383/The Price of Chaos

The Price of Chaos
Date of Scene:	12 May 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Loki

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Mercy Thompson has posed:
For those that can sense such things, or are magical in nature, the area around the city has been quite active with magic lately.

A coven of witches here, demons there, and finally an animation spell that had very archaic roots to it. This particular animation spell created Golems; typically protectors of the innocent, but this time they were something more crazed. More dangerous.

Thankfully with each instance of mystical emergencies occurred there was enough people around to help defeat said spells and critters. One person in particular seemed to be there for all of them, Mercy Thompson, and while she hasn't quite made that connection perhaps soon enough she will. As for Mercy she can be found tucked safely within her shop. The past few days have been crazy enough that she's been sticking very close to home. Working hard.

In fact, that's what she's currently doing. She's in the plastic-esque front office of her garage, on the phone with a would-be customer discussing the estimation that's high dollar figures. While some people might be excited at the prospect of the amount of cash the repairs are going to take, Mercy isn't. Her tone is quite apologetic as she delivers the bad news to the customer, "It is a lot of money." She says in agreement, "Yes, I can fix it, but to be honest, I would suggest possibly doing a trade-in for a newer car. I'm concerned once I put the new parts it, it'll just make other things fail, or degrade faster. A total rebuild would be best, but that's even more money."

Sure, other garage owners would likely never advise an owner to trade-in and instead simply take the money, but Mercy's honest. Sometimes to her and her business' detriment.

And just like that the phone call suddenly fills with static -

- "Hello. Hello? Can you hear me?" Asks Mercy, as the line crackle, hisses and pops.

Then the hair upon the back of her neck begins to rise upward, as magic begins to swell. Her eyes widen as she unconsciously looks around. "What in the -"

For a particular God, by the name of Loki, but who's also known as Liam, he too might feel that surge of magic. It's a hint upon the wind, as a breeze reaches outward to playfully flutter the page he's reading. With that not-so-accidental ruffling of paper, the words of the current recipe Loki is reading will rearrange themselves for a split second. They'll form a flash of a word; Coyote.

Then when that word disappears a grinning man might be seen at the corner of Loki's eyes. Old, Native American, dressed almost like someone at a rodeo. When looked at directly he'll be gone, but an after-image of a hand pointing in the general direction of Harlem might be seen.

Surely an odd omen, or portent, but one none-the-less and with Loki's heritage he'd likely be able to sense the oddity of that man. Or perhaps a familiarity. Magic. Chaos. Energy barely contained. Gleeful humor. Sometimes inappropriate. Sometimes helpful. Sometimes dangerous.

A vague reflection of sorts.

Loki has posed:
Just who does Coyote think he is, Julia Child? Interrupting a perfectly nice recipe -- braise the vegetables for 4 minutes on medium-high, bwahahaha I'm now invading your pretty pictures, whatcha gonna do about it?

For that alone, the green-eyed Asgardian offers a very /pointed/ look at the page. Text flows to the message thanks to the messenger's whim. His fingers release the covers, and the slim volume floats in midair, the rest of the Broadway pedestrian traffic flooding around him. No one really seems to notice. Those who do are probably more intrigued by his coat or his smirk, a vice left by all the years of life, than a floating book with a picture of a tasty dinner entree.

Clear enough, then, what he senses. He waves his fingers, dismissing the book with barely a blink, and takes off at a casual, gliding pace rather than a mad rush. There are rules to these games. Let fate propel you where to will and you might show up faster than otherwise. Meanders go faster than straight lines. Red lights blink green. He turns abruptly to follow that instinctive, fuzzy sense of turn here, straight there, climb that fire escape. Cross that roof. Jump down, and so it goes. The city blurs into a collection of turns and twists, piercing the veil into the depths of the borough. Somewhere, magic dances. He can see it, taste it, and along the way, the onionskin selves bring out something more mercurial, harsher in a sense. His jaunty path is not a step to trust.

The tune he whistles is similarly odd, keening, a skirling lament.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"What is going on." Mutters the coyote-in-human-clothing, "First demons, then crazy killers, then golems, what else can there possibly be left? Really."

And while Mercy knows never to tempt fate such as she did, her exasperation is enough that the words just slip out of her mouth. She looks at the front door, the glass vibrating slightly with the amount magic that's swirling about. It's not within her garage, no, but it's close. Frowning, the dark-haired woman will hang up the very useless phone and step towards the door behind her. The one that leads into her garage and the one that's currently propped open with a very large, very heavy wrench. While a woman her size shouldn't really be able to heft the wrench up with so much ease, she does. She'll gently sling the tool against her shoulder as she steps to the front door.

As both Mercy and Loki make their respective ways to the streets of Harlem, they'll see the light blotting out. And while it seems like it might span the whole city, it's really just localized.

It's at this point that people upon the streets suddenly realize something is going on. It should be getting this dark this quickly, it's not dusk after all, simply afternoon. Several people will look upward, towards the sky, and while there's nary a cloud blotting the sun the world around them continues to darken.

And as the fingers of darkness stretch and reach outward an echo of a growl might be heard. It's a cross between a bear and rabid animal seeming animal and rolls like thunder.

By this time Mercy has stepped out of her shop and her gaze will turn towards the darkness that's slowly encroaching up the streets and sidewalks.

And while Mercy has definitely heard that growl the whistle that cuts through the sound is heard by keen ears. Brows knit at that sorrowful sound.

Another set of ears likewise catches that sound. It's enough to draw the thing from its shadows and with a flash of fur, the creature shows itself.

A bear. Or what might be a bear. It's larger than any known bear, it's eyes glow a bleeding red and once white fur is now a mottled black and gray, the white slowly being overtaken by the murkiness upon its fur.

Teeth are bared as it offers shattering roar to the area about.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
And while a harsher, more mercurial mood overtakes Loki, he might still feel a sense of amusement following him, or rather watching him. Definitely something. It's old, smart, tricky. Like a crow hopping along, watching with a beady intelligent eye, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Loki has posed:
Banishing daylight on a perfectly fine afternoon further settles the day is not going well. Random eclipses that put the populace on their knees praying to God, an god, would be superior to this. At least a portion of the faith might be gleaned for Loki's own benefit. Yet every step encroaching on the benighted borough reveals further the stratagem in action.

Truth be told, he dislikes being followed. A corvid is close enough to his father's treacherous messengers to earn a prickle between his shoulder blades and the incessant thorny prickle of a vexed mood. Pity for everyone else. His brother might tell you exactly how bad a man he is, when in a mood capable of shifting on a dime.

No immediate spell comes to his lips, the enforced protective barriers wrapped up in his being and his clothes sufficient for the average cause of trouble. Mystical, magic eating demons, not necessarily, but stock demonic bears, wargs, and cultists, yes. Still, rounding the corner, he pauses.

There are many sights one expects in a city. Fleeing citizens, promise of rainfall, a magnificent valkyrie nothing like those uptight wenches with winged helms and pious senses of slant ethics. A valkyrie in dappled oil wielding a wrench.

Some days, Odin hates you. Some days, the Norns give a glimpse of higher purpose.

He frowns. The mercurial bend of his mouth joins to caprice as that becomes a spreading grin, a touch too wide for any comfort. Especially with the burning green eyes, the shock of black hair spilling over his brow.

"Oh, this is lovely." An announcement to the world: it //will// be so. He insists.

Chaos, then, and torment. He jaunts up towards the bear, but not directly in front of it. He's bold, not stupid. Wrong brother. "Yes, yes, you're tormented by the corruption and somehow wandered where you ought not to have." And what, exactly, is that corruption? A shift of vision seeks out the impressions on its aura, the better to identify the source by its magical fingerprints. And who has meddled with a noble ursine, for what purpose?

"I'd say he's hungry, but that may prove self-evident. Nasty work, bears. The only things with worse claws are golden eagles, and no one has yet figured out how to give their claws to a quadruped weighing a few tons. There are some small mercies in the world yet."

That, to the small mercy herself.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"A bear." Begins Mercy, as her gaze locks upon the tormented form of said bear. Like Loki she can see how the darkness is slowly over-taking the animal. Unlike Loki, however, she's not trying to get any closer to it. She's not crazy.

Not like Loki, at least.

At this point both Mercy and Loki should be quite familiar with what happens next; people scream, then they run. Away from the bear.

"Yes, get out of here. Go the other way." Shouts Mercy, even as her gaze finally alights upon Loki. "Liam!" And almost Mercy swears, but her manners reassert themselves, "What the he - are you doing here?" She'll trot after Loki, but she won't get too close to the bear, instead her steps will pause, even as she brings the wrench down from her shoulder. She's got a two-handed grip upon it now, as she keeps an eye upon Loki and the bear.

"Why do we always meet like this? Seriously, what ever happened to just having coffee." Then a slant of amusement alights her lips upward for a quick minute, "Oh right, a call I received interrupted that." And while she knows Loki is quite powerful in his own magical right, she'll call out, "Be careful!" And while she could simply stand there and do nothing, she's not that sort of person. Carefully she'll start to move, edging towards the other side of the bear, her wrench a portable bludgeon if needed.

