571/Going Once, Going Twice ... Sold

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Going Once, Going Twice ... Sold
Date of Scene: 22 May 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Mercy Thompson, Loki




Mercy Thompson has posed:
While Mercy has had very little free time lately she has had enough that she's begun to investigate the recent plethora of magical disturbances. Except for the House on the Haunted Hill. That was all Loki.

All him.

Either way, like the children's game of connect the dots, Mercy went about searching for a pattern. It was only after Mercy marked the locations of each disturbance upon a map that a pattern finally emerged. When the dots were so connected they formed a haphazard lop-sided circle, but a circle nonetheless. The curved lines bracketed several neighborhoods within its circumference; Mercy's included.

While the epicenter of the disturbance was larger than she anticipated that didn't stop her from going off to sniff things out.

Literally.

It took several nights of roaming as a coyote within Washington Heights to find her first clue - the scent of magic, of course. Hints of it were found here and there and even though the trail dead-ended several times, Mercy simply retraced her steps and started again. Eventually the trail led the coyote to a small warehouse near the water's edge of the Hudson River. Not unusual, right? There are many warehouses down that way thanks to the commercialized zones versus residential. What was unusual was the amount of foot traffic where the magic trail ended. Especially during the off hours of the business. For two nights a reddish-brown coyote lingered near the building watching the ins and out and listening to everything that was said. It was only after hearing a specific tidbit of information that Mercy's vigil finally ended. Then she trotted back home and slept the sleep of the exhausted for several hours, before finally reawakening and going about her business.

Cares were fixed, customers called and vehicles towed.

Now, evening has fallen and deepened and the witching hour approaches. While most sane people are asleep Mercy isn't. She's in the midst of dressing for an evening out and while her gaze strays towards the clock and she sees the lateness of the time, she still reaches for that little black square that Loki gave her. She'll give the little bit of technology a frown, even as she mutters, "I don't know why you make me nervous." She says to the little chip, "But you do." Still, she's not dumb enough to go to the warehouse alone and so, she says, "Call Loki." But then she frowns as a stray thought enters her head; perhaps the chip doesn't know him as Loki? So, she'll add, "Liam?"

Loki has posed:
There is something to the image of Mercy wandering around, snuffling like Wiley after a rabbit. Something out of an old Hanna-Barbera cartoon from aeons ago, her bent over with her nose twitching left and right, trying to catch that elusive magic smell.

Whatever Loki does during his days, they don't take place on Earth. His business carries him wherever he wants to go, traversing an arch of rainbow once. More times, he uses his own back doors to hack into the system. If the system is a dimension, no less.

Though that is another tale for another day, if at all.

The little black square from the European Union hasn't much to commend it. Small, neat, and clearly charged like most other devices over wireless streams, it sits inert until activated. 'Call' tends to wake it up. Three green dots come softly aglow. It blinks accordingly to her request. Nothing happens, other than the obvious mournful blink of one light. Then, a second request. Three lights illuminate and the internal LED panel comes alight, a square strip that shines a warm glow up into the air. It forms a holographic interface of sorts, nothing so bleeding edge to be shocking, but not common. Developmental to production space, that's what this occupies.

A bell-clear tone passes through. It //has// to be magic, because any G network still has its crackles. Speed and convenience over actual quality of a call, right?

"Good day to you, Ms. Thompson," 'Liam' answers, a spinning orb on the interface offering a pretty, Zen experience to watch. "To what do I owe the honour?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
At least ACME didn't come into play while she was a coyote. That would have been bad for the four-footed Mercy. Nothing ever goes right with the ACME brand.

And while nothing happens at first with the slim black chip, Mercy resists the urge to shake it. That never helps. It's like when people go click-crazy upon a link, or download, expecting that to help it go faster. It never does. It just bogs the system down even more. So, with that thought in mind, Mercy waits patiently. When the green dots alight her gaze will automatically move to them, waiting to see what happens next. The blinking of one light will be seen and when it's clear that Liam is the name the chip knows him by Mercy will file that away for future reference. Then it's back to watching the device as the front panel finally alights. When the display proves to be holographic in nature, Mercy will bring the phone closer to herself. While it's not bleeding edge shocking, it's still unusual enough that the coyote's expression holds a note of surprise and wonder as she takes it in.

The little ball of color that spins so hypnotically above the device is almost touched, but before she can 'touch' it with a fingertip, Loki's voice echoes through the device. Surprise causes her to unconsciously jerk her hand away even as her expression turns a touch sheepish.

Like a little kid with a new toy. That's how she's feeling right about now.

At least she doesn't clear her throat with embarrassment, instead, she'll say, "Liam, good evening to you too. I hope I'm not calling too late?" She asks with automatic concern in her voice; and while she doesn't think he holds 'regular' or typical hours, it's always better not to assume.

Loki has posed:
ACME coming after Mercy with a lawsuit and proprietary trademark infringement would also not be desirable. There are days when it pays to have four feet. Being in a courtroom is probably not one of them, unless hiding.

The ball is purely holographic. When poked, it gets disrupted and reforms, throwing off the soothing light in a spectrum of jade to aquamarine of a tropical sea. Its delicate sheen casts a light upon her skin, and still continues to rotate even when she snatches her hand away. The fun of technology. Especially when matched with the knowledge of Asgard behind it.

"Late? Dear, that assumes I have any real need to sleep." Does he? Let her think him prowling all hours of the night, much more entertaining than the other options. He could probably protest about the assumption he's lounging around lazily. Or not. "No time is off-limits. Is something amiss, or have you found you could not sleep or you needed a steak dinner?"

That's going to be a running gag for a while yet.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The ball re-forms when it's touched. That's interesting, but not quite unexpected.

Still, her attention isn't really on the holographic ball now, oh she'll continue to stay focused upon it, but now her attention is definitely upon Liam. Or, his voice. His mention of needing sleep does cause her to blink, as she takes a mental step back. She had assumed he needed sleep. Her dark brown eyebrows begin to pinch towards the midline of face as she considers that thought. "Well, you know what they say about assuming." Is her quick quip, her best defense her sense of humor for now; later, the questions his remark prompted will have to be considered further, for now, other things take precedence.

"It's a little bit of the first two." She admits, though the easy sound of humor can be heard tinging her voice at his mention of steak dinners. "How do you feel about going to a not-all-together legal auction? I've a feeling there are a lot of items within the warehouse that might interest the both of us."

Loki has posed:
The voice is smooth and even, unfortunately too clear for anyone tired. The crisp lamentation of his English accent will forever be just cause for a shiver or a sigh in certain quarters of the world. Not for nothing has he chosen to modulate his voice to that, and adopt the slant of received pronunciation because he can. When in America, do as the Americans don't. And in Britain, he probably sounds Australian. It's just one of those things.

"That assuming can sometimes lead to mischief?" Oh, don't sound so entirely pleased with yourself, trickster God. Nonetheless, he must be in a very fine fettle in order to generate such an exquisite balance of teasing twice in a row. Madness! Insanity. A good evening, then, as Loki munches on a cookie somewhere and sips his black on black espresso. Darker than night, darker than the souls of humanity. He shamelessly engages in that banter because he can. "Amiss, you couldn't sleep, and no steak? I shall put this against your tab. Let's be there, then. Do you have an address for this warehouse, or am I to be conveyed in your mundane transportation over there?"

Oh yes, big bad cars.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Lead to mischief? That's enough to cause Mercy to laugh outright at the trickster God's words. "That wasn't quite what I was reaching for, but, it's definitely a better word. You seem in a fine mood tonight." She'll say, that note of humor in her voice now blossoming into full-on amusement. "And let's meet up. It'll probably be faster for you." Imagining he'll likely teleport to the address, and as for that address, Mercy will quickly rattle off the physical address for Loki, as well as offer a few landmarks just in case. It's only after he's good with the address that she'll add, "The place gives me the 'Gangs of New York' feel; everyone is prettily dressed and glittering, but ready to cut you for the smallest of slights." And while Loki probably isn't worried, Mercy does offer that warning, "Meet you there in thirty?"

And once the two finish the call, Mercy will hurriedly finish dressing. She's going for evening wear, though not formal evening wear and once she's dressed she locks her garage up tight and leaves.

The warehouse in question can be found in Washington Heights, near the river, though not quite against the water's edge. Their particular warehouse is at the end of the lot with only one neighboring building near it. The warehouse's lot is large enough to include a parking lot which affords the business a bit more privacy than the other closely spaced buildings. A slow trickle of people can be seen going into a side entrance, where the lights are lit, and two large burly bouncers stand. Invitations are needed; hopefully Loki will be all the invitation they'll need.

Whether Loki arrives first or Mercy does,, he'll find her dressed in something far nicer than her typical mechanic overalls. She's actually wearing a fitted dress, not skin-tight, but fitted. It's a muted rustic red in color, but when set against her darker skin tone the color all but pops. The red will slowly bleed into something darker, before it turns all but black by the time it reaches the skirt of her dress. The skirt itself stops several inches above her knees and the only thing to note is the pair of black flats she wears, as well as a small black purse held in one hand.

Purse. One has to wonder if anyone has ever seen Mercy carry a purse. Probably not.

Loki has posed:
Dress to the nines? They wouldn't like it if he did. Something about a solid gold crown with horns might defy the conventions of elegance. But if there is //anything// Loki has in an advantage over his brother, it's... a very long list of things and no one wants to write an encyclopaedia right now. But dressing to the nines is one of them. Thor prefers a relatively clean tunic as 'fancy dress.' Loki thinks differently.

To wit, an idle snap of his fingers sends a burning trail of emerald sparks settling over his garments. The fall burns out to gold as the hipster jeans and navy Belstaff coat become a tailored Savile Row tuxedo, slim cut and designer, the narrow lapels converging over a crisp green shirt. White? White is for the boring. Golden cufflinks, of course, and the narrow gilding to line for the sake of interest. All he needs is a damn sword to go out and duel a celebrity for who is the jauntiest, most daring figure sartorially.

There is no sign of a car anywhere, but this is a city without cars. He waits on Mercy easily enough, and the laser focus of his gaze anoins her upon her appearance, giving a familiar shape the once over to learn it all over again possibly at the subatomic level. Important, just in case things change. He offers his arm, no comment afforded otherwise, beyond, "How delightful to see you again, my lady. Shall we?"

It helps to be noble born and noble beaten on the worst of occasions, of course. It makes joining these kinds of places so utterly easy.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A gold crown with horns might be a little over the top for this particular place. Oh, sure they're glittery and there's pomp and circumstance and while they'd like to think they're kings, they're not; and nor would they deal with metaphysical very well.

And thankfully, for Mercy, Loki does indeed see clothing as something more than just function and form, it will definitely help in this case. The warehouse is going to be more about wit upon the playing field than brute force strength.

When Mercy arrives upon the scene and spies Loki, she can't quite help the once over she gives him. A corner of her mouth quirks upward when she returns her gaze to his face, "You look very handsome." She'll offer first, before that smile tugs into something akin to a grin, "Suddenly I feel under dressed next to you." And less pretty, but let's not say that, shall we?"

At the offered arm, Mercy will automatically slide her hand into the crook of his arm, as she nods, "And yes, let's be off."

Even from their vantage point they'll see that the line to get inside is slowly lengthening, as the bouncers check each person's credentials. "So - " Begins Mercy, her voice quiet as the duo walk towards the warehouse, "- We don't have an invitation to get inside. I was really hoping you could help with that. I'd rather not have to fight those big bruisers to get inside."

Loki has posed:
But to the same, delicious question: where does she store everything if not in that purse? Is there any prospect of hammerspace that she gets to keep all her tools of chaos in? Or a Bug around the corner that is stuffed to the curved headliner with objects? He will wonder and muse over this, when dining on a canape without any real flavour other than salt.

