620/A Visit Home

A Visit Home
Date of Scene:	23 May 2017
Location:	Various places in NYC
Synopsis:	A continuation of Going Once, Twice ... Sold.
Cast of Characters:	Mercy Thompson, Loki

---

Mercy Thompson has posed:
OOC Note: A continuation from the scene Going Once, Going Twice ... Sold

Caution. At that word Mercy's head will tilt ever so slightly to the side; her expression both attentive and curious ... so curious still. That forward lean that brings his forehead so close to her own will elicit neither recoil, or flinch. She just listens to his words of caution and the mention of 'your deviousness' will be what finally elicits a response. There's a slight widening of Mercy's eyes; both surprise and humor held within the brown depths of her eyes. And while the humor is there, that doesn't mean she isn't taking what he's saying seriously; she is. There's a note of fantastical (and secretive) here that has Mercy feeling a little uncertain, and when she feels uncertain she can't help but fall back upon humor. Or seriousness, but mostly humor. Perhaps one day she'll get used to all of this, see all of it in a more 'mundane' light, but that day is certainly not tonight.

The touch upon her cheek and hair has her unconsciously tilting her head towards his hand. Her answer to his advise is a simple, "I understand.", even if she doesn't understand, not really, but perhaps one day she will..

Then his gaze becomes so much more. More than just those vibrant laughing green eyes; that awareness within them pulls her in and nearly swallows her and her coyote whole.

It's an existential moment for Mercy, but one that doesn't last too long; or at least too long for her, thankfully.

Upon their arrival Mercy can only offer a sharp inhale of breath, not for the beauty around the two (she hasn't seen that), but from that teleportation. Thankfully, that momentary disorientation only lasts a few seconds and when all her coyote senses are clear, Mercy will finally manage a look around. The sight that greets her eyes earns another sharp breath, a gasp this time. Along with her eyes being dazzled by all before her, her nose too gets pulled into the known and unknown scents that hang within the air. It's enough to cause the vaguest of tickles to her coyote nose and while the sneeze threatens to overwhelm her, Mercy pushes it ruthlessly away. With sneeze now mastered, Mercy will try to take everything in at once. It almost feels like everything is vying for her attention; a literal 'look at me look at me'. And while she tries to look at everything, at least once, eventually her gaze will return to Loki. His change of wardrobe is seen and all of it earns another look; torc, coat, pants and boots.

A crooked smile tilts one corner of her lips upward, "Again, still feeling a little underdressed here." Comes her voice, those initial words of hers liberally laced with her sense of humor, as she grapples with where he's taken her and all that can be seen. Still, that bit of humor has allowed the coyote to find more stable 'footing' within her, and so, a question is asked, "Where ...?" She has an inkling of where they're at, but she'd like Loki to confirm it for her.

Loki has posed:
He gives her time. That much is an easy gift for someone functionally immortal, even among the long-lived folk of his kind. Like Tolkien elves, he shall only perish by violence and, unlike the Vanyar and the other yars, he will come back. Loki, too, is preoccupied with taking in this place of immaculate care and nature harnessed only so much as to grow wild.

A distinctly feminine hand in play gives careful shape to the organic features. A depth and sensitivity demonstrated within the choice arrangements at a subconscious level touches upon elements no man really would pay attention to, something few have the means to recognise, much less attempt. Energy flows smoothly on feng shui principles, forever in motion, pooling in little grottos and welling up in pretty groves fringed by a terraced alpine garden. But never stopped. And sightlines, if restricted, still give motion to look down and admire the paving stones emerging like ruins from the spongy bed of grass. Dynamic, as life itself it is.

While the coyote's nose goes wild trying to pick up scents such as have never found themselves on Midgard, at least not for long, he sits in the grass. A few flowers and leaves open around him, plants rising to mark the outline of his prostrate form. Loki drinks Mercy in instead of interrupting, his arms crossed over his bent knees. Without a good reason to rush, why distract her from the more important task? He gets a better view this way, studying the way her head tips up or the movement of her body underneath that fetching dress soon enough criticised.

Here, there are enough pretenses to avoid being human. There is a role to play in a great story, and the god stealing in with his human companion assuredly does //not// count as one he plays often. Oh, Thor, all the time. Loki? Well...

"I won't stand in your way if you decide to slip out of it." He gestures with his hand to Mercy. "Better undressed than underdressed."