As for the bear, her aura is sickly, infected. The vague after-images of two cubs flicker around her mottled form. Their pitiful cries echoing within the madden beasts ears. Whether Loki sees those cubs or not, Mercy does and with a horrified gasp, she'll say, "Her babies!"

A deeper look within the bear's aura will find blood magic all throughout. Someone tied the death of her cubs into her form to imbue her with power. A lot of. The death and the magic are also what drove her mad. Those eyes lock upon the slim form of Loki and while animals might realize just what (not necessarily who) he is, this bear's mind is gone. A front paw will be raised upward, those sickle like claws glinting with red from her glowing eyes and with a roar, the beast slams her paw towards Loki's form. She's intending to claw him, gut him if she can, a typical bear attack.

But wasn't typical is how the claws sing through the air. Their edges are preternatural sharp and when those claws come near something living they glow with energy. A soul leaching energy.

Loki has posed:
What a horror blood magic is, turning maternal instinct into a fire of rage tempering the anguish for loss. There lies a certain brutal symmetry. Another aspect of himself might nod in a scholarly fashion, expounding on the powers of like fueling like. That treacherous figure and its younger incarnation share a moment of recognition, treading the edges of magic.

A piteous cry doesn't do much for him. The stains of sanguine blight woven in and out do, measured if they're human origins, shamanic, a hermetic tradition, something from beyond the stars or below history. Everything has its tells. Asgardian magic carries strong visual hues and runes; Celtic feels more earthy; there is spice to Hindi rituals nothing like the bright, lusty sparkle used in Phoenician times.

And there is Mercy, warning //him// to be careful. Well of course, there is only a giant bear with deadly claws.

Claws that probably wouldn't penetration his skin regardless thanks to the enhanced density, but something honed to irrational keenness is not a weapon he chooses to test his defenses with. The best defense is not being in the way.

The next moment, he's cursing Thor's name under his breath proverbially and moving against type. Soul eating, how does //that// work with a Skinwalker?

Diving away from Mercy's side and still away from the bear requires quite a back-bending feat his coat can barely manage, fine Belstaff though it is.

He probably takes a tear to the sleeve, but the acrobatic dodge levels his height, sliding out of the way with one hand down. There will be no pause to see whether he is bleeding from the shoulder or upper arm. Blood is power. Power is dangerous for an irate son of the Golden City.

"Oh yes," he snarls at the mother ursine, all madcap grin and wide, glittering look. "Come and make it hurt, pretty." Arms are held wide at either side. "A bad man did it? Take it out on me." Keep her looking his way, keep her charging his way as he steps back and floats up into the air. Give that man a cape and he might have something in common with Erik Magnus Lensherr. "Is there compelling reason to keep it alive, my lady? We are leaving coffee territory and entering steak."

Not bleeding, not bleeding...

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The magic has roots in ritualized women's magic, human to be sure, but beyond that it's been twisted. A second look will reveal the magic has indeed been twisted by a man in this particular case.

How he was able to twist the magic is harder to tell, but with further digging and delving one might eventually figure it out.

When the claws slice downward towards Loki and the trickster god contorts himself away, Mercy does similar. "Steak?" She gasps, as she rolls away, her wrench still gripped in her hands. "That's not funny!" Okay, it might be a little funny. Perhaps she's just annoyed she didn't come up with that little witty repartee. The bear swings its head from Mercy to Loki, but a flare of nostrils brings the scent of blood and Ursa turns her head back to Loki. A crinkle of her upper lip reveals sharpen ivory and with a grunt, the bear moves.

This time instead of claw the poor twisted soul will lash out with teeth. There's the sound of snapping jaws and with a darting lumbering lurch forward, the bear tries to sink its very large teeth into that slim, confident, madcap of a man.

"As much as I'd love to save every life -" Begins Mercy, "- Sometimes the best thing to do is put it out of it's misery." And just like that, Mercy drops her wrench with a clatter of metallic sound. "Liam!" Oh yes, she's good at yelling those warnings, isn't she?

And even as the teeth try to sink into any part of Loki, another claw swipe will also be readied, just in case the bear misses with that chomp.

The cubs continue to float around their mother, their mournful gaze and cries still ringing within Ursa's ears. And Mercy's. Her gaze will focus upon those cubs and she'll mutter, "Her cubs -" That's the key. An idea begins to take shape in Mercy's brain, but first, Loki. He needs her help. What to do what to do what to do. She could hit it with her wrench, sure, but she needs more speed. She needs to be quick-footed. Fast and small.

Fast and small!

Quickly, Mercy will shuck her shoes, coveralls and clothing off and just like that, instead of a crouching naked woman a coyote stands sure-footed there. A loud YIP will be offered as she streaks (not literally) towards the bear and Loki. She's running full-tilt and it doesn't take long for the coyote to find her way to the bear's hind-leg, then with much smaller, but very sharp teeth Mercy bites down hard upon fur and skin.

It'll be only a momentary distraction, but hopefully enough to keep Loki alive.

Loki has posed:
The days when things go well for him are utterly suspect. Like the transportation goes off without a hitch because a great big fire giant is ready at the station with a flaming sword. The door opens unlocked because the place is full of giant Asian hairy spiders, deadly venomous on fourteen worlds. He gets a moment to appreciate the sleek woman actually concerned about his wellbeing and //a damn bear stops that//.

Ursa may just have piqued the piquant, madly confident man a little too much. He is drawing her away in a circle, and floating above the ground most definitely helps. The last time he did something like this, thousands of pelting razor shards of ice came flying out in a halo around him. This time? He is bleeding on the ground, a circle of sluggish drops already closing up from a superficial wound.

Suppressing the spells that heal him, and his own healing factor, is not exactly possible with the huge figure of stitching blots and marred fur. "From steak to cubs? You are rather direct, Mercy, but we can discuss--"

And then 'Liam' has teeth and claw to worry about. Well, this is complicated.

On the other hand, the obvious route is equally convenient. Terribly so because something shorter and smaller is much less easily targeted, even when the fool of a coyote knocks into the beast's side.

His form collapses in the sparkling of an eye. Limbs meld into a stockier shape, bones shrinking and folding on themselves, forming stouter femurs and tibias. The wool coat becomes a wooly coat, not quite black as the glossy wing of his hair. Spikes of fur stand up around the once upright, lined collar. Stubby claws adorn all four paws, oversized for the slope-shoulded build, and nonetheless they are fully capable of unleashing havoc on tin cans and plastic balls. Big brown eyes, melting dark as chocolate, look up. It opens its tooth-lined mouth and makes a squeaky little bleat of a sound. It's almost more of a eee-yah? noise. Imagine a very large beagle got lost. Bingo, there's the cry of a lost bear cub, most definitely higher pitched than one might expect.

Help - - lost - - mother - - safe? - - mother!

If Mercy tells another soul, he's going to probably wear her as a rug.

It is also not /right/ that Loki Odinson is the most downright adorable baby bear ever. Rolypoly fuzz butt, right down to those ears, and his snout lifted in the air for another raspy call.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A foul taste enters Mercy's coyote mouth; there is going to be much brushing of her teeth when she returns to human form, but for now, she hangs on. Ursa will shake that hind-leg of hers and still Mercy hangs on, her teeth biting harder into the fur and tainted skin of the beast. It's enough to cause the bear to begin to turn away from Loki, those redden-eyes looking for the little gnat that's biting her leg. The mosquito known as Mercy Thompson.

Mercy, knowing she's the one at a disadvantage here, immediately sees the bear turn and with a muffled yelp she'll let go. However, that doesn't mean she's running. Not yet. Instead she'll offer more of those high-placed yips, trying to keep the attention of the bear upon her.

And it's working too. The bear offers an enraged call as it begins to lumber around, intending to finish the coyote so near. It's only at that fainter, softer cry, that both Mercy and the bear stop.

Blacken ears prick upward and forward and with a speed that might be startling, the bear turns its muzzled face back to Loki. Or rather, the trickster bear cub. While the cub before it might not be her cubs, it's a lost baby. Something she knows. Something she understands. Something that calls forth what small bit of uncorrupted thought and feeling that still resides within the bear. Gently, softly now, Mother Ursa will lower her black nose. She's intending to give Loki-cub a quick wuffle-sniff. Searching the bear cub for any hurts, any wounds.

Mercy, or rather the coyote, can't quite help but gape with lolling tongue at the changed Loki. Oh sure she knew he was a powerful mage, but shape-changer? Didn't know that.

Carefully, with the lightest clack of claws upon pavement, Mercy will edge around towards 'Mother and Cub'. When Mother Ursa makes no warning growls at her movements, Mercy will settle next to mother and son. A few more seconds are allowed to pass and when Mother Usra continues to snuffle the cub below her, Mercy shifts again. Back to human form.

While she's not necessarily a nudist, or one to flaunt everything, in this case it can't quite be helped. As long as Loki doesn't stare too long, or much, his secret about being a cub is safe with her.

