10759/Altars

Altars
Date of Scene:	16 January 2020
Location:	Fortress Asgard, Kvalvika, New Asgard
Synopsis:	Loki shows Sif what has become of New Asgard.
Cast of Characters:	Sif, Loki

---

Sif has posed:
It had taken some convincing, but the Lady Caitlin had finally overcome her initial hesitations to swing her training sword like she meant it -- and a few flat-sided swats from Sif in accompaniment to teasing banter. With the lesson over and the young Midgardian back on her home planet, the Vanir Princess had retreated to her rooms to regather herself.

Now, in more standard daywear of fitted deep-brown leather tunic overtop a thigh-length undershirt in buttery-gold, belted about her waist, she kneels before one of the winter honeysuckle bushes. Her intent is to gather a few boughs and arrange them in her room for the color and scent alike. Supple knee-high boots keep the worst of the mild wintry muck from reaching her fleece-lined trousers. Hanging over the front of her shoulder, her lustrously-dark hair, braided and tied off with a thin leather length. Her expression is full of distancing to memories, her smile faint and distracted as she plucks the third twig. Already, the scent of the flowers clings to her.

Loki has posed:
"Don't think no one has /noticed/ your thievery of the honeysuckle," Loki's sly tone lilts smoothly, as he makes his appearance. He doesn't drape on a bench or any of that, he's merely standing, arms folded in an extremely judgmental posture, easily within swatting distance, to her right.

Loki's dressed like a prince today, there's no possible way to ignore it: his finery is astoundingly crafted, leather and cloth and magical embroidery, jewelry that is elegantly chosen but also just toeing the edge of overwhelming. His black hair is pulled back from his face on the sides into black braids that curl past his ears, making the whole of it like preened raven feathers.

"For shame." Smirk smirk.

Sif has posed:
Loki gets a glance at first surprised, but this swiftly melts into wry amusement. "If anyone has noticed my shame, it appears you are the first to have the courage to speak up. Perhaps my sharp-tongued reputation precedes me." A fourth twig fairly bursting with the pale yellow flowers is retrieved and the Princess rises up from her kneel. She offers out this particular collected sprig at a distance insinuating a sniff from the bright-eyed mage.

"But how to resist this little delight? It is a simple happiness on days where the sky refuses to share its sun. I wonder that the sun itself might smell as such." Sif then gives the mage a more searching look even if her small fond smile doesn't change. "And how fare you, my lord? What brings you to the gardens?"

Loki has posed:
Loki looks at the flower down his nose, then flicks his eyes to her, as if deciding if he will deign to allow the scent entry to his princely senses, but steps forward be breathe it in, eyes on Sif. There's a quality there that Sif knows well. Very well, from personal experience.

That right there is a barely cloaked mischief. Something is coming, or already has come.

"I fare very well. I've come to /you/, not specifically these gardens," Loki replies, moving back to his straightened position. "I want to //show// you something," Loki says elusively. "Quite worth it. You'll want a disguise, though; of which I can assist." Loki waits, to see if she's intrigued.

Sif has posed:
Now the Aesir woman's lips part from a thoughtful smile to something more knowing. Absolutely, she's seen that look leveled both at herself and others, and always sympathy comes for the latter grouping.

"I daresay you've captured my curiosity with masterful intention, as you tend to do, Loki," replies Sif. Her collection of honeysuckle is tucked to her chest now as she looks between his eyes. "I will accept your offer of a disguise, yes, though I trust this endeavor is free of great risk? I accept minor and moderate risk well enough without Brumeoalfold at my hip." The subtle lift of her chin is pride making a brief appearance; it twinkles too in her glacially-blue eyes.

Loki has posed:
"You may want your blade, but not for the reason you'd expect," Loki says, slyly, with a brief shrug of his shoulders, eyes half-lidded. He enjoys his games FAR too much. Were it another situation, this would be a particularly deadly conversation. It comes down to how much she trusts him, perhaps.

"Whether you choose to /use/ it in the end, I'd leave to you," Loki adds, innocently. Which is his way of being confusing, but also saying he doesn't care if she does use it or not.