The once over has to be cemented in the back of his mind, though, and that is more likely to bother him while dining on a cracker piled with asparagus and a slop of sliced tomatoes, onions, and light herbs, placed on a balance of a careful cream cheese. "The point is, my dear," he murmurs into Mercy's ear as he joins her, sherry to his sylvan green, a proper ruby in copper to his emerald in gold. "I am the diversion for your work, as necessary. Being someone who holds attention has never been difficult or unfamiliar for me. I am, of course, happy to forfeit the role if you decide you want it." His hand briefly touches hers to secure the clasp of her fingers, and then slips away, heat and sandalwood dashed with that curious note of magic and ice. One is never far from their origins, or the freshness of the air they seek. "You do not look like a puffed up peacock gluing plastic jewels to itself for a more artful impact. Take pride in that, and the colour."

Apparently he has no taste for rhinestone bedecked socialites, or bedazzled stars. Good to know. "Of course we have an invitation. //I// am an antiquarian, after all. That allows a certain cachet. I guarantee, they know who Liam Serrure is." There is a joke in there, if she knows French. The unusual last name is... something. He breezes easily into the queue, guiding her into the line, though not at a dragging stride. One is a guest, not so much as anything else. Illusions are his stock in trade, but sometimes the real thing is even more effective. And so it might be, as they approach the warehouse and the front of the queue. And if nothing else...

Well, implanting a suggestion in their brains is child's play unless they happen to be a pair of magical spiders. In which case, what fun!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
No, her purse is quite normal. Likewise her car, which sits just around the corner and yes, it is a VW bug, one of the originals too. It's been lovingly refurbished by Mercy and while she could sell it for a pretty penny, she doesn't.

His murmured words cause the woman to cant her head slightly to the side and up, as she gazes up at the taller man. The mention of holding attention earns a curve of a smile in agreement from Mercy; yes, she can tell he's not one to shy away from the spot-light. Far from it. "No." She says quickly and quietly to his offer of forfeiture, "By all means, you're the master of the limelight, I wouldn't dare step into our realm." She ends with, with both truth and humor in those words of hers. It'd be foolish for her not to let Loki handle this part.

His touch causes Mercy's gaze to drop momentarily to her hand and his arm, but it's only a momentarily loss of attention, as Mercy's gaze returns to Loki when he speaks again. Those next words of his earns another smile from the coyote, as she says, "Thank you for the compliment. I appreciate it." And she does appreciate his words too; she's secure enough in her own self to accept the compliment for what it is, versus demurring it away.

His last name brings a vague pinch to her eyebrows as she considers that last name. "Lock?" She'll finally ask, "Your 'last name' is Lock?" So, while not fully versed in French she clearly knows some of the language

When the two are at the front of the line Tweedledee will look at his clipboard, saying in an appropriately thuggish voice, "Name's?" Tweedledumb doesn't have a clipboard, instead he has holstered guns at his side. And even from there the faint spark and throb of magic might be felt by both of them. There's more than just one magical thing inside, there's multiples.

And no, Tweedledumb does /not/ recognize Loki as Liam the antiquities agent. They're just not that bright, or in that particular world.

Loki has posed:
One could confess an appreciation for the car, or the practicality, or the purse of many things. Blame Loki for being a bit distracted. Only a bit, that expansive mind whirling and formulating plots on the side isn't limited entirely by the one chunk brooding over warehouses, antiques, women, and guards. He already eases into the role appointed by his position. Business owner, expert in the field of identifying art and not, say, enslaving half the city when on a bad jag. (Seriously. Never drink with Thor and then think Midgard is worth the taking until the hangover passes.) "Being the master of it does not mean I would fail to share it, or surrender it to annoy another their moment. It's rather dull to always be under the light," he notes. His voice is quiet, volume low, and let anyone assume theirs is a shared conversation with amusement and mirth. "By all means. Swish out there and make them bend to your uncommonly blunt charm. They all couch their truths in lies, and you can cleave through the pretense like a sharp knife."

There is a certain humour and a flickering light, burning green eyes flashing with humour. "Quite. Lachlan, if you prefer the Isles. McLachlan for the Gaeltacht, of course." Yes. He's the lock, for the verisimilitude of varied identifications, and laughter practically soars around them in a crackling flame of unspoken sounds. Vibrations that want to creep from his throat, blocked by his teeth clicked shut.

The thug might be magical; he's careful about this, but he sees magic constantly so a focus on each man in turn assures they aren't puppeted by something larger, and not proof to shining charm. "Liam Serrure. Senior Consultant, Christie's." Just off the cuff, a toss of business. He isn't concerned about the matter. "And guest." He almost carelessly offers it, squeezing Mercy to his side with the feckless disinterest of someone who very much owns their people, the language they should understand. The subtle shift of his mask doesn't allow for very much mistaking his purpose, the intense focus of a very, very old Asgardian with a strictly intimidating disposition exerted through a plain staredown. "Representing //interests//." Insert 'criminal' in there, redundant to suggest oil wealth, Russian oligarchs.

The mildest nudge to suggest yes, they //are// on the list is a given. Because he's a magnificent bastard when he has to be, even as he almost regretfully nudges the coyote with his arm so there is no doubt this is a role, not a person. As yet.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A bad jag.

Leave it to Loki to consider taking over half the world (not the whole) as a bad jag. A definition that's scary to contemplate during those late hours. Thankfully, all those thoughts are quite internal to Loki, and Mercy has nothing but stories to rely upon. Stories that need to be taken with a grain of salt.

His mention of her blunt charm earns another crooked grin from Mercy, as she slides a side-eyed look to the tall dapper man, "A sharp knife." She says softly, that crooked smile still upon her features, "I like that, but for tonight I think we should stay with your brand of charm. I have a feeling it'll go much better for both of us."

And besides, she's wearing such a nice dress, she'd rather not damage it in anyway. It might be her only one.

The laughter that swirls around them, but not given voice, is felt by Mercy. It's enough to cause the little hairs upon her arms and along her neck to rise upward. That sense (along with his various names) also affords an answering glint of laughter within her eyes

The thugs are decidedly not magical in nature, nor controlled by any such beings, they're instead controlled by their own stupidity. Or perhaps a better phrase would be feeble-mindedness. Their job is to look at the list, look at the people and if both match allow them to enter inside. That's it and that's as far as they'll stray. The only other response they know of is violence; whether starting the violence or finishing it.

When Tweedledee looks to his list his expression turns quite boorish for a long moment; as his beady eyes don't necessarily see the name Liam Serrure. That expression of his causes Tweedledumb to straighten from his bored slouch, as he looks to his comrade-in-arms. Thankfully, the mild suggestion that Loki sends their way easily ensnares both of their minds and with a relaxing of features, Tweedledee grunts, "There you are. Go ahead in." And then both will step aside, to allow the two to enter within.

His voice, that stance, the haughtiness is seen by Mercy and while she's relegated to guest, she doesn't seem too upset by it. In fact, when she's introduced as his guest she'll offer the two goons what she feels is a ditzy enough smile. No words, just that vapid look of a smile. If the goons were brighter they'd probably be able to see past it, thanks to the calculating look within her eyes, but as is ... She's just a pretty bauble on Loki's arm.

When she can, Mercy will return that nudge of his with a casual squeeze of her fingers; his message is received and there's no offense taken. She understands.

Once inside the two will see a typical warehouse set-up; large spaces with few walls, and fewer doors. The main 'show room' has been set up with chairs and tables and a stage at the other end can be seen. There's only three doors along the walls that go deeper within the warehouse; probably where the storage is. For now, the crowd is quite thick, as it mills about with the glitter and sharpness of the fashionable underworld.

Loki has posed:
"Good." There isn't even the term of 'Good man' as one would give to a favoured servant or a reward for doing the correct thing under the circumstances. Sometimes he can slouch back into the shade of a former self, who sees these men as playthings, momentary barriers where he wants to go. And thus he might treat them much similar to any orange construction barrel or yellow tape blotting him out, brushing through with practically no effort whatsoever. He isn't going to waste the energy on something barely registering to him. Those echoes of pride and overweening might, almost contempt, are a birthright to summon for a man a prince twice over. But only until they go through the doors and enter a new battlefield, one potentially of very different makeup and nature. For one, it's a bloody warehouse, not the Waldorf Astoria ballroom. They aren't showing up at Harrod's for a ribbon cutting, and it's not as though every man in the room has a gun under his jacket that can be expected to do next to nil except shred his suit and irritate him if he has to drop his guise.

"One must admit this looks like fun," he says sidelong to Mercy, watching everything, measuring all in the same breath. Those who exude real power are a cut apart, usually confined by a circle of suits or a distance that's downright wintery. "Shall we take a turn around the room and you tell me what your pretty pert nose catches?" He can't very well say 'black wet nose' or something similar. That would be just rude. Not even in the cheeky spectrum.

He'd be mortified to be cheeky. Maybe 10-year-old Loki Odinson; but the 3,000 and much more change? Egads, no.

His own taste of magic is forthcoming. Let it be sampled by strength and quality and texture for this very much is his wine. Though if someone has a flute of alcohol, that's to be savoured too.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The goons, are the average run of the mill goons, used to being treated like things, or objects, versus people. It doesn't even phase them that Loki doesn't offer any sort of thanks, or politeness. It's anticipated by them, really, it's expected.

For Mercy on the other hand, she has to physical stop herself from saying thank you, even knowing these guys are likely the bad guys. It's just part of who she is.

With the two now within the warehouse it's pretty clear that conditions are somewhat 'rustic', but even so there's still quite a bit of wealth within the room. As well as power; well, the mortal definition of power. Once inside Mercy will automatically glance from one end of the room tot he other. Her gaze will linger upon the stage, with the auctioneer block standing so prominently upon the stage. It bisects it into two equal portions and on each side is a table, draped in fine white linens. For now, nothing sits upon those tables, but when the auction starts it's likely that's where the goods will be revealed.

While the majority of the crowd is mid-range in the pecking order of the criminal world, there are definitely small groups of those that might be considered the 'higher-ups'. Names that Mercy has no knowledge of, but perhaps Loki does depending on how far his contacts range.

Loki's voice brings Mercy back to the present and with a quick glance to her companion, she'll nod. "Yes, please. Let's head for the doors. The magic I sensed was further back." Her words are kept low and with her hand still in the crook of her arm, Mercy will turn her attention more inward, as she stretches out her senses.

And yes, saying black wet nose or anything similar while amusing to Mercy, likely isn't the best thing to say to any woman. Definitely cheeky.

As the two circulate eyes will follow them, both from the guests around them, but also the security that's in place. While the goons outside were dressed in simple black shirt and pants, the security within wear suits. Some ill-fitting at times, but definitely suits.

There are also waiters that roam politely around with trays carrying drinks and small bites of food to be nibbled upon. While there are tables set up it doesn't seem to be dinner orientated, just places to set things down, or to sit and discuss current events.

Loki has posed:
Precisely just how much he knows among criminals is varied. But definitely, Loki has no issues rubbing shoulders with bad humans, good humans, or some kind of humans. He certainly does not complain about the presence of crime lords and other nuisances on the stain of law enforcement's shortened leash. Not his problem, he doesn't rule the place. As long as no one bothers him....

It's rather pleasant to have a woman on his arm, much less one remotely able and capable. Trouble stirring scion? That speaks even finer to the situation, and thus he allows himself a brief moment to relax, exhaling in the presence of Mercy, the scent and the shivering nightfall speckled in silvery stars promised when his eyes are shut and his expression guarded against anyone. Just a man of idle leisure coming through for the sake of more important patrons -- himself -- and given the right bauble -- her -- to avoid looking like one of those sad, lonely academics in their dusty libraries or workshops. Let them mistake him.