"Mother." Begins Mercy, voice quiet, "Let us help you. Let us help your cubs." Those human words, so recently heard, startle the bear and it offers the vaguest lip-curl of a growl to Mercy.

Human words are bad. Human words equal pain. They equal death.

Loki has posed:
Asgardians with their ability to understand all language, and more importantly, speak back, get some luck. Loki is busy barking and yelping like a bear cub of about three or four months, but nothing stops him from getting Mercy's gist.

His ears perk forward and he utters another of those noises. <Friend. Coyote two-legs. Not person.>

Add the obligatory bleat about being lost, and season liberally with small bear gronks and snuffling noises, as he marks the smell of the magic with a much more sensitive organ than his human form would allow. Nasal influences of a bear are tremendous.

He flicks his tail and shuffles around in a circle, keeping himself between Mercy and the great bear looking down at him. His nose tips up, black and wet, to meet Ursa's. Whatever maternal instinct is in there, it will no doubt read bear. Genetically, he is a bear. An Asgardian bear, a magic spellcasters bear, but bear of the brand no Teddy Ruxpin or Goldilocks derivative will sell.

<Lost babies. Help. Where? Help. Two-legs coyote help. Help.>

He could have a lengthy discussion about assistance tendered by capable human hands and how one human is not indicative of them all being evil, so much as stupid, unkempt, ignorant, and brash, but that's a bit much for a supposed baby.

He wiggles instead, and stands up on his back legs. Another bleat. See? So cute. <Help!>

The scourge of villainy, Loki Bear. Well, so was Teddy Roosevelt.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
With the Trickster God's understanding of languages and allowing that influence to roll toward the mother bear, Ursa calms down.

Her nose, dry and hot, will touch the cub's more wet and living nose. It has a definite calming influence upon the corrupted beast, even as she inwardly realizes the babe before her is not her own. Still it's a salve upon her wounded soul. Something that will allow Loki's more human-to-bear explanation to roll through the corrupted creature. Mournful eyes, still red, will turn from the Asgardian cub to Mercy and while Mercy isn't as fluent with bear (like Loki is) she sees the assent for what it is. Ursa wants help.

"I will help you and your cubs get to the other side." Mercy promises, her voice soft, even as she reaches out with a hand towards the bear. The corruption that held the bear in its grip breaks and while the black begins to slowly fade and her fur turns white once more, grievous wounds will be seen upon her pelt. Deeper wounds within her body even as she shrinks slowly back to a normal size. Those wounds were inflicted when the spell, really torture, was initially done. Mercy will lightly touch the bear's head, the fur bristle and dry beneath her fingers. "Let me help your cubs first."

A chuff is given by Ursa now and with a wariness that is only brought upon when death is close will the bear settle down. Slowly her arms reach for the cub known as Loki. She wants to hold it between her paws, one last touch of familiarity in that gesture. Comfort for both mother and 'cub'.

Mercy turns towards the specters that hover around the mother bear. They've fallen quiet now that she's sane again. "Little cubs you need to cross over. To the light." And while she's not certain if the little bears will understand, she still says those words. The cubs will offer little noises and their half-formed smokey bodies will turn, but they don't yet leave. "She'll be there soon with you." Adds Mercy, guessing what's stopping the cubs from leaving. "I promise." That's enough to finally allow the cubs to roly-poly their way to the other side.

All living creatures have souls; animals included.

With a faint wink of light the cubs disappear. Safely tucked away on the other side, where pain no longer exists. They wait now, for their mother.

Once the cubs are gone Mercy turns back to the Mother Bear. "They're safe." She says to her.

A sigh of happiness? Relief? Perhaps both of those things can be heard from Ursa and with that last breath she too joins her cubs; her form losing what mote of life it had left and going still. Silent.

Loki has posed:
To all things their appointed time, to all men their due. These are points of wisdom penned in antiquity, and they have not greatly changed over the centuries.

Loki accepts being pulled into the mother's embrace, for all it is nothing like his own adoptive mother's. And it has been years upon years since he allowed himself to be succored from life's hurts by those slim white arms. He is not one to protest the necessity, once the pattern comes clear.

His role in the story is set, and he plays it with the bombast and grandeur required. Nose meets nose. He is hauled in against the wounded, badly treated ursa while spirits cry out for redemption and freedom of the normal coil of life.

He can't exactly tell her 'do what you must' without human vocal chords. Some things will not translate. The lost 'cub' shuffles in and puts his head on his paws, sheltered against the world by a creature falling apart bit by bit. The rot and entropy held at bay will come rushing in, bodily fluids congealing if time was kept at bay. So too the great consequences of using foul magic are never, ever kind.

How can he tell her to run? He can't. Oh well, best stay put and wiggle with anticipation once or twice as she calls them, Mercy for the dead, guiding home the displaced as a proper psychopomp.

In Etruria, she has black wings and equal lack of clothing. He won't tell that to the bear, but any /raven/ around? You bet. Instead, as the life floods through its appointed path, he sits there like the fuzzy black-brown innocent he most certainly is not. Big eyes blink.

"<Roawn?>" A pink tongue sticks out. He tips his nose higher. That signature of flesh and fur will be familiar. Paws shuffle about.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It is enough that each, even the mother bear, plays their part.

Loki succor to a dying animal, Mercy guide to lost souls, bear gateway to a broader understanding. Or perhaps a stepping stone in realizing something greater than coincidence is at hand.

When the Mother joins her cubs, Mercy will look relieved.

Sorrow-filled eyes will turn to Loki-cub now. "They're home." She manages with only the slightest catch to her voice. "Let me get dressed and we'll call for someone to pickup the bear."

Already the light begins to shine through, the darkness beginning to dissipate as the spells chokehold upon the area weakens, before breaking all together. Rising quickly Mercy will make a mad-dash to her clothes, glad for once for the dimness of darkness, and the fact everyone ran so no cameras are taking pictures, or videos. It's only a handful of seconds of pulling clothes on, before Mercy turns back to the quickly decomposing carcass and Loki.

Her forgotten wrench will be gathered up even as she makes her way back over.

Loki has posed:
The bear cub has his limits. He does not need an embrace worthy of Hela, except a whole lot nicer. He extracts himself by loping away, getting those four legs to work as if he was born to them. And in many ways, he is.

The good shake throws off bits of dust and other unmentionables from his coat. Then he paces a circle, following the blood ward he was laying down when it became smarter to be tiny, cute, and fuzzy. A bit of nosing and licking each drop removes the problem, until no proof of injury remains.

As drinking won't make matters clearer, he deigns to stay as he is, seated with his rump on the sidewalk, a distance from the rather ugly mouldering remains that haven't long for this world before they stink to unholy depths. There are moments for him to regret having this acute nose. One of them is not when Mercy wanders by.

On the other hand, her return beckons a whuffle and he stretches out, peering up at her with those ridiculously liquid eyes. Standing on his hind legs, he is still a rather long cub, but not especially so. Not until the shape-shifting follows, and his clothes and body are restored to the tall proportions of a man.

Though if she decides to pick him up, he'll stay a bear a bit longer.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Blood ward? With so much magic sizzling along her senses it's likely she didn't even realize he was warding with his own blood. Probably a good thing. A secret kept secret if needed.

She'll watch that fuzzy bear meander this way and that and when he makes his way to her and stretches up, she'll offer a faint smile and even a scratch between those rounded and soft ears.

And while normally she wouldn't pick him up in that cub form of his, perhaps she needs that extra sense of touch, of comfort. His stretch will last that second before (possibly surprising) Mercy suddenly wraps her arm around the smallish body and lifts him up. Her grip is strong and sure, and she holds him into a classic babe upon hip carry-hold. Before she moves that hold will last a second longer than necessary, then she's moving. It's only a minute, possibly two, to get to her garage and once inside she'll set the fuzzy-bear-cub down. Allowing him to transform from beast to man.

Her wrench will be set atop the countertop that lines her 'front office'. The front office of her garage is very plain, very plastic-esque. A few plastic chairs sit against one wall, while a countertop and desk behind countertop can be seen. Behind the desk is the door that leads into the actual garage proper.

Loki has posed:
Well, it's not like he got to do a complete circle, but enough is enough to help. It proved unnecessary.

The bear is ridiculously small and light compared to the dead one of real make, but even so, the dense tissue and fur make it a little bit stronger. Loki flattens his ears as much as one can. Let's face it, nails on scalp or bear head feel particularly good. That coat is made for spring, and thus, is a mite itchy. No telling if his own claws would break through the surface of his skin. Better Mercy does it, while he allows himself to be smug, dammit.

The one obligatory braying bark is probably a laugh. Nearly, but he at least doesn't try to molest her, mostly keeping those paws where they belong, at back and front. Never mind the fuzzy tail flicking a little again in agreement once they are back in the garage.