He looks her over, then, more steadily, as if deciding on a proper disguise, but he doesn't appear to actually do anything. "When you are ready," Loki says.

Sif has posed:
"I trust your judgement on matters," the Princess informs her beau with a quiet sincerity. If the off-chance of his word games means she'll want some form of proficient defense, it seems wiser to be weaponized than to be otherwise.

A glance down at her side and while her gaze narrows in concentration, it takes but a thought's focused efforts. The enchanted sword appears at her hip in a contained shape's swirl of fine stardust. Its familiar weight is patted once at the pommel and Sif then looks to Loki again.

"I am ready." With blade at one hand and flowers at another, the Princess presents an interesting picture in duality now.

Loki has posed:
"Off we go, then," Loki says, with a lurch of prepared magic. He was probably casting, and not revealing to her that he was casting. Illusion mages have style. All of it, lies, yet it allows such interesting things as the sensation of suddenly teleporting, as the magic flares and pulls.

They appear amidst the street of a very familiar place: New Asgard, on Midgard: Kvalvika. They'd entirely dismantled the place, and left, all of the Asgardians. But there's people, down in the buildings nearby, there's lights and some music.

Loki has handled disguises with his illusion: he's modified them both to appearing to be a young human looking pair: perhaps eighteen at the most, dressed in warm garb appropriate for the region of humans, both of them blonde, pale, and red cheeked from the cold in appearance. Still, Loki didn't craft it to where he was entirely unrecognizable; it wasn't intended to confuse Sif. Sif's sword is hidden for now, but her flowers are not.

Loki tilts his head towards the building and offers an arm, to head over through the snow.

Sif has posed:
A bit of a stumble of surprise follows Sif through the entire skein of magic cast over them both. Still, more familiar now with the mage's penchant for sudden decisions, she merely looks over at him now as they stand in Kvalvika.

"I am impressed. You've not been such a flower of youth for several centuries now." Her gentle tease accompanies the slide and link of her arm through his offered, all the better to travel alongside him towards the building.

"I do like that you allowed the honeysuckle to remain. I must appear something of a maiden of the hidden Spring season or the like," muses Sif with a smile clearly seen. She knows Loki would not fully hide their Asgardian grace and elegance of feature.

Loki has posed:
"Or the like," Loki agrees slyly, which may suggest the opposite. He seems to think he has something that will have impact on her in some way. They cross down towards the building, but Loki doesn't go in, he leads her past it, towards several others. They are quieter, but there are still lights inside. He chooses one: it used to be one of their guard buildings, and then stands aside, devoid of expression. He's expecting her to go first.

Inside is a shrine. There are several people inside, calmly speaking and having tea on low benches. The central piece is one of the carvings that used to be outside, designating a training zone for Sif's warriors. It has been brought in, and honored, in a circle of candles and other things: flowers, her colors, small momentos.

The people inside, mostly women, turn to look at the arrivals, but only nod welcome, and return to what they were doing, without recognition. This is a religious site. Loki just looks vaguely satisfied. "They all came when the Asgardians left," Loki says mildly. One of the women near the statue looks at Loki when he speaks. "They're still here with us, in spirit," she says.

Sif has posed:
Loki does get a side-glance for his 'agreement'. It's the tone which has the Princess on his arm bemused. Still, and yet again, she's mildly taken aback when it becomes apparent that not the building full of revelry that he intended to attend upon, but one tucked father back into the collection of architecture. Sif finds herself torn between fond memory and the lingering wispy shreds of melancholy that haunted this new life, one that was an attempt to replace such a loss.

It's with a small frown that Sif realizes she's meant to lead the way into the stand-alone barracks. She does so, an outstretched hand reaching and pushing open the wooden door. Rather than leather and weapon polish, the scent of sweat and ground-muck of the training fields, it's now filled with warm soft light and...Midgardians. She scans the room and fights down a blip of offense -- this is a place of trial, not of tea time! -- before she realizes the gravity of the entire display.

Half-numbed fingers nearly drop the honeysuckle bunch before she regains her aplomb, but to someone as keen as Loki, the slip won't be missed. Sif glances to him as he speaks and then to the woman who dares to unknowingly offer partial disagreement to the very race who apparently linger in spirit.

