1903/Bombs over the Bifrost

Bombs over the Bifrost
Date of Scene:	09 August 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Mercy Thompson

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Loki has posed:
It probably didn't bode well the magical heavyweight neglected to show up at the assault on Hydra. Winter Soldier apparently has too low a challenge rating to interest an Asgardian god.

The honest to God //truth// may be slightly different. Not that he'll ever admit it. Some questions may remain, especially for the woman he supposedly courts. Mercy Thompson, allowed to play her games with fate without his intervention? Loki might weather her accusations, looking her in the face, and put up with her fists hammering into his chest. He might forgive that, too.

But, no. Does he slink in with his tail between his legs? Hardly. Does he come bearing gifts? Fuck no, he's not Greek.

"//You// sit there, and behave yourself." Medea is going to have a hissy fit if she can smell, but thanks to the illusion cast over the roof, no one else can.

Then Loki just sauntes into the shop, trusting the business hours will suit. Unless it's booby-trapped; in which case, thrilling! He's partial to rope traps and gradient t-shirts.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Medea - a hissy fit? More like baleful stare when upset. So very cat-like. Unless it's a visit to the vet. Then all bets are off.

With it being business hours there's no apparent booby-traps. Just business as usual. It just wouldn't be good for a customer to accidentally be cleaved by a swinging axe, after all. People might not return.

As for the shop, it's as neat and orderly as ever. There's only a few things scattered upon the work benches, while the mechanic of the shop is just sliding out the driver side door of a chevy impala; wear and tear evident on the body of the car. It's definitely several years old and already suffering electrical problems. That's never a good sign.

The door will be shut with a proficient bump of a hip, even as her coyote ears prick at the sound of approaching footsteps. The wire strippers in her hand are slid into the pocket of her coveralls just as Loki's form comes into view. Surprise briefly flares in her brown eyes upon seeing him, not quite expecting him to be the one walking in. That surprise actually causes the coyote to look at the clock upon the wall, to check what time it is, before she looks back to the trickster. "Loki - everything okay?" Are the first words out of her mouth, an automatic question thanks to the latest antics that have surrounded their circle of friends.

Loki has posed:
"Come now, I might have vehicle problems that require assistance and correction. Like, for example, owning as hideous a death trap as the one in your garage." Loki's nose wrinkles and he tries not to sneer too overtly. "Please tell me you intend to slay that and lay it to rest. It wouldn't even earn glorious rest. But still..."

He has the Impala's number. Truly atrocious vehicles; rife with electrical problems and body assembly. No one wise buys one or drives one unless they are a sadomasochist.

The flick of his dark hair from his face leaves the wholly human visage shattered by eyes so intensely green, they better resemble balefires. So too the grin is fey; wild.

"Take your lunch. We're going on a working date." His fingers rub together. Probably locking the doors and cutting off the power to any open sign is a bad idea, an exercise in quashing her independence. Mercy should not suffer that. Decisions are hers to make. "I've even found a passable decent sandwich. Come, love, you've got thoughts dancing around in your head and I have amends."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Vehicle problems." She echoes, a ghost of a smile momentarily quirking her lips upward, "I'm certain any 'vehicle' you drove wouldn't be something I'd work on." Whether she means his vehicle would be something above her pay grade, or something more magical, isn't quite clear with that wording of hers.

"And no, I intend to fix it." Comes her response, her tone of voice dry with quiet humor, "Unless you'd like to buy the family a new car? If so, then yes, I will slay the wicked beast for you."

His eyes, that otherworldliness to his grin, it's enough to cause the coyote to focus more fully upon Loki. His next words bring forth a slight furrowing of her eyebrows, as Mercy's expression moves more towards questions and curiosity. The best way to get the attention of a mechanic is by offering a puzzle, and a working date definitely raises questions of /what/ they'll be working on.

Again Mercy's gaze slides to the clock and while it's perhaps a tinge early, it's close enough. "All right. A working date. Give me five minutes." She says, already moving to shut the shop down for however long the working lunch will take. Once the front door is locked, the sign placed, and Mercy's own attire is more jeans and t-shirt, versus coveralls, Mercy returns. She'll step next to him, her eyes turning to his face now, the coyote's expression serious, "Amends - " She begins, assumptions being made for what he might have to atone for, "- No, you don't. There were others that couldn't make it either, and while I dearly wished everyone could have been there, we got Sam back. That's what matters." With a price, but it's a price that has been paid and there's no refund forthcoming.

As for those thoughts, she does circle back around and that causes some of her typical attitude to return to her face, "I do have ideas and some of them I think I'll need your help with - especially with the one for the hydra. Little h there, not the actual organization." The actual mythological monster there.

