10262/Sif's Midgard digs

Sif's Midgard digs
Date of Scene:	30 November 2019
Location:	Cunningham Manor, South Shore
Synopsis:	Loki gets a tour of Sif's place, and uses various magic for no reason.
Cast of Characters:	Sif, Loki

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Sif has posed:
A quiet evening around Cunningham Manor is never to be underappreciated. After being certain the staff is settled in for the night, with gentle but firm wishes that they retire to bed early -- the holidays are busy enough, thank you, and those who asked for vacation time were granted it -- Sif finds herself puttering around the second-floor patio of her master bedroom. She's in Midgardian guise tonight, with comfortable fitted jeans and knee-high boots keeping the cold from her toes. Her turtleneck is a sumptuous seafoam-green beneath her looser black cardigan, this too woven to be soft and warm against the chill of the night. In her hands, a mug of steaming hot chocolate filled liberally with peppermint schnapps. The bite of the liquor means nothing to her physiology, but the taste is nice -- it cuts the sweetness an appreciable amount.

She leans a hip against the patio's railing and considers the gardens below, making mental notes about potentially placing a fountain in that section there...

Loki has posed:
In the crisp grass of the yard below, melting out of the hedges, comes a sleek black animal. His pelt is a glossy mix of browns and black, black across upper body and neck. It's a large stag, beautiful and singular in the night, the winter snow around him on the bushes fluttering in a nearly magical spray of flitting ice.

He's silent in the yard, even the steps barely have the crunch to the snow, as he's light on his feet. He stays there a time, head inclined upwards, observant, short white-fluffed tail flicking to one side and the other. Taking his time, in some kind of regal, quiet way, to take her in above him, while ruling the garden-scape below.

Sif has posed:
The Vanir Princess is a silhouette against the golden light behind her, muted as it is by the curtains drawn nearly fully across the sliding glass doors of the master bedroom. Catching movement in her peripheral -- perhaps the delicate flash of white against the darker shrubbery lining the lawn -- Sif's face turns. Her profile takes on new elements in the shift of motion and light. Her smile is impossible to miss, however.

"You are a most regal sight, my lord." Floating down from on high comes the compliment, musical and delighted despite its low volume. She turns to rest her forearms on the patio's railing, still cupping the steaming mug. Her eyes gleam. "I welcome you to my home here on Midgard. Please, join me for a drink. Hot chocolate appears to taste better when shared with those who warm your heart as well." She tilts her head, allowing the fall of her dark hair to slide over one shoulder; it's loosely tied back by a leather length rather than a scrunchie or hair-tie.

Loki has posed:
The stag dissolves away in a flurry of snow that makes up his form, but it's just illusion play: he's shapeshifted and moved himself already, using the snowlike form: as if the stag were made of ice, and then the ice blew away in the wind. He's present now behind and to her left, hand warm as it comes up against her elbow, cupping it in palm from behind, before stepping closer in, using his other hand to slide her hair towards the front, and lean over her shoulder to sniff a little bit at her chocolate. He is, in fact, entirely invisible, but his presence and warmth is still quite apparent: so long as it isn't just eyes that are used to attempt to take him in!

"I warm your heart, do I? Hmmm. I'm not sure I heard that correctly; that is likely a first, for me, if you mean that truly," Loki teases her. "Not counting those whose organs I have set on fire, mind."

Sif has posed:
Rather enamored with the dismissal of the stag below, Loki does manage to catch the usually-alert Aesir off-guard. It was a masterful display, after all, down to the illusory hoofprints divoting the snow. Warmly cupping her elbow assuages much of the startlement and Sif laughs quietly rather than spinning around in a spray of lost hot chocolate.

It would be a great loss indeed!

"I do not believe I am suffering from heartburn, so it does appear to be a case of my heart warming at your presence rather than poorly-cooked food or some nefarious spell cast against me," she murmurs back, amused, lifting a hand up and in the general direction of his presence. She closes her eyes, trusting her other senses to tell her more where he is than her sight alone.

"Would you like a taste of the drink?" asks the Vanir Princess quietly.