"They do attend as such," agrees the Vanir Princess in a voice so very...real. Her words are devoid of courtly sangfroid and hauteur. "They would be honored to know that they engendered such respect." Unable now to look at the Asgardian mage beside her for the tangle of feelings in her chest, Sif simply then walks across the room to place her small bouquet of winter honeysuckle against the carving. Then, she stands, looking down at it, her expression both pleased and torn.

Loki has posed:
Loki looks around at the decorations, the beautifully woven flowers and pieces of mementos around the statue. Some of the are pictures, there are notes and wishes, prayers: for the most part, women seeking the strength to get through battles in their lives.

Loki observes Sif's behavior with the statue. There's barely a flit of warning, but Loki's being mercurial. Perhaps it is too bad that Sif will miss the hint in time to stop him, as she is staring down at the statue and the offerings.

Loki steps towards the statue, directly over one of the candles, which causes all of the Midgardians in the room to look up and over. One of them gives a start of indignation and insult. "You're disgracing the---!" says one of the women in abject horror. How dare this young man just walk into their sacred space and disgrace their circle?!

Loki is lifting a laurel of flowers, a slim wreath, off of one of the extended axes on the statue, and turns towards Sif with it in his hand, still partially straddling INTO the circle of bits. His smile is absolutely naughty.

Three of the others in the tent scramble to their feet, red-cheeked, but one woman, red haired, freckled, perhaps in her forties, and dressed in deep browns and tans, gestures at the angry people to stay back and stand down, with an authority that they obey rebelliously.

Sif has posed:
Eyes downfallen in contemplation rise when she sees the hand reach for the carefully-braided circlet of Earth flowers. Interwoven in the laurel is ivy and holly and for color, a winter-blooming primrose in the most delicate breath of pink. Sif lifts her face fully to look at the Asgardian mage, ignoring for now the ruckus he's managed to cause...so very deliberately.

Her fine eyebrows lift questioningly if only for a second because she knows, so well, that to reprimand is to entertain further mercurial behavior. As such, she say evenly, "I suppose it is only fair that we greet them properly, isn't it...Loki?"

Cue the gasps.

"I did miss this place. There are many good memories to be found here." Sif lifts her eyes to look around the barracks and then to the matronly leader, her smile as gentle as she can make it.

Loki has posed:
Loki's smirking, and has retrieved the laurel fully; he steps out of the circle, crossing behind Sif and setting the crown of flowers right on her hair. He also pulls down the curtain of illusion on both of them like a magician unveiling the end of his trick.

The matron is the only one that reacts well to the situation. "Welcome back, Lord Loki," she says solemnly, carefully. She knew, she had the clear wisdom, to quickly pierce that mischief around the worship sites could be aligned to their god of mischief. Of course.

However, she's overcome by Sif, and immediately bows, her hands shaking. She was already seated, but adjusts to kneel more piously. "Lady Sif, you honor us," she gets out, trembling. The others react in a mix of shock and awe to the god pair. There's a mix of looking down, but mostly open staring.

Sif has posed:
As Sif stands there in her Asgardian clothing, loyal Brumeoalfold at her hip, crowned by winter flowers and looking down upon the matronly Midgardian, she realizes that everything has fallen so very neatly into place as easily as wooden puzzle blocks. Awe flitters over her face in a passing few blinks and purse of lips. Again and again, she's reminded of the clever forethought always in play in the Trickster God who set the laurel upon her sleek dark hair.

"Please, you need not kneel." Sif offers out her hands, smooth but for the subtle callouses of bladework, to the matronly woman. "It is us who are honored by your faith. I have always loved you well here on Midgard, you who rally when the world is darkest and in stauch defense of all that you hold dear."

Loki has posed:
Loki drifts behind her to the opposite shoulder. This is a very, very familiar prowl to the trickster god: he always prefers to stand just back and to the side of either Sif or Thor; and that's perhaps the safest situation. It's when Loki's out in front by himself that cities get leveled and people die.