He swings her past while making his murmurs and greetings as necessary, the absolute bare minimum to avoid getting too much attention or conversational overtones. He doesn't care about their businesses. They are polite rivals, everyone in there. On the other hand, the man is a cheat of the highest water and why bid gold or cash?

Turn and turn again, their lazy movements welcome. He moves forward and onward, drinking in the unfamiliar flavours of power and seeing if they line up with known makers. If he can get a sense of purpose, excellent. Security is measured, a dot of sharks in the reef waters waiting to be chummed.

"You know, I've half a mind to replace the lot and allow us to search through them at our leisure," he murmurs, and not loud enough to be heard. He sounds bored; he isn't. Not while on the hunt. "Of course, I'd be happier if it shredded my coat or required a change of attire."

Yes, he's a god. He's also masculine, unrepentant.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
For the moment, no one bothers either of them. The minimalist approach at conversation seems to work wonders, as those who are greeted offer the same amount of measured words, before exiting stage left. Everyone here is a rival of one another and it's honestly a miracle that a fight hasn't broken out among the more rank and file members. Likely the only thing stopping the lesser members from offering fisticuffs to one another is the fact that there are several low-level heads of the 'family' about. They're providing both security and a presence here at the auction house.

And their security forces are heavily in play, with guns tucked neatly beneath suit jackets.

While Mercy has no notion of actually drinking this night she will capture a flute of champagne from a passing server's tray. It'll look good, but she's also curious as to what it holds. A quick sniff will offer the faintest scents of champagne, and it's not necessarily the cheapest or bitterest thing to found upon the market. Someone actually spent a bit of money on the food and drinks tonight.

"Champagne." Mercy will say aside to Loki and when she looks over at him, she'll catch that quick flash of repose upon his features. It's enough to forestall any other words for that second of time, and then, just like that the world returns to normal.

Or, the definition of normal for Mercy and Loki.

Which is to say not so normal.

Either way, the two waltz their way through the crowd. A quick glance here and there will reveal a variety of 'families' in attendance. The Triads, the Mafioso, and a variety of well established gangs from within the city. When Loki speaks, he'll find Mercy's gaze still upon him and when he offers to just take the whole lot and REPLACE IT, Mercy's expression will turn rueful. "Can we still do that now?" She'll ask that quiet question to him, even as she glances towards the stage, "And if you do you should also replace it with something crazy. Like rubber duckies. Or chickens. Something." She says with some amusement, as her gaze returns to Loki. Her amusement only increases at the mention of ridding himself of his jacket. She'll offer a shake of her head and while she was just about to give some advice, wry advice, her expression stutters a moment.

A glance around the two will reveal a variety of 'criminal families' and their lackeys in attendance. The Triads, the Mafioso and many members from the more established gangs throughout the City. There are others that are less identifiable and as Loki and Mercy approach one such group, Mercy will unconsciously tighten her grip upon the godling's arm. "Magic." She breathes, as her brown eyes flicker to several members situated at the table. "And not from the backrooms." She adds, just in case that wasn't clear.

Seated that the table are four men and three women. Two women and one of the men ping as magical in nature. Two shine bright with power, while the third is much dimmer, much weaker in that regard. All three look in the prime of health, but something about their mien might give a person a vague sense of unease.

Like one is staring into the cold black-depths of a predator who kills because he can, not because he needs to.

Loki has posed:
A whole bottle of champagne could put a man under, putting a heavy burden on the kidneys and liver. Not so the man who has no real threat from terrestrial toxins and poisons. His fingers might dandle the flute of champagne more than the woman, not for lack of trying, but carrying Mercy around on his other arm literally a few feet off the ground would be suitable more for the closed Ringling Brothers circus than here.

Here is a very different world. Here is a terribly different place.

"You know, I might allow someone else to buy them, and then fleece them afterwards, but where is the fun in that? We could stick tracker dyes on them and see where our ducks lead us." Idle thoughts, really, something to muse over whilst munching on the other kinds of food for the brain. "Ducks. Are you daring me?"

She need only say the word. Just one. And the world is her oyster, that wicked sparkle of chaos manifest in the brilliant evening pageantry. No doubt he would be at his best, vanishing the treasures and replacing them. Speak, and thy will...

Be snagged by the mystic things. Women, man. Who is the weakest, the female or the male? Once noted on that front, his vision slips further out of sync with the world, measuring up their aura for the imprint that defines fae from giant from human, active spellcasters from shapeshifter, and so many things in between. It's a long life, a long walk in the park through a diverse set of people, and he wants to know what he's dealing with. Doesn't hurt to detect any magic that belongs to, say, a sword, a wand imbued with wrathful flames, or an illusion walking around thanks to a projection from six miles away.

Mercy won't get to be directly close to them, for he reverses course for a seat and sticks himself between her and the table. "Come, we ought to find a spot if we intend to bid."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yup, she was totally daring him.

She was.

Sometimes Mercy can be a bad influence too.

The mortals near the trio are just that, Plain Jane and Jim mortals. Nothing really sparks upon the mystical senses. For the three, the two strongest look to be some form of spell-casters and is the lone male and one female, where as the weakest is something else all-together. She's not magical in nature, not like the other two, it's something upon her form that's granting her powers. A necklace that encircles her throat beats with its own power and the hazy outline of an eye might be seen, something akin to clairvoyance. Something to help the group determine when to bid, when not to, that sort of thing. Idly the woman will touch the small bauble that sits at her neck, it's compromised of bronze and lapis lazuli and the the stone within the pendant is what shines with that peculiar light of seeing. With the touch of fingers upon the pendant the power within the precious stone will flare and while the eddies of her vision only go so far and only for long, it still reaches outward in a rough circle. It's enough that the power will wash over the stage ahead of them and also to the table that Loki and Mercy find themselves at.

While it's hard to say whether the coyote would have been spotted for what she is, it's a definite surety that with Loki at her side Mercy will be quite hidden from that mystical gaze. In fact, when the woman at the other table closes her eyes and reaches for a glimpse of the future she can't quite help the gasp of surprise, or is it pain, possibly confusion, or more likely all three combined into one.

The riot of images that assault her brain are almost too much for her to handle and with that rough intake of breath both spellcaster's eyes turn to the woman. It's the man that will show more concern than his counterpart, as he leans over and whispers a few quiet words to the Seer. His question only earns a single shake of her head -

- Mercy's keen ears pick up the muttered question, and so, Mercy plays translator. "He's asking if she's okay. Now he's asking what's wrong. She hasn't yet answered."

And just as the Seer begins to answer the loud crack of a gavel suddenly echoes throughout the room. "Bidding will start in two minutes. Two minutes everyone, two minutes." Says the auctioneer. Already a flurry of activity can be seen upon the stage as several items are brought forth and placed neatly upon the linen-draped tables.

"Dang it." Mutters Mercy, her ears ringing faintly, "I missed whatever she said."

Loki has posed:
It should be the novice's lesson number three: don't look and don't //touch//. For Loki is a terrible being to behold even when totally shielded from the average look, and certainly no burning rune of flame lies over his head in an ephemeral brand to identify //sorcerer//. Some people just never want to leave well enough alone.

Sympathy for the dumb he will never have. Loki flicks his fingers against his pocket square as though to wipe the residue of wetness off them, the dew left behind by the sweating champagne glass. The gesture comes without words as he wraps a veil around them both, a tight seamless button of illusion that essentially says, "Nope, not magical here, not at all." He might throw the very faintest sparks of potential, but that's about it. For the casual observer, it will help, and anyone trying to peer through the weave is more than likely to attract //his// attention. Now with Mercy being what she is, maybe the dusty protective spell will slough right off like a sausage casing in a hot flame, but he can't be held to account for that yet.

Bang! yells the gavel, and he clicks his tongue. "You wanted to live dangerously, my dear? Now you do. I hope you thought to wear something under that?"

The scouring impression of those flaming green eyes could be little better than facing a wildfire. Nothing like being a terrible person in the guise of a mildly good one. Well, she //dared// him.

And so it stands to reason once they are to be seated and the items are brought forth, something very boring and dull is going to happen. An auction. An actual auction. "Did you happen to see one of those servers running around with food? Signal one of them, if you would. I feel a bit peckish."

The grin means everything. He waits for her to sit until doing so himself, and leans back slightly. Well, the first bit is going to be self-evident, before he really becomes the fox. A calculated spin of trouble in the air, a release of chaos. Clear sight to the future relies on order, snipping off unlikely futures and peering down the firm, likely path. Drawing a series of invisible sigils might be deathly obvious, but not writing account information on his /own/ little smartphone, slick and smart. App in question, he starts plugging in information, and all of it forms queries and equations for sheer, raw chaos. Oh, try looking at that, little seer, try all you like.

"Let's find out if they're chicken or not."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The sorcerers across the way have yet to figure out who, or what is behind their Seer's sudden loss of vision. Well, not loss in the real sense of the word, just the loss of logical visions. The stuff she's sputtering about makes almost no sense and both of spell-casters look quite confused. The woman's expression is bent more towards peeved, than questioning. With their attention locked upon the Seer, they miss that spell of concealment and with the whorl of magic from the stone, it's easy to lose an illusion spell within that steady flow. As such, the two spell-casters have yet to extend their own senses outward; soon though. Soon.

For Mercy she felt the settle and snap of Loki's spell. If she were a coyote she would have give her head a short shake; like one does when water is suddenly splashed upon them. It's not an all-together unwanted or unwelcomed feeling, it's just something that trickles down along the skin and causes a slight itchiness. The feeling fades quickly enough and at Loki's words about dangers, Mercy will turn an amused look towards him. It's all in that quirk of her eyebrow and the vague bend of her lips upward, "Shifters always have a change of clothes." She murmurs and a fingertip will gently tap her purse, which has a pair of linen shorts and tank top within. They're going to be heavily wrinkled when worn but what can you do? Not much.

His fiery gaze is met and while her eyes drop first, it's not because of any deference to who's stronger, it's more along the lines of what was seen within. Fire can mesmerize, but it's also dangerous and while Mercy isn't ruled by her Coyote like the wolves, it still can interject a little bit of influence upon her actions, as it does so now.

His gaze aside, when he asks her to flag a server down, Mercy's initial reaction is amusement, albeit wry humor. "Well, I suppose I must play my part, right?" Meaning she's the ditzy arm-candy and arm-candy would do whatever they're told, right? And so, Mercy will catch the eye of the server and will nod towards the table. A platter with a variety of canapes is set down, along with another flute of champagne; though wine is likewise available.

"Will that help?" Is her response, her brow raised upward as she turns her attention back to Loki, "We wouldn't want you to perish from hunger."

Wait. Does he get hungry? If he doesn't need sleep...

The Little Seer, for truly she is both shorter than her table-mates, but also more naive in the ways of magic, reaches for the stone again. When her hand clasps around the stone a second time, a second wave of sight will roll outward from the table. If she thought the first time was terrible, well, this second time is even worse. Chaos gleefully interjects itself into all that she can see.

A shattering of images suddenly crowds within the Seer's head. There's the Auction House, the tables, the auctioneer and finally a magical item ... No wait, it's not magical. Or it's on fire. Or it's broken. It's alive. It's a demon. A spirit. A ghost.

A chicken ... What?!

The visions continue to roll into the woman's inner eye as her hand stays clasped to the pendant; the police arrive, no wait it's super-heroes, a wolf, or a coyote? A raven. A chicken?! What's with the chickens. The animals attack, no it's really the police, a demonic dog, a coyote and then suddenly everyone dies, or lives, no wait, they disappears. Aliens take them? They take over the world? It's War of the Worlds. What is going on!?

A sheen of sweat beads upon the Seer's forehead and while she allows a few more seconds of those crazed imagines to roll through her mind eventually she'll yank her necklace off with a shout of, "NO!"

