Owner	Pose
Loki	When Sif arrives at 501 (and a half) street, the bracelet from Queen Frigga allows her to once again pierce the veils over the residence. A ruby-eyed demonic gargoyle, a new addition since the last time she was there, lifts its head, doglike ears sharp and pointed. It's laying on the spot where a welcome mat would be, were anyone actually welcome, stony body covered in spikes of metal and iron. It eyes her, and--- doesn't move. It just stays there. The door opens, though, now ajar: as if inviting Sif to go ahead and climb over the gargoyle guardian to find entry. Inside, Loki is laying on one end of his couch, an array of various books around him in stacks on the floor. He has his legs up, crossed, and some different scrolls in a pile on the sculptural coffee table. Loki is in Asian-inspired hakama and an open Haori, a fade of light blue to silver sleeves, the neck and chest open. The rune is very visible, as are the angry burned skin around it. "Talked with my brother, I assume?" Loki questions.
Sif	Attending upon the conversation between Thor and his ever-esteemed AllFather had been eye-opening for Sif. Granted, she hadn't anything to say herself in the interest of getting all the information she could, and once the conversation was completed, Thor had near-immediately returned to Midgard in the interest of updating his comrades about the entire situation. Sif had lingered on in Asgard instead. Her steps had traced their way back to her rooms in the royal palace and to the balcony overlooking the broad expanse of the gardens, lush and green despite the crisp of winter at the wind's edges. Fingernails had traced along the finely-carved railing as she'd thought, eyes downcast, before coming to a decision. Brumeoalfold's keen reality-splitting edge delivers her to the front door of 501 and one half with little fanfare. The gargoyle, a new addition indeed, gets a wary eyeing, but that the door itself opens as if to entice or invite her within means the Valkyrie steps long-legged over the guardian of the roost. Seeing Loki in his sprawl after she turns from closing the front door, the Lady of Vanaheim endeavors a small smile. She's not dressed in finery at all; rather, under-dressed with her sword given she left her silvery armor on its mannequin with the usual careful respect. Now only her formed and fitted leathers in shades of wine-red, brown, and cream grace her body. "I did speak to Thor, yes." There's no mincing today, apparently. She walks over to stand by the couch and offer out a hand as a form of contact. "Has he spoken with you?"
Loki	Loki snares two of her fingers, loosely, steering her by just that tiny contact to sit by his crossed legs on the couch. There's plenty of space; Loki's mashed near one end, compared to his general sprawls. It's because he was working on something, so he wasn't thinking about being glamourous. "There was a lot of yelling, some of it forming sentences that made a meager attempt to convey his personal ire," Loki says stiffly, dark eyes hostile for a moment at Thor. "He prefers I suffer for now."
Sif	The long scabbard of the sword is set lightly atop the nearest tabled surface nestled near to the couch before Sif settles herself in the offered space. It leaves her hip bumped to the mage's lower thigh, rotated as she is to tuck her own legs against the front fall of the couch. Fingers captured end up lightly intertwined with those long piano fingers familiar yet. Sif's thumb begins a soothing rubbing across his knuckles as she listens. "Truly? I did not think he would take this stance. Never have I gained this impression from Thor." By all appearances, the Valkyrie is disappointed by the news, though the intensity of the expression is greatly limited by her own courtly decorum in use.
Loki	"'Truly'? Are we going to play a game of 'can Loki lie?'" Loki retorts as she questions whether or not he's being untruthful. He gives her a side-look, but then seems to unruffle his own feathers and look at her more directly. More specifically, he studies her extended hand moving over his knuckles. There isn't distrust there, but there's also a bleak quality. Whether her comforting offer is keeping him from flying deeper into frustration may be hard to determine: but it isn't /harming/. "He's aware he can free me from this humiliating condition, and chooses not to. How else do I take that?" Loki asks her. "Also pressed me for information; when I'm not free to say what I like, that's an interrogation," Loki adds. He has all this angry fuel against Thor's actions. He's angry Thor didn't help him, but he knew he wouldn't, so he anticipated being angry: and is more angry when he was right about it.
Sif	Sif can be seen to unconsciously lean back a minute amount when her word choice flies back at her. A flicker of her brows wishing to meet betrays her fleeting moment of self-scolding -- there wasn't enough forethought, apparently. Back and forth, the sweeping motions of her thumbpad continue, inexorable and yet light enough to be less than repetative enough to feel to wear at skin. "Ah...he came to speak with you at the height of his fervor." Pensively, she speaks, and her pale eyes slide to one side, some middling distance of the floor. "Did he say that he refused to aid you entirely?" Her eyes meet and hold his sparking green gaze with a familiarity few can manage.