Loki murmurs wryly at Sif's shoulder, just for her ears: "Such good humans." It's like he's approving of puppies that stopped peeing indoors. Such good little humans. The problem is, Loki's not a 'dog' person.

Still, Loki watches the series in amusement, and casts again. The room turns bizarrely, a spinning of the walls that makes all of the humans move from kneeling to falling on their faces instead, as their gods appear to bend very reality. Loki's changed the ambiance to look more like one of the grand meeting halls of Asgard, though tamed down, it isn't reality. He isn't going to show these mortals a /real/ interior of the palace! Even so, the small barracks has appeared to explode into beauty and wonder, music of a harp drifting in, sunlight casting patterns through stained glass onto the ground, the statue with candles, everywhere. Loki's an artist of artists when he tries. In this case, he's showing off to Sif: not the people, not really.

Loki grins, privately to Sif (as the humans are face down on the floor, and ventures to attempt a naughty neck-kiss. So naughty, in the worship spot. The mercurial god is having a /great/ time.

Sif has posed:
A silent sigh leaves the Vanir Princess. Her hands remain offered out yet even as the entire atmosphere goes impossibly more reverent in a master painter's wash of color and ambiance. Candlelight gleams in the colors of raven feathers upon her hair and gold upon the pommel of Brumeoalfold as she looks around and then to Loki himself.

"I daresay we will have made an impression," she breathes to him in rueful amusement. It's not that Sif //minds// the idea of respect being granted to her, not at all -- more that this is a taste of it she's not used to, not on Midgard, not when her normal dealings are with those who look her levelly in the eye.

Her face turns towards one of the brilliantly colorful windows in admiration and in that moment, the Trickster God can land his kiss. It tickles and her shoulder jumps before she whisper-laughs once: "Loki!" Faint blush colors her cheeks, no doubt a proper reward for his behavior.

Still, she speaks up for the room as a whole: "Please, rise to your feet. Tell me, what brought you to this place?" Since no one's going to take her hands, she's returned them to before her stomach, properly placed in a courtly manner.

Loki has posed:
There's another interruption: at the door, a man was arriving with a dish of various fruit and items. He's entering a fairy tale, though, and he didn't expect it. He drops the tray with an explosive clatter in the doorway and a shrill little "MEEEEEEF" noise. Loki's on that side, so he mostly gets an eyeful of being stared down by a god.

"Jasper," The matron says quickly. "Spread the word we have visitors," she tells him. It doesn't work, he's still owlishly staring at the interior. However, it does bring some of the others to act, to accept Sif's kindness and grace. They stand: she'd asked them to.

"Hope," answers the youngest present, a warm, round-faced girl of maybe sixteen. She blushes but there's bravery to her almond colored eyes.

Sif has posed:
Not one gods, but two, though the Princess doesn't make the startled man with no pan endure more than a second's worth of attention. Loki has that accomplished in spades.

Remaining poised and calm, very much inadvertently one half of the duality that this group likely whispers to in the dark of night, Sif looks from the matronly leader to the youngest. "Hope is a strength, never forget this," Sif murmurs, lending her approval to this reason.

"Strength too," the youngest volunteers again, embolded by the response she's garnered from the flower-crowned Asgardian.

Sif nods. "A wise reason, for both of these things, along with faith in the rise of the dawn, will bring you through any night. You all blossom in this winter darkness." The sincere compliment brings a few to look away and down.

Loki has posed:
"Wonderful," Loki says, amused, to Sif, sideways. He's growing a little bit bored of the situation, though that mood has only just started, and he still has some reasonable patience. Still, his remark heralds the dawning of a Loki that did in fact bring her to see the worship spot, but isn't actively interested in it while it's not fun to him personally.

"Come see mine when you're done bonding," Loki teases Sif, but the lack of reaction from anyone suggests he didn't say it in a way that the others could hear. Because it was mentally projected.

Loki shoo-shoos the boy out of the doorway, who about falls over himself making way, and Loki serenely stalks outside. It was generous in its way, though: Loki's giving her time if she wants it, without him leering. The illusion stays, though: proving the generosity is real, not imagined.