Humour as a weapon may be equally familiar, as much as it can be used to defuse a situation. He applies the lighter touch, brows raised in a mild dare.

A pause warrants a thought, and he glances up into the sky. "We don't have coyotes here often. Save yours truly, and now you. But make yourself comfortable. If that means in your own copper skin..."

The axe wrapped up in the stole is a few feet away. She could, if she wanted, drape herself in a thin black, glitter spangled wrap.

Loki has posed:
Also, because mystery does not mean depriving someone of actual answers, Loki shifts his flaming green gaze to the glimpse of a soaring spire, a slender wall. "Merely Mother's garden. We can surely find an empty bottle around here somewhere to collect honey wine for the birds." Apparently the whole notion of turning a soul-stealing axe into a bird feeder was serious. Or perhaps not serious, and this will be the first step to drunken libations through the streets between Trickster Prince and Coyote's Daughter.

Andorra, sleepy in its alpine heights, doesn't stand a chance.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Even with that last question of hers asked the splendor that surrounds the two pulls her attention back outward. To the flowers, the plants, the bushes and even the cobblestones below foot.

A faint buzzing of wings is heard by sensitive ears and so, the coyote will turn her gaze away from the plants and focus upon a crystalline-winged dragonfly. Wonder will fill her eyes again as she watches the jeweled insect zip to and for and then up and down. Her attention only returns to Loki after the hum of those little wings can no longer be heard - the the dragonfly now off and away, to inspect another flower, another tree and another plant altogether.

With her attention back upon her lanky companion, the coyote will take a few steps closer to him. She doesn't yet sit down, but she will extend a hand to him. "May we walk?" She'll ask, and even if he chooses not to, she understands; this is his home, after all. It's his 'house' rules.

However, that dare of his earns an answering grin from the woman, as she tilts her head to the side slightly, considering. The idea is tempting, truly tempting; to run through the grass, feel the earth beneath her four-footed self, to allow the coyote's call to echo throughout these magical lands. Almost she says yes. Almost. The answer is right there at the tip of her tongue, but then, she'll shake her head. "I'd like our first run -" And there's a particular connotation to the word 'run'; since both wolves and skinwalkers perceive that as something more than just loping along one another, "- to be on Earth." And while a silent promise was made to never to bring it up, she can't help but add with a tease, "Though you'll need to take something faster than the form of a bear."

That tease will add a particular brightness to her eyes, even as his answer to just where they are turns her attention back to the garden at hand. "Merely ..." Comes the dry response, "Nonetheless, it's beautiful here."

Loki has posed:
Laughter comes easily to this one, for all that it can sour to a harsh bark or a smirk. Not quite the case here. Loki skims a look up to the sky and the spire, watching for something among the brindled clouds awash in poured copper and hammered rose. Dusk is settling, though the nature of the season may be difficult to ascertain at this particular vantage. On the other hand, given the very long spring and midsummers experienced in the far northern nations where his people were worshipped, maybe there is something maintained. Maybe nothing at all. There could be a procession of sunsets just to amuse Odin.

When Mercy offers her hand, he in turn holds out his to grasp hers, his fingers against her wrist. Pulling him up will not be easy if she tries on her own. He's man-sized, yes and weighs equal to two or three of them. An easy flex of his knees and he almost kips up by himself, heels digging into the spongy grass and back arched in a torqued wrench to attain his footing without fuss. A dust of his palm over the leather coat, cut at such angles, dismisses any blade of grass that dares.

"Earth? Oh, as you like for //running//," he agrees, all too easily. A lift of his left shoulder almost intimates a shrug. No skin off his angular nose to allow for that.

Once they begin on a path, he'll let her follow whatever course happens to entertain her, whether passing under a nodding wall of grasses that hum with a particular melody or plunking herself down on a bench to eat that cake.

The business of the axe is easy enough. Magic comes easily here, flowing in his bones. He can levitate it altogether, and bring it along, wrapped in ridiculous evening wear. Since she's still wearing the dress, Mercy is more than a distraction in question.

"I assure you my bear form is faster than you think." Winged bear? Check. "Though with you, I don't imagine it's wise to be competitive //that// way."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
She's not so stupid as to try and pull him up all by herself; she's felt the heft behind his form and while Mercy can carry wolves, Loki is likely a touch too heavy for her. At least, without adrenalin running through her system to give her that extra push of strength. So, he'll find her helping, yes, but he has to do the brunt of the work to rise sure-footed upwards. Then once he's up Mercy will turn her attention to the rolling gardens. For the moment she'll stay upon the cobblestone pathways, her gaze mostly doing the admiring of any flower or plant that happens to catch her attention.

