1740/So This All Happened

So This All Happened
Date of Scene:	31 July 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Mercy Thompson

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Loki has posed:
Brooklyn Botanic Gardens are nearly green, the closest thing one can get to a nice garden outside a sprawling mansion outside the city. Not quite so trampled as Central Park, the green lawns and lovely rose gardens warrant a good visit in the sunshine. Except it's not sunny out, but sometime around dusk, and the gasping humidity hardly welcome. No one is really present given the hour, the floodlight weakly shining against the glistening green foliage and nodding blooms. The circle of a portal opens in a spiralling figure eight, its origin in a certain Harlem garage and terminating in front of him. He eats a scone, this prince of the Asgardian realm, deeply amused with himself. There's a bottle of beer on the tabletop.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A portal in Mercy's garage isn't necessarily a surprising thing. What is surprise is the fact that the portal is picking up versus dropping off.

That's enough to catch Mercy quite flat-footed, even with the faint tingle of warning from the magic that accompanies the appearance of the portal.

As such, the coyote finds herself whisked away from the bland interior of her garage and off to somewhere else. A surprised look washes across her features when she appears. "What?" Begins the woman, even as her gaze finds the so-amused-prince. Her sense of smell likewise picks up the wealth of greenery around the the two. Let's not forget the table with the beer upon it, either.

"That was unexpected." Says the mechanic, her expression turning to grin, her tone likewise amused, "Something I can do for you?"

At least she's not dressed in her coveralls just this moment. Instead she's dressed in a slouchy red t-shirt and a pair of black shorts. Brown sandals are upon her feet.

Loki has posed:
"Am I not permitted to serenade my paramour or serve at her beck and call?" The irascible nature of the Trickster manifests as he cracks a sharp smile, one of those bladed and ghostly curves that never quite leaves an impression upon his all too pale features. The sun hasn't raised his complexion to a healthy golden glow, leaving him as untouched as any British gentleman of a certain posh extraction.

The casual stance where he sits and motions to the bottle and another reclining chair among the herbs in their strong fragrances of natural things -- rosemary, basil, thyme, lemonbalm -- proves sufficient invitation. The portal loses its energy as he relinquishes the hold on the mundane real, leaving no tangible stamp.

This is Loki somewhat easygoing, not quite as far as eating ice cream from the bucket with a spoon. A big spoon. He crosses his leg over his thigh, balanced in place. "So, my charming rapscallion, I will pluck you from your industrious efforts in that bower for a fateful taste of passion and life in its fullest. Then I can return you, your adoptive father none the wiser, and we'll call it a very nice gambit."

The alcohol he supplies is a local varietal, Blue Moon, bit heavier on a citrus overtone but deliciously refreshing and very much mortal.

"Since I genuinely doubt I can run away with you at the moment, I'll endure this business of putting up with inconveniences." His tone is light, toying, needle claws in a mouse. "The matter of our friends still being up in the air."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Both of Mercy's eyebrows raise upward upon her face with that first line of his. One corner of her mouth hitches somewhat higher than the other, as she asks, "Serenade? And what song will you sing for me tonight?" She asks with a half a tease and half a serious note, even as she steps closer to the Trickster and that second seat.

Her sandals will be toed off and pushed beneath the seat, before she settles down within it. Both of her feet will be tucked beneath her, her nearest hand reaching for the supplied alcohol. She'll give the label upon the bottle a quick look, approval easily found within her gaze. Clearly, Mercy doesn't mind the more fruity overtones.

"Ha." Retorts Mercy with some amusement at the mention of bowers, adoptive fathers and being a rapscallion, "You make me sound like Rapunzel, hardly that. My hair isn't quite long enough or the right color."

It's, however, at the mention of their friends being up in the air that the coyote will cant her head to the side. "I know I've been keeping far too many garage hours lately, sorry about that. And if you like we can definitely strive for a 'work-free' zone right now."

Loki has posed:
Loki waits until Mercy sits before he closes in on her situation, leaning forward slightly in the chair. "Well, my precious dark pearl of Midgard, how do you feel about..." ^R
He waits a moment, long enough to build the tension and anticipation as twin faces of the same coin.

"... Yodeling?"

There will be no further commentary until that's quite resolved. He gives a cocky little grin that tucks a cat's smirk at the corners of his mouth.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
His pet names for her; they're enough to cause creases at the corners of her eyes with silent laughter. That laughter soon erupts, however, when he mentions his song style of choice.

Yodeling.

That answer of his is enough to cause Mercy to laugh out loud. The sound echoes ever so slightly, but thankfully the plant-life around the two act as a natural insulator of sorts. "You." States the coyote, the bottle of beer pointed at the Asgardian Prince. "Are terrible."

It's enough to cause the woman to shake her head, in amusement of course, even as she pops the bottle cap off the beer. A sip of the beer will be taken, before she adds, "Though I'm sure you'd be the best yodeler out there, hm? I can't imagine you ever doing anything less than perfect."