Sif has posed:
"Thank you," replies Sif, also sideways. She's pleased to have smoothed most of the ruffled feathers in the room, but that poor kid will probably never live down how he upended the food platter in front of both the 'patron goddess' and the Trickster God himself come to visit.

There's a period of respectful silence while the entire room watches Loki excuse himself from the situation, including Sif herself. Her lips scrunch into what has to be a smirk kept tightly in check. There's no mental response back to Loki, given that particular nuance of communication is beyond her abilities, but he'll likely gleam agreement from a general skim of her thoughts. She does intend to see just how his own quarters are being treated.

"Will you stay and dine with us?" Hands clasped before her bosom, the matronly leader asks this of Sif.

The Princess turns and smiles gently. "Forgive me, but this time, no. I do promise to return and linger longer when time better permits. My lord Loki and I have duties to enact in Asgard yet." There are nods, some forlorn and openly disappointed, but not from the matronly leader.

"Of course, my lady. Do return to us," she says quietly, a bit of a plead in her voice.

"I shall," Sif repeats. "For now, I bid you be well and be strong. The world may not know your strength, but I do." All the Midgardians in the room bow their heads and Sif returns the inclination of chin before she turns to leave. Rather than stalk, she swans with head held high and laurel bright upon her hair.

And as she leaves, she wonders to herself...how on Earth do any acolytes of the Trickster God comport themselves? Well -- a thing to be seen as she goes to seek out Loki.

Loki has posed:
Unfortunately, it seems there was a host of people just outside the location waiting for her to come out. "Lady Sif," murmurs some. Others gasp and there's offerings set down in a semicircle around the door area. "Lady Sif," others repeat, in reverence.

In the back, beyond all of them, seated on the edge of a stone wall, sits Loki himself, one leg up, relaxing forearm on his knee, other leg loose. It's a jaunty pose more proper for one such as Tom Sawyer, smirking over the heads of the people at Sif.

Loki fans himself with his other hand slightly mockingly, but it isn't mean, just playful. Of course he caused this. Mischief in the flesh.

Sif has posed:
Sif has found Loki, this is not to be denied -- and the arrival of more of the acolytes of the burgeoning cult in her name has the Vanir Princess brought up short right outside of the building. She at least has the wherewithal to push the door closed as to not let in further cold air. Her eyes unerringly find the Trickster and her half-embarrassed smile is fought down with all the masterful skill in composure she can bring to bear.

"I greet you all gratefully. Thank you for your kindness. Have you, perchance, happen to have seen a man wearing..." Sif peters off as she remembers just how flexible the Liesmith can be in his disguises. "...forgive me, he could have been wearing anything," the Aesir continues with another knowing look shot at the gleeful collection of mischief on the stone wall.

Another thought occurs to her and provides adequate cover for her stumble: "Have your people worshipped any others here? Are there other altars? I would be pleased to see if so." Snow drifting down here and there collects like stars in the Princess's dark hair, still crowned by winter flowers.

Loki has posed:
"Of course, Lady Sif," agrees one of the older men in the front of the row, still bowing low. "We have areas of worship for Odin and Thor just across this bridge," he gestures towards the palace area. "Opposite, Freya and Baldr," He continues to point out sites. "Tyr, Loki--" The list continues: many of those mentioned from Norse mythology, not all of them Asgardian pantheon: the site has become one of mixed worship.

Some of the women on Sif's left have baskets of offerings. They are all very respectful, but also unable to contain themselves in her presence, trying to touch her cloak just a tiny bit.

Until something phenomenal happens. At the fence, Loki reacts by partially falling off the stone fence, in the manner of a cat that is certain nobody saw him actually fall off of the fence, disappearing behind it amidst the massive power display that suddenly explodes in the area. Electricity, lightning that curves the air and rends the sky in the manner of Thor, and yet it is decidedly not Thor. There is no recklessness to it, but a broader, comfortable use of it that leaves no actual threat, as if the one that cast it did not intend it so, and had the power to decide what lightning itself /is/...