Loki has posed:
He has it on fairly good authority how to handle with the likes of people and their strange cars. Witnessing how much humans enjoy their vehicles, be they bike or motorcycle or rocket, Loki may thoroughly assess that the absence of widespread magic formed some miserably effective modes of transportation. Also, death wishes. Humanity's death wish will always play out in their technology, bar none. All these thoughts he wisely keeps to himself, as much as he might casually remind others, not Mercy, that Volkswagen began in Nazi Germany and those particularly nasty blokes had little up their sleeves not aimed to improve the misery of the world. His displeasure and distrust in such business as mechanized suffering boxes, all of which ought to be named Pandora as a brand, will go for another day.

Loki bends his arm, offering a casual stance whilst taking in Mercy at work, as curious as a bowerbird going about building a nest of guns from the battlefield. He chuckles under his breath when she moves to make her departure. "Five. A minute later, I will come for you and assume you have been waylaid by the hazards of a closet or an assassin hiding therein. He may expect no quarter; or she, as matters go." His expression sharpens a fraction while musing on the dangers, though he's still prone to laughter under the circumstances. Worse. He's the type of main whom, chained, is likely to laugh in the face of his captors.

"Hydra, typically a Grecian problem. You'll be glad to know that we have a tradition of dragon slaying among my own people, and more than a few notions about using them. I'm partial to binding. Maybe the hydra can be put to the excellent purpose of, say, guarding something unremarkable like a dung heap at the back of a prison or the like. Out of harm's way, and all that. Or I could sell it. I know someone who gathers such things and pays well for them, though it has a long, long way to go." He muses on the fact while Mercy vanishes into her living quarters, leaving him to listen too acutely.

There is a moment when he speaks quietly in Aesir, and that //definitely// goes through the roof. It amounts to "Quiet down or I turn you into glue."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Oh to be sure Mercy is quite aware of just where that particular brand of car started out. That still doesn't necessarily dampen her love for the brand.

She just understands that there are bad facets to society along with the good.

His explanation of the hydra and all the potential possibilities with it earns a side-eyed look from Mercy. "What dragons?" That's her first questions, "And dragons like wings, flaming breath, scaly hide? Or do our definitions differ?" Is her second and third question, and then, "As long as that thing is gone from this world, I'll be happy. We blew the first head off and two more appeared, so I'm going to say we have four more heads to go." Clearly she's going with the whole seven-headed hydra here. "Not that we even scared it away. The Winter Soldier did, or rather commanded it to go away. Or so it seemed. It was a bit chaotic, we were all running at that point."

The Aesir wasn't heard, having been in the back changing, so for now Mercy is quite unaware of just what sits above her head on her roof. As such, the mechanic continues onward, blithely unaware, "Though I'm not sure if you'd really want to sell it, I smelled some kind of corruption with the beast. I'd vote for sending it back home. Wherever its home is. Which is where I was hoping we could combine magic and technology together."

There she pauses from any more battle shop talk, "And you mentioned sandwiches too? Walking distance or shall I pull out the deathbox of doom?" She says with a crooked grin, amusement again in her tones. She may be a touch quieter with her humor, but it's been enough time since that rescue that it's finally returning more and more.

Loki has posed:
The questions bombarding him receive their due course, but not before Loki asks, "What. The Winter Soldier commanded it not to pursue you? I believe you're missing out on some of the description and context so valuable to understanding events. Especially ones where you were running away and he was apparent not in hot pursuit of you." His expression does not change overly much from the mischievous sheen it usually has, though his eyes are narrowed; speculation and calculation go hand in hand, his true born kindred spirits, if he ever had any.

"Corruption, short of rotting out the body, is hardly an issue for some of the markets that I sometimes pass. Natural hazard of the profession, but they'll take nearly everything. Though the nature of course matters. A rare plague beset by magical spores has something infinitely worthwhile to someone, whereas common hoof rot, not exactly so valuable. Fear not, I have esteem enough to avoid unleashing further misery on this realm." He shrugs a shoulder, the mirth in his words not likely too serious. It's not as though he's buying planet destroying weapons on the celestial deep web equivalent, is he?

Don't ask.