The necklace is thrown at the tabletop and the woman stands, her eyes looking a little crazed. The spell-casters immediately rise to their feet, their gaze casting this way and that, as they try to calm the Seer down. The few mundanes at their table start to look edgy and a few start murmuring to one another.

Keen ears will

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Keen ears will 'prick' upward, as she murmurs to Loki, "Something isn't right." She says, "They don't know what's wrong, but they know the necklace isn't working right." Her gaze turns to Loki now, the magic from his chaotic spells having been felt by the coyote, "They're not talking about leaving yet - so not quite chicken." Not yet, is the implied there, "What did you do?"

Loki has posed:
Nothing like throwing something on the floor. Something light and weighty tends to roll, of course, or it skids away like a flurry of frightened little birds, seeking shelter wherever it can be found. Chaos is brimming, teeming, given leave to do what it wants. Of course some conversations around the warehouse may take very odd turns. There may be a vehicle sputtering to a stop and brakes briefly engaging a moment before a pothole is hit just outside, good and bad or neither. Cellphone with no reception means missing an important call from an important person not used to waiting. Or maybe it means the bid won't go through and someone never has to purchase a good they don't want, a painting or a hideous ceramic vase purportedly from the Ming Dynasty and valuable because it features two faded quails on a yellow background. It could mean four digits happen to be left of the original two typed into a bidding panel because the decimal point isn't struck and, oops, that's 200,000 dollars down on a really, really ugly pot worthy only of a dreadful fern of some kind.

A server stoops to claim a bit of jewelry. Is she a person prone to theft? Maybe she always was. Maybe //she// is in fact a he with long hair and dreams of not being bound to these stupid events, but going to Juliard or Baylor or even better, the Sorbonne. Yeah, and something like that might fund the next payment on his Kia living in a garage upstate because it's too much to park down here.

Loki casually leans back and drinks deep of the champagne, no interruption to be hard. He doesn't really need to bother with it, but words are optional to his brand of spellcasting at the moment. He keeps keying in the conditions, fully expecting retaliation and flipping around details, bindings based on principles of 'if they do this, then do that.' It's complicated. Or he's doing a heck of a lot of calculator punching while - -

"How does it fit in your purse? Have you got a paper dress?" Do not encourage this line of thought. He dare not be distracted too much, his long fingers still skimming across the screen of the phone on his leg. Every stroke and amused curve shapes its own lyrical prose for the doom and demise of --Valyria-- good sense. "Oh, just replacing a few objects. Keep that plate nearby."

There is no sign of him eating more than a cracker or two, but all the meat and a few bits of vegetable matter are vanishing if she tracks what's going on. Much more fun to make something out of something rather than nothing.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"No." Is her initial answer to his question about paper dresses. "That was so last year." Is her amused response and while more could be said about the outfit stored so neatly within her purse, it isn't. She "No." Is her initial answer to his question about paper dresses. "That was so last year." Is her amused response and while more could be said about the outfit stored so neatly within her purse, it isn't. She instead splits her attention upon Loki and then the plate. Along with her regular senses, Mercy's mystical sight is going full-tilt as well, as she stretches out to catch the snippets of chaos that whirls about the room. Really around the area. It's that far, isn't it?

Still, the disappearing food is seen and it's enough to cause Mercy's eyebrows to quirk upward, towards her hairline again. One day she's going to find out that a person can sprain an eyebrow. Truly.

Perhaps that's the price one pays when near the trickster God, yes?

Perhaps.

At this point the spell-casters finally get it together; the man calms the Seer down, who sits down, looking embarrassed. The woman, not caring for the Seer very much, turns her gaze towards the room around them. Like Mercy she's stretching out her mystical senses looking to pinpoint what's going on. The chaos is felt, both luck and the ill, and for a long second the woman tries to work her way backwards, searching for the originator of this spell. For that long second it almost seems like she's starting to trace it back; towards Loki and Mercy, but suddenly, with a kick from chaos (that feels surprisingly like a rabid donkey) the woman's sight flings back upon themselves. "What?" She mutters, her eyes squinting with that pain of a fouled spell. Again, she'll reach out, pulling more power into herself as she tries to figure out /who/ the spell-caster is. And again, Chaos steps into play and points unerringly towards the ceiling as the culprit.

A hiss leaves the woman's mouth as she turns to her companion. A heated exchange starts -

- And while it may seem like all eyes are upon that table, they really aren't. Oh sure, the nearest people are looking curiously at the odd duck of a table, but that's about it.

Mercy will shake her head, as she murmurs, "The woman isn't happy." Pissed is more like it. "She knows we're here, she just doesn't realize who's causing all the troubles. They're discussing what they should do no. Stay, go, or figure out who's here."

A voice from the stage suddenly interrupts all conversation, "We are now ready to begin the bidding - Lot 665 - an axe of ancient origins. Purportedly Pangu's Axe, the being who separated Yin from Yang -" And this is where the auctioneer's voice turns toward that speed demon of words; bidding has begun and the members from the Triad step right and offer a hefty sum.

For all those with magical sight the axe radiates with it. A crackle of unseen lightning, a glimpse of magic that gives the wielder the ability to not cleave worlds apart, but souls. To rip a person's soul from its very being, enslaving the body to the will of the holder.

Loki has posed:
Well, unfortunately for the people who bid, there's an axe being silently crafted from beneath an illusion that may have some stylized ducks and chickens on it, and the glow of magic underneath the blade and handle that will last a good long few days. Unfortunately, the same magic isn't going to give the axe any specific powers, as though it hides modestly behind a veil and winks shyly at a caster. But that's neither here nor there.

It takes another sequence of code -- yes, honest to God math equations and //code// on that phone -- for Loki to conjure up what he really wants, which is the pretty shinies that are all fun kinds of relics. Soul-cleaving swords belong somewhere, and that's not them. His armoury.

"You know, I have a fellow who would just clench his hands into fists to see that sort of thing for sale," he idly notes, tapping a sequence out. No, wait, two brackets, not three. Slippery fingers, bad hand. He reaches for one of the crackers laced with crab. Fake crab. Some kind of crab. "Have you tried these? They're actually quite palatable. Hmm, maybe we can figure out what they are actually composed of and make that happen."

What! Not all the food is meant to go to waste. He glances to the front, and waits for someone to start //wildly// bidding or gyrating, shrieking old Sumerian, and bringing down lightning for his chaos brewing. It's draining him to do this, but not unreasonably so. Not like that, though the axe attempting to come near his skin tonight... Well. That's going to be ugly. "Ever wonder what might happen if a ghost held something that was supposed to make ghosts? Would they nullify one another? I'm thinking about a screenplay. Quite the thing to do. All the online channels are eager for fresh material, you know."

Mercy might be putting up with this, or horrified by how blasé it all is. On the other hand, she's got another distraction, his hand brushing her arm. Just a reminder of the presence there, or marking that she is still in existence. "Do you think we ought to take our ducks and run? Or shall we live vicariously?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
No wild gyrations, no crazy shrieking, just the flash of a hand, a tilt of the head, a raise of the eyebrow.

All the movement the auctioneer needs to know someone has placed a bid. Or unintentionally bid, thanks to the chaos that runs rampant around. Wait, there is a gasp or two, and a sigh, but mostly that's from being outbid, or not intending to bid.

Loki's spell casting reaches out its very wide net and pulls several things from the back of the warehouse. A box of arrowheads, a ming vase that holds more than just mortal water and a pair of gauntlets that give the wearer a goodly amount of strength. Not godly, but more than mere mortals should typically have. Last, but not least, is the axe. All are whisked away by Loki's crafting chaos and as his fingers fly over the screen of his phone, Mercy will simply watch.

The vaguest note of concern enters her eyes as she watches the flurry of his fingers. HIs heightened chatter is likewise heard and while she can't say he's acting any odder than before, there's something behind it that worries her. She can't quite put into words what it is and so, when he reaches for her, she'll do the same for to him.

His hand will lightly touch her arm, just as she reaches with her other hand to touch that extended arm. She's trying to offer a sense of grounding for him, much as he reminds himself she is still there.

"Cut and run." She says quickly, a flash of neat white teeth seen as she smiles towards the man, "Let's not tempt fate tonight." And then her gaze will turn towards the spell-casters, "Besides, I have one of their names. We can use that to find them later."

Loki has posed:
The auctioneer can assume things are going through the roof, and the owners of the place must be thinking about the joys of rolling around in the money they're owed. Longing and greed walk a very fine line together, often deeply incestuous, a dangerous combination that makes men lose their heads and women their dignity.

Or vice versa. It's a cruel but balanced world.

Loki pinches another of those tasty little canapes. Delicious things, aren't they? A solid bite breaks the toast in half, the soft heart of the filling sliding across his tongue. His manners in this are impeccable, defying crumbs, acknowledging the dangerous connections he is making and those who will be very displeased indeed to discover their particular creations are spun from nearly nothing. Of course it won't be his problem at this moment, not in the least. An easy shove will send their fates reeling into the abyss, if they search, seeking things scattered past human reach if he has any luck. "I suspect we'll have to make a proper donation. Family heirlooms."

It pleases him enough as he hovers his thumb over the app. "A name? Oh, delightful. And here I can't help but think we were going to waste that dress on something too rich for my blood. Tsk, not a chance." He offers her his arm and grins at Mercy again, smooth and slick as it comes. "Let's go enjoy something less restricting." And with that, a jab sets the spell in motion, illusionary decoys falling into place, portals snagging, and he prepares to take a walk. A long walk.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Greed, yes, the illegitimate owner of this auction house must be clapping his or her hands excitedly together; the real owner has no idea what his warehouse's second job is, perhaps one day he'll find out. Or perhaps an anonymous call will have to be placed soon after this 'investigation' is over, resolved, completed. Whatever the correct lingo for this situation is. Once it's finished Mercy will definitely be making that phone call and from a burner phone.

Leaving the half eaten (or is that used) tray of canape aside, Mercy will rise when Loki does. When his arm is offered once more, Mercy will set her hand in place, as she glances over to the spell-casters and their nervous-wreck of a seer. "I'm pretty sure she'll never dabble in magic again." Comes her soft words, even as she shifts her attention back to Loki to catch his words about rich, blood, dress and then restricting. A single shake of her head will be offered, as she says, "A suit jacket isn't really that restricting, is it?" She teases gently, even as the two turn away from the chaos that gleefully runs around like a toddler set on the loose after eating not one, not two, but three sugary treats.

And while the magic doesn't necessarily have a sentience to it, it still seems to pick and choose which luck hits a person.

While their exit is a touch early it doesn't seem to raise any eyebrows, there's a steady flow of traffic that goes both in and out, as people bid on what they need and leave when they're finished.

A pity all those bids upon the magical items will be so disappointing. It might be a safe bet that the Triads will be exacting some form of revenge for missing out on that axe. Though whether they knew its true magical capabilities is something worthwhile to consider; albeit at a later time.

Now the two are free from the stifling interior of the Auction House.

Very little of the night has truly passed by, perhaps forty-five minutes at most, and while the line outside continues to grow there's now one less pair within.

Loki has posed:
"Good. She might discover her skills are more profitable elsewhere, especially where no harm comes to a common dabbler. Never mind there will be amateurs, they need to be properly educated in a dangerous field," says Loki in that almost regretful way of a professor watching a student crash and burn after biting off more than they can chew. One of those delightful joys in the world, having expertise means recognizing other experts but likewise noticing perils long before less knowledgeable souls might.

Mercy is gently guided through the storm of activity, leaving the sea to heave in its mystical wrath until calmed once more. Long ago he learned the value of allowing snarled karma to do what it will. If they go without much of a ripple, all the better for the pair of them. Chaos can even have a pony.