Yet the appearance of the figure that arrives is that of the gray bearded, one-eyed 'wanderer' in dress: simple whites and grays, robust wools and furs -- but the ambiance of all of it, how the man stands, how he appears to link with the earth, all of it leaves no question as to the identity of Odin.

Or it's an illusion of a masterful level. Maybe.

The midgardians can't handle it, and are on the ground in awe, their mortal minds clearly unable to handle what is happening.

Sif has posed:
Sif looks to each speaker and nods, her brows knitted enough to give proof to her listening with care rather than allowing the Midgardians to talk needlessly. At the mention of Loki's name, her attention flicks up and beyond to the fenceline. They meet and hold those mischievous jade-green eyes still full of laughter for a betraying second or two. It's enough to make a few people glance over their shoulder, but...of course, Loki's only visible to the Vanir Princess, and dismissed quickly enough as something beyond their sight.

It's when someone very gently tugs at Sif's cape that she reacts. Her face turns to see the youngest Midgardian yet, a little cherubic bundling of blonde girl no more than about seven or so. Her cheeks are pinked from the cold and she holds out another spring of holly to Sif with all the pride she can muster.

"Oh." Sif can't help the smile. "Thank you, young one. What is your n -- "

But then THUNDER AND LIGHTNING AND VERY VERY FRIGHTENING!

And Sif now boggles -- outright //boggles// at the sudden appearance of the All-Father. But...not the All-Father because //she// knows who's behind that facade. While the Midgardians fall prostrate, she stands there and visibly rolls her lips away and out of view, her brows twitching.

"My...liege," she finally offers quietly, certain that it's still an accurate address for both Loki and 'Odin' both.

Loki has posed:
For a long moment, the newly arrived god doesn't speak. There's a strange translucency to him a drifting, a sense of between worlds. The clouds above brew slightly, electricity moving through them unnaturally. He stays where he is, seeming to take in the landscape, the sky, head tilted up, his one clear blue eye roving into the heavens. The Allfather sees beyond, into distances others cannot fathom. It is as if he is doing that now. His gaze stays up, but he speaks, finally.

"Geirdottir," Odin addresses Sif, in a thoughtful way, his gaze moving to her, finally. "It pleases me to see you well," he says, with a cultured, subtle regal undertone. "Come, walk with me?" requests Odin. He passes among the various people, a brush of hand barely there amidst them, but they react to it, sit back, dizzy but smiling, blessed by their god of gods.

Odin does not move towards the bridge, but more away from the main palace buildings. "My son can catch up as he chooses," Odin chuckles softly.

Sif has posed:
"Of course, my liege," replies Sif with the proper amount of respect that would be shown to a member of the royal family. Still, she takes a moment to drop down to one knee and wait for the little blonde girl to appear from behind her startled mother.

"You may put it here," she whispers to the little one with a conspiratorial smile and taps at the floral crown by her ear. Grinning, oblivious to the dramatic import of the All-Father's appearance, the girl toddles out and with Sif's help, has given her small sprig of holly. It now sits jauntily in the winter-flower circlet like a feather behind Sif's ear. "Thank you, little one. Grow brave and strong," she wishes quietly to the blonde girl and gives her small hand the gentlest squeeze. Receiving a grin in return, the Vanir Princess rises and attends upon the All-Father. Loki-Father. All-Loki -- All-Loki, because this prank is definitely All-Loki.

Her walking beside him is quiet and formal, hands gathered before her waist, and she glances to him with a skilled courtly expression of benign interest. "I can imagine little will keep him for long. He is nothing but certain of his wishes when he puts his mind to it."

Loki has posed:
"I continually remind my other son not to dote among the humans. I have reminded him multiple times, that this preoccupation will end in disasters. Such as the one so recently befallen our people," All-Not-Loki-Father laments, though it is quiet, so as to not hurt the poor human ears. "But you understand, I think," continues the god, allowing the lady Sif to attend him with his arm in a subtle courtly signal he knows that she will pick up. She was raised well, the daughter of Geir will be raised in such a manner to know all of the proper ways to behave!

"My sons are extremes. One fit to fall for humans, the other..." Odin releases a breath, and then looks at her with his one true, all-knowing eye. "Perhaps you will see what you wish to see," suggests the elder, a wisdom and weight to his words.

