63/Out of Jail Free

Out of Jail Free
Date of Scene:	22 February 2020
Location:	501 (and a half) Hill St, New York
Synopsis:	Sif checks in on a very UPSET prince of Asgard, Loki.
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Sif

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Loki has posed:
The entrance to the apartment would be impossible to find for someone that didn't know exactly where to look: how to see /between/ the folds of illusion. The magic is thick: it creates a perception of that 501 Hill street and 503 Hill Street are next door to each other. But, of course, there is truthfully a 501 and one half in between them, where one of the secret lairs of a mage is seated.

With a magical object in hand meant to pierce these particular types of glamours, though, one can force one's mind to accept that the distance between 501 and 503 is actually different than what the magic really tries to coax to be reality.

Sif has posed:
The bracelet about the raven-haired woman's wrist is a fine thing indeed; falling light glances through gems of a rather boggling size within gold filigree. It's here where the enchantment of Frigga's make lies, interwoven to the jewelry so that this impossible 501 and one half comes into better view.

Still, standing there in silvery armor and red leather padding, Brumeoalfold at her hip in habitual defense, Sif squints at the space. Er, the space between spaces. A glance to the left and right finds no one else around to stare at //her//, rather, given her current guise, and the Aesir warrior then goes back to considering this...oddity.

"She said it would be here. My memory is not marred," murmurs the Lady to herself. A quick check at her wrist proves the jewelry to still be present, even to the touch.

Magic. Oy.

Loki has posed:
The bracelet impacts the magic: and it sets off something within. The shielding on the building seems to PULL forward, jerkingly.

The attack comes out of nowhere, like a bolt of lightning from a clear sky. Only the best of the best may have some hope to do something about this sudden ambush: except that it also comes with a spit of words. "/Foolish assassin/. Come to finish off the so-called /weak/?!" snarls Loki, as a roil of magic fluxes, and a shape of ghost-like black springs out to intercept the would-be 'assassin' from the side. There's a flash of motion, glittering blue magical talons, aiming for deadly accuracy at the head.

Nu'kuol, the claw-talons of the bleak winter, shine in runed metal from Loki's left hand, the long tendrils of sapping frozen magic slithering from each of the taloned fingers. The whip-like strands are swirling in aggressive curved blades in a whirling shape as they seek to lash around and catch prey unawares in their biting grip.

Loki himself is translucent, a blue-black shadow, perhaps partially phased, this voice thick with revulsion and deadly purpose!

Sif has posed:
But for the long centuries of training even before she became worthy of the monicker 'Goddess of War' and then yet again as Valkyrie, Sif would have been in deep trouble. When reality before her warps and wefts, she grimaces and tenses, readies for some craziness.

It comes in a familiar tone of voice not heard for a few years yet and a fantastically-lethal attempt to deal with a misidentified source of trouble! Throwing herself back heedless of empty space behind herself, the Aesir warrior draws her enchanted sword in order to counter each blurred blade at the ends of their thrumming threads. It makes for a sharp run of ringing impacts and then Sif sets herself in a well-guarded stance, sword before herself.

"Loki, you are mistaken! Stand down!" Her own words spit back in turn with the undertone of a lioness's growl. Gone keen and cold are Sif's pale eyes now as her blood heats and dances through her enlivened body.

Loki has posed:
Loki was already into the next assault before the warding off actually lands; his attacks are always in nasty, quick bursts like this: if forced into physical measures, he's a rogue. He'd prefer to get in a lethal spike and vanish.

The blurred magical whips crack and scream against Sif's magical sword, flipping backwards at some hits, and wrapping around the sword with others, only to have the whips flung by the talented Valkyrie. No, they can't harm it, but they try, like freezing little boa constrictors, to sap and shriek. The sounds are akin to icepicks in ice, harsh.

"How /DARE/ you----" Loki was already venting, well into some emotional explosion, it seems, as his second attack pumps into the ground, intending to knock the foe down, as he himself come up out of a crouch, his stance tall and dominant, commanding and angry.

Emerald eyes ready to inflict much pain, brewing with hatred come to be visible, as Loki's shape also comes into focus, out of the shadow he'd held himself in. That shadow-step was highly defensive, but he also only saw a glimpse of his 'attacker'. Oh. Loki holds for a moment.

Sif has posed:
Ringing still travels down Brumeoalfold and into Sif's fingerbones from the impacts of deflecting the entire first attack. The second one's insinuation has her stepping into a more defensive posture yet rather than seeking out the barest hint of an opening for a counter-blow. The air around her has dropped enough in temperature that her next harsh grit of a sigh clouds before her plush lips.