Loki	"/Yes/, as you know how I /love/----" Loki struggles and fights. Sarcasm is a form of lying. And Loki can't quite finish where he was going with that. It very obviously upsets him, and he makes a smothered sound, frustration spiking. "--/loathe/ him in his mindless berserking state. He made it clear he loves his Midgard toys more than me," Loki determines. "Pretended to want to help me, but did not. More than one of us deserves a geis to keep us truthful," Loki snaps. Loki does turn his hand over, eyes dropping more to her hand again, his open palm turned towards her, fingers loose. He's not angry at her, though a lot of his ire tends to spill out onto everything around him. It's not personal, a lot of the time: an important thing to keep in mind with Loki. If it's personal, it's /very/ gutting and direct. "Fears what I'll 'do', he said. As if I wanted to stay here, like this is my vacation destination after Asgard dungeons."
Sif	Solemnly, her attention upon the mage's palm, Sif nods. Now the tracery of her thumbpad begins tracking the lines embedded upon its expanse, as if she might smooth them away and any other wrinkles of discontent in the process. "I think, in his fervor, your brother let his concerns get the better of him," the Lady of the Court begins in a measured way. "He dearly loves his comrades as he does us as well." Sif's eyes return to his face again. "I know you do not wish to be here and I know you do not wish to deal with the circumstances of your father's decision. Still...I was there when your brother spoke with him, not so long ago." Her expression remains so very solemn. "I have seen you both act in cooperation with one another. Is it impossible now?"
Loki	"However you say he /feels/, it did not seem 'brotherly' to /me/," Loki returns. "Though I suppose it IS, seeing as that is how we always are, as of late." There isn't a lie in it, since Loki isn't entirely certain either way. Wishy-washy topic at hand. "Don't think I don't see your efforts to manipulate me to think kindly of him," Loki points out, but it isn't harsh so much as amused. He's not actively affronted. He does know she wants them to get along, of course. He just feels it's impossible, seeing as Thor is such a buffoon and unrelentingly awful. "Impossible? Depends on him. /I/ can do it," Loki says, direct. "And you know I mean that." He clicks his tongue inside his teeth, a leer present: one which would make his words suspect, if not for the spell on him of truth!
Sif	Loki's own veiled amusement at her attempts is returned in kind. The corners of Sif's lips barely rise in a knowing, mildly sardonic little smile; so much for successfully being subtle. Two years apart and she's gotten rusty, it seems. "I know you can do it." Confidence is on full display as she replies to Loki. "I look forward to seeing it. There has been many a time where you and Thor have acted in unity for the betterment of the situation at hand. Perhaps consider it as a chance to prove your father wrong...?" Forget cajoling the Trickster God to like his brother. The chance to stick it to Odin? -- a far more tempting morsel, she's certain.
Loki	"Unity against our father's edict?" Loki suggests doubtfully. He tilts his other hand in a back and forth motion, doubtful but not entirely dismissive. "No matter what we do he will see it as his master plan," Loki decides, with irritation. He curls his fingers upwards against the underside of her palm. "As for working with Thor? He should be so /lucky/ to have my assistance. He has enjoyed all of the credit for times I have helped him in the past, times where he has been too blind to see my subtle hand in things," Loki sniffs. "For example, the fight with the horned Rodagon. /I/ slowed it so that he could slay it in the first place. Zero credit." Not that Loki has mentioned this before, he pretended to not be involved. Wounds that just slowly fester. "So not only do I have to help him, I have to do it in such an obvious way that he doesn't /overlook/ it."
Sif	"A subtle hand is rarely seen," Sif notes in the generalized interest of fairness to //both// brothers. She's nearly done tracing over the lines of Loki's palm and thinks to move on to each shallow rise of knuckle once she's completed this task. It seems to soothe him. "And subtlety is not your brother's forte," she continues with a small smile to herself. "I remember the Rodagon well enough. I have faith that you will find a way to make your aid well-known to him -- that, and I wonder at your father's edict pushing him to be more observant as it stands. We shall see." Loki then gets one of those rare fond looks from the Valkyrie. They aren't rare towards him, but rare from the Aesir warrior in general. "You were at research, however, and have not told me anything of it." A nod to the books he has scattered about. "Tell me what you study. I shall get us wine that we may not grow parched as you share." Surely a less irritating diversion in topic and a chance for the mage's wounded ego to bolster itself with a little bragging. Wine always helps.