He takes only a moment to shift back, though being on two legs and not four requires a few more seconds. No one to see the wobbling is a plus. He rolls his shoulders and strips off his coat, leaving his button-down shirt underneath intact. For now. "You may come in. I suspect all is as it should be."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When everything is in order Mercy will not so suddenly reappear. In her hand are two very mismatched coffee mugs, but instead of coffee they hold something a mite stronger. She's not one to drink hard liquor, but something about today caused her to break out a bit of whiskey. She'll offer him one of the mugs and even if he doesn't take it, she'll simply set it upon a nearby workspace.

Beneath her arm she also carries a small first-aid kit. She doesn't necessarily think he's still injured, but she wanted to play it safe. "You were injured? Are you okay?" She asks, that concern is both there in her voice and her expression. "I have antiseptic, bandages ..."

And then, with very little transition she says, "Thank you with helping with that."

Loki has posed:
"Whiskey?" He can identity that with a sniff, not surprising given the choice of name would imply Scotland, Ireland, or somewhere in between. Doubtful he's from Man. Nonetheless, his grin is readily in place for this peace offering and the tease behind it dead serious. "I suppose this will replace coffee. But you know I don't need to be blinding drunk for steak or cubs." Though the way he pronounces the latter, a certain verb is implicitly missing. Mostly this would be an acceptable time for chaotic powers to double over or smack him upside the head. Neither happens.

He almost ignores the task of binding wounds; yes, there is a cut through the shirt, a parallel slash inflicted by a claw or two. The shirt will not be mended nicely from that. "I am more worried about you. Will the bite do anything? Decay won't be a toxin to you, is it?" Her physiology is presumably a mystery and such is the requirement of a gentleman to ask after. Besides. He actually gives a damn, surprising though that may be.

Taking the kit from her is easy. He plucks out the antiseptic and looks at the whiskey bottle, then at her again. "The magic on her isn't infectious or likely to travel without a host. All the same, I would imagine you would like to wake up without a ravening hunger for, say, motor oil."

Loki has posed:
And then, after the appropriate length of time, a pause made weighty by dousing a bit of disposable gauze in antiseptic: "I imagine you have questions."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Ha." She states at his quip-question about the drink being whiskey, "I figured we could use it." And while she would have said more his last bit, about steak or cubs, causes the woman to offer the faintest of snorts. She heard that implication and it's enough to cause her to offer that light note of sardonic sound. And most of that sound holds humor, a wry amount of it.

Once the med-kit is out of her hands, arms, whatever, she'll juggle her own mug and take a quick swig. A grimace is prompted by that quick drink, but she's not that much of a pushover when it comes to whiskey, she did live with wolves, after all. They tended to drink a lot. And eat a lot. And play rough ... let's face it, they just did everything in big ways.

The amusement leaves her features, however, when he asks about the possibility of the magic contaminating herself. She'll consider that question a moment, the thought having not really entered her head. "I don't think so." She says, "I've bit magical things before and never had an adverse reaction, but I'll make sure to be careful. I have some defenses against some magic." She ends with, even as she sets her mug down upon a countertop.

"And please, not motor oil." She adds, voice dredging towards amusement, "I deal with that enough with my job, I don't need to suddenly feel an urge to guzzle it."

And when the pause occurs Mercy will busy herself with readying another bit of bandage for him to use. "I do. And do you?" She returns, even as she slides one of her questions after that 'do you'. "How powerful are you? I've met mages and wizards, witches, but usually they don't shapeshift quite so easily, or quickly."

Loki has posed:
Patting his arm with the antiseptic stings, but it also clears out any of the debris from a scratch. Even better, the fizz of a sting reminds him how fast he is healing and how to let the process take most of its mortal course. He rubs it in lazy circles, ignoring the shirt is particularly likely to show a bit of a greenish tinge there. No matter. Favourite, signature colour and all, he can worry about the rags later.

"Good. You may want to monitor yourself. Difficulty concentrating, hair changing colour, motor oil addiction? Call." Who uses business cards any more? Not him. Loki fishes about in the pocket of his coat and comes up with a small, square chip. He puts it down. "New thing they like in London. Say my name and address, it will transmit to any device that receives a signal." It's like the Echo or the Dot or the Stark Spot, but just a whole lot plainer black.

Once mending himself works, he will turn to take the whiskey. It doesn't taste poorly, unless from Jura -- all peat -- but a swig will give up its nose, the taste of apricots behind the big stompy boots of the mash coming through strong. He lets the liquid burn down his throat, cooling as it goes. The cup goes back down. "You ask direct questions, Mercy. And I like that. You're quite unlike most anyone else here. Believe me, I know."

Kindred spirits, or burning motes in the eye of God that merely seem alike for a moment? His grin is back, lopsided and easy, dimpling his cheek. "Once you've got knowledge, you cannot go back to ignorance. Nor is knowing without risk. I am obligated to offer you the truth with the caveat it is little or as much as you want, and I come from a place that still appreciates reciprocity. Not that we /demand/. Only that we have a rather outdated tradition of recognising it and being likely to favour it. Not like the fae." No, he won't be bound by being a good guest for three days because one of the elders said so. Heck, he's older than many of them, in a way. Hand held out, his rings glint and his palm faces her. "So, my lady. Truth coyly or truth on its knees, given in full. Your preference?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"I'll let you know if I howl at the full-moon for oil." She agrees, tone of voice still holding a note of amusement. "Promise." When he offers that little black square Mercy will accept it. It's given a curious look as she flips it over in her fingers, giving the surface of the thing a thorough look. "Very high tech." She says, even as she fishes within a pocket of her coveralls. "Mine is much more low tech." She adds, as she slides a card towards him. It holds all her credentials upon it - phone number, address, email and cellphone upon it. The little chip will be gently and carefully pocketed within her coveralls with a mental reminder to take that out BEFORE LAUNDRY DAY. Ahem. Water surely can't be good for it.

And no, the whiskey isn't all peat. There are hints of fruit, of mash, of fire, but not too much smoke.

"I am direct." She says with a flash of a smile, "When you live with wolves you learn not to beat around the bush about things. You have to be up front or you'll find yourself at the bottom of the pack - which is bad when you don't belong in the pack." That admission, made with barely a wince, is sent out as a small peek into her own world; something she's sure he can understand and not be completely shocked by. After all, he's magic, he knows the world isn't as it always seems.

Sometimes it's worse. Sometimes it's better. Sometimes it's just neutral too.

"Besides, I get the sense that you can be quite direct yourself. When you want to be." That flash of smile grows into a grin now, even as she leans against the edge of a high workbench. Her arms will casually cross over her chest as she gazes at him.

That mention of Fae though ... that brings a concerned look from Mercy; perhaps evidence that she's dealt with those fickle beings. She's learned to never thank a Fae for anything; thanks would leave you in debt to them. A precarious place to be with the Fae and that thought is enough to cause her heart to race for a few long seconds. Thankfully, that stomach-dropping worry is quickly quieted with the rest of what Loki has to say.

"I appreciate truth." Comes her initial response, her voice slow with consideration as she looks at that offered hand and the man who extends the 'apple' to her. "I know lies have their place, but truth is better in my mind." And while she knows there's no trick here, not in the real sense of the word, she understands that knowledge can be dangerous. For her, for others, for the world and that thought is enough to cause her to hesitate.

The hesitation doesn't last too long, however, as she finally drops her arms from their cross and reaches for his long fingered hands. "But, anything worth knowing is typically dangerous - so, full truth and I'll do the same for you. It's the right thing to do."

Loki has posed:
Not the highest tech that one might have, the cubic device probably has a catchy, hipster name like 'Callback' or 'Narcisse.' With a slim finger, Loki takes the business card and slips it into the pocket of his pants, leaving the slightest nudge of his thumb to bury it completely from sight. Mustn't let anyone he knows realize he associates with someone behind the times. The contact information will be memorized before he vaporises those pants and assumes the form of a killer whale or a space shark, whatever his sort care to do.

"There's an importance to an omega in the pack," he says, English taut and dry as an Orkney field. "Not the same as the outsider barely holding on by fingernails. Or claws." He can supply the necessary image to match the proper metaphors as need be. The stains of honesty colour words in interesting ways, one that require active listening. "You don't belong, but you were among them. Was that something by choice or circumstance? I imagine for you it would have been a trial to carve out a place for yourself."

The grin will be met with a final thought for the whiskey. Then to hell with it; the bottle has nothing equal to the joys and delights promised by the exquisite raptures of another kind of liquor, the distilled waters of knowledge toasted with another and slammed back at the bar. Restraint is valid, yes, in some times and places.

After rescuing Harlem from a dead bear deranged from the loss of her cubs used to fuel the rise of darkness and vile power in her? Probably not one of those times.

His hand awaits hers. The difference in size is fairly considerable, his fingers long and callused, hers probably just as much so. Strength lies in the digits as pale as alabaster, nearly as lucid in places. Metal rings are warm to the touch, his skin noticeably so, hardly damp from the astringent used to clean the wounds on his upper arm. Giving her a moment to snatch her hand away, his green eyes do not veer away from the skinwalker.