"Yes, Loki, it is Sif -- stand //down//," she barks again in the same tone she might use to cut into some argument started in a mead hall. "Look for yourself! Use your magic! I am none other!" Ambient light gleams down the long line of her sword as she holds it ready, still defensively, her eyes glittering yet like sea-ice.

Loki has posed:
"/Drop/ that, then," Loki answers, tone cutting, and curving the claws of Nu'kuol upwards, hand held out and forwards, as if gripping an invisible ball. The whips retract in a swirl into the talons of the gauntlet, still blazing but short: just a few inches extended out of each clawed tip. Their freezing magic continues to pitch the cloaked street in frigid chill.

Loki pulls his other hand forward, a very forced, deliberate effort with magic shown, but the spell itself looks like nothing, if he actually cast. "/You/ will trust /me/!" Loki declares, a bit shrill, in a yell. There's an exposed nerve here, a hyper-defensiveness. The lack of direct assault makes Loki easier to see, and actually take in. The mage is clearly in some extreme emotional stress, his attire probably non-magical, dark hair loose and untidy.

Sif has posed:
Sif swallows carefully. Frigga had warned her beforehand that the agreement reached and this banishment bestowed wasn't accepted easily by the green-eyed mage. What the Queen-mother hadn't warned about was the off-chance that the Trickster God would be unsettled enough to act as she's seen thus far.

Obviously, slowly, the Valkyrie in her shining armor showcases first the palm of her free hand. "I am sheathing my weapon, Loki," she explains even as her actions prove this to be true. Away goes the starshine of Brumeoalfold's impossible edge into its enchanted sheath and with care, the dark-haired woman straightens in place. "I do not wish to fight you. I come to see how you fare." Her voice remains still tight if even. Her pulse can easily be seen in her throat and color at her cheeks.

Loki has posed:
Loki stalks to one side: a semi-circle around to her right, though he lowers the gauntlet to his side, fingers still curled. Part of keeping the whips pulled in has to do with finger position; the artifact is more based on physical finesse than any magical requirement from the wielder. Loki heaves with a targetless rage, jaw clamped, eyes fierce with it.

The mage wanted a fight, but he doesn't actively want to fight /Sif/. There's a tearing here, and a very fine line between him letting his emotions simply rule him. He wants to rip things apart, ruin things, express his injury and pain.

Loki studies her, his expression a churning cauldron of barely sheathed emotional chaos. No, Queen Frigga did not detail that Loki might be in this state - though she did observe that Loki is sensitive. Which is a ... certain way of putting it.

Sif has posed:
While pink still sits at the crests of the Aesir warrior cheeks, she returns that piercing look with one full of strained patience. There's an impression of drawing herself up taller yet, as if dignity and courtly manners would provide some sort of mollifying effect.

"I am none other," Sif stresses, her voice gone more quiet if no less subtly steely. "I was sent by one who loves you to see that you were as comfortable as could be managed. I trust that you can see no enchantment on me but for my sword and the bracelet at my wrist." Again, deliberately, she lifts her arm to display the gold-filigreed item clinging to her wrist between the hem of her fingerless glove and her gauntlet. "You should recognize the signature, yes?"

Loki has posed:
"I am not /so/ weakened as to not recognize that," Loki retorts peevishly. His anger and upset is being weilded like a flame-thrower: just anything and everything around him. His stalking arc moves in towards her: there's a tension to it, but the gauntlet is lowered still.

"You were /sent/," Loki repeats, as if her being sent irritated him more than if she'd chosen to come on her own. Everything is an insult! Still, Loki continues closer, to lift his right hand to pluck at the bracelet and turn it in orientation against her wrist, as she'd offered it to him to inspect.

"Do I look comfortable?" Loki asks, though his tone has become more of a sulky one than actively aggressive.

Sif has posed:
"You do not look comfortable, no." Sif isn't about to beat around the bush and attempt to be anything less than her usual brusque self. It might be a familiarity for the stricken Mage now looking over the enchanted bracelet. She remains still and relaxed as best she can manage in her poise, eyes falling to his deft fingers and then rising up to his face."And yes, I was sent. I agreed when asked by the one who loves you. I knew I would not find you weak. That anyone might think to take advantage of you at this time...they would deserve every measure of your anger, Loki. I do not pity any who have tried or attempt to in the future."

There's an interesting element to this last bit: defensiveness on her part and something almost akin to a promise.