"Yes, for running." Mercy says again, a flash of white straight teeth seen from the woman as she grins at Loki.

As the two meander carelessly down the pathway, Mercy will glance at both ground and sky, as she takes in the slowly darkening skies. "There's a time difference here." She says curiously, stating the oh-so-obvious, but she's not necessarily editing her thoughts before she speaks them. "Does time flow normally here?" She asks, her tone still showing that inquisitive side to herself.

And while that question of her is asked at his last statement Mercy can't quite stop a light laugh. Turning her gaze back to him she'll offer a lop-sided smirk, "No, it wouldn't be. I had to run against wolves, who were sometimes three sizes bigger than me, and yet, I still - " Mostly, "- won."

Loki has posed:
Some silent goad dares him on. The fire in the man's nature would stamp over eggshells, whereas the icy caution dares to set up something entirely different as a growing plan, fomenting from the opportunity available to him. Always looking for an opening.

Distracted by the question of time, he looks over at the shorter, dark-haired woman. His hand isn't likely to leave hers unless she drops her arm away, easily called a momentary distraction or the sort. "Time flows in different ways in most places. Your localised perception of it is a rather arbitrary thing. Not to put too technical or fine a point on it. Time is relative, and when you know how to work within the rules..." He needn't say much more, in all honesty, floating away from that discussion altogether well. No need to suggest that time for him is a ball of string in the paws of the universe's most talent cat. And he is that cat. In his own mind, in the minds of many. Just watch him talk to his brother about time...

Nudging her shoulder with his own, he says, "Nut by our own calendar, it behaves the way it should, yes. You can spend a week here and will not find the same amount has passed on Earth. Have no fear. I understand you have a business and the absence of many days would be financially injurious." Not so much the concern about the people, but at least on a personal level, the god gets it. He does smile faintly at her boast of the running prowess. "Yes, they might be bigger, but they are heavier. Shorter relative tibia bones, too." See, he knows something about biology. "Maybe I'll go cheetah and let you decide how you will make up a loss to me." Feral grin? Not in the least, it's perfectly cultured as he reaches out to whisk the raised side of her smirk with a thumb. Provided that thumb isn't bitten off.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
While Mercy may only be a 'simple mechanic' in this both worlds, that doesn't stop her from following the majority of what Loki said. And while she could totally mention a Star Trek episode here, or even perhaps some other sci-fi television show, she doesn't. Something about this place doesn't necessarily give itself to wise-cracks from a coyote.

Subtly seems more the form here.

Or perhaps it's the gardens. They have a gentle air about them; a woman's touch as previously noted. Why be so uncouth to sully the air? Whichever the case may be, Mercy bites down upon the words that roll endlessly through her head. No, no one needs Star Trek right now. "I wasn't worried about my business." She says quickly enough, obviously trusting Loki not to keep her here longer than what would be good for her. "Just curious." She finishes with, even as she moves easily at his side, his hand upon her arm. Which she doesn't pull away, no. That shoulder nudge also earned a flash of a smile from the woman and while she doesn't really need to, she'll offer a soft return bump to his own.

It's only when he offers the biological reason of just why she wins against such larger foes that her gaze will turn amused. "Thanks for popping that bubble of mine. I'd like to think it was more skill than weight combined with speed and leg reach." She says dryly, that smirk still upon her lips for when he reaches up a thumb to brush against that smirk. And while she doesn't bite the thumb off the smirk does disappear, as she laughs lightly. "Cheetah? I'll give you that they're fast, but a coyote is wily, we know tricks and secret ways; losing isn't in our nature." Nor his, really, though that's left unsaid, "What if it were a tie? Would we both get a prize?"

Loki has posed:
"Ties happen so rarely that we might have to find an arrangement, yes. Mutual gift giving?" Loki stares up to the weather above, reading what he will. No ravens or airplanes up there, of course, and no signs of a valkyrie flying around on a winged horse, off to report something to a bossy guard. Oh, he has no illusions that his mother knows //exactly// who is in her gardens. "Yes, I suppose that could be arranged. Have you something in mind for your prize already? Some notion teasing at you?"