It's quite a show, very convincing. The full might of Loki is magical: a true magic show that brings someone along because they WANT to be fooled, they want magic to be true, they want to //believe//. Loki uses all of those tools in his arsenal.

"That is his altar there," Odin says, with a nod to their right as they walk. It is a spot burned to the ground, black with the magical scorch-mark that remains there. Yet all around it are bundles of flowers and offerings: pits of pure white, and written scrolls of secrets and arts.

Sif has posed:
After a moment's hesitation -- and there, Loki might appreciate that morsel of momentary doubt -- the Vanir Princess slips her hand to rest atop the All-Father's forearm as a bird might perch a branch. She listens, her eyes watching ahead with no insinuation of ignoring the man's words. At the All-Fathers divisive descriptions as to his sons, Sif does finally look over again. Her brows knit.

"Perhaps I will," she allows pensively. Her booted steps are quiet in the low-lying snow as they travel on. When they reach the site of Loki's altar, Odin will find his travels slowed. Sif then takes a moment to walk over to it. She is a tall and svelte silhouette with her sword still at her hip. All about her, solemn silence is worn as a second cape. Then, carefully, she reaches up and plucks a single primrose blossom from her circlet. Kneeling down, she carefully tucks it in a clear small space of char; its color is bright and strong against the dark of the ash.

While she kneels, a scroll of secrets is taken and read. Her grin is a quick flicker of fondness -- ah, Midgardians -- and the scroll is placed back where it once sat. Still wearing that enigmatic little smile, she returns to the All-Father and rises upon her toes to whisper into his ear: "Your secret is mine to keep, my lord, as you keep my heart." And then, after a kiss to his cheek, she returns her hand to his forearm where it ought to be, cool and composed as a late-winter morning.

Loki has posed:
Odin observed her with the burned site, thoughtfully, as she departs from his side to examine it. Her movements and her offer of the tiny flower bring a slightly movement to eyebrow from the god, as he looks on, quietly standing in the snow, the mild breezes from the odd weather above them only bringing slight tugs to his white hair.

He allows her to step close to him, relaxed, fearless as always, though her leaning in that way, and touching lips to his cheek draws a slight twist of lips within the frosty white beard. The kiss drew a blink, but that's all, it seems, at first... and he flits the eye sideways at Sif. The look is entirely Loki. She's poked a hole in his game. But the smile following is rueful. He'll give way graciously.

He draws one hand up, reaching towards the scorched earth, and magic curves and dances out from his splayed fingers. The small rosebud seizes into the earth with exploding roots, leaves of rich green flowing out, as the plant eagerly grows there in the burned ground, roots running below it, yet also among the magical burn. Flecks of magic come through the leaves, glistens of emerald, as the rose bush evolves and grows from the hand of the mage.

He looks on at it, this magical thing growing in the black scar. And then he suddenly and deftly breaks character. "The beard //is// itchy," Odin admits, secretively, ignoring, it appears, the obvious symbology of what he just did.

Sif has posed:
And that look entirely Loki is returned with a look entirely Sif, smug and pleased in a manner that gleams like tanzanite behind her lashes. She masks it away again with some effort, though the expression shifts swiftly enough to plain surprise to see the sudden manipulation of the single primrose blossom stark on the dark ground.

Her step further into the All-Father's personal space is a blatant show of familiarity even before the bush finishes claiming the ash-strewn site with glossy leaves and more pale petals. With mouth rounded yet, she glances back at the dignified patron of all Asgardian society and then has to put fingers against those very lips to stop a very //undignified// snort from slipping out.

"I have never had a beard and, as such, I can only imagine -- and that was NOT an invitation to teach me otherwise," the Vanir Princess is sure to firmly add.

Loki has posed:
"Worry not; no mortals are witnessing us; not that it would matter what they think, beyond to amuse us," 'Odin' chuckles at her, with a distracted gesture of hand. Either there aren't any mortals around, or they're cloaked. Or he's lying. There could be a massive audience and /Sif/ can't see it. Hard to know with Loki.