He shakes his head as they depart, saying loudly enough for a few to hear, "I hadn't expected quite that level. My superiors were clear on their preferences." And what does Frigga like? Pearls and gold, so nothing here technically suits her, and he can claim that is the case. Let others draw their own conclusions.

The Triads are sure to be furious, and they aren't going to have an easy time remembering who did what. There might be a few helpful tricks and messages secreted away later, testing thievery skills, because bad people are bad and need to be shuttled elsewhere.

Stepping out into the night, he glances to the car. Death trap, and ineffective, and terribly wasteful of energy. Apparently it's perfect. "Let's go take this somewhere better. Where do you like to eat when not in places like this? Some place with clams and scallops on the shore?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Thankfully, Mercy's part is quite mute. Wait, should she have offered a twitter of a laugh? Is that what arm-candy would have done? Sadly (or is that thankfully) that internal debate is set aside, as the time for such things pass.

Once out of earshot and mostly out of eyesight, Mercy will glance over her shoulder towards the building. Clean up will likely be hell for the help, but, that's what they're hired for. A thankless job, but a job.

When the two arrive at her Volkswagen Bug, she'll give the car a little touch, even as she slants a look at Loki. "I'm hearing that you want claims and scallops, yes?" A grin will quirk the corners of her mouth upward, as she adds, "- Which I'm fine with that. I'm sure we can find a place, as long as you trust me to drive you there? I promise I won't take my eyes or attention from the road."

Is that a challenge? It is! A teasing or gentle one, not a gauntlet down upon the ground, or across the face. Even with the challenge extended Mercy will move to slip her hand from the crook of his arm. She's intending to circle around to the driver side to unlock the doors and allow both inside.

Loki has posed:
"I'm not much a fan of bottom-feeding food. A mere guess for an urbane young lady such as yourself." Glancing askance at Mercy, the unutterably fiery hue of Loki's green eyes sparks with promise, danger, and nothing less than the possibilities from there to the horizon. Considering they're not that close to the sea, as much as anyone in a seaside city is far away, it could be construed as a somewhat impressive distance.

After giving a moment of thought, he says, "Choose your destination. As long as it isn't in Idaho, I will trust you." Now why the potato state gets so incredibly poorly treated, that's not up for him to really concern himself with or explain as he reluctantly releases her arm and hand. A bit of dusting off the lapel of his tuxedo makes for an appropriately discreet reaction there, for all the brief flash of something rolling over his expression might seem reluctant. Regretful. Pick an appropriate R-adjective.

Not ribald, necessary. Not enough alcohol for that.

And hopefully she isn't going to look behind the seats at a certain axe sitting there among any tools, and a towel, of all things. And possibly a lady's stolen stole. Because the irony begs for it.

He considers then opens the door. "Should I wear a blindfold?" The grin is bright as a fox's, teeth white. There is no mistaking that the car's axles will creak a little when he gets in. Slim, yes, but the density of an Asgardian is what it is.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The askance look is caught by Mercy and she'll smile at him, even as says with the faintest of snorts, "Urbane - you're the first to call me that." She says, even as the mention of Idaho garners another look from her. "Most consider my bluntness an overall detracter versus refined." She continues with, even as doors are unlocked with a light click of toggle upon her keychain. While the car may be old its been given a few upgrades by Mercy; though she still starts it with a key.

"And what's wrong with Idaho?" She asks with amusement, even as she listens to the creak from her car. A look will be slid his way and while she could ask the question; she doesn't. No one likes their weight mentioned, especially when it's not necessarily their fault. Wolves have similar issues; she's going to assume gods do too.

And while there's that flash of regret from him (unseen by Mercy) perhaps the touch upon his arm will help temper that emotion, as Mercy settles next to him within the driver's seat. However, before she even starts the car her senses immediately tell the tale that's behind her. Her head will turn ever so slightly so she can look at Loki, whether he's in profile, or more attentive and turned toward her, "One, only if you really want to -" And yes, there's an undercurrent there, a faint tease, "- and two, do I even want to know?" And with a second small movement Mercy will tilt her head back slightly.

Know what's in the back of her car, that is. Though she can already tell, it's the axe. Or at the very least a magical item, but she's pretty sure it's the axe.

The lady's stolen stole will be the real wildcard here, as she can't quite sense that.

Loki has posed:
To be fair, she's earning this compliment from someone who quite recently played the role of Winnie-the-Pooh to Death-Ursine. He hasn't exactly the strongest leg to stand on for rarefied sort, given those circumstances. Hell, she carried him into her office in all his beary goodness.

Lazy bear.

Loki has to contend with a few unfamiliar elements. Seatbelt, what's that? He can't be bothered. Never mind he cautiously leans back in the seat and pushes about to make room for his legs, though he'll suffer knees-under-chin syndrome for sake of keeping the peace or admitting to the coyote he hasn't a clue where the handle would be. Or the touchpad. These things require technology, not manual operation! Manual operation is altogether wrong.

"How should I know? I didn't diagnose the creation of the state. Something to do with the Snake River and the Yellowstone Hotspot. On a nice windy day the ashes could blow onto it." Because that's exactly the kind of problem everyone wants to hear about. A mega eruption of doom to all civilisation. Well, not his. Maybe if she's lucky he'll let Mercy live out her days running around Vanaheim or something.

And he won't mention that, yes, there is something surprising and soothing in that sassy paw... fine, hand.. resting on his arm. And something irritating in its removal. And irritating in recognizing that. He will complain later. "Oh, but I do." He pulls out the pocket square, unceremoniously leans his head back, and fluffs out the silk. It rests on his face like so. "Want to know what, that you're transporting something dangerous across borough lines? It's not a crime if you don't know."

He flashes a grin, blind and fair. "Drive, o fair maiden."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Too proud to ask, is he?

Mercy is a stickler for seat-belts and tonight is no different. Well, all right it is different in many things, but not when it comes to wearing a seat-belt. A glance will be given to Loki and even though she knows he'd be able to contend with most troubles, by simply ordering it to cease to exist, she'll still say, "Seat belt." And to be oh so helpful, she'll lean across him and reach for the black belt.

Then his problem of knees to chin is approached with a crooked smile from the woman, "I'm going to give you a little more leg room." And with that warning Mercy will lean over once more, though this time her hand slips between the gear shift and Loki's seat, towards the small metallic handles below. There's a clink and a chunk and slowly the seat will ease backwards. "There. How's that?" She'll ask, even as she straightens and pulls her own seat belt on.

Yup, stickler.

A turn of the key will ignited the engine and the car rumbles softly to life. That soft scent of irritation while smelled isn't remarked upon by the coyote; the only thing she will do is offer a curious side-eye to the man. The look is only there a split-second, as soon enough Loki produces that slip of cloth. Her eyes narrow even as a laugh bubbles upward from her chest, "You're incredible." She says with amusement, uncaring that he'll likely twist her words in such a way to take that as the highest form of compliment. She'll just let it go wherever it may and with a chuff of a breath, Mercy shifts from park and into drive, then she's pulling away from the curb.

The talk of axe and borough lines just earns an amused shake of her head; which can he even see that? Perhaps he'll sense it.

Loki has posed:
Mercy might have to tell him what it //is//. He looks at her blankly. "Yes." Yes... there is one? Yes, it's there? He tugs on it faintly if she insists on drawing it over, eyebrows raised only mildly. Though her car, her rules. This much the coyote can impose, even if it's not really imposing in the least.

With one good pull, he slides back and nods. "This will do. Though in the event of trouble, well..." He's blindfolded. Or he could just sit up. "I trust you will drive like a maniac, or I will eventually discover your death bubble trap here has secret protections." It does, like I-beams or shocks and suspension or brakes and other components he might be able to name with some difficulty on sheer memory alone. But failing that, there's something delightful to be said about wrapping up the cares of the world in tinfoil and plain listening, rather than seeing.

"Truth told, I am. Albeit that creates an expectation, now doesn't it? However is one going to live up to those standards?" A question for the ages, that. "How can you be so different from so many of them? So... alive. Unfailingly intelligent."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, she insists on drawing it over and if need be help him click the seat belt into place.

All done with no fuss, or muss, because what's the point? He's made it clear the cars are terrible, evil, no good things, so it's not surprising to her that he doesn't now much about them.

Or is that anything.

"It's not a death bubble." She says with a laugh, even as she maneuvers into traffic; it's probably good he's blind-folded. Seriously. For non-drivers a car ride isn't always fun. Things seem to close, crashes seem far more likely and there's often a lot of gripping the edge of the door. For the driver it's far different; they're in control and know which way to go, to turn, when to stop. And while her fingers twitch to turn on the radio she doesn't. Perhaps their next drive she will, just to show him the radio isn't too much of a terrible distraction for attentive drivers.

The occasional click of turn signal can be heard within the confines of the car as Mercy navigates through the city and while during the day she'd have been beeped at five times over, tonight it's another story. Few cars can be found upon the streets and it's enough to cool the more rage-inspired drives out there.

His acceptance of her compliment earns a grin, a light touch upon his arm - which means she only had one hand upon the wheel for a moment there - before she's back to focusing upon the task at hand. "Expectations can be good; it gives you something to strive for. Without them we'd all be a bunch of lazy slackers." Comes her voice, amusement evident in those clear tones of hers, and with his next words that amusement turns more self-deprecating, as she adds, "I'm not so different then most out there." She says, even as the movement of the car slows, "The only real difference is I don't play the pretense game; I never found a use for it. It just gets in the way." And then a third (or is this the fourth) touch is placed upon his arm, "You may remove your blindfold, Brave Sir, we're here."

Once the two have wrestled themselves out of seat belts and the car, Loki will find Mercy has brought him to a steakhouse. A higher caliber steakhouse than what she usually attends, but with the way the two are dressed she felt it necessary. And needed. Definitely needed.

Perhaps now the ghost of that steak joke will now be laid to rest.

Hopefully.

"My treat." Are her last words before the two enter inside.

Loki has posed:
The great joy of riding around with your eyes closed is an intimate relationship with the inner ear, an appreciation for a tiny little bone responsible for acting as a gyroscope on the great bubble of molten rock and thin crust hurtling through open space around the sun. And just pray that's not the moment a rogue stone enters orbit and manages to break through the friction barrier engulfing the planet, coming down hot and toast to smash into the earth itself. Won't that be a surprise when the forest green pocket square slips off that arrogant nose and reveals to staggered, dazzled emerald eyes the truth of existence?

The Yellowstone mega-eruption is starting to sound a whole lot nicer, with its few hours of warning before the universe acknowledges the civilisation on Terra was an interesting one.

Other than his hands gripping his knees, there's not much to see about yon Asgardian. He probably cheats, as he always cheats, using that deep well of magic for all purposes other than good ones. Maybe he patches up earthen dams in Kazakhstan on the weekend, and gloatingly refills the North Aral Sea just to defy those idiotic Soviet engineers that tried to kill 'a geographical anomaly' and in turn killed the livelihoods for hundreds of thousands of people. He's the sort of man to mess with things like that, just because. Not that Mercy knows this. Not yet.

Back to actual things one can pose to, he slips up the seat and stretches out his legs as much as the Volkswagen with an evil axe in the back allows, a shiver shot up the spine and radiating out through his limbs. "Expectations can be crushing as much as they are liberating." A flick of his fingers indicates the dashboard, relatively. "You know you can reach something. How do you live up to trying to reach it and falling short? Or when others keep assuming you will? It's an unhealthy balance. Let the only standards you listen to be your own." Amusement overlies a bitter truth, an ironclad certainty he's not going to release so easily. "You are different enough. Few people seem to speak what they mean, and do what they say. Toddlers notwithstanding. If a child of three says they will bite you, do not expect any behaviour otherwise. Vicious tendencies of humanity come forth at every opportunity, then."