Mercy's return is the sun to the night, and he holds out her hand. "Proper walk. I thought we might enjoy one of those parks out there on the water. Long Island would be ideal, but too far to be of any value in a car." He has to consider; death box or somewhere completely unremarkable. The shop? Hm. Too likely to upset the Impala. "Sandwiches at the go, it's where to eat them with anything passing as a view. Get a notebook, or whatever you need to capture your ideas. Combine magic and technology, you're starting to sound like an intellectual revolutionary. What kind of notion are you thinking? Portal bomb? Banishment bullet?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Her head tilts to Loki's initial point. "Yes, I'm sure we're missing something." She agrees, "Which worries me, but also annoys me at the same time. I want to know all the factors we're going against -"

But for now, that's a moot point, so Mercy let's that particular thought go for now. Instead she turns to the talk of the various markets that Loki Odinson gets to visit. The topic of magical spores, plague and common hoof-rot earns another one of those side-eyes from Mercy. Then turning fully to him, Mercy flashes another one of those lopsided grins, "You always say the most interesting things, Loki. A magical black market; at least I'm assuming it's a black market? Unless it's a regular market where you can sell such things?" She queries, her eyebrows rising upward with that question of hers.

His notions of parks and food and where to go is nodded at, even as she moves to grab a notebook at the mention of it. She'll grab a smallish thing, the one that's holding the majority of her ideas and sketches lately, with a simple spiral spine. A pencil is grabbed and then tucked behind her ear, a strand of her dark hair partially hiding the yellow number two. Stepping back to his side, Mercy adds, "There's always the piers, down by the river. It's more water with a splash of greenery, versus full blown park, but it's nice. Though we might want to do a little hop to speed up the walk."

And Mercy can only hope that the hydra won't appear near water. She really doesn't know how far that beast roams.

His mention of her becoming an intellectual revolutionary earns a laugh, a shake of her head too, "Well, Hydra is using magic and technology together, we need to do the same. Fight fire with fire - " And she'll nod at the mention of portal bomb, yes that exactly, but it's his second idea that causes Mercy to pause. "A banishment bullet. I hadn't even considered that. If we can do that then /yes/. Definitely yes. I'd like to do both."

And then she'll move to step out, reaching for his arm should he offer it.

Loki has posed:
"Entirely legitimate markets, grey markets, those which turn and trend only for those able to demonstrate certain abilities," Loki confirms Mercy's suspicions, though he might know better. "Entire worlds turned over to commerce, though not always of the most savory sort. They are nothing like those dreadful Star Wars movies, but something infinitely more detailed and textured in nuance. I've seen trading at the edge of a dying galaxy where dreams were for sale, preserved in the candies you'd find in a cheap corner shop. I've seen memories of future days widely traded; I've walked through dusty vaults worth nothing but the dust inside interest enough. It's a long life."

A shrug follows, as if such things are common and not to be bandied about to make a mortal jealous. No doubt Frigga would be reminding him not to be mean to their feelings. "This particular horror would probably end up in an antiquarian or collector's collection, as one might expect by the name."

The piers warrant a nod, for which her recommendation is accepted fully. "Let's head there. You know the best way? I fear it's something of a fog down here." Loki holds out his arm for her again, a gentlemanly gesture when he's a divine cad. "You've anyone who can make a decent bullet? It's easy enough to impart a banishment spell into it. For the really tough stuff, it won't be a perfect fit. Banishments are an all or nothing proposition. And the ammunition, when destroyed, makes the spell evaporate. But it can be done. I've thought of inscribing a magazine or a clip instead of one, but individual treatment might be the best."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Her eyebrows stay raised slightly at the description of those markets. Especially bit about selling dreams caught in candies. It's enough to cause the woman to shake her head. That movement holds both disbelief and wonder within it.

"Some of that sounds disturbing." Is what she'll say then, before her expression changes slightly. It scrunches slightly when he puts dreadful and Star Wars in the same sentence. "Dreadful?" She states, with a grin, "You realize those are fighting words, right? You can't just drop a critique like that without expecting any sort of follow-up."

And as to that mention of where the hydra could go, Mercy just murmurs, "I'd rather it just be dead. It tried to eat all of us. Got one of my good boots too."

His mention of directions is given a nod and Mercy will easily take the lead. It's easy enough to tell which way she goes with the subtle pressure upon his arm when she turns down a street, or changes directions slightly. It'll be a little bit of a walk, but nothing terribly so and Mercy doesn't necessarily seem in a true hurry. She is her own boss, after all, lunch hours can be malleable.

"I've cast a few bullets." She offers, "Though I'm hardly a decent smith. I can ask Fred. I get the feeling she might be more used to casting than I am, and if she isn't then I'm sure we can find someone to help us. Would you inscribe the banishment as we were creating the bullet then? I had the thought you'd attach the spell to the bullet with a rune." And with their conversation turned to weaponry, she'll also add, "I can defintiely create a shell for the portal bombs to house the spell, though I'm stuck on how to create a fuse or trigger for it. Priming a spell versus explosives isn't quite the same mechanic-wise." Not in her book, at least.