The question makes for an excellent diversion, even as his hand drops away and he glances briefly to the axe, waiting on him, patiently floating around like a servant or something out of an aforementioned bad science fiction program. A reminder of purpose. "Shall we set it up, then, or would you rather a roll in the grass and a bit of sunning yourself afterwards? I can imagine a creep through the Palace for a bottle shouldn't be too tough, though there is a kind of elegance in leaving it exactly where it is, unadorned."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When Loki looks upward Mercy will likewise turn her gaze up, an automatic gesture on her part. Something that might harken back to their less evolved days, where one person was always the look-out and if the look-out appeared nervous, you best be cautious too.

When nothing more than clouds and sky are seen (and possibly birds, though not ravens) Mercy will return her gaze to her dark-haired companion. "I'll think of something." She says, when he asks what her prize would be. "And yours?" Is that same question gently rolled back to him, even as the axe hangs there like some docile servant.

Or perhaps a disapproving chaperone; 'dressed' in such severe black.

His next words own an almost incredulous look from Mercy, as she looks at the axe and then Loki, "You're truly going to plant it?" Really, she thought he was joking. Concern suddenly touches upon her features, as she surveys the area around the two and then the axe. "What if a person touches it; would it hurt your people?" She asks, her worry for these unknown people shadowing her expression for that moment.

For now the mention of the grass and the sun (and the roll) are forgotten by the coyote as she waits on Loki's answer.

Loki has posed:
There are moments when the bandaid proverbially gets ripped off. Others when the silent delivery of innuendo and light, hidden concepts through the cut and thrust of teasing language are appropriate. Times when these things prove an utter nuisance, getting in the way of active progress. So they are left to their own devices where the trees talk and the babbling brooks carry their secrets to willing ears, if any are welcome in the garden. He takes in a bit of a breath and releases it in a single pang of a laugh.

A nod for her question. "Yes, I intend to. My lady, have you tasted the dreadful enchantment on that weapon? 'Tis no mere idle plaything but malevolent presence that dare sup upon souls, that eagerly cleavers the rational mind away to fall under its wicked auspices. Be it not a welcome presence in any city or hamlet, a making of ill fortune as much as it is?" A sudden shift from the regular vernacular to something far more courtly should not be overlooked, and surely is not, even as he circles around to face the axe. Loki throws his arm wide at their dreary chaperone, Victorian and rough. "I mean fully to see the thing destroyed, but keeping with the character of such a brutal thing, that requires a very particular combination of skills and preparations not yet had. Unless you expect to tote it about in your car while the gangs of New York seek it, you're safest to have this here. No one is likely to bother my lady mother."

Except one, unfortunately. He frowns, his brows drawn together in steep thought. He'll remedy the telling of Frigga later. What's in the best interests of all do not always rely on Odin's knowledge. "None shall approach without leave, and they will be well aware of it. My mother knows a thing or two about protection. But if I plant it here, I know it won't go on a walkabout. So. Shovels or your hands?"

Dirty girl.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When he leaves her side to circle the axe Mercy will watch him, her gaze still holding a dark cast of concern. For now distance is kept from that axe, the presence of its sharpened edge a worry for her own soul.

And Loki's, though perhaps he has more protection against it than she.

When his courtly graces intensify, Mercy can't help but turn her gaze away from the axe and back to Loki. His expression and gestures are listened to and looked at and while his words bring a corresponding nod of agreement, it doesn't seem to dampen much of anxiety. "I understand." She says, her voice sounding perhaps a touch rough next to his own - her own accent brusque and quite American. A country cousin to be certain, but one who isn't quite so unaware of the larger picture. "You know better than I whether the garden is the safest haven for it." A twist of her lips can then be seen at the mention of her car and its trusty backseat, "Because, my car definitely is not."

And while he ponders the difficulty that is known as Odin, Mercy will consider that axe again. The question of how to plant it, however, offers a faint ray of sunshine to the gloominess that the soul-cleaver has cast upon their conversation. Hands or shovel. It's enough to cause Mercy to snort with soft amusement, "A little dirt doesn't bother me. You on the other hand -" Comes the light tease from Mercy; unafraid of rust, oil, dirt and sweat. For eight to ten hours per day they are her constant companions. Though hardly missed once completely washed away.

