quickly dissipated as quickly as it appeared, leaving behind unmarred milky skin.
All the way back to Asgard his usual pallor remained, all the while his thoughts were jumbling up inside his head: why had that happened? How come he was immune to the Jötun's freezing touch whereas other Asgardians are not? His thoughts branched out to old childhood fears. Why did he not look like everyone else? He was pale where they were honey-tanned, dark-haired where theirs was fair.
That he wasn't as proficient in the arts of hand-to-hand combat as his brother was only made Loki more insecure. He slipped into the weapon's vault, making his way to the crown jewel of Odin's collection:
The Casket of Ancient Winters.
Loki Odinsson (was he?) laid his hands on the gleaming silver handles of the casket, seeing the blue light reflect on his slender wrists. As his fingers clamped down, the blue began to bleed up his arms until he was consumed by it.
I am a monster.