Loki has posed:
Loki flicks a few fingers against the bracelet, making it sing an ominous, nearly magical note, and then guides it down, showing his disinterest in it after that initial inspection.

Loki's watching her hawkishly, gaze hard and steely, as if searching for a reason to overreact or fly off the handle. She's not giving him much fuel, though, so he's just sort of seething at nothing. It's an uncomfortable place to be.

Loki suddenly steps in closer to her, though. A flex of hand extinguishes the claws on the gauntlet fully, as he drops his gaze and attempts to bring his forehead in and down to the side of her neck. He can't shake his trembling anger and injury. Yet he also is seeking comfort.

"I'll burn their /dreams/ to the ground for trying me," Loki answers, a cold murder in his voice.

Sif has posed:
A more subtle lingering vibration slips into Sif's wrist after the Trickster God finishes ascertaining that the bracelet is precisely as she claimed it to be. Down her arm goes and she stands with arms neutral at her sides, fighting madly the habit of resting one palm on the pommel of her sword. The fingers of the braceleted hand stretch and flex by her thigh while her eyes remain upon him, watching him and still marking any unfamiliar behaviors.

Steeling herself, the Valkyrie holds very, very still when Loki leans in. Her gaze, aimed past him, still sharpens and lids more in long-earned wisdom of the sneaky ways of the magically-inclined. He might feel the nod rather than see it if he's close enough still when her cheek brushes at her hair.

"I would expect no less. It would be dishonorable at the very least to attempt anything against you at this time," murmurs the woman in agreement, her tone still forced to calm. "They would deserve such a response."

Loki has posed:
Loki emits a funky little sound: a mix between a petulant grump and a snort of air through his nose. It's both cocky and upset in one. A sort of agreement, accepting her backup about his situation without a pointless arguement. But he feels off-balance, exposed, insulted, /degraded/, on Midgard. It's a boiling pot of very frustrated Loki. Odin has essentially sent him into 'time out', and Loki never reacts well to time-outs.

"I don't expect you to be on my side," Loki says, even as he lifts his guantlet-free hand to put it loosely on her outer shoulder, before partially attempting to rest his chin and part of his cheek there. A glance will show his razorblade eyes aren't actually on her, but are down and aside. That is, in fact, one of the largest clues that he's not about to try to rip her rib-cage out.

He'd want to watch that.

Sif has posed:
Now comes the first long and quiet sigh. Sif aims a glance over at him without overmuch turning her face to see that he looks, frankly, rather worn thin about his edges.

As has been her penchant with motions thus far, again with deliberation and obvious intent, the Valkyrie lifts her hand opposite of the shoulder acting as temporary pillow and very, very gently attempts to rub at Loki's shoulder in turn. Soothingly, her voice drops into a tone more familiar now. "I was not present for this decision and I am sorry for it, Loki. I was in Vanaheim helping to delegate in Court there when this all came about. When I heard, I immediately came to see what could be done. That I am here speaks volumes as it stands, does it not?"

Loki has posed:
"I don't deserve this," Loki says, voice thick with his insulted pride. His shoulders lift, an anger and tension in them showcasing his primary defensive mood. It's all to cover his greater struggles, though: the nature of what he's being required of him by Odin is like broken glass in his veins. And it's still too current and fresh to have any other response yet. Loki needs to exhaust his anger first. But he doesn't have enough will to inflict it on Sif, who isn't giving him reason to turn on her.

"Would not have mattered what you said anyway. Father listens /selectively/," Loki complains. Still, he takes the last step in, and allows the weight of his head and arm to actually be on her. He's shifted out of being on warpath against EVERYTHING, and has accepted venting to Sif, instead. "If he listened to me, none of this would have been needed. But noooooo. Thor, Thor, Thor."

Sif has posed:
Warm and gentle despite the calluses of war on her palm, the path of the Valkyrie's hand circles out from the roundel of the Mage's shoulder and out to the plate of bone properly. It seems a shame to her to see these shoulders curled and it hurts a quiet corner of her heart to hear how his normally smooth tongue seems tied up over the entire affair.

Leaning her head to one side to pillow her cheek against his temple, Sif lets out another sigh. Her eyes look into some middling distance as she speaks. "Your brother has ever held the attention of your father. I have known this since our childhood. It is a curse to be the firstborn in its way. It also does not diminish your own struggles, Loki."

The barest hint of a sad smile shows at the corners of her lips, possibly unseen. "That your father would not have listened...that I cannot tell. I like to think that I have my ways to reaching him, rare as these instances may be. Your mother was more open to speaking with me."