Those digits close on hers. //The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God...//

Space warps around them, an effortless roil of the dimensional boundaries that never hold him as tightly as anyone might like. Her garage remains a figment of the imagination in fading relief, the darkness of eternity spilling through, speckled by black-bright stars and indigo sweeps where nebulae radiate the light of a dozen young suns through huge dusty columns. Excited gases catalyzed neon greens and spectral blues haunt the fringes of the spectra, and the descending cascade of light creeping down his body eats away at the Belstaff coat to reveal black leather on nested green. The calf-length segmented coat is sliced high to the sies, revealing elaborately quilted pants with an inlay of squared gold rivets at the sides, an echo caught in the intricately styled and tooled vambraces welded over his forearms and secured by unclear means. Melting green and a plethora of angled cuts only serve to emphasize height that wasn't nearly so pronounced as before. A torc of gold winds across his collarbone, below the standing collar of said coat. No helm is present, not even a circlet, the sweep of his black hair drawn away from a widow's peak. Fathomlessly green eyes eschew anything remotely human, wearing their years lightly. Oh, human, yes, and so utterly not.

Time splinters and whirls around in pieces. It's not meant to impress, not directly, so much as he draws them into a halfway place where the second hand won't tick quickly. Splinters of selves rush through and away, possibilities lingering. Through a touch, the easy transmission of a jolt of knowledge: god, worshipped in the north, recalled still. The laughing brother, wild-eyed storyteller, Loki. Father of stories, mischief, knowledge-seeker after the primal fire. Fallen to shadow, risen from the sea, coursing around on the endless roads. All too akin to wild chaos that made her, another mask, another mirror.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"I'm not an Omega." She says in a tone that shows she understands just what an Omega is. "Not by a long shot. I just tend to get into trouble. Mostly my own doing I'm told." And she's sassy too, but does she really need to say that? Probably not.

His mention of carving out a place in the pack earns a nod; yes, that's what her circumstances were. A difficult place for a teenager to be, it's less now thanks to being a grown woman.

But, her story, for now, is a moot point when her hand settles within Loki's. The disparity of their hand sizes aren't lost upon Mercy, nor does she miss the amount of heat his hand puts out, or the callouses. And while he gives her a chance to pull her hand way from his, she doesn't. She'll simply offer a faint smile, a mostly curious expression with only a hint of uncertainty along the edges of her lips and expression. Will this be like Pandora's Box? That stray thought flits through her mind for a split-second, brought upon by all the lore she learned while she was in school. Quickly though, that thought is banished. This is nothing of the sort. This is different. It won't be the end of the world as she knows it.

Or so she hopes.

When the world around them shifts, warps, coils away from the more human world, Mercy can't quite stifle the gasp of surprise that leaves her throat. Her own calloused hand will tighten upon Loki's and when her garage is no more than a shell an echo of itself, Mercy will turn.

That turn is intended to bring her and her gaze towards Liam, but when her eyes manage to work their way past the stars, the blackness, the nebulae, she'll find someone other than Liam standing there. Or, perhaps not someone else, but the true Liam. It's enough to cause Mercy to gasp again, her eyes widening with surprise and shock at the sight of him. Her expression holds that mote of incomprehension for a second longer, before her naivety is nudged aside with the jolt of knowledge via their linked hands. With that understanding, Mercy's expression changes from surprise, to something akin to struggle, as she grapples with the knowledge laid out before her -

- Gods and Goddesses. Those aren't new concepts for Mercy. She has a degree in history; ancient histories, academically she understands what he is, mentally, or metaphysically she's astounded. Her voice, while not a squeak, or overtly loud, is a faint rasp, "You're -"

Loki. Though she doesn't quite get that name out.

Not yet. She's on wobbly feet right now, trying to acclimate to what he presents.

Loki has posed:
Somewhere else might be the earth. Tunnel vision into the cosmos like a projection at the Hayden Planetarium is clearly not the goal here. Let the woman at least adjust to the shift required, right? The blurred focus of the margins of reality nearest to Loki erases the hints of any familiar constellation or celestial landmarks by which someone might hope to navigate. Whether the ghostly tracery painted in light seconds across matters is not for him to say.

Ancient history puts him somewhere in the standard spectrum of history about the eighth century, less or more generously. Written records are understandably terrible. Identifying a runestone from the fields of Uppsala or fragmentary Byzantine records proves no easy task, but the pedigree exists. Not that Norse powers arose out of the shadow of a broken western Roman Empire, absent of nothing, a petri dish of mythology and culture, any more than Coyote came on the scene or Raven fell out of a tree on a passing proto-Amerindian while on the Bering coastal route.

Loki gives that thin grin that slips out of reach slightly, though the burning brilliance in the emerald depths of his eyes reflects more of the celestial than strictly human. There //is// Liam in there but it is like to a rough mineral and the cut gem, the priceless fire finally allowd to radiate through its many facets. "You can use any of the kennings as you prefer. But yes."

Even his voice is different, richer, a symphony rather than the single instrument playing the Debussy concerto. Clair de Lune, mingled together. "Quite safe. In answer to your question, how strong is something of a difficult measure. Not the least because the scale stands far beyond your realm." Realm. World. Shade of existence. How comfortable is Mercy with quantum physics?

That said, he glances aside to a star in its nascent eruptions, another glowing the reddened death knell in another few millennia. "So far, so good?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
She hasn't released his hand, so that internal struggle, which is easily glimpsed upon her face and within the set of her shoulders, isn't necessarily causing her to recoil from him, but, let's face it, she's still in a state of some shock. A state that will take a few more minutes to pass -

- Thankfully, again, she does live in the supernatural world and while Loki's revelation takes it up a notch (or possibly three) the notion of godlings isn't something that's fully new to her.

A deep breath, a look at the universe around her and finally a return to Loki's form, or more importantly his face. Her gaze searches his for a few silent moments, taking in the various facets of just who this man, or God, really is. The echos of Liam, the planes of his face, the brightness of his eyes. And while she sees familiarity there, she doesn't fool herself into believing she sees all of him. That much she's aware of. That much she understands.

Finally though, with that last question of his, said in such a normal way, Mercy finds her footing. Metaphysical footing. "Yes." And there's the vaguest nod of her head to accompany that answer. "I think I'll stick with Liam. Loki might draw too much attention. Perhaps unwanted, and when people ask why your parents named you Loki, what would you say?" She says, babbling from both the shock and the after-effects. Those words of hers continue, "Where are we -", still all over the lace, as the Coyote drops gaze towards their feet, "- The Rainbow Bridge?" She asks, hazarding a wild guess with the first thing that came to mind.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Next time -" Because there's going to be a next time, right, "- Let me drink more than just a shot of whiskey. Give a girl at least two shots, maybe even three. Liquid courage and all that." Amusement has finally found its way back to her voice and even to her expression now.

Loki has posed:
The bitter edge to that smile is at odds with the echoes of a laugh spilling across leagues. Cosmic glories fade into the twilit in-between spaces, a few fractal lines splintering where the wall should be. Shadows rule on that far edge of the spectrum, where indigo and violet cut a boundary smudged in the deeper, darker jewel tones of visible sight.

Her garage is unmistakeably there and not the same as the everyday location where toiling over vehicles, especially Volkswagens, gives commuters hope and car owners an opportunity to learn about good maintenance. The counter is longer than it has any right to be, the wrench shrunken down to a pip of inchoate darkness awash in the deep ultramarine or ultraviolet backwash where stars do not fully reach.

"Yes, the name rather does. I can be many things, but always myself." Is he entirely bothered by it? Not so. His bare hand remains safely locked around Mercy's. His thumb idly follows the gentle ascent and valleys marking her knuckles, as assuring as one can be when attuned to such things. The familiar may well constitute the curse of existence. Such he strives to understand her perspective, especially that cover for the shock inflicted by a broadened enlightenment falling down the rabbit hole.

"The fourth dimension linked to Midgard, your home realm. This is an extension of the Bridge, yes, connected to the World Tree." Keep the explanation simple, Loki. He almost winces, trusting some of it will make sense. "Every realm is linked by the tree, all space confined within its axis. We'll save the cosmology lesson when we get to it."

Human hands are so curious, familiar and yet not. The way each digit connects together is a wonder of nature, knuckles and sinews and bones strung in a masterpiece so rarely appreciated. He inclines his head and looks to her. "Two shots and you might doubt me. Three, you can pretend this away as a mistake, an illusion. I assure you, it's not. Now, four shots... I'll have to put you safely to bed as the proper thing to do."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The bitterness is seen, scented and the laugh heard and while he allows that mirthful sound to be heard, she can't quite believe it. That bitter scent is too acrid for her sensitive nose to be completely washed away, or forgotten, by his laugh. It's enough that she'll offer a squeeze of her hand; which later, when she has a moment to think about, will still throw her for a loop. That loop (for now) has passed and when his laugh echoes back towards the duo, Mercy will turn her head slightly.

Her gaze looks toward those stars, the blackness of space; time? Both? She's just realizing that there's more here than just magic.