Loki has posed:
"If I cast a spell to warm you, would you call it nefarious?" Loki wonders. He reveals himself to her visually now, with a sleek little grin. He's dressed in proper Midgard style, matching his current location: being that of her Midgard manor. He came to mesh with the environs, as he oft does without even thinking. He unwinds part of his scarf and drapes half of it across her far shoulder: playful, and in a way, joining them there on the balcony. It smells of Loki, but also a sort of wintergreen scent of the trees of pine he was just in, while shapeshifted. His hair is entirely ponytailed back out of the way, leaving his features clearly visible.

"Yes, please," he says, drawing up his hand under her cup, intending to relieve her of it to take a sip. He does not worry about her cooties, clearly.

Sif has posed:
Loki will be able to take the mug for himself. Sif's lids rise to reveal her gaze already canted at an angle to properly see him if he's -- ah, yes, there visually. Her shoulders do a contented, almost cat-like little roll of pleasure to find his scarf settled across her shoulder. The joint lifts even as she turns to bury her nose in the fine fabric briefly, expression gone viscerally pleased to find the combination of evergreen blended in with his more familiar scent.

"I would not say no to a warming spell at the moment, given the current climes," she muses, looking into the mage's face with a sense of expectation. If he likes the hot chocolate, she'll be intending to share the mug's contents with him.

Loki has posed:
"Hmmmmmm," Loki says, appearing to entirely just drink.... ALL of it. He gives her a puzzled little expression, as if surprised by it himself, but a flicker of the hand at her elbow causes the mug to entirely re-fill to brimming before he sets it back in her hand. It's steaming with warmth, as well. It was a simple duplication spell, to create more of what was already there. A trifle, Loki would consider it. And he procures a LOT of liquids for consumption: almost constantly summoning wine!

"Do I get a tour? I know you enjoy tours," Loki questions, though he's made no move to go anywhere yet; he bends just a little to set his cheek near her shoulder, green eyes 'peeking' sideways at her in an amused manner. "Play house a little," Loki teases her.

Sif has posed:
Sif's smile twists in playful reprimand at the disappearance of the hot chocolate -- but the reappearance of it has her taking back the filled mug with a little laugh, breathy and clearly tickled by the whole little show of sleight-of-hand.

One dark eyebrow lifts in playful imperial bearing. "I enjoy tours now, don't I? I suppose you might be shown the lay of the lands, all the better to familiarize yourself with them. I did claim you were welcome." And few things are more scared than an offering of welcome into one's private space.

Sif is certain to lean in to press a kiss to the mage's temple before she moves towards the sliding glass door. It pulls open easily enough. The outrush of warm air is scented as a home might be: clean sheets, personal notes of perfume and care products, wood oils and detergents, and more.

"Be welcome to the master bedroom," announces Sif as she brushes aside the gossamer fall of curtains to step within, her voice theatrically grandiose to accompany her wide spread of arms.

No hot chocolate spills, thankfully.

Loki has posed:
"Well, we leaped right to the heart of the tour, didn't we. I hope you don't start all tours with your bedroom," scoffs Loki. He knows better, of course, he's just being a little obnoxious. His tone isn't snarkly, though: he's in a good enough mood overall.

Loki does suddenly dematerialize, and reappear with a quick magical teleport over onto the bed itself, reclined on her pillows like a king. He also readjusted his attire, into a snowy silvery set of comfortable clothes well associated with staying in and relaxing in front of a fireplace. Whether he is actually there or it's illusion may be questionable: but it certainly all looks legitimate! "Just enjoying the tour."

Sif has posed:
Sif humors the mage nonetheless and replies as to his aspirations, "Oh no, my lord. You are the first to set foot within it who is not myself or my staff. You have gained this honor," she teases back. An indulging sip of cocoa silences her though the dancing of her eyebrows at the sudden adjustment in place as well as fashion change is eloquent enough.

"I am glad to see you enjoying yourself as such." Her boots make little sound on the carpeted flooring as she wanders to the side of the bed, still wearing that little smile saved for Loki alone, full of a fondness that softens her blade-sharp lines in expression as well as poise. "Would you like to continue the tour as such or shall I join you? I've a set of lounge-wear in my closet."

Loki has posed:
"Commence the tour to the closet," Loki says, rolling his eyes, but seems uninterested in actually moving. Truth be told? He has very little interest in her closet's contents. Should she ever need to get rid of him, that'd be an ideal hiding spot.