Loki has posed:
"It ate your boot? Ah, well, the thing will be taken down by personal combat after I issue a challenge and then unload a pile of incendiaries. The seven heads you anticipate may be a problem. Unless they're particularly stupid..." Loki isn't forgetful but drawn in a few directions. "You asked about dragons. All kinds: fire-breathing flapping ones, snake like elementals in the sky that command winds, the sea serpents that devour ships in their maws, the interstellar variety that hunger for light and life, the wurms of deep forest and bones of the earth. They're rather diverse as a clade." Hello biological reference!

"Though how typically one deals with the heads would be mutual distraction. If you cannot bring equal force or numbers, you hold it transfixed or unable to react. Sever the heads in suspended animation, cauterize the wounds while still inside the field, and then release the effect. It usually serves helpfully because it can't heal the damage already done. Hmm. Miniaturized detonation wouldn't really work on that front. You'd need something better to overcome the healing factor and the multiple heads. Sensory loop; link the heads' impressions together so they cannot see out their own eyes. The multiple mental processing speeds won't help they're overwhelmed by stimuli and incapable of attacking as a result. That's actually not entirely bad. Shoot them linked into a literal neural net. Ugly, yes, but functional..."

This is why Loki never gets free time on Midgard or Asgard.

"Inscriptions are the easy part. I can write them on a bullet, but how inelegant. Tell the metal, //that// is the trick." He snaps his finger. "Yes. I can manage that with artificer. I'm not about to show her the secret to make metal reject magic altogether. Rather hideous in the wrong hands, though I can do that. Runes are a bit too obvious, though they're useful for their anchorage." He is still turning over notions. I still see the value of the lightning cage. Oh, of course, there's also the spatial axis warping. We could twist the seconds around the hydra around, though that will hit people who get too close. Time's relative, after all." Yeah, yeah, Mr. Lives In Many Eras. "A portal bomb can be contact, shattered, that's the easiest. You can set triggers in mystical that hang until conditions are met, then they detonate. Bit more work, but standard for the course."

He glances back over his shoulder and walks with her, but there's not much to indicate what he considers. Locations of hydras, mostly. Not a flock of winged horses, nope.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"My boot." The coyote agrees and while her words are light-hearted her expression soon turns serious. "I'd caution against meeting it one on one. It didn't really react the way you describe." She continues with, even as she files the information about dragons away for later perusal, "It started with one head, then when we destroyed that, grew the next two. I'm assuming as we destroy each head it continues to gain another head until it reaches seven -" Which now causes her to frown, "Which really means we have four more /rounds/ of it regrowing its head before it settles down. All conjecture for what happens when we take care of the next two, but it seems plausible that's how it's going to go, but if it does create seven heads at the end the sensory loop would work. Take one head down and you have them all."

Next the mechanic turns back to the topic of miniaturized detonation, "That's how we took out the first head. We tossed a bag of bombs into its mouth and I detonated it. We just ran out of bombs at that point. It's what made me think of other things we could do and a portal bomb to send it home or elsewhere would be perfect. Take it out in one shot and then move on to the easier targets."

Not that the Winter Soldier is such an easier target, though in this case he really is.

When the two turn back to the talk of bullets, Mercy's expression turns thoughtful. "I'd like to learn how to turn metal against magic." She says, quite honestly here, "Though I imagine you'd have to have the particular skill-set to do that." Meaning wizard, sorcerer, etc. One that she doesn't necessarily have; though the fact that her step-brother was able to leaves open the potential for it, perhaps.

"I have the skeleton of the cage built." She admits, "It's taking longer than I expected. There's a lot of parts I'm hand forging for it." As for those bombs Mercy looks relieved when he reveals how the bombs could be triggered. "Good. I'm all for triggering the spell by shattering the housing. I can build something relatively stable to be carried, but when throw shatters on impact. That's no problem. My next question, where would the portals take them? Could you just do something generic like 'send the target 'home"? And when he turns to look over his shoulder, Mercy unconsciously follows his movement, looking over her shoulder. "Something wrong?" She asks sharply, the coyote suddenly paying more attention to her senses. Hair-trigger it seems for Mercy.

Loki has posed:
"Ah, that's fairly easy to manage. Concentric. Seven would make sense, but count on thirteen just in case it's a bastard." Because all such creatures are. "Maybe it hates seawater, and we can hurl it into that. Nevertheless, I like the idea of having multiple options on hand. Sensory loop and stun the rest, but really, we're better off looking for the bane of such a thing. Put your Winchester friend on that. I seem to think he smells of paper."

Paper and sad eyes, just like Bucky, but no need to tell that to anyone either.