Finally, with a wary look to axe, the coyote will step towards Loki and the thing that heralds both destruction and control with but a slice.

Loki has posed:
"I like to think nowhere is safe for something like this. Always a willing pair of hands to wield something they shouldn't for purposes I would rather forget. It's safer here than in some places," Loki allows himself to divulge that much, even as he considers going to his knees and excavating a hole proper. "It won't do to put it in a vault to be forgotten or stolen. Worse, used by some reason. So destruction makes the most sense." Mercy is an intelligent, practical figure in his limited experience. Let her connect the dots on the dangers of some random warlord showing up, asking a favour, and receiving a nasty axe to go attack some giants with. Or some humans. And those humans getting it, and the cycle returns, and then all of Africa is populated by the cast of the Walking Dead. Or Oceania. Or New York.

The barb hits its mark and he makes a slight sound, almost like a growl. Them? They're fighting words.

For all the urbane gentility, he is still a warrior. Somewhat. He doesn't wait, not entirely, when she is looking at the axe. Oh, there's no time like the presence for chaos incarnate to rise out of nothing.

The sudden twist of his frame in her direction is warning, and then without any preamble, he steps forward with a spring in his step to pounce her to the ground. Or at least enough to get them both tumbled on the grass, showing her just how wrong she is.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
The dots are easily connected by Mercy. No one wants a live action The Walking Dead. Nobody.

And while not necessarily ruled by her coyote there are still instincts at play for Mercy. It's enough that the coyote will turn slightly and slant a very metaphysical side-eye at Loki. That side-eye affords the beast with a sense of what the man is feeling, something that Mercy herself doesn't notice, or misses. It takes a few 'internal' yips from the coyote for Mercy to 'hear' her, but when she does, the vaguest of eyebrow crimps can be seen from the woman. Along with that shift in expression comes a quick pivot, as Mercy turns a questioning gaze towards Loki.

That nearly silent sound he makes, so like a growl, but not, also alerts the woman to a boundary just crossed.

Surprise begins to wash across Mercy's light-bronzed features, as the man all but pounces towards her. Whereas others might be caught so unaware by that pounce and it would prove to be quite effective, Mercy isn't. Or, at the very least, she's not quite caught completely flat-footed. She has enough time to begin a side-step away, but before she can completely be out of his reach, his longer (and heavier) form captures hers just enough to tumble the two to the grass. Her hands will unconsciously grasp at Loki's form now, looking for a stability that (sadly) isn't there, as the two fall.

There's the faintest of oomphs from Mercy, when she lands, and while shock is too harsh of a word to describe the expression, surprise is not quite enough. It's something in-between.

Loki has posed:
And in truth, he would be deeply disappointed if she was so taken by an axe -- bloody damn weapon of all things -- that she failed to notice his actions. Being exceptionally quick-footed himself, it would be as bad as Hoggun hitting him in the back of the head with a half eaten turkey drumstick. Especially if said turkey happens to be a breed that incinerates itself on contact with objects, as the flaming bang-burst birds of Orkurr are.

The coyote might be yipping rather sharply, and it ought to be serenading the moon any time soon. He's no rattlesnake come to strike out the chaparral, though he does have presence of mind enough to move with her while she shuttles out of the way. At least partly. One hardly means to collide into the other and cause awkward explanations about torn dresses, broken shoes, and snapped bones or jewelry. Plus, if she still carries her box with that chocolate cake, it must not be subjected to squishing. He is a trickster, not a magnificent arse.

The rain explodes with a mighty crash overhead, a spill of water sweeping off the mountain peak at Asgard's back, sweeping away from the garden where sunlight keeps on shining in its dim, cuprous shadows. Tawny light leaves a certain hazy ambiance more indicative of summer than the spring they've left behind, a curtain drawn aside for a sultry heat and promise to the richly patterned sky. A pretty view they have of the brindled clouds if turning to fall to the ground.

A few of Frigga's herbs might suffer, the bruised scents parallel to basil and rosemary. Something a little more lemony releases a whispery drift.

Being the gentleman he is, Loki tries to break her fall some, especially given Mercy is the upright one at the start, and he is not so much, given the downward jump should put him more on his knees. Not entirely, though, since he damn well isn't that magical. There will be a roll aside, pulling her up with the protective curve of his arm around her, and then reversing course to put her back unless she insists on perching on him and howling at the sky from //there//. He might just let her do it. Might be worth the sight, really, even if the guards could conceivably come running and see that sight. Okay, two points to Coyotedor if that happens.

