He's normally early to rise, but today he's dragging. There's nothing to do. The Gallows are closed off to him, something about a quarantine despite the one elf telling him he was a welcome guest, and he's bristly and bored and feeling fairly sorry for himself by the time he gets to the kitchens. Thor peers in, scratching his bare chest as he'd only bothered with pants so far.

"Do you cook? I would like something with which to break my fast." These lands are cold, they're grey, they're backward, and he has absolutely no task to set his hands and mind to.