Loki has posed:
The smirk becomes a little closer to a smile. The black eye to the misery in the universe delivered, Loki sits back rather than remaining straight upright. He hooks his hand around his knee and pulls it upright, changing his posture all over again.

"Yes, something of that nature. If anyone else tries to contend with me in my chosen artform, I intend to see them to their stylistic grave," he adds, rolling a shoulder in a careless shrug. Throwing Mercy one of those calculating looks, he nods. "You're dressed for yodeling. Bit cold in the mountains, but a snap of our fingers and all Switzerland will hear the call of Loki of Asgard. Now what to call, I'm not sure. 'The elves stole your cow again' seems particularly untoward. 'Never trust Russians' is lost on them."

He shakes those russet on black locks in a feigned degree of falling asleep. Right, the world is just so dull. "Under the circumstances, I leave you to carve out your own path with those... Associates. What works best for them and my own designs are very different, and this isn't particularly calling for my hand."

Yet. Because he'd probably cheat and make Ares barnstorm the man's whereabouts so they could have a soldier s'mores party while Loki hid the mind gem on a stick under marshmallow.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
He's still terrible. At least, about Switzerland and yodeling. Those remarks earn another grin from the woman, her expression still showing quite a few laugh lines around the eyes, her mouth. Something that's been missing for quite some time lately. Mostly it's been serious Mercy and for a minute she forgets those newly placed grooves upon her face.

"Really." She says with a wry tone, when he mentions her state of dress, and how it's fit for yodeling. "I always imagined yodelers in lederhosen; not necessarily shorts."

The mention of Russians earns a faint grimace from the mechanic. While Mercy rarely agrees with such blatant stereotyping in this particular case part of her feels some agreement with it. And since Loki opened the door with 'workshop talk', Mercy nods, continuing with that for a minute. Idly the bottle of beer will be turned in her hands, "We're mostly preparing." She'll say, "Traps, trick of the trade, that sort." And while Mercy could elaborate more on what the rest of the 'team' has been doing, she doesn't quite yet. Instead, she'll ask, "What are your plans? You mentioned leaving the psychological part up to you."

Loki has posed:
The terrible quality is what she presumably likes about him. Mercy will one day have a shakedown from the teenager trying to figure out why she likes his elder self, for maximum awkwardness, but that day is not today. He sweeps an arm out and captures another bottle of something not so terrestrial. The mead beloved of Asgard isn't a shared taste entirely and whatever he has is blue. Glowing blue. It may be a portion of a nebula in miniature. The scent of burnt sugar, almonds, stardust, and yarrow floats up. He takes a swig. "Yodelers can wear shorts. Lamb wool. Really about anything."

Her questions are legitimate and while she explains herself, he mostly drinks and those singularly green eyes do not leave his face. Oh, right, he was supposed to be //doing// something instead of invading Svartalfheim with flying squid and leading the story of a rogue empress elsewhere in the multiverse. All the things come round bring a simple nod. "It really does depend on the situation and how you have him bound. He's going to resist one way or the other, and using //my// psychological methods require some concentration. It's delicate work like surgery, of the brain variety, or spinal. It's easier if he is unconscious, I grant you, or mildly cooperative. Failing that, I suppose I could tear his thoughts loose into the astral realm and chase him down until he finds himself. "

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The glowing drink earns a look. Then a second one from the mechanic.

"Itchy." Is all she'll say about lambs wool shorts.

Then it's onward to the talk of fixing what's broken. In this case the Winter Soldier. The mention of tearing his thoughts out earns a disturbed look from Mercy. She's silent for a minute, her bottle of beer halfway raised to her lips. "Uh, I don't think tearing the thoughts out of his head would be the best move. Just my two cents there. And while I think we'd all love for him to be cooperative, I have a feeling that won't be so. Unconsciousness may be the best we can do so the fixing can go relatively smoothly."

Which brings her around to her next statement, "Though there may be an argument with Ares. He feels the current personality has just as much right to live as the original. I argued against it. In the end we've agreed to disagree on the semantics of things, but he still said he'd help as much as he could. Oath withstanding."

Loki has posed:
"There's an art to astral combat, as it happens. A means to delicately balance the imperfections and scythe them away through the natural rate of attrition. You can equally just lead someone through a merry chase in their own psyche until /they/ do the work for you, albeit you have to lead them along to confront their vices and the like. Personally I'm starting to just assume I should do an outright reprogramming that isolates and confines, though it's still going to allow the troublesome side to build a connection in time, possibly." He taps his finger idly against the wall of his knee, and then swishes the liquor around. He brings it to his mouth, the sip deep and satisfying. "As I doubt my /normal/ methods would please anyone. I shall be mindful to play by the more palatable rules."