Loki has posed:
"I am a PRINCE of Asgard!" Loki explodes. He's fully capable of revving himself back up into anger. VERY capable, in fact. However, this time he growls and turns his head, into a partial headbutt against and into her neck, more than her shoulder. Sharp eyes open, sly and mean, to glare out sideways at his magical doorstep.

"Just look at this dump," he grouses. "I have my own /castle/," Loki continues to vent, frustrated, and salting his own wound. He releases a wordless, frustrated snarl, but doesn't do anything except breathe hard for a few deep breaths. His anger vented out for the moment, he draws the gauntlet up towards the opposite side of her neck, the talons sparkling cruel silver, but just loosely attempts to touch her opposide shoulder, and begin to lift his head away.

"You may as well come inside the dump," Loki mopes, but begins to step back and orient towards the illusionary entryway.

Sif has posed:
Sif blinks a few times at the sudden increase in volume. Her ear is left ringing after it, but it seems a momentary flare for all nothing comes of it but more searching for comfort. At the subtle implication, she does glance over towards the one point five apartments' worth of space only visible due to the bracelet's influence.

Her direction of gaze means she gets to see the rise of the mystical weapon and this she watches with hawk-like concern at least until it appears there's to be no use of it.

"I would like to see your living quarters, yes," she agrees, leaving her hand upon his shoulder until distance makes it impossible to keep contact. "I intended to see and then inquire if there were anything that could be provided //within reason//." She gives him a level, patient look. "Your mother can only do so much, Loki, but I promised to bring her word if you did have need for something to give comfort."

Loki has posed:
"I'm not going to ask for anything," Loki says, with a stiff pride. He does step away, but it's mostly just to lead the way inside to the entryway of the ensorcelled house.

Once through the door, though? There is zero reason why Loki should be upset, really. The place isn't enormous, but it is very luxurious. It is a hidey-hole Loki made for himself: a bolt-hole for 'just in case' in New York. And it's turned out that he's needed it. Loki enters, drawing the gauntlet off, and puts it with some clear caution on a rack on the side wall, where several other objects of various types hang. It's evident with Loki's treatment of the glove that it is, in fact, due a lot of respect.

There is a long couch, as well as a reading nook with a floating, magical hammock. Decorations are very tasteful: paintings of sweeping landscapes, furniture warm cherry wood draped in velvety purples. There's a scent of incense and warmth to the place. It's a /very/ far cry from a prison.

"She sent /you/, obviously," Loki points out, his emotional exhaustion reducing his need to talk around subjects. Games are less fun when you're tired.

Sif has posed:
Sif doesn't give an immediate response to the denial. She knows there might come a later change of heart or mind after the immediate jangling of tested nerves dies down more. Quietly in her boots, she follows Loki through the doorway and into his temporary bolthole. While he removes his own enchanted weaponry, Sif's hand idly falls to the pommel of Brumeoalfold as she wanders into the place further. Her eyes cast about the room, marking the furniture and decor, and she pauses along the back of the couch to brush a touch along its backing. The fabric is of fine make. At Loki's comment, she looks over her shoulder before turning to fully face him.

"Loki. I spoke to your mother with the intent of reaching out to you at the very least. She aided me in finding you. I was not sent. I came of my own accord."

Loki has posed:
"Sif," Loki says, his mercurial nature rearing as his tone slides kind. It's not entirely his current mood, but he's an exceptionally adept actor, and he means what he says to come from a kinder tone of voice, to convey properly. "She suspected I needed /something/," Loki says. "And here you are. 'Something.'" As in, she is that comfort of Frigga's design and Loki's aware. Loki gestures across her with one hand, and strides a few paces to his couch, to relax upon it in his usual regal abandon. All he lacks is servants gathering around to feed his royal highness some grapes and fan him with leaves.

Loki's natural mood comes to bear again, and he gives a deep breath, long-sufferingly, but he does seem to have pulled out of being quite as angry. He appraisingly watches Sif, instead. He hasn't seen her for two years, but for long-lived creatures such as they, it does not feel so long.

Sif has posed:
While Loki flops, Sif's lashes flutter a few times. She briefly turns her back to the couch and works down a hard swallow through a tightened throat. Knowing that her own chosen actions might have been interpreted as such doesn't remove the sting from the observation given voice, even if Frigga had warned her beforehand.