Of course, the portal bomb is much more in his bailiwick. "Ah, yes. If we open up the portal beneath, we can drop it right down there. Something on the ground would be rather convenient, but the spread of the portal means we'd have to assume it's going to have someone else around. They might go //with// the hydra, which would be inconvenient if you stop and think too strongly about that." His arm taps against hers, gently knocked, while they wander the streets of the city as if they're discussing something normal. "Subduing it and tossing it out, then? Sounds plausible. Rather less dramatic, but probably easier on the carpet. As to the destinations, those are usually keyed. I can set spells in advance and that's not a problem, but knowing my location is helpful. A hydra running around Niflheim has /advantages/, but not entirely much related to..." No, do not give Hela a hydra. That won't end well. He glances at Mercy and over her head, staring off for a time. "Things called have affinities. We can sometimes trust in that. Do you have scales, blood, anything of the sort? From it. Not you, obviously."

The question of worry gets answered for itself. A whisper of motion becomes a solid, definitive headbutt. Light, mind you, but it's awfully heavy when delivered by something with a long skull higher than shoulder height naturally. To Mercy, no less.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Thirteen? Really. He just had to go there. It's enough to earn a side-eye from Mercy, "Thanks for being so optimistic." She manages with a touch of sardonic humor, even as she nods to the mention of multiple avenues of attack.

She is all for that.

All of it.

"I'll ask Sam about it." She ends with, even as her mind mulls over all the potential problems with portal bombs, bullets and magic in general. Mostly it's about the portals. "No, I'd rather not send anyone else back with the beast. That'd be bad. Although, if we're losing and that's the only way." It might be done. Not that Mercy likes that idea at all and it shows in the twist of her expression, the flatness of her lips. She's already lost two wolves from her pack with their last escapades, she'd rather not lose more. Thankfully, his gentle nudge upon her arm turns her attention away from the thoughts of loss and back to the discussion at hand.

And why yes, doesn't everyone talk about hydras and portals and how to destroy them? Surely they do!

As for programming their destination, Mercy turns back to Loki, "I'll let you decide where to send them. Whether it's back to its own home, or somewhere far far away. I'm good with both." His question on scales and blood earn a nod from the coyote, "Luckily I do. When the head blew it helpfully spread the brains, blood and bone of the beast. I can grab the outfit I wore, I'm sure there's still stuff on there. Though carefully, the blood-ichor really burned on contact."

Of course, more could have been said, but her words pause when the two look over their shoulders and suddenly Mercy senses that tiny shift of movement. Even with that forewarning Mercy isn't quite quick enough to dodge and so, all the coyote can do is allow a widening of her eyes, before that solid hit strikes her. If she weren't already holding onto something, namely Loki, she'd have gone down. Though perhaps she might drag Loki down with her, though unlikely with his solidity and weight. So, mostly, she staggers inelegantly forward, her hand automatically tightening upon Loki's arm. The notebook that was in her hand drops to the ground, the papers fluttering lightly with that motion.

Along with her staggering step forwards there's also a gasp of surprise from Mercy and a sharp, "What in the ...?!"

Loki has posed:
Loki has much to think about, notably transporting sandwiches and navigating towards the riverfront where green space is at less of a premium. He keeps his arm securely around Mercy's, looking for all the world like a normal couple. It's an illusion, of course, a distraction from the fact her shape can be undone into a coyote's in a heartbeat and he wears whatever he feels like to suit the mood. If he particularly wanted, he could be a flaming bush with a booming God voice or a butterfly with the prettiest of wings.

"I'll consider the bullets and the portal bombs the ideal route to take. We can probably whip up a few other things, given the right ingredients, though time could be at a premium." He shrugs a shoulder even when Mercy stumbles, and the instinctive grip around her tightens slightly. Still, acting on instinct might reveal just how strong he really is.

Maybe not the match of his brother, but still pretty damn bruising when he doesn't think about what he's doing.

Those flashing green eyes for a moment lack their pupils and their sclera, consumed by a brightening glow that somehow doesn't disrupt the entirely human mask he adopts. However formidable a reminder, he's up against the divine himself.

"You choose your moment as badly as Aragorn does. *This* is not the appropriate venue. It's a street." His lip curls and he frowns at nothing at all. Is the man mad? Probably. That's beside the point. "They are typically impatient, headstrong, utterly precocious things I shall banish if they keep trying to eat your hair. It's thought to be charming and new people ever entice them. You're the first in a while."

He gestures at the rough direction of Portugal. "Shall we get to the water before they decide to show off by disrupting weather patterns?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
There are so many things to focus upon for Mercy Thompson.