However they end up, the reaction is a soft, barely audible laugh on his part and the white grin flashing over his face. He watches her through thinned eyes, taking it all in. Her reaction, the likelihood she might try to punch him, get up, or stalk off. Had he any kind of inner coyote himself, he might be ducking down onto his forepaws, chattering with utter amusement. Or prepared to bite her ear without breaking the skin. Options are myriad. Or maybe he's in fact not a bear at all, or a coyote, but some absurd raptor about to knead with talons, given his fingers do paint small dimples on her skin and knead ever so lightly. Softening up dinner. Yeah. Something like that.

"Point for me."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Rough and tumble they go.

Though perhaps not so rough, or so terribly tumble, as Loki moves to try and cushion some of the fall; to take the brunt of it, versus Mercy holding that illustrious bottom position. Still, that initial oomph does occur and another one too, when he rolls them that second time.

Her expression stays a mixture of shock and surprise for a handful of heartbeats and as her eyes focus upon his features, her keen sense of smell searches for his scent. It's not too difficult to find - weed out the herbs, the crushed grass, the earthy dirt below and the generalities of the garden itself and there he is.

A mixture of scents, both bold and not, and the emotions intertwined within. That playfulness is found at almost the same time he offers that ghost of a laugh. It's enough that her expression eases into something more relaxed, less surprised. And while he may knead her skin, like a contented cat, that doesn't stop her from freeing a hand. Once free Mercy will reach for Loki's face; moving towards the line of his jaw, or perhaps the sharp angle of cheek; or if she's feeling quite brave, to tuck a strand of his black hair out of his face. Surely some had to get disarrayed from that fall, yes?

And then, with an answering flash of teeth Mercy and her coyote say with amused agreement, "Point for you."

And no, the cake and its box sits so forlornly within Betsy, permeating its scent into the small confines of the car.

Loki has posed:
There will be a proper accounting later. No cake. Teleportation snatch and grab, eventually, when he can think about that, perfectly well. Yes, the lady's cake mustn't be summarily squashed by a passing mechanised robot or an oversized rabbit, or some other ignominy. Think of the loss and crushing disappointment in Mercy's heart, especially given the car can be repaired but a flattened cake can only be discarded.

Leather gives Loki an additional dimension, the fine garments he wears his usual attire and thus containing some hint of his magic about them thicker than a tuxedo or other garments found on Earth. The necklace is warm, a golden metallic taste, whereas the bracers and other hidden weapons about him hardly give off a scent of metal at all. The daggers at hip and back, in particular, are absent any defining quality to say they exist at all until touched.

One mustn't crush the coyote, not without at least having good reason pre-established. When she starts fishing around to free herself a little, he adjusts, weight shifted to his hip. It gives her room to extricate her arm without being free to totally wriggle away, and possibly grab a rock to brain him with. No need to have the whole contingent of the Royal Guard showing up to laugh at that. Or him. Especially him.

Those touches are endured stoically, patiently, his eyebrows still raised in the slight inquiry. Not exactly an ironic inquiry, though. Focused attention is fixed upon the woman's face, as though that holds all the secrets to the world written in every possible freckle imperceptible to the eye, black lash, and slight crease. There's always another piece of dark hair to fall and, for once, he can be glad for it.

"I'm inclined to claim it right now." It's polite to warn, even as he lowers his head. His cheek brushes hers, and goes further yet, hidden in the crook of her shoulder.

Protest, coyote, by all means. Shout.

The winging of a black-feathered bird overhead follows a second later, a great raven off making its usual patrols with lazy flaps of wings that would possibly rival a Jetstream's. Maybe. It's an awfully big bird to be so high up.

"No need to spoil the patrol just yet," he whispers from her ear. The grip around her waist loosens ever so slightly, and then not at all. "Now, where were we?"

Munin has /never/ been his wingman.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Daggers? There's a joke in there somewhere, but the joke is not for this particular moment, perhaps later, but not now.

Her expression holds a note of curiousness to it, but there's also a smile. Sheltered so there's an illusion of privacy, even if the two are right there in the gardens, but for Mercy, it doesn't quite feel so open.