His eyes narrow a fraction and he sweeps the blindfold away with proper candor and pomp. The seat belt doesn't even tangle him up, a quick release and then through the open door he goes, slinking out in that perfectly tailored tuxedo. Just one tug on the coat needed. Definitely needed.

And about that axe, well. He looks behind the car. The stole slinks up to wrap around it, a bit of telekinesis making for a nice present. "I don't suppose you have any tools or something to lay on it. No one in their right or wrong mind would have anything to do with that, but you never know." A smirk, then. "I dare them to try."

They probably won't like ending up in a prison cell in Mindanao, or facing an irate guard of Odin, but who knows!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Yes, wouldn't Earth's destructions be surprising to a God. Especially one blind-folded so.

His more down to earth words (a pun) earns an answering nod from Mercy. "Agreed. Living for other's expectations rarely makes a person happy, or the other person for that matter." Both parties would find their love turning into a wellspring of hurt feelings, disappointment and resentment. So much resentment.

The mention of toddlers and their forthrightness earns a laugh from Mercy, "Toddlers can be little tyrants, yes." Comes her agreements, "At least until their parents teach them better manners. Perhaps that's all the world needs then? A refresher on manners?"

At the question about tools, Mercy will offer a slanted grin to Loki, "Of course." And just like that she'll pull a few things out from beneath the seats. A lug wrench, a large wrench and a few roadside flares will be tossed upon it. Just to make it look good. Perhaps they just changed a tire? It'll look good, no matter what.

Let's just pray the magic within the axe doesn't offer a magical spark to those flares. One would hate to have their dinner interrupted because their car was on fire.

With the stolen axe as settled as it can be, Mercy will turn towards the dapper Loki. "Shall we?" She asks, as she steps towards him.

Loki has posed:
It would be more the destruction of humanity less than the planet. Destroying a planet is tricky, even if one is a cosmic power.

Unless you're Ego. Then eating a bad burrito will do it.

"In fairness, most humans cease to act like toddlers once they reach adulthood. Adolescence. In truth all they seem to do is couch their demands in slightly higher language and a few rules to whittle down those you don't like," he observes, with all the wisdom and smug awareness of someone alive more than a few lifetimes. It's a curse, it really is. He waits for the mechanic to provide the tools of her trade to cover up a soul-stealing axe. Pleased by the piles of metal hurled atop it, he does raise his eyebrows at the presence of the flares. Orange tubes can't possibly hurt, can they? Oh he of little knowledge on that front. "Very good. I doubt we shall be so far as to overlook any disturbance. Distracted, possibly, but the physical distance is no trouble."

Interruptions because the car was on fire would be appropriate, and Loki might just need a stiff drink for that. A stiff Asgardian drink. And that's how Andorra ends up conquered, if only to prove to Mercy that, yes, Mercy, Andorra is a country and now I'm the king of it, not like Spain or France were doing much to live up to their bargain. Geopolitics is easier with a sorcerer-prince, honestly.

Slanted grin met in like, he offers an arm to the winsome girl in a long red dress. Long enough to keep some things to the imagination, damnably, and well. Setting inside will hopefully be no difficulty, the steakhouse refined and dark and appropriately dim. Who knows what kind of view they have?

"Do you prefer privacy or being on display?" he asks dryly, holding the door.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Conquered simply because Mercy's car burned. There'd be quite the guilt-trip in there for the coyote. One has to hope it'll never happen.

The proffered arm is once more taken up as Mercy slips her hand into the crook of Loki's arm. "Some rules." She begins, "Are good." And here she'll allow an amused quirk to lift one of her eyebrows high, "Like, stealing bad, 'borrowing' less so -" After all they just borrowed that axe, right?

Definitely.

"- just don't get caught." She'll finish with, even as her attention shifts towards the Steakhouse.

His question about privacy or display earns a faint look - not of reproach, or anything of that sort, just a look. "Privacy is better, but if needed we can split the difference and go with semi-private?" A table within the back, or possibly the small tables that are housed within alcoves - the extended walls allow a modicum of privacy, but still enough space for the occupants to people watch.

Once the two are through the front doors a hostess will immediately step forward. The hottest wears a neat black dress, with hair pulled up into bun and when her blue eyes alight upon the couple, she'll say, "Good evening, welcome to our restaurant. Will there be just the two of you?" She'll ask, her words being addressed more to Loki than Mercy. That's not missed by the coyote as she turns a brightly amused look towards the green-eyed man.

Loki has posed:
On the other hand, she'd get discounts on cross-border shopping //and// skiing in the Andorran Pyrenees, so there's that.

"I fully intend to pay for a meal. You know how crass it is, my lady, to stiff hardworking servants?" He might be looking down his nose slightly at the matter. "These ones are gainfully and rightly employed. Supposing they don't spit in the food or try to knife me, I will treat them as they are expected to be treated."

Is that not acceptable? It could be reaffirmation he does understand some of the mores of social activity, even if his own slant on these things are confusing. Or muddled. Or possibly influenced by being a person used to other rules and mores he flouts anyways. Strictly speaking, he allows Mercy to choose where she wants to sit and communicate that to the maitre d', whereas he just nods in approval wherever they should go. The hostess, the maitre d', they're all the same to him.

"Quite. A suitable spot for my lady to shine like the matchless gem she is," he answers almost idly, no doubt //very// curious about the kitchen. Was that fire?

Yes. Fire!

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Semi-private please." Mercy will tell the hostess and woman will walk the two back to one of the tables held within an alcove. Menus aren't offered, as the waiter or waitress will offer the menu from memory. It's a point of pride for them.

And speaking of pride, Mercy will offer a more sober look towards Loki.

Before she sits, and before she let's go of his arm, she'll offer a little squeeze to it. "Hey." She begins softly, her voice gentle now, as she realizes how her previous words came across. "I wasn't saying you'd steal from the people here, I know you wouldn't, I was just teasing about our adventure at the auction house. No insult meant. Sorry if it came across that way."

She'll wait for acknowledgement from him, before she sits. And by this time the hostess has likewise left and the waitstaff that's ready to pounce upon their table pauses, hovering several feet behind the couple, as he waits for them to sit down.

Loki has posed:
Loki gives every passing diner a discreet look, separating them into categories: uninteresting, interesting - dangerous, interesting - undefined, interesting - magical, known. The knowns are null, all in all, and the snapshot of who is what allows him a quick summary by the time they sit down.

He knows the rules on many levels, including pulling out a chair on Mercy's behalf. Slanting it back slightly to allow for ease of removal, he curls fingers around the back of the seat until she is fully placed and then tucks her in. The server certainly won't be getting that close, regardless of how well-behaved. They might see //calf//. He won't allow it.

Pride won't be chastised at all, but her explanation warrants at least a moment of pause. His chin dips a little. "No insult taken. You may be sure when I am wroth." If he wishes that to be, the unspoken underline, but his dark hair sweeps off his brow with a quick shake of his head. "Our fun I have no shame about."

Crossing around to sit beside her, rather than opposite, he seats himself. An easy kind of grace pervades his movement even when downplaying native skill, proving that some people get all the breaks in life. The drawbacks just happen to be profoundly heavy. A stone in his heart, now and then, not that it's always clear. "What do you make of the bidders?"

And there's one catering staffer who is now an unexpected seer with a new necklace, unless he sells it.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When the seat is pulled out for her Mercy automatically sits, a murmured thank you from the woman. His acknowledgement of her apology earns a faint smile, as she says, "Good. Just wanted to make sure." And yes, she's already figured out the no shame part. In fact, that causes her smile to turn more into a grin, as she offers dryly, "No shame - can't say I've noticed that part of you."

When Loki settles next to her versus opposite, Mercy can't quite stop a faint flash of happiness that lifts her mouth upwards, her previous grin falling away. And while the conversation shifts slightly away from dinner and towards the auction house, the ghost of that smile still lingers upon her lips and within her gaze.

She'll consider his question for a silent minute as she marshals her overall impression of the group. "Mostly non-magical beings." She begins, as her gaze flicks outward, towards the people within the steakhouse. "Which makes me wonder if they knew some of those things would be magical, or if they were simply going for illicit goods. Some of the conversation I overhead mentioned ancient artifacts - paintings, vases - all worth a lot of money on the black market.

Then the question will be pivoted back to Loki, "Your thoughts?"

And while the two speak the server readies himself to materialize near their table. All the serves are dressed in crisp white shirts, with black vest and black pants (or skirts when acceptable).

Loki best ready himself to defend any perceived slights to Mercy's honor.

Loki has posed:
"Indeed, a mixed audience. Why else would they bother to come out except to fill chairs in a room? Doubt there were many serious bidders there, so much as those to be seen?" A guess on Loki's part. He falls silent then when the server dares to show up, spic-n-span, ready to announce whatever the day's catch or cow happens to be. Might as well bring in Bessie and let everyone have a gander at the quality of her fine rump before slaughter time.

He glances expectantly at the man. Which, by his terms, means nailing down the unfortunate soul who dares to interrupt for the express purpose of feeding them with that unalloyed verdant stare, and the whimsical uplift of his mouth. English accents do the rest. "I do believe this is where we accept a polite interruption," he asides to Mercy. A nod to the waiting fellow encourages said unbearable tradition in the finest of dining experiences from both sides of the Atlantic. "As needs must."

The sooner the better, and there is no need to terrorise anyone with the idea he could probably dine on Bessie for all the livelong day. Odin's court is not stinting when it comes to food, other than serving up the vegetarians a giant turnip on a plate to change their minds, or such. Probably not even then, Frigga is likely to season it.

However it happens, the recitation of the day's specials will not, in any sense, cause him to order on the coyote's behalf. That would be tempting fate. Worse than tempting fate, she might bite him and growl and then her dress would be a mess and it would be difficult to explain why his dining companion went furry. If anyone remembered. Stop thinking those thoughts, Loki.

All said and done, he'll be simple about it: "Ribeye, twelve ounce." Sides and sauce are basically as presented, because the brutality of that especially tender, fat-marbled cut doesn't need anything except the occasional application of heat. "Medium rare throughout." Just in case. If they char it, he's going to conquer //this// place in the name of the greater kingdom of Andorra.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
"Agreed." Says the coyote, as she considers the other oddities that were seen, or heard by keen senses. "Later today -" Because it's already 'morning' in some sense of the word, "- I'll see what I can find out with the name. Perhaps when we find that particular group we might be able to find out who's behind this."

And where they found these magical relics? And whether anyone really understands the danger with these pop-up Auction Houses.

And while more can be said, her words fall quiet when Loki announces the waiter patiently standing by.

And he is patient too. When Loki allows his entrance the young college aged man will step forward. There's only two he slightest of stutter at Loki's stare, and accent, before the young man clears his throat.

"Thank you, sir and I apologize for the disturbance." He says in a vaguely hurried voice, his blue eyes flicking between Mercy and Loki. "Shall we start off with an appetizer or wine?"

Mercy will glance aside to Loki and with a shake of her head she'll offer a smile to the waiter. "I don't think so." For the appetizer, "And water please." For the wine. The daily plates and the various specials will likewise be rattled off in a very efficient way. Then it's all about the order.

While the waiter has a small notepad and pencil nothing is written down, simply committed to memory. Loki's order earns a flash of a smile and a, "Very good, sir. And the lady?"

"Six ounce filet please, medium rare." And then, because she isn't shy, she'll add, "The mashed potatoes and mixed greens salad."

See? She's definitely not shy about eating in front of people or men, it seems.

With that the waiter will nod, "It shall be out shortly. Please let me know if either of you need anything." And like a ghost, he steps away from the table and allows the faint veil of privacy to fall back upon the two.

With orders now placed, Mercy will turn back to Loki with a curious gaze. "What are your plans for the axe?"

Loki has posed:
Well, one needs a great deal but none of those are reasonably provided by the likes of a steakhouse.