And no, quantum mechanics, or physics, is not necessarily her area of expertise.

That doesn't stop her from trying to understand, but first, to his remark about being true to oneself. That earns a full-fledged smile from Mercy, as she says, "It is best to be yourself. Being something else, something that goes against your nature, that never works. Ever."

She's learned this hard lesson and while a God probably doesn't need her advice, it's still given. Quite freely.

When his thumb strokes her knuckles, following the dips and peaks, Mercy will offer back a gentle squeeze of her own hand against his. The touch also helps to ground her and brings her back to something more natural, more herself.

"The World Tree, I know that." She says, her head bobbing again in a nod, following the generalities of what he just said. She may not have understood everything, but she understood enough to know of what he speaks. Everything, in some way, is connected.

It's only with his last words that she'll finally offer a laugh, perhaps her own sound of amusement echoing across the expanse. "I always had you pegged as a gentleman." She says with a quiet humor, even as she brings her other hand up and places it over his own now. "Thankfully, I know my limit." Though is there a double meaning there? She knows how much she can drink, but also how much her mortal mind might take? It's hard to say and while she glances once more over her shoulder, at those stars, when her gaze returns to Loki's, she'll ask. "May we return back to the Garage?" Yes, she can see that almost after-image of the place she calls home and work, and while everything here is extraordinary she needs solid ground beneath her feet. Just for a few minutes.

Loki has posed:
"Only when it behooves me to be so. I wouldn't have your father stepping out to set me straight," says the god of mischief with a rare degree of candor, though how much of that specifically owes to the fact he knows the old sensation still possibly skimming in and out of being. It could well be kin, seeded from the same source, though he steps beyond the Earth's fertile soil. "Imagine how conflicted and mortified you might be, enjoying the jaw-dropping sights and hearing the bickering."

He raises his bare hand, a lazy gesture. They simply are where they began, standing with a hand pressed over another's, and the darkness ascends to normal levels of illumination again.

The clock, wherever it is, will not have advanced a single digit. It will now, proceeding onwards to tick, tick, tick as is its affirmed purpose in life. Shapes roll over. A hand or a middle colon move.

Nothing about his clothing is different from what it was a second or a lifetime ago, nor the features concealed with the more mundane lines required to pass as normal. But knowing he's there makes those symmetries clearer. "Satisfied, my lady?" Not with an ounce of mockery, though there is a tease, without question. Loki gives the slightest bow over her hand, relieving to Mercy what is rightfully hers, for all she might feel the brush of his breath exhaled in a secret that takes the place of a different kind of contact. "It's good to know your limits before you expand them."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
An amused snort can be heard from Mercy when Loki offers his explanation of just when and why he's a 'gentleman'. That same amusement lingers as a pitched note to her voice when she says, "Step-father. And I highly doubt you'd have trouble with him, werewolf or no." Werewolves may be powerful, but Gods are a step above.

And as they leave and move back to the humdrum of every day life, Loki might feel that watchful presence ratchet up just a notch. There's no malice, or evil intent behind it, just a chaotic curiousness, and before the world shifts completely back to the mundane, the intertwined call of the Raven and the Coyote will echo across that fading void.

Mercy doesn't react to the caw and cry of bird and coyote, so perhaps this was meant only for Loki's ears.

Perhaps a greeting from one meddling trickster to another. Possibly.

Once the two are back within the confines of the real world and more importantly Mercy's garage something akin to relief will lessen the tightness of her expression and stance. That tight grip upon his hand eases, but doesn't yet disappear. Especially when her eyes turn to the clock that sits upon one white wall. It's analog, versus digital, and the second hand will finally tick over. Seeing that time barely moved Mercy's eyebrows will inch towards the midline of her face, as she looks at that second hand. "It's only been -" - a second. That's what she meant to say, but the rest of that sentence isn't voiced as she realizes it would show her naivety again.

Returning her gaze to Loki, she'll automatically search the tall lines of his figure in the bright wash of fluorescent light; the planes of his face, breadth of his shoulders and cut of clothes. She can see who she previously 'knew' and who he really is and while there will likely be more questions, for now that familiarity there is enough. Her eyes only return to his face when he offers that question of his, so etched with a gentle tease. While she could reciprocate with a similar tone, she doesn't, instead offering a serious answer which likely isn't surprising to anyone. "I am. Th .. ank you." Only the slightest of falters when he bends over her hand, offering that gallant touch of lips to skin.

When Loki straightens from that chivalrous pose, Mercy will be waiting, a corner of her mouth quirked into a faint smile. "I should have something witty to say in return, but I don't -" She says, self-deprecating humor easily heard within her voice, even as her hand falls to her side once it's let go, "- So, I'll simply just say I'm afraid my story is going to be somewhat of a bore to you." And because she was raised by polite wolves, she'll add, "Come on, I'll make us coffee, or tea and I'll place a quick call to the police." Though the faint wail of sirens might be heard with sensitive enough hearing; but in a city like New York, who's to say it's for their particular crisis.

Loki has posed:
Gods and gods, big or small-caps g, matters considerably in a world full of incomprehensible powers. The difference of an apostrophe for possession can define Loki's place against any trickster worth their salt, born of Earth or places beyond.

"No need to flatter my ego," he insists. No, really, go ahead. Muginn would be crowing that story on the raven-wing as it circled, dare that roving rapscallion leave its roost and annoy its master's adopted son. "I pride myself on acknowledging some threats and powers too dangerous to contend with. The sea, the wrath of a gentle man, the mother standing between you and her child."

Evidently he will not hesitate to adopt the furry shape of a cub and become the wall between said mother and Mercy, especially when that shape portends death by a thousand sips of soulfire and eternal unmaking.

The other Trickster, effectively steeped in the bloody lore of the west, earns the slightest tip of his head. His slick hair wants to feather at the ends, tips at shoulders and nape curling in a spiky upward whorl. Acknowledging Coyote is also answering her question, even as his hand stays closed for that moment. A subtle adjustment from having his hand held to holding hers. It lies in the fingers moving into a firmer press of pads to the warm skin, the slide of his palm into the hollow of hers. Then withdrawal, release, and left wondering at the state of the world.

"Yes. You are welcome." That wasn't what he was expecting, entirely. So many responses and that is the one welcoming him, a bittersweet undertone to cocoa, not unwelcome from the powerful rush of magic triggering the transition with the Bifrost's aid. "Show me where you wish me to sit, then."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A step is taken away from Loki when he asks where to sit, but then Mercy pauses, her nostrils flaring ever so slightly. Turning back to the man, Mercy's gaze will search for Loki's, even as she reaches for his arm with slim fingers. Her mien in this instance is once again serious. "You should know something about me -" And there's only the slightest sense of hesitation here, "- When things tend to get heavy I deflect. Especially with humor. Or food. It's my super power." See? She just deflected again.

But, at least she realizes how she's like and owns up to the fact. Many people don't, so perhaps it's a bit of salve to that soft scent that she smells upon Loki.

Then she'll tilt her head towards another door, this one at the other end of the actual garage portion. She'll step towards it, making certain the man near her follows and once at the door she opens it. Her home is part of the garage and while the space is limited, what's there is clean and neat. Once through the door the two will find themselves within Mercy's living room. There's a couch, a small over-stuffed chair, a coffee table and a small carpet-covered cat tree. About the only disarray is upon the table which holds her mail and the few cat toys that peak out. The cat in question is a tail-less manx cat and she's currently curled upon the chair. At the noise of people entering the golden-eyed cat will sit up. The vaguest of meows will be heard as the tufted eared animal turns its shining gaze upon Loki. "Don't mind Medea, she's usually not a fan of strangers, so she shouldn't come near you. Please sit." A motion towards the couch, "And I'll get drinks." Though not whiskey this time, once was definitely enough.

Loki has posed:
"And you should know--" Loki responds, adding his voice to the fading feminine elements of hers, the timbre darker and lower but not without a frisson of humour. "The stories about the eight-legged horse are highly exaggerated. Drunken men recall things badly and Snorri, writing centuries later, was more interested in garnering drama for political capital than factual." Scalding green eyes flash with the unspoken tremor of mirth, enlivening his face. The left side of his mouth curls higher, the right leavening out the chance he might actually grin for once.

He makes a point of entrances and departures with a little drama of his own, all told. It's a long, bold stride taking him away from the garage into the loft element, and he takes in all the details at once. Furnishings and appointments tell as much about a personality as the tidiness of a room. Are all things organized in a fashion to demonstrate their likely use, or has a pattern of chaos emerged as the standard? Piles of clothes on the floor notwithstanding, it can be equally telling when every open cupboard contains the same no-name brands or the walls and cabinets are covered in Galician rooster art. These factors matter. He will not explain why.

Nonetheless, he pauses at the appearance of the cat and nods sagely at the matter. "You named your cat for the shapeshifting sorceress of the Black Sea? I appreciate your tastes. More than meets the eye, if I had to say."