In reality, Loki has now moved to where his illusion teleported, and is, in fact, reclining, settling his shoulders back into the pillows a little more, and allowing his eyes to close for the moment. The warmth of the room is pleasant, and the scents that often cling to Sif are strong in her home. "If I /am/ being too bold, do rephrimand me," Loki suggests with a little snicker on his lip.

Sif has posed:
Sif must drop her fingers from her mouth to reply; her tittering in response to his jibe about her closet was short but truly amused. "You are not being too bold, Loki. You are welcome in my home. If you are comfortable, it is honor to me as your hostess. Allow me but a minute." Her mug of hot cocoa is set within reach of him on the side table. "Have more if you wish," she murmurs, favoring the mage with another soft smile before she turns to disappear into the closet in question.

It's a rather vast expanse of hangers on bars, showcasing a broad spectrum of fashion crossing over many decades. Regardless, she reappears in a warmly-lined bathrobe in a splendid midnight-blue overtop what appears to be black fleece pajamas, long-sleeved in top. Her bare feet show beneath the hems of the pants.

"If there is one thing I approve of on Midgard, it is their propensity to make their robes thick of fabric. They are very warming," she comments as she settles herself on one hip on the bed beside him. Her hair is taken out from its braiding now to sport lazy waves as it falls forwards over one shoulder. "Those colors suit you well," the Princess adds, looking Loki over approvingly.

Loki has posed:
The mug of cocoa, while she was away, has relocated itself into Loki's hands as he relaxes. He has adjusted position as well, more propped up, as if he owned the place. There's no sprawl to him, though, as Thor might have done: Loki is aware of his appearance as always, and positioned himself in regal sensuality - entirely on purpose. He gives her a winning little smile over her cocoa as he takes a sip of it, dextrous fingers moving in slow thoughtfulness again the side of the mug.

"It is perhaps that they are so fragile, cold so easily," Loki says, with a shrug. Humans are weak and whatever! Loki's never cold. For reasons.

With an extension of hand, Loki returns her mug to her, with a flippant brief toss of his head. He also changes his attire's colors, just to grin a little: from silver to midnight blue. It does not suit him in particular, but that wasn't the point.

Sif has posed:
"Those colors //also// suit you, my lord." Sif's chin does a couquettish little tuck while she holds those jade-green eyes -- she's pleased in her way. After all, it's a perfect match to her own bathrobe. "I gain comfort for their own propensity to seek warmth then, I suppose," she continues, content to idly bend the ends of the robe's tie-belt back and forth between her fingers. Her other hand, now holding the hot drink, allows it to rest in her lap. It still steams, courtesy of earlier's magical refilling.

"I do still intend to challenge you to a fight of snowballs." Her eyes get to twinkling. "You had best be prepared. I will catch you off-guard." And by the subtly challenging tone, this appears to be a promise from the Aesir warrior!

Loki has posed:
"Should your desire to continue the tour be /extreme/, I will send an illusion to accompany you, while I continue to relax here," Loki offers, so /kindly/, though he moves a palm to skim over the cushion directly next ot him. 'Or', the gesture offers, 'you could be here'. There's no real subtle quality to the suggestion, though his smile is elusive and mildly arrogant.

"A fight of /snowballs/? You had best get me off guard, as I have a flamethrower prepared for such an event," Loki laughs softly, a spark to his jade eyes at melting such snowballs in a mighty flame.

Sif has posed:
Sif laughs in delight at her challenge met. The sound chimes about the high-vaulted room itself. "A flamethrower now, is it?" An arch of brow conveys an appropriate level of courtly dubiousness. Regardless, with a graceful shift and slide of placement, the Princess settles into the pillowing beside Loki. She's close enough to align herself hip to ankle and with a bold turn, she tucks her shoulder beneath his, all the better to settle her cheek against the upper breadth of his pectoral. It leaves her arm to rest across her body and partially along his ribs; her palm is a gentle weight against his ribs.

"I will defeat your flamethrower," claims she of the lustrous dark hair, sounding quite certain of it to boot. Her smile can't be hidden, nor can the tiniest giggle.

Loki has posed:
"Yes. A magical one," Loki says, turning towards her. He lifts one hand up and outwards, drawing his thumb across his palm and then up, a weave of fingers.... and a ball of flame erupts out of his palm, curling up amidst his curved fingers, as they cup it. Heat rolls off the fireball, waves of it warming faces and limbs as the mage shows off. He draws his other hand around her, easy to do as she brings her head to his chest, settling the unoccupied fingers around her far shoulder. She is welcome to rest against him for now.