Loki likewise orders water, perhaps a bit surprising, but then why not? Calories come from other places. Like a basket of bread delivered fresh from the oven, a hot loaf sliced in sharp, narrow incisions like some angry cat wandered by and took offense. Whipped butter shot by honey ends up in two petite tureens.

Retrieving the knife from a fold of the cloth napkin, he helps himself. A bit of spread will give immediate restoration for his caloric needs. It may not help with the drain from the all the spellcasting immediately. It makes a better choice than going without as his appetite growls.

"The axe I intend to keep fully out of the way. Certain warded spaces are safe. After that?" A shrug follows. "Rework its enchantment to avoid drinking souls. There are plenty who might like it, and absolutely no good reason for it." Besides, hearing he's wielding a soul-sucking axe might bring down his brother //and// his merry band of bozos. No reason to have mistakes interrupting his dinner, the one he finally managed to acquire.

After taking a bite of the bread, he sets aside the remaining piece on a small white plate. He watches Mercy: the way she watches others, moves, and acts, determining perhaps how comfortable she is with her surroundings. And it's a performance, when someone is center stage, but not the sort of attention that crosses a line of staring.

"Tracing them. The rest of the objects will go and we should be able to see how they land. It may take a few days before they reach their final destination, but enough we can see if the same agents are showing up," he muses.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A look will be given to the bread, but for now Mercy ignores those tempting slices of high-carb goodness. She may have a coyote's appetite and metabolism, but it's nothing like a wolf's. Or a tricker God who's burned through more energy than he possibly intended to.

His plans for the axe earn a nod from Mercy, "Good. I won't lie, if I knew that axe was out on the streets there'd be many of sleepless nights on my part." Soul-cleaving - as a teenager she'd have only thought those things were in books, but now, now she knows the reality of the world. Terrifying things like that exist and rarely are they ever used for the good of the people.

"And there's only so many cars I can re-build." Is her finished thought, a corner of her mouth twitching upward at that. Even with that brief bit of humor, Mercy's expression will turn slightly sober again, as she adds, "I'd wish we could destroy it, but I've noticed powerful artifacts like that typically resist that sort of finality within their existence. Somehow they always managed to escape their destruction." Which might mean she's had some experience with artifacts of that caliber. Or new someone who possibly did.

His subtle look at the coyote will show she's quite comfortable sitting here with him. With where the two find themselves at. A keen eye might see the faintest frisson of emotion along the edge of her form, but that has very little to do with nerves. Nervousness in the typical sense.

Should her gaze catch his own she'll offer a smile, even as she opens her hand nearest him. It's a silent request for a touch, whether light or an actual hand hold, as she says, "Thank you for coming with me tonight."

And while she doesn't quite remark upon the packages that are in need of tracking she is in complete agreement with that. Perhaps the two could hide in the bushes waiting expectantly for the UPS man (or woman) to arrive. Adventures with Mercy Thompson, it's never a bore.

Loki has posed:
"The fact so many objects exist merely speaks to how tenuous and foolhardy our existence is," Loki mutters under his breath, trusting her coyote ears will pick up the undertones of sour distaste and contempt for the fact there are such things. "So many a person forges an object to last beyond their lifetime, never considering the consequences. How often they end up in the hands of ignorant wields. Imagine giving a child a landmine to play with in the middle of Times Square. That's on a good day."

Not exactly the conversation intended, as he cuts it off then and there. Regret isn't something shown on his face, so much as the twist of his thinned mouth dares to puncture the sobriety and force the discussion off in another direction. "Oh, naturally, nothing wants to be undone. I'll stick it in my mother's garden if nothing else. She will be delighted by her new bird feeder." And who wants to fight the Queen of Asgard? She'll no doubt throw it at Odin, who will duck for failing to do his laundry properly. In the basket, Odin, how many times after 5,000 years? It's not unreasonable to hurl a soul stealing axe at a man who can't put his socks in the bin.

His hands fold over the table. "If you ever become bored with the car repair business, we could go in as investigators of magic things. Not beyond the reach of belief, is it? We could keep an office we visit only on dark, rainy nights." Film Noir, Mercy and Loki style. Someone save them. "The rest of the time, we do whatever our lives offer up to do. Fun."

Emphasis on //fun//. She must be reading his mind, of course. Nervousness and a smile, her hand creeping over the table, brings an instant of contemplation.

Eat your heart out, Heimdall.

He closes his fingers over hers, palm settling in a united overlap. Aside from a crumb or two, nothing separates them on that.

He inclines his head at her. "You thank me for being at //your// side? I would have it no other way." And no other person, he soundlessly might be adding.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Her keen coyote ears do pick up those muttered words of his. Perhaps her keen nose will do the same, but only for that shade of regret that twists his lips just so. While she could offer a word of solace, his diversion to magical bird feeders is enough to shift her attention away for a moment. Her lips curl up into a grin as she says, "A bird feeder, though perhaps the axe would grow like a tree?" She'll offer that rhetorical question, not really needing, or intending it to be answered.

The shift from axe, to bird feeder, to film Noir's earns a flash of humor from Mercy. "I think we'd make a devastating team, four and a half star reviews, with only that missing half because occasionally an artifact went missing permanently and on purpose." No doubt to keep the scary things out of naive and ignorant hands.

And when his hand closes over her own Mercy's expression will turn towards that gentle smile again. His compliment will cause her fingers to tighten around his own and a return of, "The same for me." And then she'll lean closer towards Loki - a touch of her arm along with her hand to his, and possibly a slight bump of knee. Her movement isn't quite so close to foreshadow something more, like a kiss for example, but there's a heavy portent there.

But, because isn't there always a but, that portent possibly stutters to a halt as finally their food arrives. The waiter brings both plates over and at his side is an additional server bringing Mercy's mashed potatoes and salad. Said plates will be set upon the tabletop with a slight flourish by the waiter.

Loki has posed:
"Then find yourself an appropriately gritty location. Something at least three stories high, I think, and it must have no less than one window we can put those rickety blinds in."

Consider him a connoisseur of interesting film, no doubt curled up when waiting to hear back on how the drones annoying the Andorran border guards are doing. He probably has plenty of time to fill, if sleep is an option rather than a physical obligation. Filling up empty time and space is something he is very good at.

The position next to her makes such errant touches easy, gestures that brush together. They could mistaken as accidental, the way someone moves about at a table dining normally. Hands brushing over one another, wrists touching briefly through the sheath of a sleeve when he reaches for a piece of bread or the water glass. The stifled and muted interactions flirt with the possibility they were never meant at all, or they are maddening to determine whether they are noticed and reciprocated. Might as well play with a different kind of food, while stretching out a leg such it brushes against her shin and the like.

When the plates are set out, the simple arrangement is made easier when the man decides to wait. He has no real desire to interrupt the server. If he'd wanted to restage Beauty and the Beast, he'd have enslaved some dark elves into object forms or, worse, actually //made// servants out of the objects. You can never trust Amora the Enchantress to ever do anything right, especially when a flighty French prince calls her ugly and refused to take her to bed. Really. That's how he would tell it if asked, anyways.

That steak comes with its heap of green beans, none making a run over the rim of the plate about the size of Rhode Island. He has no issue picking up a fork though the issue with a knife, that's going to mean retracting his hand from Mercy. On the other side of things, she needs to cut her food too.

Unless suddenly a bear cub is face first in the plate gnawing on meat. He's not nearly drunk enough for that.

Maybe if the Tong shows up. 'Accost that man' becomes much harder when there is no man to match the description and only a woman with her pet bear. Hipsters, these days. No comment on nature lovers.

"Very good, isn't it?" And he's going to taste maybe six bites of it. There are //thoughts// whirling in his mind. Like the danger of that axe. "Eat fully. We're going to need it."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Rickety blinds. So he does watch television, though the question remains, does he binge watch?

Still, neither here nor there and while the waiter makes all the right gestures and says all the right things, it's clear to him that he's quite the interloper. So, once plates are where they need to be, he'll offer a quick murmur of, "Call me if anything is needed.", then he's gone with busboy in tow.

When her hand is released Mercy will turn towards her own food. While she has more food overall, her portions are such that it won't take her long to work her way through each one. Or to mix each bite when a break is needed from the main course.

His question about the food garners a nod, "It is. Yours?" She asks back, even as she turns her gaze towards his - thankful that it's his eyes, versus the button cuteness of a bear cub.

And while the cub would have been a humorous sight to say the least, she'd really rather not explain that situation to the serves. It would be a length conversation that would only succeed in wasted time and possibly banishment from the restaurant. Neither possibly appealing in this particular instance.

While his thoughts whirl dangerously, Mercy's own humor does much the same. His last words will earn another look from the coyote, this look something far more playful. "Are we?" And then with something akin to a tease, "Should we order dessert just in case?"

Loki has posed:
The server probably doesn't exist except in the sense of finding a bill at the end of the meal. Loki makes quick work of cutting the steak up into cubes at one end, the intensely tender and flavourful marbled meat given little chance. Slicing through the fat is effortless. He pokes at the pink interior, testing for the juiciness. Satisfactory, to be sure. A poke of his fork affirms this fact. "Perfectly good, I think."

It's not through osmosis he will discover that. He takes a bite of the steak, all things considered in silence. He's not a silent diner. He is, however, a fast one. A dangerously fast one.

"Traveling," he says. "You can't think the birds are going to wait for very long?"

His mouth curves into a secretive smile, and then he returns back to the meal at large. He could slow down some, but what is the fun in that? A neat bite and swallow satisfy him on that front. "It depends, did you bother listening to what the dessert was?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Like a wolf. They too eat with an almost single-minded focus - quick, fast though for wolves perhaps a bit secretive at times. The wild instincts come into play with their personal quirks.

Wolfen quirks aside, it's something Mercy is familiar with and something that she's also unconsciously picked up from the pack. No dawdlers here, it seems.

His mention of traveling and birds earns a quick glance upward by the coyote. A question can be seen within her eyes, but that secretive smile of his forestalls her words. Instead, his last question will earn a moment of thought from Mercy.

"Triple chocolate something." She finally admits, her attention upon the man next to her. "Probably cake." Or ice cream, or perhaps some sort of chocolate laced coffee drink?

Really, Mercy wasn't listening, and while she could continue the idle chit-chat, for a few seconds at least, she works on cleaning her plate(s) of the majority of foods.

Loki has posed:
There's really a fair element here. The world ending wolf, Fenris, is Loki's son after all. If you believe those tales, he has a bridge or two to sell.

That said, it's more a purposeful need to replenish energy stores and get the hell out of there for other promises written between the lines, through the words, and everything cleaves languor from purpose. Dawdling won't be welcome. Not him, anyways.

"Triple chocolate something." Repeated, he confirms her choice. Somewhere has to be that remarkably astute waiter. Make sure to tell him, Mercy, when he trundles up to the curl of his fingertips as though seeking more.

A stretch of his leg brushes once more against Mercy's leg, and he stabs up a few of the green beans. Let them be devoured, bit by bit. And another nibble on the bread, a bit of steak, and round and round it goes.

If it were up to him, time might be slowed, but that's awfully unfair to do to the staff.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Slowing time might be infinitely crueler to the staff and other diners; one waiting to bring the food out and the other waiting to eat, all waiting for the spit to turn and oil to heat, made all that slower thanks to magic.

With plates mostly clean of steak, greenery and potatoes, Mercy will set fork and knife aside. Then she'll simply push the plates slightly away, a silent indicator of her doneness with them. A sip of water will be had and just as she sets the glass down their ever astute server reappears. "The lady is done?" He asks and when he receives a confirmation nod from Mercy, he'll whisk said plates away. "Dessert?" He'll then ask, even as he glances towards Loki's plates to see the man needs anything more.

