One arm drops away so they might walk, the other tucked still around Jane's shoulders as he guides her not into the village, but down a narrow path into the woods. He'd looked over many options, asked a few questions of his friends and recalled what he could of how Fandral had wooed many maidens. But one story rang true for Volstagg and for Jack and that is the tack he chose.

The path winds away from the houses and shops, the odd bough low enough that Thor has to reach out to lift it to ease their passing. With the light filtering through the leaves it's Serene, comfortable. Gradually the path becomes wider until it forks, he takes the left that leads to a small clearing where there is a pig on a spit, roasting over hot coals and a reasonable distance as to not be made overly warm an arrangement of pillows and blankets.

A bucket of chilled water holds bottled beer, water, and juice; anything he could think of her enjoying. A slim bottle of mead rests in it's own bucket to chill next to a basket of fruit, bread, a small wheel of cheese and a small somewhat blackened casserole.

Charring is not done on pies, apparently. No one told him. Thor's still and quiet as Jane takes it all in, waiting for her response.