6728/It's a date then!

It's a date then!
Date of Scene:	28 June 2021
Location:	Off-realm, Asgard protectorate
Synopsis:	Loki is sent to quell a rebellion as part of his princely duties. Sif heads his army. Of course they're successful.
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Sif

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Loki has posed:
When all is said and done, Loki is still a Prince, he's still considered something of a leader and even sometimes, he's the eyes and ears of the Court. As such, there are times when he's called upon, no.. prevailed upon to travel to different realms to.. calm the masses. Of course, more often than not it'd be far better suited to Thor in the fact that the solutions require less negotiation and more.. negotiation.

There, then, Loki and Warriors find themselves on a far distant Realm, on the ground, in armor.. and the last vestiges of an uprising is before them. The count thus far is, well.. Warriors of Asgard 1, Upstarts 0. Well, more like 100 to 0.

The field around them holds little in terms of tactical advantages. No real hills, some trees dotting the area; in all, it had been, and will continue to be an open ground match.

Before the Asgardians, it's not so much of a professional 'army', but rather, old school warriors, some paid for their services and some doing it to 'protect' their land. The leaders beyond are bloodied, worn, and behind their ranks, the fires smoulder from their still 'safe' encampments.

For the Asgardians, their camps too are safe, but that is where the similarity ends. The morale is high for the Warriors and handful of army, the blood on their clothing is (mostly) not their own.

Loki stands on the line, his armor the green and gold hues that he prefers. In hand, his two daggers are held lightly and easily. Upon his head, yes, is his horned helm.

His breath had come in deep draughts at the end of the first battle, and now, in the potential ending for this tableau, he's calm, and holds something of a feral smile.

"You can avoid this, you know," is called out, though, "Please don't," is murmured only for his own ranks. "I assure you, all will be forgiven," and again, in that sotto voice, "Your grandchildren, perhaps."

"I don't believe you!" is called back from what looks to be a possible leader; he wears what Midgard would call 'viking' wear. Breeches, tunics, furs hanging for armored protection.

Loki's smile doesn't falter, but his response is more for his own side than the opposing force, "I hear that a lot. Pity."

Sif has posed:
Sif, who'd held herself back, directing for the most part, the soldiers to effect Loki's commands, is, nonetheless, spotted with blood.

Because you can't keep her from battle once it is joined and forces are committed.

She isn't Grecian. She's not the uncontrolled lout of Ares, nor the cerebral Athæna. She's somewhere between the two: enough discipline and foresight to plan and control. Enough lust for the battle itself to finally commit herself to it.

And now she's exhilarated. Pacing around like a panther on the prowl, prey in sight.

"They insult the Throne!" she says to Loki. Hastily adding, "My Prince" at the end to not herself run afoul of that very same charge. "Allow me to let slip my Ulfhethnar, Prince Loki. Let me show them the price of defiance!"

The Ulfhethnar. Of course she'd bring her favourite band of merry berserkers. The Wolf Warriors. Drinkers of potions that gave them supernatural strength paired with a supernatural rage. A rage that Sif, when drinking deeply from her own inner cups of blood lust can match in ways that disturb those who know her and see her in its throes.

"I have them flanked by archers. I have horsemen ready in the reserve to pick off stragglers once they break. I have a solid wall of spear-and-shield to interdict any passage toward us. Let me unleash the archers and slip the leashes on my hounds of war!"

That dangerous glint is in her eyes. She wants. She wants this. She's under control, but itching to do violence. This is the Sif of the Conquering. Commander of the field armies that won the final borders of the Nine Realms.

And not the Sif of the court.

Loki has posed:
Loki is very much aware of the resources at hand, and to be honest, he does enjoy this part of the battle. The almost euphoric feeling of battle is still present, but beginning to wane as he stands as part of that forward. He's posturing; almost strutting like a peacock in its finery.

That is, after all, his job. He just actually enjoys it. It's what he was born to do, after all?

A hand rises to forestall what is undoubtedly the inevitable, and he turns his head to look at his friend, she who has been tasked to remain with the princes. "I know," is murmured pleasantly.