Still, raised to Court and fearless in it, the Lady gathers her dignity around her once more for a flawless mask worn as she turns back to face him again. Her hand remains rested upon the sword's grip-end. "I am here then. Is there something else you need as well?" It seems the safest conversational route. She asks, and she waits, her own regard resting upon him with a comfortable boldness in his presence.

Loki has posed:
"Did anyone tell you what /restrictions/ were put on me? My /punishments/?" Loki questions, with a click of tongue against his teeth. There isn't a sense that he's changing the subject: no, he's watching her closely, now, weighing her reactions. Loki is coming out of himself: he was so entirely focused on his own injury and problems that he was not even really paying full attention to how she felt. He can get very self-absorbed: but some of the social awareness (as well as /caring/ about it) is back.

"I'm not changing the subject, humor me," Loki requests, with a slight smirk in the edge of his voice though it doesn't come entirely to his face. "And stop hovering?" he suggests. Not that he's made space for her. She'll have to play the 'how do I move Loki' game.

Sif has posed:
"Of course." Sif makes a point to walk around the far end of the couch by Loki's feet and then seats herself on its arm. Despite the armor and leather padding, she somehow manages to cross her legs at the knee and keep her back straight as if she were rested in a chair. It means settling her arms in her lap in a neutral manner.

"And I was told little of your restrictions and punishments," she reveals more quietly, eyes downcast to her boots now. "I was more concerned in seeing that you were as comfortable as could be managed." Now her attention lingers on one of the beautiful pieces of artwork hung on the wall, a depiction of a majestic mountain range reflected in the mirror-like stillness of a glacial lake.

Loki has posed:
Loki doesn't move at first, he just watches her 'make herself uncomfortable' on the arm of the couch. He leaves that alone, at first: his injury is starting to bleed again, and he requires comfort and ego-petting.

"/Well/," Loki sniffs, rotating his left hand towards himself, and then draws his upper collar down and aside. There's a big rune there, glittering in inky purple with glossy flecks of red. It's elaborate, but rings of Odin's potent power. "/Branded/," Loki says, as if it were the final, last straw against his regal self that could be tolerated. Woe is Loki!

"Chains on magic, and restrictions on my truth-stretching," complains the god of mischief. "If you came to ask pointed questions of me in this state - I'll have you know, I rarely misdirect you /anyway/," Loki says. He also finally moves to create a clear space for her on the couch, finally, with an incline of head that is a clear invitation.

Sif has posed:
Motion in her peripheral makes the Aesir warrior glance from admiring the artwork to Loki again. Her pale eyes find his hand and then the revelation on his skin afterwards. It breaks her poise: dark brows knit and her lips purse.

"You rarely misdirect me, this is true," allows the raven-haired Goddess. She only pauses for a heartbeat before rising from her perch. Brumeoalfold is tucked against the vertical rise of the couch's arm. Settling herself on the lounge furniture means allowing herself visible relaxation into the pillowing. Her regard doesn't stray from him now.

"Let me see the brand closer, Loki," she then asks. Lifting a hand towards him is invitation to trust her enough to look at it.

Loki has posed:
"Help yourself," Loki answers, flippant, in a way that boasts how unphased he clearly is about the rune on him. It's a defensive thing: if he pretends it doesn't bother him or is no big deal, well, then nobody can use it against him as a weakness.

That it really is indeed a HUGE deal is shown in how he watches her very, very closely, for any hint of either amusement or pity: which could, of course, set off the injured godling. Loki stays as he is, though he does hold his shirt collar open fully for her to see or inspect, without flinch.

Sif has posed:
Given he's not coming to her, she must go to him. Scootching down the couch and close enough that her hip bumps against his thigh, Sif then leans in. Her expression is more akin to those seen in the infirmary in Asgard, on a healer or one concerned with the permanency of the damage seen.

Her sigh is silent; it still might tickle at his hair and cheek. Her hands remain in her lap at first, but inevitably, one slinks to rest lightly on his rested forearm. Pulling back, she looks between his jade-green eyes. "How long are you to stay on Midgard?"

Loki has posed:
Loki stayed where he was, as if it were important to show how relaxed he is about the whole situation, but when she really wants to see, and doesn't seem to be judgey about it, Loki sits up and lets her look, then allows his hand to drop away. Part of the brand remains visible.

"Until I finish my stupid assignment," Loki says, mutinously, daggers immediately returning to his eyes. There's no lie there, just a frustration. "Has to do with Thor. Because /everything/ has to do with Thor," Loki laments, starting to draw himself up into anger again. But this time, he returns the look, and instead leans against the back of the couch towards her, and shakes his head. "Or until I remove it myself."