Their conversation, definitely, the topic of weapons, certainly, but for now those two points are dropped to the wayside with the bump between her shoulder blades and her stumble. If it weren't for Loki's hold upon her she'd have likely gone down. As for that grip of his, the strength behind the touch brings Mercy's attention back around to the tricky god. Whatever she might have said stills upon her lips, however, when Loki's eyes flash as they so do.

What he says next doesn't seem to help Mercy form any coherent words. Or any real response, in fact, beyond bewilderment. Inwardly she'll turn to her senses as she stretches them out, trying to figure out just who or possibly what Loki is talking too. Because that first part was definitely not for /her/. If nothing else, she's certain of that much.

Now that second part of his statement that's definitely directed to her and it's enough to cause Mercy to say, "Okay, clearly you can see something I can't so, can you throw me more of a clue? I'm not connecting the dots." She begins, her gaze turning over her shoulder a third time as she looks for what she can't necessarily see. "Spirit? A friendly seeming one." She hazards a guess, though she doesn't necessarily believe that; she can see typically ghosts and currently she sees nothing. Nothing at all.

It's only with his reminder of the water and their destination that the coyote starts to walk again. Her gait is a little stiff, as she tries to figure out what's going on. The notebook that was dropped is quickly snapped up from the ground, but she's moving. That's something at last.

Loki has posed:
Damnable gods of stories and gods of mischief. Like they're going to spoil the entry!

Loki -- for he's very much in the mantle of himself -- does an about-face to steer them towards the water. Though, ironically, Mercy is very much the one leading things as far as cartography and directions go. If it were up to him they'd probably end up on the roof of the Empire State Building, casting aspersions on the Stark tower over the way.

Really, among the things Greenwich Village does not need!

The route is bound to feel faster and slower than it is, for he remains obnoxiously quiet the whole way, other than to throw back an accusatory stare at the invisible flock ghosting their every moves. And one, well, he can't be helped for trying to chew on a flag. The one that goes for her dark hair again is sorely tempted. It doesn't *quite* munch. But oh, it wants to tug on those dark locks.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Loki quiet? That's really a new one for Mercy. He always has a quip, a retort, something for her or a situation at hand. The oddity that is a subdued Loki earns many looks from the mechanic. Those side-eyes range from 'what is going on' to 'it must be bad' and also 'are you okay'. However, none of those questions are verbalized.
So, down the way they go and over the hill to -

Not grandmother's house, that's for certain, but the piers that line the riverfront. The area that Mercy leads the two (trio?) towards is a small bit of greenery. The grass is large enough to hold a dozen of people and their blankets, and picnic baskets if they so wished, while the more concrete areas offer over a dozen of well-spaced benches. With it being so near lunchtime the area is busier than normal. A handful of people can be seen on the grass, while several of the benches are already occupied and there's a definite congestion of foot traffic around. Privacy can definitely be found, at least for private conversation, though actual privacy against stares will take a bit more walking to achieve. And even then it might require a well time illusion or three.

For Mercy she continues their walk down the way, banking on needing more privacy over not, especially when she feels a tug upon her hair. Carefully, the coyote will turn her head to avoid any painful yanks of her hair, "Stop it." She hisses to /whatever/ is behind the two. "My hair is not food." And while others might not say such things, especially if it really is a spirit, Mercy isn't quite so cowed.

Loki has posed:
The collection of people just encourages Loki to nearly sigh, staring at the glittering array of wrappers and all the other cans that might distract some highly diverted creatures looking for sport. At least the river isn't very pretty, brown and sluggish as it meets the Atlantic.

Wavelets in the wake of some passing ship fascinate children as much as spirits; safest to think of them that way. He squares his shoulders and never ask where those sandwiches where. He abracadabras them into being with a wave of his hand, the box and bag falling into place into his free hand like he was just holding them along the whole time.

He guides Mercy to the grass and promptly puts down the bag. His coat comes off, laid out for her to sit on. It may be more ominous that he steps back with manners and char mto allow her down first. "They're incorrigible. It is best I let the introductions happen without being too overbearing, though know they won't hurt you. Show off like demented cranes at their mating rites, yes."

Wavelets grow wilder, foaming white contrary to the current. Ripples rise and tumble into the water, depressed somewhat. No one else seems to be noticing this, naturally, as these things go.

"I should warn you, darling, they tend to be proud spirited, but you probably already have that figured out. Kindred spirits. Oh, Glaer, *enough*." He sounds like an irritated parent.

The tug of magic runs over Mercy's senses, a flourish to pull back something.

One. Right. One.

One multiplied many times over. White-winged and gold-hued, brazen-maned and opalescent, those great beasts scarce deserve the name. Flowing tails and flaming plumage make a terrifying dazzle in the sunshine, especially with the flock mobile, dancing on the waters of the Hudson. Shameless prancing and tossing their heads, those creatures aren't fully pegasi; that implies wings, horse. These are something more, almost elemental, children of dawn and noon and dusk.