That question of dessert brings a flash of a grin from Mercy, as she considers and with an almost impish smile, she says, "To go?" The waiter offers a quick smile to Mercy and Loki, as he says, "Of course."

When the waiter removes himself from their little alcove, Mercy will look back to Loki with laughing eyes, "There. Now we don't have to miss out on anything." Nor stay any later than they so wished, which is left unstated.

And while she doesn't necessarily reach out in a silent request for a second hand hold (he is eating, after all), she will keep the curve of her body towards him. Attentive. "So, traveling?" She'll finally ask, having not forgotten what he said earlier and now allowing her curiosity to take hold enough to ask that question.

Loki has posed:
What sort of abysmal drink full of chocolate is worth the libation? Why not drink it hot and spicy, like a Mexican blend, from the skull of his enemy? The notion crossing his features is one part devious and mildly pugnacious, as though anticipating a dessert beverage to meet with resistance from well-intentioned bartenders who know no good ever game out of combining such combinations as chocolate, other flavoured syrups and liqueurs. They're probably right. He holds up his hand to the server, shaking his head idly. "No. I have what I want." For the most part, at any rate.

The napkin is folded over, serving for him to wipe his fingers off. Let Mercy run off with a whole cake, a bowl of wobbly pudding, and a basket of berries. Already the concept perceived before in its grand strokes comes to brighter definition, heightened shapes corresponding to fundamental actions. The time is at least well-spent!

When the server passes by again, or any of them buzz close enough to the red and green flowers, he procures a plastic card from somewhere in that unmistakable gesture: pay up, we're done. It might be considered a touch brusque, but the dinner theatre crowd at least have no patience or time to avoid running off to the Broadway show.

"Now, that would be telling. First, you will put that vehicle of yours somewhere safely for the night." Even he knows how vicious a tribe the meter maids are in the city. "Then with the option of a blindfold, we'll take a short jaunt to somewhere slightly more private than a restaurant and perfectly suited for dining on whatever decadent dessert you've managed to bring with you."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
A server does indeed get close enough to their table to see that proffered card and with neat movements she nips it from Loki's hand. "One moment." The server states, as she moves off and away, looking for a terminal to swipe the card through. The bill isn't terribly terrible, but neither is it twenty dollars. Still, Loki can likely afford it and when that card disappears with the server, Mercy can't help but offer a quirked brow of reproach. "Hey now." She begins, that eyebrow of her's still quite high, "I said this was my treat."

Her reproach doesn't get much further than that as their regular server suddenly appears with a small box. Inside is a cake, a slim tower of several kinds of chocolate and a bit of fruit. The chocolate is both bitter and sweet to allow a mix of flavors with each bite. When the box is offered to her, she'll accept with a smile of thanks. "Thank you." And from a pocket within the man's apron comes Loki's credit card and a receipt, gratuity already added in to their bill. No need to sign this or add a tip.

"I hope we see you again sometime soon." Are the servers final words before he steps aside now, off to visit other tables and diners.

And once the server is gone, Mercy will say, "Thank you.", for dinner, she means.

His continued secret keeping earns a quick grin from Mercy, even as she nods to the part about her car, "I can do that, yes. Ready?" She'll ask, even as she starts to rise from her own chair. It's only when both have risen from their chairs that she'll add, "No blindfold, thanks. I'd like to see where we're going."

Loki has posed:
Not that he does entirely honest work most days in his life, but Loki actually has bank accounts with real money, such as real numbers on a screen ever amount to anything. The restaurant will have nothing to complain about when they bother to manage the sums at the end of the night, the month, the year.

"You quite did," he murmurs, utterly unrepentant. "I'm an insufferable bastard on this front. Your treat will be found elsewhere, Ms. Thompson, and I intend to draw more heavily on your patience. Keep your money for this."

Maybe it gives an excuse for her to find another steakhouse. He wouldn't be past it. Frustrating, isn't he?

The card returned and the signed off receipt take a few moments of his steady writing, leaving an incomprehensible scribble of letters, all black jagged curves and arcs. He doesn't bother to read much past that, shutting the black vinyl container and examining this mysterious box full of chocolate cake and things best defined as dessert overload. It suits her.

"Quite welcome, too. Let's go make the most of the evening. If we're fortunate, we can actually get in at a reasonable hour, all things considered. Though I //suppose// I can give you a choice in one thing at least." He glances over to her, rising from his seat and offering his arm to her, prepared to walk out and take the most precious gem of them all with him.

"Water or earth, which do you prefer?"

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Insufferable bastard; that earns a grin from Mercy. And maybe even a quick shake of her head. Yes, definitely an amused headshake.

"Reasonable hour?" She asks, even as she places her free hand within the crook of his arm. "What do you consider a reasonable hour?" She asks with playful suspicion, even as the two begin to waltz out of the establishment.

Their server stands near the small closet-of-a-room that the wait staff typically have for themselves. He's chatting with the woman who took the credit card and when the young man spies Loki and Mercy leaving, he'll turn to his companion and sigh. "A pity he had a date." His fellow waiter looks up and then over at the pair. A laugh might be caught by keen coyote ears, as the waitress says. "Pretty sure he's out of your league. That one has high roller written all over himself." The man shrugs and offers a sheepish look, "Doesn't mean I can't look."

While Mercy's keen ears didn't quite catch all of that conversation she did catch enough. It causes her hand to tighten upon his arm as she bites a lip. She's trying not to laugh, but a little giggle does escape her. "You left a great impression on our waiter."

Then it's onward to considering the two options placed before her. Both seem interesting and while Mercy never minds water, she loves land. If she were a spirit she'd likely be closely related to the earthen elemental, or perhaps a mixture of earth and fire, thanks to that coyote nature of hers.

"Earth." She finally says when the two are finally outside. "Let me move Betsy and then we can be on our way." Yes, she does indeed name her cars.

Loki has posed:
A pity //she// had a date is no doubt the consensus of some, for that liquid pomegranate sunset is a tall enough drink to warrant appreciation, have no doubt. And Loki well knows it, though he makes a point of not staring at the effect of the ombre as it darkens into places where sharks swim.

An idle flick of his fingers as he pushes open the front door leaves a spinning golden coin dropping directly in front of the waiter, spinning head to tails and back again. If only those shapes stamped on them were remotely modern. They aren't at all, and a numismatic aficionado might place the coin to roughly eighth century, Byzantine gold, brought to the far, far north likely on the Amber Road. The face on the coin is probably some kinglet; the obverse, a symbol of the Aesir bisected by a pair of runes. Wunjo, joy, and Gebo, gift, to all!

The car hasn't likely been touched, one hopes, the axe under the flares not resulting in some kind of exciting burnination. No huge flames, no upset fire department, and pile of assassins ringing them in. It doesn't stop him from reaching out with his senses to test for any hostile spell traps waiting to explode. Or snipers scratching themselves.

In the end of the day, Betsy answers to the coyote and not him. Doors open, axles groan, the seat squeaks. This is familiar enough, even as he wrangles the pesky seat belt. "Very good. I'll leave you to decide where you want to store her."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The car is quite fine. No spells, no traps, no assassins, not even a vagrant offering to wash the windows clean. The axe is the same, even though it still sits with that stole, tools and those taunting flares atop it. Perhaps it just needs more time to influence the chemicals within each orange-red tube.

With the two inside it'll be a quick drive to a small lot Mercy knows. At the little booth she'll pay the five dollars to the attendant, before the gate raises and she can enter. Then it's a quick drive to find a suitable parking spot; Mercy chooses a corner spot, where it's less likely another car might crash into her own

There's a turn and a click of her keys the engine will be turned off and Mercy will now shift her attention from the road, to Loki. Her keys will be tucked within that small black clutch purse of hers and when that's all finished and done, Mercy will say, "I believe it's your turn now. Do we need to get out of the car?"

Loki has posed:
The drive isn't particularly exciting, and in some respects, it's particularly easy for Loki to cast off the illusion of attentiveness. Callous not to give a flying flip about anything going on around him, but for the moment, his attention is totally elsewhere.

he might seem a million miles away, and that's entirely the truth. Oh, if Mercy speaks, he responds. The lion's share of his focus drifts among the stars, seeking out the golden city and its heavy defenses arranged in finite, and infinite, layers. Protective walls and wards enclose the destination he holds in mind, a place as familiar to him as the garage Mercy finds every morning and locks up every night. Slightly different scale, all said and done. There lies the elaborate defensive network ready to fry the neurons of any unwelcome visitor, here the bans against a host of creatures, most of all the great enemies of his kind. Of which he is, sort of. Jotun; giants.

Keys turn, rapid sequences tested. No one wisely turns their back for a minute on the disassembly of those protections laid down for century by his hands, and reinforced by a plethora of others, not all nice.

"Certainly we don't need to have these belts on. Restraint is well and good, but not under the circumstances." Let that statement stand where it will. He reaches back behind the seat, forcing it to creak ominously, and feels about for the edges of the woman's stole so he doesn't have to actually touch the soul hungry axe. He has one, potentially. Ideally this is not the way to find it.

"Ah, and one word of caution." When his hand forms into a fist out of the glittering spangle of black fabric, Loki leans forward and almost presses his brow to the coyote's, unless she recoils. Utterly possible. "Where we are going, Loki or 'your highness' or 'your most deviousness' are all perfectly acceptable."

That other hand brushes Mercy's cheekbone, failing no negative response. The back of his knuckles brush up that stark curving line to the wild abandon of dark hair, so like and unlike his, full of raven highlights and a black rainbow remembered from a coyote's ever-changing hide and the plumage of many shades worn by the proud peoples of the Great Plains, the sea-flecked fishers in the great northern rainforest.

Eternity burns in his eyes, and through them, the world falls apart, shedding its dull skin of concrete and copper wires and PVC pipes. It shakes off and away, abandoning Betsy to keep watch over a lonely bright parking lot. Fluorescent lights smear away. Chocolate cake scents collide with the airy heights, ozone shot through a profusion of eastern spices.

It feels like emerging through a waterfall or an aquatic meniscus, bodily tugged around the resisting barriers that separate Midgard from its sister realms on a great ash tree. Away spills the night in ripples concentrated from the point of space snapping back. Colours shear from the dull grey monochrome favoured by urban beasts, and explodes into a treasury of gemstone hues, some indescribable by mere human words.

Great, lacy ferns catch the sunlight slanting low over the surrounding hills and lattice wall that may be more magic than stone lacework. Dragonflies on crystalline wings zip purposefully among the lush greenery that defines a different meaning of green: chartreuse, apple, jade, nephrite, sylvan, forest, moss, olive. Emerald, peridot, grass, seafoam soft or mint bright, they're all in evidence from the leaves and trees. Albeit here, most of the plants are bushes or flowers, perennial clumps raised on deep, dark soil full of loam and the occasional admixture of mulch and shell. Meandering paths scarcely meet the eye, the drifting fall of drooping feathery grasses rather like the lacy leaves of a weeping maple blending almost seamlessly with spikes of a fragrant ornamental chosen simply because it resembles a plume of a helmet, or a paintbrush tuft. For all there's green, there are the sister shades adjacent, in gold and buttercream, honeycomb and honeycrisp, lemon and muted mellow variegati

Loki has posed:
For all there's green, there are the sister shades adjacent, in gold and buttercream, honeycomb and honeycrisp, lemon and muted mellow variegation.

A round clearing about four yards off at least allows a glimpse of a soaring rampart in shapes usually envisioned only in futuristic sci-fi movies, and not even then.

Whatever interest that holds to Mercy, the comfort of the cushioning soil and fragrant air is only of mild distraction from Loki. His tuxedo has vanished, replaced instead by the long leather jacket and trousers, knee-high boots inlaid by crossed buckles. The golden scoop of a torc announces him as 'Very Important Person' to any busybody.