Sif has posed:
"The stupid assignment has to do with Thor? What would it take for you to remove it if need came of this option?" This has the Valkyrie's curiosity surely piqued.

She remains where she is, comfortably close now, enough so that anyone walking in would realize that history lies between the two Asgardians. Her hand gives the Mage's forearm a gentle, cajoling squeeze. Whatever leeriness that initially haunted her even through the bolthole's front door has all but evaporated now.

Loki has posed:
"What would it take? Well, there's a few ways; there's always loopholes to magic. Or talking to my father," Loki adds. "After all, I did get this improvement over sitting in the Asgard Dungeon. Who's to say I can't get another reduction in two more lousy years." Loki's annoyed but there's confidence there: he's self assured, really, in his ability to get out of doing what he's supposed to be doing.

"Father /wants/ me to /help/ Thor. Might rather sit here for two years," Loki huffs. It's honest: Loki may or may not be capable of lying at the moment. "Think Thor wants /my/ help? Maybe I can trick him into it," Loki suggests. Her brush of fingers on his arm seems to have chilled him out: much like petting a cat. His fur was up, but the stroking, since it's allowed by him, is hitting the mark. He's relaxing into their older pattern.

He's letting that comfortable thing between them return.

Sif has posed:
Sif's eyebrows jump in clear surprise. Helping Thor? She looks briefly off to one side and then back to the younger of the two royal brothers, her lips pulled thin. The idea of Loki literally stewing for two years has a very real non-zero probability of happening in her estimation.

The gentling motion of rubbing along his sleeved arm continues. "I cannot speak for him, you know this," she replies, " -- but I cannot see him turning away help offered. I was told that he came to speak with you while you were yet in Asgard. This speaks to his love for you, does it not?"

Ambient light brings out the lighter almost bluish hues in the Valkyrie's hair as she looks between those jade-green eyes. There is a comfortable familiarity easily settling in around them now, almost as an old blanket.

Loki has posed:
"Or he came to /gloat/," Loki points out, the snarp tone a crack of whip instantly, though it isn't really at Sif. It's just a clear show of his distrust about Thor's motives: Loki really does think Thor visited to gloat. Because that would be something Loki would have considered doing if roles were reversed.

Loki releases an enormously put-upon sigh, rotating, and attempting to relax his upper body onto her, making use of her lap. Loki's taken the first few tentative steps and changed it into a sprawl of acceptance.

Loki draws one hand up to attempt to play with a lockof her dark hair; he enjoys looking at it, considering his handiwork in the color to always be something of great beauty. "I tire of everything being about Thor," Loki says, with a direct quality. And then he makes a face. "I intended to say that I hated him," he says, as if chewing on a lemon. "Apparently that's a lie. Go figure."

Sif has posed:
Sif's free hand lifts as if to indicate an inability to take a side in regards to Thor's visit -- and presumes not to offer another option, since now there's some shifting about and now, she has a Trickster God pillowed across her lap. Her mouth rounds into a small shape of momentary surprise before one of those well-known nearly-hidden smiles curls each corner.

Her hair, let free and not bound in bun or braid, is soft to the touch and as remembered across the years. The Valkyrie seems to take no offense in the casualness of the admiring gesture. If anything, she attempts to return it and thread fingernails through the mage's dark hair.

"It must be difficult finding that your inner thoughts are so exposed," she offers, eyes downcast upon his face.

Loki has posed:
Loki leaves his hand up against her hair near her throat in a sort of reckless manner, though there's no weight behind it. If he loathed being alone in the dungeon, he hasn't voiced it verbally, but there are marks of it physically in how quickly he pivoted to being in the location he's in. A lot of anger comes out of not having any attention: and he had two years to stew in his laack of attention!

"Exposed? No, I don't /have/ to share things, I don't think. Just a strange compulsion to have difficulty with falsehood. Which is dreadful; tact is an important piece of courtly life," Loki determines, looking up at her.

"I don't /have/ to answer questions I don't want to, I expect, though I haven't tested it. I've kept to myself, these past few hours." To rage.

Loki's eyes move, partially lidded, to her hand in his hair - or at least, the wrist attached to said hand, and he does a small motion of head to lean his forehead towards her stomach: a clear signal of encouragement.

Sif has posed:
"That is understandable. I cannot imagine wanting company so soon after such an affair." Her fingers continue to comb through the mage's dark hair after the silent permission granted. "However, it is a clever approach, to not answer questions at all," Sif notes with that small smile still hovering about the corners of her lips. "Many a catastrophe has been averted on this premise alone."