Turning then to the numbers before them, Loki sounds so very reasonable, his tones rising and falling in seemingly casual conversation. "You do know you can't win."

"We wish our freedom from your tyrany! What you demand is unsustainable!" Not so very conversational on the other end. "It is time!"

Loki looks almost bored at the words beyond the field. He's heard them so often, and over and over. He'd been sent by Odin to quell the rebellion, and quell it he will. A sigh exits the Prince, and his hand rolls in a circle as in the gesture of 'yes, yes, yes...' before he turns to Sif and smiles. It reaches those green eyes, but it's not in humor. No, he too is looking forward to what is about to come to pass.

"Archers first. Though, if your Ulfhethnar wish to enter, then we shall hold the archers and see exactly how tightly they'll hold to their thoughts of freedom."

Sif has posed:
"I'll repurpose the archers to sweep the flanks when they break."

And thus is Sif's preparedness shown. She grabs up her standard, stuck in the ground beside her as she accompanied the Prince, and whirls it in a patterned display.

The archers move.

Falling back from their commanding position to shatter the main body of the foes, they slip to the side, ready to skirmish with any flankers to tie them down; ready to end those fleeing what is about to come. Nodding in approval at their rapid adherence to orders and precision movement, a thought strikes her.

"Now I understand that game they play on Midgard with a hand egg."

That mysterious pronouncement made she turns back to the prince. "Prince Loki, the Ulfhethnar are at your disposal. By your leave I should like to take the head of their formation."

She's vibrating.

She doesn't want to be there. She needs to be.

Eyes alight. Skin flushed. Breathing ragged. This is what she has grown to live for, the flighty, irresponsible, selfish, lightweight of a girl that was once the playmate to the princes long gone, washed away in the blood of centuries.

"By your leave?" she repeats.

Loki has posed:
As far as tactics go, Loki is as good a tactitian as Thor, as Sif.. they've all studied and worked and fought together from small skirmishes to grand battles. This, for the books, is one of the smaller cases, but no less important. Odin must make a point, and a point will be made. Asgard does rule with an iron hand, though not without offering up the soft glove first. That soft glove, however, does hold iron within. It will be generations before any here even speak of what will now occur.

The twin daggers are twirled and set away, seemingly disappearing in Loki's hands as he turns to Sif, his head inclining. "They've had their warning." With the pronouncement, he watches as his premiere guards begin their carefully choreographed movements, their deadly precision not lost on those who will undoubtedly fall this day.

"Wait.. wait!" One voice falters at their ranks.

Loki, however, isn't in the mood. Not now, and it does indeed fall upon deaf ears. He does look briefly puzzled, however, and he looks to Sif, brows rising in askance before, "Hand egg?" What?

His hand does rise to both wave off the mystery and to give leave. "Yes, do it.." and his voice drops before, "Better than boring dinner and dancing, then?"

Sif has posed:
Sif's grin is already a feral one, but her eyes glint in laughter. "This remains the best dance, Your Highness," she says with a salute. "And that game of theirs where they carry a leather egg over a battlefield of armoured participants."

And with that she's off, taking the place at the head of her beloved Ulfhethnar, already smashing spear into shield as they work their crafted poisons into their blood, building up a frenzy of rage and strength. At the head her standard sweeps forward and a wave of berserk warriors leap across the fields of battle.

Give the opponent credit. Crumple they did. It was inevitable with the twin whirling axes of the Goddess of War at the head of slavering berserks who know no fear and feel no pain. But they crumpled after some resistance. Foolish they were to stand up to the Court of Asgard, but bravery they lacked not.

And one, at least, showed belated wisdom; the one Sif slaughtered her way toward to lay to ground with the flats of her blades, later to be trussed and taken to Prince Loki as the new headman of the people...

Loki has posed:
Loki inclines his head head at Sif's agreement with his observation regarding 'the dance'. They are, ultimately, creatures of war. Asgard. Jotunheim.. numerous battles, numerous wars, too many realms to count have been brought under Asgard's sway, under Odin's rule.

Perhaps that is what galls him about Midgard. Why is it so special when these creatures here have been consigned to rule or death? He could easily stand forward and declare his rulership here, but.. why? It's nothing. Nothing to him.