He pauses in case Mercy wants his assistance, then settles down upon the couch on the left. It probably doesn't help the cat will understand him, regardless of meows.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
It's going to be either a trip or a cough when Loki explains that particular story for her benefit. For Mercy, it turns into a trip and a fumble when swinging the door open.

Her somewhat wild gaze will turn to Loki for a split-second, but, the action of opening the door is already in play.

A bubble of laughter (almost hysterical) nearly breaks free, but it's tamped down.

Quite furiously so. Still, his words merit an answering grin from the woman.

The majority of the room is mostly hand-me-downs, or gently used. It's a mishmash of bright colors and soft cloth. Convenience and creature comfort without caring what someone thinks of it. Unlike others Mercy doesn't need to play the one-up game; she (mostly) has what she wants out of life. Her garage, her hobbies, her friends and family.

But a practiced eye will pick out a few things about her from their current surroundings; while her mail is haphazardly placed upon the coffee table there aren't any bills. The majority of the art work and nicknacks seen are historical themed, or nature themed in nature. There's a heavy element of wolf and coyote to them, as well. There's also an element of Native American as well, Blackfoot if Loki knows of such things.

The kitchen itself is quite small and the other rooms (bedroom and bathroom) are likely beyond the two other doors that can be seen down a short hallway. Both doors are currently closed.

When Loki recognizes her cat's name, she almost says 'you know your history', but then realization hits and the Coyote will shake her head. Something to get used to, that's really all it is. "Thanks, it seemed to fit her personality." She says with true affection for the cat, as she looks down towards the calico manx, "Mind the clothes." She says sternly to the cat, even if she doesn't have the gift of animal-speech. "Be right back." Are Mercy's final words before she steps into the small kitchen. The sounds of cupboards being opened and coffee and tea pots being put upon burners is likely heard.

Medea, for her part, will deign to stand and lazily stretch. Once the stretch is complete she'll hop down off of the chair and saunter over to the Trickster God. If she had a tail she'd curl it into a question mark, but as it, all she can do is give the complex man sitting upon the couch a long stare.

Cats, they never know their place, do they.

Soon enough the whistle of the kettle can be heard from the kitchen.

Loki has posed:
Is the hysteria that he talks about the tenth century like it was a fortnight ago, or the fact he //may// have been a mare carrying Sleipnir? Can't blame a man for guarding oneself.

The laughter audible in other means than sound are perfectly worthwhile. Point for Loki, spike to the chaotic curiosity bubbling around.

Mercy's nature colours her world, and her world reflects her. A practiced eye takes in the greater factors and breaks down details into discrete, smaller patterns. What seat has more wear than others, whether there appears to be something well loved given its placement, if the books collect dust or clearly show signs of regular and recent use instead of the e-reading tablets still all the rage among some circles. Not long is required to assemble a superficial understanding, but he wouldn't bother at the expense of conversation. Doing two things at once comes as second nature.

"I thank you and your feline companion for the company. And the offer of a beverage." He will not always aim to make himself broadly understood, given he can speak English perfectly fine. But it seems wise to make friends with nature's feline spy, after all. Mustn't allow the cat to get off on the wrong paw. Medea can do what she will, and he does not wiggle his fingers to encourage her to come over. While Mercy ventures into the kitchen, he returns that pointed fixed look with one of his own. "<We honour your kind where I am from. Nor have I interest in bedeviling her.>"

On Asgardian scout's honour? That wouldn't mean much.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The cat offers an owlish blink with those golden eyes of hers, but his answer satisfies her.

She /won't/ use his leg (or pantleg) as a strop.

For now, at least. Cats are fickle. Promises can be made, but they can also be bent. Sometimes broken.

Her answering meow will convey that message to Loki and with a casual circle, the manx cat will settle near the man's feet. A paw will be lifted upward and cleaned, her attention split between the two so near.

As for that momentary hysteria perhaps it's both. The casualness that Loki spoke of that story, and the story itself. She knows her history, not everything of course, but a lot of Norse, Greek and Native American thanks to school, but also from family.

Eventually, the coyote will return, a small tray put together with coffee, hot water for tea, mugs and a few homemade chocolate chip cookies. Polite society rules completely followed. Once she's back within the room Mercy will eye Medea for a silent second. Then Loki. When all seems well the tray will be set upon the coffee table. It's close enough to the couch that it shouldn't be too much of a reach for either of them. "Guests first." She says, even as she settles upon the neighboring couch cushion near Loki.

And those sirens previously heard they're definitely getting closer, so it looks like a call isn't required.

And oddly enough the watchful presence of crow and coyote has dimmed, whether on purpose or simply because something else has pulled it away is hard to say.

Loki has posed:
Cats are fickle, and Asgardian deities sometimes even more so. Meet Amora the Enchantress, all will be laid bare. At least he's used to cats being the personal preference of Freyja, and treats them accordingly.

Loki does not take Medea's offer as anything more than tolerance. No pets on the head, but he presents his hand to be sniffed if she so wishes to pursue. Only fair given the coyote in the room has the scent of him, the cologne based on a sandalwood base note with resins and spice not quite concealing the unusual blend that has no obvious connection. Why would he have a slight trace of petrichor, any more than there are occasional hints of bergamot? Earl Grey tea is responsible for the latter. Not a man with a drinking problem, him.

Enter the maiden, stage left. Right, somewhere. He starts to rise from the couch, holding out his hands. "Allow me to help?" Mercy may brush him off. No matter, the gesture is made nonetheless. "Your care is appreciated," he adds, in case hospitality of another kind, the American sort, applies. No need to have the cat maul his pant leg for not saying thank you.

He reaches for a cookie and lifts it up, pinched around the corner. Breaking it in two, a bite will only come after. "I think we have reached a detente. And the business of the bear will not alarm anyone in this city? They seem to take even extradimensional invasions in stride. Considering all that happens here..."

He raises his eyebrow, and the grin is present again. A bite of cookie later, appropriate swallowing and Frigga-enforced manners entailed, he asks, "You have quite found yourself in the thick of it. Do you ever wish to escape the mayhem by living somewhere smaller, less..." A wave of his hand cycles vertically, indicating it all. "Easier for you to pursue your business, your friendships, and your life without interference from bears, blood witches, cultists, and nosy Englishmen?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A smile of thanks is given when Loki offers to help, even if she does still manage to set the tray upon the coffee table.

When he goes for a cookie Mercy will set two mugs towards Loki and then select the last, third mug, for herself. Tea waits steeping in a small pot, while one mug near Loki sits empty, and the other holds hot coffee within. Her own mug holds that dark and bitter brew; with the liquid lightened thanks to the addition of a flavored creamer. Sugar and creamer can be found upon the tray should they be wanted.

The coffee is pretty strong, not black sludge of death, but definitely a dark roast.

When Mercy's all settled, Medea will rise upon dainty paws and move over to give the woman's leg an affectionate rub. Automatically the coyote will reach down to give Medea her dues. Once that's finished the manx cat will toss one last look to Loki, before she saunters back over to her chair. Then it's one, two, three circles before the cat settles back into a fluffy ball.

At his mention of the city accepting the bear episode in stride, Mercy nod, "How can they not?" She asks, mostly rhetorical, "We have caped superheroes, mutants, shapeshifters, aliens and gods." A corner of her mouth inches higher with amusement for both herself and Loki. "I've read recently that the brain will only accept so much strangeness before it shelves it into the 'this is normal' category. It allows most people to accept the fantastical, especially when they see something of it everyday. The shock value becomes less with each news story."

That last question of his causes Mercy to pause and really consider her answer, when an answer is found, she'll finally say, "I have escaped. The pack was ever evolving and full of life. Always noisy, always large, always busy. Sometimes exhausting. This place, the city, is so much quieter, friendlier and welcoming." A ghost of an old hurt might be heard with those words of hers, but that pain is rolled ruthlessly over, as she continues with, "It's easier to make lasting connections here, even if life is sometimes interrupted by witches, warlocks and bears."

Then, probably not surprising, Mercy will send that question right back to Loki. "And you?" And while Mercy could lounge back against the couch, she doesn't, instead she's adopted a more attentive posture with her body angled towards Loki as the two speak.

Loki has posed:
The scent of coffee is tempting, but he carries a trace of citrus oil under the heavier impressions of his skin. Bergamot that sometimes are captured in his dark hair, brushed faintly over his hands. Whether any smudge remains for the coyote's sensitive nose matters less than the fact he reaches first for the mug and nudges it towards the pot. Preferences are rendered plain.

"Yes, you quite have it." He nods approvingly, head tipped back a moment later. Loki brushes his hair off his face, palm smoothing the dark fall out of his eyes. "A man becomes desensitised to war, for example. Show him ten battles, he will not have the same reaction at the start. Or traffic. Imagine the thousands of commuters in their exploding death boxes on wheels, too busy syncing with their digital contraptions to see where they go. We don't think very much about the terrible danger. How is an alien any different from an SUV?"

Technically he is one. Technically he might as well consider himself a native, for all he is not, exiled out of Asgard.