And while her features have the bronzed stamp of the Blackfoot tribe, this close, Loki can likely see the faint shadow of her mother there. Her cheekbones aren't quite so high as others, her skin while 'sun-kissed' holds a smattering of freckles, and her hair isn't quite so jet-black as his own.

His warning is heard and while others might play coy, Mercy doesn't. It's not who she is. Those words she was just about to say, however, pause when Loki dips his head low. Then the black shadow of the raven is seen and Mercy will turn her gaze up towards the sky. His whisper is heard and while she doesn't quite understand the context of what he says, she understands there's something more there. It causes a question to flare within her eyes, as she looks away from the sky. Her question abates somewhat when he asks just where they were -

- "You wanted your point." She says, quiet amusement heard in her voice and perhaps something else. "And I believe I shall give it to you."

Two can play the warning game; especially if he doesn't necessarily wish to go down this path.

But, if he does, then Mercy will place her one free hand upon the line of his jaw, exerting the softest of pressure to bring him closer. And where others might be hurried, rushed, or harsh, Mercy is none of these things. Her kiss will be something simple and gentle; a promise of something more held within there.

Loki has posed:
Questions, so many questions. What a curious little coyote she is, and how richly may she be rewarded on account of the lovely variety of exciting things to learn and discover. Not the least of which is how certain ravens in history and myth are quite real, and quite favourable to the All-Father. Well and good to have some distance from the wing-flapping spies. Especially given the garden is perfectly off-limits to random patrols on foot, though he still has a care for anyone who might wander close. No telling who might choose to make an appearance unexpectedly, after all.

Two to tango; two to spar. The amusement ebbs away when she moves, and Mercy touches his face. Pressure meets her fingers and palm, the incremental incline of his head to fill out the space. Lifting up slightly so he's more angled over her instead of protectively arched against a corvid eye, he balances on the thresholds of personal space, embrace, and something quite in between. Like the cusp of directness and simplicity, complexity and mystery.

Only that moment when their mouths meet is he quite willing to wait, and damn the consequences of the axe or the incursions by inveterate snoops older than he is. The wind toys with the leaves overhead and drowns the sound of approval locked in his throat, a rough rumble scored over lips held captive. At least for a moment, though he's scarcely rushing either, trying to make heads or tails out of her.

It's in the drift of his hand against her scalp, running over the dusky strands and tucking behind her ear with a curved motion. The trailing passage of his fingertips down to her neck, swooping along the taut muscle and bone describing her shoulder. What every humanoid has is no more elucidating about her, and it's a physical act of will not to clench his hand, or grip the round line of her upper arm too firmly. Nothing to quite arrest movement. This is an inquiry of learning, discovery in its own time.

And it's not to say he is disturbed from offering that nuanced attention, though he firmly allows her to set the pace of stop and end. At least until breath gives out, if they're both seeing who leads whom.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Heads or tails.

How literal that could be taken.

She's a coyote and a woman, but for this matter it's the woman who rules. So, definitely heads. Very much so.

Whatever sound, or sight might be heard or seen, is lost upon Mercy. She's focused upon Loki and their small spot of privacy, and like him when their lips meet her hand doesn't stay quite so idle. Oh, her fingertips linger upon his jaw for a moment, but soon enough that idleness gives way to movement. Their movements are almost mirrored, whereas his hand goes to the back of her head, hers draws down the jaw, to his neck and then his shoulder. Similar, but different. His hand stops upon her arm, whereas hers stop upon his shoulder. And no matter who leads where, it will likely be Mercy who breaks the kiss first. For air in both the figurative and literally sense.

Leaning her head back slightly the coyote will keep her gaze focused upon Loki's features; his expression, and the scents that roil around the two of them. "I could offer something trite about points and their subsequent balances, but I'd rather not."

A flash of a smile then, as she offers that tiny bit of humor. Just in case. While there isn't concern held within her gaze, or even worry, there is a watchfulness to her. Checking to see where both are from that kiss.

One suppose that watchfulness could be from the fact that he's a god and she's mortal (half-mortal), but no, it's really not that. In this moment, for Mercy, there is only man and woman.

Loki has posed:
What an awful pall responsibility lays over a person, suffocating and insistent.

He is not the coyote, and for all he wears the torc of an Asgardian prince, it's no suffocating hindrance now to him.

But the blade is, that fell axe hanging primly in the air and judging him along with every other living soul. Including the one hidden half under him.