"Say hello." His voice comes from behind her. "One of them will pick you. Or you'll pick him or her. Won't this be fun?"

His grin is damn well audible. "Pick well, too. It's for life. Yours, anyways."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
And still Loki magics the food to hand. Like they're really going to have a working lunch-turned-picnic. As if everything is perfectly normal.

Nothing to see here. Nothing to see.

And when his coat is laid upon a small patch of greenery Mercy can't quite stop the look she turns to Loki. Today is one of those days where it feels as if she has more questions than answers. Though soon those questions will be answered. Or rather some of them will be.

While she doesn't quite sit down yet the coyote will drop her notebook upon the coat. His words of warning earn another look as she tries to puzzle out just where this is all going. "So, a mischievous spirit." She states, her gaze sharpening at the mention of Glaer and the way he infuses it with a tone of irritation. That tells her Glaer is a name or perhaps the name of what type of spirit follows them. Whichever it is, that name is quite unfamiliar to the coyote. Though it doesn't stop the next thoughts from rolling through Mercy's mind.

She'll need to look that up, do some research, see what she can find out about this spirit. Figure it out even. And while she begins to open her mouth to ask another question the coyote's senses sharpen at the surge of magic. There's a sense of what that spell was intended for - cloaking. To keep something or someone unseen and now that's no longer the case.

With that unveiling Mercy's senses are finally able to pinpoint all of the 'spirits'. Which causes her to turn mostly toward the river. It's the brightness against the dark and muddy waters that caught her attention. The movement too of that herd. Herd or flock.

Once again Mercy is rendered speechless as her gaze takes in the sight out upon the water. Likely she could have stood there silent for several minutes, but the prompt from behind by Loki causes the coyote to start. "They're so beautiful." She starts to say, even getting so far as to add, "Hello." But when the rest of Loki's words are parsed, Mercy greeting stops.

While one can't say her sharp movement is precisely a whirl it comes pretty close; that's how fast the coyote now turns to face Loki. "Pick one? For life? What? No!" That's the immediate knee-jerk reaction of Mercy Thompson.

A working lunch indeed.

Loki has posed:
Silfrtopp, whose flowing mane ripples like mercury and wings shine the eponymous hue of moonlight, trots through the foaming surf as its hooves flash bright as any metal, daring to bow forward and knock a wave at them.

Loki holds out his hand as the water diverts away, not that it had much chance of hitting Mercy. But still. The cavorting is probably worse than the scene in Fantasia; they frolic, winging circles around one another, leaping and never hitting deep into the river. It helps to have such a down draft that the air hollows out a space for them.

The Prince of Asgard stays silent while Mercy communes with her newfound friends. They aren't fully spirit. They most certainly are manifested, at any rate. Drawn out to dance around, the flock of thirteen must be real.

When she protests no, he holds up a hand. "Hear me out, Mercedes Thompson, for it very well is your right to be among them. I know you for what you are. One of your feet is already in their world, elsewise they would not honour you so." Loki might have trouble saying honour. Is eating her hair an honour? "You are a psychopomp; I've seen that on you since the day we met. Another way you are kindred spirits, for these ridiculous hams have a similar role to provide such an escorted when needed." He scows at Glaer; the lively horse tosses its head as though to dare him to jump in for a swim. How does Mercy feel about her water walking abilities?

"They exist, Mercy, as companions to psychopomps. I'm fairly certain your death trap doesn't drive through dimensions." He holds his hand up to his brow, ruffling his dark hair. "You have been touched by death's kingdom. Nearer than most, thanks to that... Person... I shall refrain from naming. *I* have the power to acknowledge your status in another way and ensure you are not alone on whatever path you walk. You're not the first of your people to be graced by one of the ljosmarr; if that should matter. They once chose a Cherokee shaman. And understand, this is what they want. It's why they incarnated in the first place. You're giving them a reprieve from hauling me around, and getting fat in a meadow. They've grown lazy and portly waiting on a worthy partner."

Loki has posed:
Edit to the pose above because the poser is mean: such an escort*

Mercy Thompson has posed:
To outside eyes their conversation probably looks quite normal. Perhaps a quick bit of back and forth, but mostly normal. If only the mortals around them could see what both of them can.

Then perhaps it'd be different. Well, the conversations around the two would be different. Likely Mercy and Loki would still be having this particular one.

His words bring forth an expression upon the coyote's face. Stubbornness. It's right there. She's about to say no again. It's close enough that Mercy will bring her hands upward, a gesture of 'woah stop' being made, though that gesture doesn't quite complete. Not when he he brings out her full name (well sans middle, but who's counting) and pulls forth that formal court voice of his.