The question of his thus answered, however, is only half heard as green eyes move out towards the battlefield. Part of him wishes to be part of it all, truly. To be riding out, to fight side by side, but for this, there is really no need. Absolute victory is assured, and this isn't just a Sunday afternoon skirmish. Well, alright, it could be, but a point is being made here today, and that point wouldn't have been brought home so forcefully as it could be without their troops.

And the Lady Sif.

Loki watches, then, from the line and watches the battle. A servant offers a glass of wine, to which he certainly does accept. Civilized killing.. this is now more a spectator sport than a war; Sif was right in her comparison. Perhaps more correct than perhaps she was aware?

The slaughter is most decidedlly one-sided, and as the newly decided upon leader of their people is bound and dragged from his place upon the ground, Loki is finishing up his drink and setting it aside once again.

Sif has posed:
Sif is bloodied after the conflict. Some of it is clearly her own as a vicious, deep puncture through her leg indicates where it seems a spear pierced and went through.

Most is not.

"They fought well!" she praised. "They were warriors, not peasants pressed into service. This was a worthy battle."

The bundled-up wiser of the men is thrown at Loki's feet.

"I marked one at the start that sounded as if he would better listen to persuasion," she reports. "I ensured his survival for your benefit."

She has that flushed look. He's seen it many times before, both on the battlefield and in a different kind of more intimate battle. Every nerve is alive. Ever sense is stretched out to its fullest. Her heart is pounding, sending blood rushing through her veins (some of it spilling out her wounded thigh). That ragged breath. The lit eyes. He knows this all well, ever since her first return from the border marches, departing as a spoiled young noblewoman, returning ... this.

She swallows.

"I beg a boon, Your Highness. Birger, my right shield, fell to one of the foemen. I beg the right to summon the Valkyrior to bring that foeman to Valhalla. He fought bravely and well for his land. He deserves reward, even if struck down in the act of rebellion."

She steps aside, and as the heat of battle leaves her, her step develops a pronounced limp as pain once again registers. The limp aside, however, she does not show other signs of distress. Instead she salutes as two of her wolf warrios carry a third past: the hapless Birger speared through the eye and killed on the spot.

"May I be granted this boon, Highness?"

Loki has posed:
Loki doesn't visibly wince at the wounding of Sif, though he does have to stop himself from pressing forward to kill the one that had scored a blooding. No need, however; they're dispatched with no quarter given. While it looks to mollify the Prince, there is no doubt in his mind that he does wish he'd been out in the field.

If Thor heard about this, he'd give his younger sibling no end of grief for not partaking.

Upon Sif's arrival back, with the bound soon-to-be-promoted man tossed to the ground at his feet, is met with a tight smile and a nod. "Soon enough, we'll retire to the Halls," for feasting. Looking down at his feet, however, that smile easily disappears to form something more severe, and a great deal more regal.

"I am your Prince," Loki begins to the semi-conscious form in the dirt. "You have been allowed to live because you have some sense." He crouches to the man now, not deigning to touch him, but instead shifting a little to look in that dirty, puffy face of his. "Convince me of your wisdom and you shall have your world."

There's a grown, a soft moan and a hint of movement from his lips. Loki kips his head, trying to hear what comes before shaking his head, rising to his height and taking a step back. "I'm sure he'll do well."

The news, however, regarding a fallen warrior darkens Loki's features for a moment. Say what one will, the younger Prince does care for his own, particularly if a 'not Asgardian' has taken the life. "Call them, and have him taken." It's certainly no question in his mind. The man's not done anyone wrong and deserves a place in service to both himself and Odin. "Birman has a place," is assured. The foe, however? Loki looks.. doubtful, but in the face of it, his religion is their religion.. and the belief of Valhalla is a thread through the Realms. Even Midgard recalls it, though only in stories.

"Take him. Perhaps in the company of the others, he will see his folly and one day, if possible, and if asked, he will serve our cause."

Loki takes a step back; he's noticed Sif's limping, and with a couple of paces to the side, he catches her attentions once more, and looking down, it's a silent inquiry, though it is followed up with, "When we return, attend the healers." Loki smiles soon after, adding, "And then the Hall."