Mercy receives a long, measured look. Escaped is a telling verb. So is the specific stresses put by her voice on words. "A large city being less exhausting than a small town. Truly you must have known everyone and everything intimately for that to be the case," he muses, a wave of his hand indicating the street at large. "Here at least two can be anonymous. More than some, at least. Not many residents worry about your business, only theirs. Isn't that refreshing?" He will pour and pull the tea for himself, showing easy control through every feature. His deliberate effortlessness is not any different than demonstrating his magic. "Is it something temporary, or do you intend to stay for a while?"

Her own inquiries are the price of admission, in a way. Best for him to play fairly. Currency to be spent cautiously. "Ah. I've been well away from home for quite some time. I went searching for meaning and purpose I could not find there. A great many important people, after all."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When his preference is made known Mercy will set her mug of coffee aside for a moment. She's intending to pour his tea for him, but before she can do that, he offers his interesting description of cars. That's enough to pause her hand, as she offers a snort of half-laughter. It's not necessarily the most attractive sound, but Mercy isn't one to hide behind artifice when it comes to showing humor.

"Cars are not death boxes, not if the person driving is paying attention to the road. It's safer than flying." She finishes with, offering that old adage that has been told since both air and ground vehicles were considered commonplace.

Then she's reaching for the teapot intending to pour for him, when he likewise reaches for it. Upon seeing him intending to pour, Mercy will dutifully pull her hands back. Instead of going for her mug of coffee again, she instead tucks them into her lap.

His next words bring her attention back to his face, as she nods, "Exactly." She agrees, when he offers those viewpoints on city life. "You don't have to think through the repercussions of your actions or words." A slanted smile then, "Not that I really ever let that stop me, but there were still repercussions." Again the faint heaviness of an old hurt might be heard, but once more it's pushed aside. It's an old hurt. Something she's mostly come to terms with.

"And this is my home now." She says in the way of an answer to his question about temporary or permanent residency here within the city. "You'd have to pry my cold dead fingers from this place for me to leave."

When he offers his own answer to her questions now, Mercy will listen. She nods in some understanding to what he says, as she adds, "And they liked to make sure you knew it, yes?" There's a simple shake of her head, even as she asks the next logical follow-up question to what he's said. "And have you found what you were looking for?"

Loki has posed:
"And how many people do? I see enough drivers out there completely absorbed in their business, anything but driving," Loki counters her statement with one of his own. "They are busy drinking or eating. They might be singing to music or talking on their phone, but they are not paying full mind to their driving. They get comfortable with themselves. Isn't that why most of the accidents happen close to work and home? Taking things for granted is dangerous, that's what I mean to say. Desensitised to the real threat because we experience it day in and day out."

Which is precisely why he goes places via teleportation. So much safer and smarter, really. How deeply entertaining it all proves to be, the sparring with the coyote and someone willing not to agree simply for the sake of agreement; or be ornery rather than debating. That he warms to the moment is not lost on the Asgardian.

"Mm. Oh, yes. Imagine living among overachievers capable of measuring your every action from that lens, one that gauges the slightest decision as a monumental decision." He cracks his knuckles and then puts the cup to his mouth, assessing that strange, copper bound creation that is quite unlike anything in his recent encounters, and that includes Avengers, monsters, and various things besides. "How do you like to say it? Living under a microscope is never fun. Especially as the outsider, isn't that harder than most? Those who are quickest to judge are the least likely to encourage you, celebrate your efforts, and recognise your achievements. Others may reach the mark to applause, but you?"

The tightness of his mouth is a smile of no warmth, as arctic and grey as the winter's eternal core. "I would spare you that, if I could. It is a cycle without satisfaction or fulfillment. Any gains are fleeting and the wheel..." He grinds his teeth together. "I would break it before it crushes another soul full of potential called wrong. But, of course, we mustn't do that. Society has rules and rigid expectations. So making do means taking another route than the iconoclast.' The image breaker. It's not entirely a wrong description for him, really. "With those who have similar views and present the best company... You're making it difficult to assess you in neutral, objective terms, my lady. Regretfully for you, I think. For me, well...." The chiaroscuro outlines of his body as he dips his head, staring into his teacup and divining what he will, is a profound difference. In those moments what he is displays more apparently.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
She'll give him a point for the remark about how so few people really do pay attention. Too much technology sometimes. Shoot, if Mercy were completely honest, she can't say she hasn't ever moved her attention from the road to her phone. Or to change the radio station, or to talk to her passenger ...

... And while she can't quite teleport traveling in coyote form is oftentimes safer. Only the occasional farmer protecting his animals to contend with. Mercy has outran enough buckshot to be quite proficient at it now. Nonetheless the mode and safety of their travels is let go, as the conversation turns towards some a bit more serious. A bit more sensitive. "A microscope, that fits." Mercy says in agreement, even as she keeps her attention upon the man next to her. Her nostrils flare ever so slightly as she takes in his scent; the citrus of bergamot, the slight bitterness from the tea and the sharpness of past remembered pain. "But not you." She'll finish that likely rhetorical question of his, "At least the majority won't support you, but a few hopefully? Yes?" She at least had that and now she searches his face to see if he had at least one.

Perhaps later she'll think back upon this conversation she might feel another bubble of hysteria, but for now, Loki in her eyes is just as anyone else. A person, with feelings, who has been hurt. Who still hurts.

It's enough that she'll reach her hand towards his knee, to offer a comforting touch should he allow it. Her words are quiet, as she says, "There are rules and those terrible expectations yes, and while we can't tear them down and destroy them, that doesn't mean we have to let them define us so completely. Temper us, yes, but destroy us? No. And then when we can help those that are battling the same struggle there's some good to it. Knowing we're not alone and to offer and allow ourself to accept that comfort when needed. It's not the best answer, or the easiest one to live with, but it's the only one I have."

And then, to his mention of the regret likely going to be for her, she'll offer a shake of her head, moving now to interject the faintest bit of humor now. "I never regret friendship, or family, no matter what happens. Unless of course they eat the last brownie, well, that's a fighting offense in my book."

Loki has posed:
He could tell her truths and stories. The perennial and age-old need to live up to the impossible standards, being the swan among hawks -- or peregrine falcon among eagles, must more apt. How many stories there are, she need only touch half the volumes in the Norse mythology section to hear them out. It isn't his point to pine, however, and he refuses to dwell under Mercy's roof like some kind of troubled college student comparing notes on how hard he has it.

The tea is downed in a sip that hasn't a sound, and he puts the cup back down on the table. "You haven't invited me here to listen to such tired tales. Not when your own are far more significant to the moment. You are fighting against something, aren't you? It's not only finding all these troubles. There is satisfaction with your work and the shop; you take that very seriously from what I can tell. Otherwise this city would chew you up and spit you out for the rent alone."

How many Volkswagen drivers are there? Be careful, this is the kind of man to show up at McCann or whomever has the VW account and demand answers. Answers that may involve a few pointed looks and then solicitations of a sort for further data. Because millennial old gods aren't normal.

He allows the touch, though his gaze moves to her hand with a weight almost comparable to someone pulling a torch nearer. Heat and light and presence all link together. No magic, entirely, other than the gravitas of that which is, hidden in a shell, daring to come out of eclipse. "Sometimes the choice to keep pushing on is the only one there is. Stop envying those with the answers, that much I can say. Their truth fits them. Their story is their own. It most likely isn't yours even if you feature in theirs, and attempting to shape yourself to meet their expectations... has that ever been satisfying? Or is it more like putting on a shirt and finding it fits in places, but not really anything for you?"

Regret. Oh Fates, she hasn't a clue. His bitter-bright smirk matches those flaming eyes. "You'd fight over the brownie, but what about ectoplasm tracked in on boots?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Not tired tales." Is her quick reply, even as the brown-haired woman adds neatly, "You shouldn't compare who has it worse. There will always be those that have it much harder than you and I; that doesn't diminish what you feel, or what I feel, or what our circumstances are. It doesn't make our problems any less." And while she could voice her thoughts on the increase of magical disturbances around, she doesn't. Not yet. Perhaps later, but not right now. There's still too much heaviness within the air to brush it aside with a lighter, brighter conversational topic.

When his gaze drops to her hand, she too will look to that hand upon his knee and with a look back to Loki's face, Mercy will offer a gentle squeeze before she moves to pull her hand away. "Sorry, I'm a toucher." She flashes a half-quirked smile, just in case her touch overstepped a boundary. "Byproduct of living with a pack."

"Live up to your own expectations." She finally says, a flash of amusement entering her gaze when he compares other people's expectations to an over-sized shirt, "That way you won't have to knot the bottom of your shirt -" Or yourself in this case, "- to get it a semblance of fitted." As for ectoplasm, that earns a faint noise of amusement even as her gaze searches his expression, seeing that bitterness within the lines of his mouth, the flash of his eyes, "Promise to wipe your boots and I'll have no problem with it."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
And just like that the conversation turns toward something lighter, or, at the very least less bitter on both their parts. Either way, it allows the two to end the evening on a higher note than before.