That causes the mechanic to stop (again) and listen. And listen to all of what he has to say she does, even if her expression still doesn't look pleased. Another in her place might jump at this chance. What little girl (or boy!) hasn't often wished for a winged steed? Even Mercy fell into that trap of want when she was young, but now she's an adult. The seriousness of this situation isn't lost upon her. Nor the solemnity of being bound to an Asgardian spirit. Or half-spirit in this case.

He knows her for what she is. Psychopomp, indeed. She knows the meaning of that word and it describes her spirit abilities to a T. Her expression only shifts to a ghost of a smile when Loki describes the winged horses as hams, otherwise Mercedes Thompson's manner stays quite serious. While a sigh doesn't quite leave her lips there's a flare of nostrils from the woman. Both for a breath and a signal of her emotional state. She knows he's right, she just doesn't want to admit it right now.

"Not a death trap." She mutters, those words of hers instinctive, though holding very actual little bite to them. No, Mercy's mind is turning over all of what Loki has said. Even the mention of her almost dying. Those words cause a shadow to darken her expression and her eyes, though that brittle look eases somewhat after a minute.

"Getting fat?" Says the coyote finally, "Don't listen to him." She continues with, a spark of amusement found within her gaze as Mercy looks to Glaer. "You're perfectly pretty." There it is, Mercy's typical diversion with humor. That redirection doesn't last long, however, not when Mercy shifts her attention back to Loki. "A Cherokee? Maybe I could meet them." The coyote murmurs, those words really more for herself than the trickster god. Or the winged horse for that matter. However, hearing them might give some insight to which way the wind might blow.

"Alright." Mercy says, a decision obviously made, "I accept."

Loki has posed:
Go ahead, argue. Plucky creature; he'll dare to handle matters another way. Loki has all the time in the world, just about, to deal with recalcitrant mortals unwilling to accept gifts bestowed freely. He's probably grinding his teeth.

Glaer knows better. The horse doesn't throw its head again or whicker in amusement. It has a fine sense of fatal actions; it should, being birthed of dreams of the Fates and steeping its hooves in the well of Urdr.

To tempt the Prince is to tempt its own death, and that would be a sorry end for a shiny horse. Plus, Odin may have questions and a frown from his throne on high while Thor drinks himself to sensual ruin.

The nuisance has brightly opal-flecked wings, fire giving it that Gleaming name on its fine flanks. It's only fair to throw its mane and snort lightly, daring.

<<You are taller than the Cherokee. /She/ is short. Do you use arrows and bow?>>

Oh yes. Glaer? Can talk, albeit in some horsey kind of way. Wings flicker. The other steeds in the flock wing off the water, dancing as they snort and frolic in turn.

"You eat her hair, she'll make a hide out of you."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Stubborn is a good trait. It really is.

One has to wonder if a god's teeth can crack from the pressure.

A question for another time, it seems. Mercy, for all mortal qualities, has acquiesced to the gift. The flash and shine of Glaer draws the eye and the coyote can't help but admire that coat, the wings. Somewhere deep inside the mechanic the ghost of a little girl twirls around. Maybe even squees. There's definite jumping up and down.

That figurative jumping stutters to a stop, however, when the horse speaks. Telepathically? Magically? Whatever the way it communicates it does and that causes Mercy's eyes to widen. "You talk." She says, a note of disbelief in her voice, before it bleeds to something more wry, "/Of course/. Why I'm surprised I don't know." She shakes her head, her gaze flitting to Loki a second, then it's back to Glaer. "A little." She adds, answering his question and by a little she really means not much at all, "I'm more hands on when it comes to fighting."

Suddenly the coyote feels an almost sense of doom; surrounded by two Asgardian 'spirits', the logistics of a winged horse, of what this means and what title this puts upon the coyote. Clearly, her life is only going to get more interesting with this addition to it. And somewhere on another plane a grizzled old coyote opens his yellowed eyes, head raising from crossed paws.

Loki's words garners another one of those lop-sided grins from Mercy, "I will not, but I'd appreciate if you didn't eat my hair." Comes the echo of his words, even as Mercy holds a hand out to the winged horse. Palm up. It's what she'd do with a regular horse; even if this isn't necessarily the same sort of thing. This horse with wings that talks.

"I think now we'll have more to talk about then just bombs and bullets." Mercy says, those words for Loki now, "I'm pretty sure I have a lot of questions. I just have to sort through them." And then she pauses - does one thank someone for a winged horse - especially when it's its own creature. Deciding to go with politeness, Mercy shift her attention between both man and horse and ends with, "Thank you for picking me."