Sif has posed:
The questioning glance is caught and Sif shrugs. It will be OK, her eyes say. Something suggests she's leaving it untreated as a form of pennance for being foolish. Pain is, after all, a good guide.

"I have no doubt he will," Sif says. "He fought with honour. He will be watched, of course, and in thrall, but I feel it in him. He will learn service."

The summoning is as simple as it is impressive. Having both trained with and trained the Valkyrior, as well as commanding them (at least in principle), a small enchantment in an amulet around her neck needs some fell words, learned by rote (and making Loki cringe, undoubtedly, with the barbaric pronunciation thereof), for the summoning to start. In the skies a circle of pitchest black forms, ringed by blue haze, and from it come forth a squadron of winged horses, women on their backs releasing war cries that would chill the souls even of the dead.

One flies to Sif as the rest land near the battle and start their grisly harvest, looking into the eyes of the dead, finding the spirits most heroic to take with them to Valhalla. Tears fall as they mourn the heroes, while faces smile in comfort to those still clinging to life as the psychopomps await their deaths.

"Geirahoth!" Sif greets the one coming to her with a broad grin. "They sent you. A squadron of your own now! Which of your superiors was drunk the day they picked you!"

The pair clasp forearms and hug, the smaller laughing at Sif's little dig. "You summoned me, Ladyship?" she asks. "Yes. I have a special task for you. I have marked one of the fallen foe and sought the Prince's boon. He is to be harvested with our own and held in thrall for a chance to serve as Einherjar."

"As you wish, Ladyship, Your Highness," The Valkyrior salutes Sif, then falls to one knee before Loki, one fist on the ground, awaiting dismissal to go about her task.

"You mentioned the Hall, My Prince?" Sif asks Loki with a barely-suppressed grin. "Must I truly waste time with the leeches? I could stand some mead."

Loki has posed:
There he goes, getting caught in the act of actually showing concern! Green eyes drop to the wound once more, and he presses his lips together again before he takes an audible breath, and lets it out in a sigh. "Right. If you didn't have a bloody bandage wrapped about you, how could you brag of your battle in the Hall? Proof there is." A tight smile rises, and he seems to relent, looking down at the man at his feet.

Turning to the side, he calls a guard, "Take him to the thynghowe. I'll meet with him there." Once collected, Loki is free to watch the valkyrior arrive for their part in the battle. Loki straightens again, his head canted as he counts those taken, inclining his head as if they'd need his permission to take one, hold another, or to attend to the time when the last breath is taken. It is true, however; he'll be working with Sif on her pronunciation. Later. After a couple of tankards of meade are taken, that is.

The obeissance is given, and is accepted from the Valkyrior, his manner and mien courtly, regal as befitting a Prince of Asgard. "You have heeded your call. Go, do as you will, as you are bid," is returned softly. Once dismissed, it appears as if a lightswitch has been flicked, and he turns to face Sif, brows rising. He's a touch more animated, and with a smile, he answers her,

"Leeches first, then mead. The other way 'round means the leeches get their share. When you finish, I no doubt will be done as well."

Sif has posed:
Sif's face says it all. She accepts the wisdom. But doesn't like it.

(His jape about the bloody bandage struck close to home too, given the little flinch.)

Quickly checking that none are in earshot, keeping his decorum and face in public while showing her rebellious wildcat nature in private, she hisses, "Fine! I'll see the damnable leeches. It's a flesh wound. I've had worse in hairdressing accidents!" Then she grins, adding in a lounder voice, "By your leave, Highness," before limping off--and it's now quite a pronounced limp; girl been frontin'--to be treated at the healers.

And showing why she's a popular leader as she waits in line at the back, refusing to be bumped ahead of more seriously-wounded warriors, waiting her appropriate turn. (Quite a few in Court could learn from that little gesture.)

The "wise" leader--Frode Arnesson--is quick to listen to reason, understandable after seeing so many people die in such short time in such brutal ways. It doesn't take long to swear in a new headman who then swears fealty to Asgard and Odin...