His weight warm and present still, shoulders a known spread upon her lap, the Valyrie sighs and looks briefly out across the room again. Her thumb makes to glide above the arch of one refined eyebrow in passing, as if she might be blending paint on a canvas. A glance back down at him is accompanied by a querying lift of her own brows in turn. "Do you wish to test this compulsion? I can ask benign questions."

Loki has posed:
Loki has his eyes partially lidded, which means little when it comes to the trickster: he's keeping tabs, certainly. The glitter of dark jade is ever-present, similar to the hard green-tinged obsidian that his gaze became when he assaulted her on the doorstep. It's still Loki, after all. He's clearly aware of the movement of her fingers on his forehead and hairline. His hair is mussed, but not tangled, and has a light scent of the incense of the home clinging to it.

"It may not be a test if they are all truly benign," Loki teases her, moving the fingers near her neck to brush the backs of them against the edge of her chin. It adds a slight flirtation to his tone. "But pray, what did you desire to know, Lady Sif?"

Sif has posed:
Tilting her head into the brush of fingers, Sif allows herself a deeper smile and a short sigh almost quick enough to be a muffled laugh. She indulges in finding a bunching of strands of dark hair and mulling it between her fingertips as she thinks, expression eloquent of this.

"I can ask less benign questions," she replies, pleased to have been offered a subtle challenge. "What do I desire to know..." Lips form a brief pout. "I desire to know...if it were you or Amora who filled Thor's bathing tub with frogs in the middle of winter when we were young."

Loki has posed:
"Frogs, Amora," Loki says, with two fingers raised. The frogs drops one finger. "The illusion to get Thor into the bath without being aware that they were frogs until the appropriate moment--" Loki lowers the other finger, "That was me." There's full pride there.

"Oh, I was supposed to lie," Loki teases. He rolls his tongue against the inside of his teeth. And doesn't end up with much other than to weirdly blush and then glower a little, turning his head further towards her. It's a subtle movement of defensiveness, not liking being exposed: and mild trust for the moment that she's at least suitable to turn to in his displeasure.

Sif has posed:
Sif can't help the faint titter, not in the least, as the second finger falls to denote the tale told. The truth is revealed! She had always wondered who was ultimately responsible for the prank of the tub filled to the brim with croaking, cool-skinned frogs.

To watch the Liesmith stumble at his attempt to twist words has the Valkyrie's brows briefly knitting. She smoothes them out quickly enough and then tilts her head. "I promise not to tell your brother about the frogs." Nails glide along the Trickster God's scalp lightly even as she further muses. Her pale eyes narrow thoughtfully.

"Tell me...how terrible my singing is." By the twinkle now in her gaze, she's fully aware that she sings as well if not better than the sweetest nightingale.

Loki has posed:
"Hah, easily, poor thing," Loki smirks, but then abruptly seems to have found that lemon again. His expression turns focused, closed, as if shutters were flung up in his trust. He focuses, drawing his other hand up, with a flex and twirl of two fingers, thumb to pinky, pulling a spell into existance, but then he flinches, with a light, low growl.

The rune on Loki's collarbone floods with color, the purple turning angry and red, a pulse of response that is a very clear signal. Loki's face suddenly is flecked with sweat, and a tremor moves through him.

And he ends up with: "You.... are not as good as I," Loki manages to force out. "But you shouldn't feel bad; few approach my skill..."

Sif has posed:
Suddenly faced with the visible backlash of the mage's attempt to flaunt the chained magics and silver tongue alike, Sif's eyes go wide. She can't help the wince, not in the least, and her fingers pause in their combing through his dark hair.

Still, for the sake of that imdominable pride she knows so well herself to exist amongst all Asgardians, she plunges on with, "You have your tricks, this is true, but for the sake of discussion, I remain a singer of great reknown. Here, let us not test further. It is not that I did not believe, but there is no reason to be more uncomfortable yet for the sake of trial."

In an effort to ameliorate the situation, the Valkyrie adds, "Would you sing for me then, Loki, if I asked it of you? In private -- it need not be a public display."

Loki has posed:
"I'm not in the /mood/," Loki peevishly answers when requested to sing, clenching the hand that just cast magic into a hardened, tightly flexed fist, lifting it to knead across the rune as if he could rub it away if he pressed hard enough. It's unpleasant: he doesn't attempt to lie and pretend it isn't.