The fire turns as he plays with it, forming into fiery little birds, then back into a ball, then whirling like a book with flipping pages, then back to the ball again. "Perhaps it would be more prudent instead to enjoy the warmth of it," Loki grins.

Sif has posed:
"That is a veritable truth," agrees the Princess. The flame-magic's antics reflect in her eyes as she tracks its shifts of phase and shape. Warmth, not too hot, is pleasant emitting from it. "You will not feel so warm when my snowball slaps against your back." A last wiggling of her form is silent laughter before there's a serene sigh to leave her.

"Such a wonderful thing, this magic," she muses quietly about the flames playing about the mage's uplifted hand as if they had a canine fondness for him. "Sometimes I wish I knew of magic such as this, but then I realize that I would not be as I am if I had chased those studies. I am content with my lot." There's no inkling of a lie in her thoughts.

Loki has posed:
"That you think you would impact anything save illusion with your snowball is.... charming," Loki teases in return. He tosses the fireball upwards, and it begins to lazily circle up near the ceiling, as if in orbit above them. A spark emits from each finger, little darts of flame. Each flows upwards, a chain of five of them, to flutter up around the orb, into additional little sparks of circling fire. Loki brings his hand down and cups her cheek for a moment. The warm of the fire is there, his hand is extremely warm, though not blistering.

"As well you should be. You are a paramount in your area. ...Even if it is /not/ magic," Loki chuckles. Of course he'd side with magic being best.

Sif has posed:
Seeping into her skin from Loki's palm, the heat brings a drowsy appreciation to the Princess's features. She blinks almost lazily now, cat-like in her appreciation of all warmth present.

"Precisely. I am a paramount...kind of you to note this, Loki." Again, her lips curve into a little smile. He can feel her face turn a little to better glance up into his face. "You should know...I have always envied your loyalty to your studies when you were younger." A little puft of a sigh from a pouted lip attemps to flip aside an errant strand of hair slowly slipping along her temple. "It took me far too long to find peace in reading a book. It is a habit I should have cultivated earlier. If this weather continues to hold, however, I may find time yet to indulge myself." Lifting her head up from her pillowing upon his chest, Sif considers the fall of fluffy snow just beginning again beyond the glass doors.

Loki has posed:
There's skepticism and doubt at her expression about his loyalty to his studies. "//I// remember a great deal of teasing at my expense about my interests as a child," Loki replies peevishly. If she thought Loki were going to let the mistreatment of himself as a youngling go, she will be sorely mistaken.

"Although most of that came from my brother, I am WELL aware," Loki adds, with a snort through his nose, fingers moving a little bit near her cheek: not really involved with appreciating her skin, but more against the memory in his mind's eye. Still, he returns from the past, and brushes her hair back and aside as she lifts her head to look at the snow, curving his fingers against the dark strands.

"But that is long ago, and should be left like an old tome to gather dust. We have what we have /now/. And I prefer to be forward thinking, not drenched in the baggage of the past."

Sif has posed:
Her eyes slide to him from watching the flakes against the fall of light outside and her smile, this time, is more gentle and understanding.

"Of course, for now is a thing of delight...and tranquility." A musical hum wends through her deeper sigh as Sif settles back against the mage's chest. Now she slips her hand across his chest in something akin to a hug. Very gently, her palm smoothes out the richly-blue fabric beneath it before beginning a soothing rub. "Oh, and do schedule into your itinerary another dinner at a Greek restaurant, my lord. It has been enough time, I think."

Cuddling closer yet brings the warmed scent of her perfume and shampoo closer to him now, along with the lingering sweetness of the hot cocoa.

Loki has posed:
"Is that the site of this snowballing? I'll associate Greek food with being chilled," Loki snickers, turning his head towards hers, though only the set his mouth and chin against her hair. It is, indeed, luxurious dark strands. Loki has good taste, to have made it such. HE always thought so!

"Perhaps tomorrow, I'll allow you to give me another tour there, then," he accepts. His body does a slight stretch, and then relax: the sleek panther that is Loki has, in body language, broadcast that he will be staying a while, right where he is.