"You're brave, though. Running the risk that it was, indeed, me. Or perhaps you had a tryst with the All-Father even I didn't know about?" Loki teases her, leaning in, to put his beard against her skin to 'feel', just because he's obnoxious.

It doesn't last, the shapeshifter returns to his own form, like liquid mercury, and grins, angling his head just /so/, lips in the angle of a sneer, but it's without any fang.

Sif has posed:
Ew, old man beard! -- and Sif tucks her shoulder up as if the pauldron-less joint might spare her further bearding. Her grimace is far more smile in the end and appropriate parry to the coy grin she's receiving. It never fails to make her heart skip a beat in both trepidation and delight alike...given even a tamed snake has fangs.

"Loki, I have the deepest respect for all of your family." He gets a good eyebrowing to boot. "And sometimes, I do have an urge to...test my luck," she adds with a casual lightness. "But yes, I am brave, thank you."

Her attention flickers back to the rosebush suddenly having sprung up at the Trickster's behest. Giving his forearm a quick squeeze, she moves to pluck one of the blooms from it. Returning to Loki, she offers it to him. "Would the Prince please affix his blossom upon my crown? I daresay it will suit."

Loki has posed:
Loki looks monstrously affronted as she moves over and plucks the rose. "You /desecrate/ my altar!?" Loki asks, his voice sliding chilly cold, the fang suddenly appearing, as he stares her down as she brings the bloom and offers it.

Loki flips moods, out of the false one and back to how he actually feels, plucking the rose from her hand, grinning slyly, and lifts both hands to her crown, stepping in close. "I don't care," Loki snarkily adds, flippant. He adjusts the rose into he hair, but then leans in to slyly kiss her, as well, warm and directly.

There are onlookers, actually. They were nearby, walking together, and they look on with interest and fawning pleasure at the display. Maybe the roses, maybe the rest of it...

Sif has posed:
Bold Sif lifts her chin the necessary amount to weather the shift in disposition with a confidence far more professed than when their courting first began. Her refined smile grows up until the point where it's smothered by the Trickster's kiss. A little sigh from the Aesir warrior and when they part, she looks up into Loki's face with contentment plain as day.

"And how does the rose sit upon my crown, my Prince? I daresay I might start a new fashion in those brave enough to risk your ire in wearing the bloom," she murmurs even as she glances over at the Midgardians. Her palm remains on Loki's forearm in silent claimancy if the show of affection wasn't enough as it stands.

Loki has posed:
Loki flicks a hand at the rosebush he'd magically created somehow out of a single primrose, and all of the blooms turn pure white, leaving the red and pink one on her hair the same color. The magic, so visible, gets gasps from the onlookers.

"None will match yours," Loki decides with a flick upwards of eyebrow, and tight laugh. He rolls his eyes a little, in a way that indicates the midgardians. "Done here, or still more to do? More to bask in?" As if he didn't cause ALL of it.

Sif has posed:
"I do believe I am pleased, my lord," demures the Princess on his arm. As much as Sif might to attempt to keep the amount of self-satisfied airs away from herself, it can still be seen in the subtle lift of the corners of her lips and the twinkle in her ice-blue eyes. "Have you any other errands to attend upon while within this city? I am..."

Her eyes slide to one side before returning to his face and now she's not shifted shy again, but more modest. "I am humbled that the Midgardians wish to show us such respect. That you chose to show me, in turn? I thank you. I would not have thought to go looking. My attention has ever been turned to Asgard and to my few friends far from this place -- and, of course, to you." Her palm rises to rest over the Trickster's heart with blatant familiarity.

Loki has posed:
"No other things here, no," Loki answers sleekly. "Not at this moment, that is," he adjusts, with a playful little roll of his eyes. There's always something, with Loki. "I thought this would amuse you," Loki adds, without even gesturing: but he means the whole little show and adventure.

"Lets return, then. Leave them to their prayers." Loki's gaze flicks down to her hand that she dared place upon His Royal Chest, but only smiles slyly, and with a magical flare, sends them home in a flutter of magical rose petals and snow. Home to Asgard.