"At least we've learned I can still speak my mind," Loki snorts, rolling his eyes, and turns his attention back to her sharply, as if with a flick of a whip. "I agree, enough, unless our objective is to burn the rune off of me," Loki snorts. There's some calculating behind his eyes. "But I might be able to come up with a way to counter it while it's engaged...." his gaze moves liquidly aside, clearly fitting mental puzzle pieces of spellwork together with a mental agility fairly unique to the mage. The rune itself starts to fade back down, and Loki's tension reduces as well.

Sif has posed:
"It need not be now," soothes the Valkyrie. Her nails have picked up their gentle passes through his dark hair once again. "It may be sometime in the far, far future." Until Loki flicks his attention to her again, Sif watches the runic brand's furious color begin to fade away.

Her pale eyes meet his fearlessly. "You will have time to consider these things. For now though, Loki, there is time yet, yes? What of food? Drink? Have you eaten since you arrived? Nothing keeps me from returning with Midgardian fare, if you can stomach it. There are the gyros that we sampled before...or perhaps Thai food for a little heat?" There's less enthusiasm at the idea of chicken masala by her tone, but Sif always did have a soft spot for the gyro restaurant frequented often by her and her comrades.

Loki has posed:
"You will not placate me with meager Midgardian scraps," Loki declares, possibly just to be difficult: to be sure that she's well aware of his pain that he's in. The rune burned, and set him off a little, though he hasn't actually snarled at her. And her soothing is not entirely ineffective.

"I did not /overly/ mind the gyros," Loki sniffs, his dignity suffering, though he is engaging, he is not combative beyond just in a general 'I am upset' way. "The Asgardian wine I have here may make it palatable."

Sif has posed:
A tendril of Loki's dark hair is pulled aside to further give her access to his temples. Fingertips massage around and back into the sleek of locks as Sif nods.

"Then shall I briefly leave and return with these gyros? We may share a repast together," she suggests. "It has been some time since I enjoyed a glass of wine. The company will prove to be enjoyable as well, hmm?" Another small tilt of her head is cajoling in its way, even if it's dramatically understated in comparison to other known Asgardians.

Loki has posed:
Loki makes a strangled growling noise - he's made a number of expressions of his upset this evening that have lacked words, often made when he's attempting to lie. Instead, he huffs a breath through his nose and drops his head back, the last of the tension dropped out of his expression as well. Her fingers roving to temples seem to be doing the trick as he closes his eyes. It's like a weapon being fully sheathed: Loki's gaze, particularly when he's in a state of intense ire, is like having a gleaming weapon beared.

"I /much/ prefer you to any of these mortals here," Loki says, with no shred of dishonesty. "Though I think there may be a great DEAL of wine, and I expect you to keep up."

Sif has posed:
Her thumbpad makes a final, lightly massaging sweep along his hairline. "Loki, you know full well that many an Einherjar in the mead halls has underestimated my ability to keep up." Her smile shows strongest yet now, still refined and somewhat reserved in her usual manner. "I would join you in your great deal of wine. For now, allow me to rise and depart, the better to return with these gyros."

Still, Loki isn't immediately displaced: the Valkyrie allows him to take his time in moving away, knowing that he had found temporary comfort in the closeness to her person, armor aside.

Loki has posed:
"Hmmh," Loki snickers at her comments about her ability to drink. He does, in fact, know that. It's Loki that doesn't tend to get actually /drunk/. But it seems like a reasonable day to go ahead and imbibe rather heavily.

"Seeing as I don't have /pressing/ things to do around here, I'll come along," Loki decides. He doesn't actually get up, he rolls his head back slightly, giving her a knowing, self-important smile... and abruptly shapeshifts.

The shapeshift entirely removes all weight and the warmth of his body from her lap and hands, as he reforms himself into the shape of a sleek black raven. Glossy black with glints of green and violet through his feathers, the large bird flips his tail once, then moves to alight on the back of the couch, within easy reach.

Sif has posed:
Blinking in surprise at the sudden shift of form, Sif's hands are left lifted cautiously in mid-air above her lap. She watches the raven form with a grin now, teeth barely visible, and then rises to her feet. Brumeoalfold is collected and fastened to her belt again. Fussing with the lacings, she glances over through her lashes at the bird, chin still tucked as she works.

"I daresay they might recognize me in this particular outfit. I believe you will be entirely anonymous, Loki." Once the sword is settled, she walks around the end of the couch and over to the raven. Very softly, fingertips make to gloss across the top of his head before she leans in to press a kiss there. Not a single feather is mussed for the light pressure. "Shall we, my lord?"