To a creature capable of slipping through the fabric of spacetime like water through a sieve, trees are hardly a hinderance. Were it not for the spells placed upon it, the box wouldn't have been either. If there were more time, all Loki would need do is wait, wait until his magic returns fully. As it is, he prefers to throw himself against them, let the branches tear harmlessly at his flesh.

There are things to do. Places to be. Besides, why play that particular hand just yet, on the off-chance that all of this is not what it seems?

Nor does he care if they escape. He'd have been perfectly content to let them leave with the creature he'd knocked unconscious; why bother to kill them if they're all likely to die soon enough anyway? When the Jǫtnar descend, and the Æsir and the Vanir too, what chance will they have? When Fenrir swallows the sun, what then?

They're not worth the trouble. Not worth the momentary distraction from his ultimate goal.

Then again, he does wonder, as he throws his shoulder against the nearest trunk, snarling and letting his skin begin to return to more human-like tones, if he truly doesn't want it. If the way he finds the scrape of bark and branches against his skin delicious doesn't mean that he should try, just try, to live the day out. Perhaps.

Perhaps, but it won't happen, so best to leave that train of thought now.