The idle explorations find his skin unnaturally smooth, the byproduct of being youthful in a way only the damned and blessed really receive. There are no scars to meet those early investigations, smoothed away. Nor is there a hint of stubble at this particular hour on his jawline, the clean-shaven lines hard and angular rather than square. Similar physiology and yet different, from the craggy heights of his cheeks and jaw to the strength of the pulse at his throat.

The smile is a dose of levity, really. She could be nattering on about equations and he would give her the same lidded look. "Don't, then." His teeth go for the fullest part of her lower lip, a prize worth nipping into with just enough force to be felt. And to sustain a light tug, no more. Where is he, apparently not far from where they began, and yet a huge leap of faith past the first hurdle for what she is. Not Asgardian. Not an elf. Not a denizen of Vanaheim, those wild gods of their own ilk. Though probably closest to any realm, really, in her spirit. He brushes the back of his knuckles against her cheek again, barely a graze.

"It would be a shame to get that dress dirty," he murmurs. Oh, so many ways to go with that. His weight slides back to his knees, alleviating the burden. "And believe me, I want nothing more right now than appreciating this without distraction. We've something to plant first." His is a wolfish smile, a grin matched with the gauntlet he's about to throw down between her feet. Or at her chest, comparatively. The coyote will certainly know the sly trappings of the tease, and that it's not purely without intention, rather than just a jest. "Or you can tell me not to."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That axe, a bane upon them right this moment.

A responsibility that must be dealt with and Mercy never shirks responsibility; even if she so wishes to.

Her smile shifts slightly, moving towards a laugh, but that light laugh dies within her throat as he leans forward to nip at her lower lip. There's a flare of nostrils from the woman that has little to do with capturing scents, and all to do with her sharp inhale of breath. The graze of his knuckles causes a slight tilt to her head, a movement to bring his touch closer. But alas, the kiss, the touch and the moment is passed - not quite the right word, for it still lingers heavily around the two - but, for now it is whatever it is and both can thank that axe.

Once he rises to his knees, Mercy will push herself upward until she's sitting comfortably up. His remark about her dress and the dirt, earns a quirk of a grin and while she'd like to say something witty about innuendo and its ilk, she doesn't. Or perhaps can't. For once, Mercy's blunt truth leaves her high and dry, so for today she'll simply demure to silence.

At the mention of the axe Mercy's gaze will reluctantly move away from Loki's form and turn towards that silent floating eavesdropper. "We should -" Begins the coyote and while she was about to say 'plant it, Loki tosses that gauntlet of his down. To lay at her four-footed paws; or feet. "- You're making it very difficult to be responsible." Are her words as a quirk of a smile tilts one corner of her mouth upward, "Very difficult - but, let's get this planted."

Loki has posed:
"The sooner the better." Agreement on that front. Loki rises to one knee and reaches out, drawing three radiant runes in tones of cyan and aquamarine. They hang in the air, offensively sizzling away, and then in their fading light drop a pair of conjured items: shovels. One is definitely more ornate than any shovel has a right to be, the carved wooden shaft meeting the flared, copper toned blade. It lands point down in the grass, the other bouncing flat. Third procures a pair of smaller trowels better suited for the business in question.

"I dislike the idea of leaving the thing blade down. Plants have no souls, but it might try drinking the earth," muses the Sorcerer, pleased to see the effect of his incantation. Energy is abundant here, at least his kind, and it flows back in almost effortlessly to the depleted wellspring. Intuitive bonds bring a fresh rush of confidence, a blinding kind of certitude for what he does.

Without wasting any time, he gets up and grabs the more ridiculous shovel, the other one paired to it clearly inscribed by a scroll of leaves. Nothing around here is intended to be without ornamentation. The assessment of their whereabouts isolates a little glade some distance off to the side, surrounded by grasses and a few neat shrubs, but open from the trees. He chooses there to plunge his shovel and, it should be said, puts far too much effort and strength into breaking the soil. Whether Mercy follows or guards the floating, glaring axe of doom is up to her, but he's having nothing whatsoever with slowing down digging a damn hole for the first time in... let's not count that. Let's not allow Thor or Odin or a bewildered Balder to see this. Frigga he's dug plants for but definitely nothing like //this//.

Not for these reasons.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
While this current world around her is a constant ping upon her magical senses, those runes cause a flare so very near. She'll watch the glowing symbols for the seconds, or minutes, they hang there within the air. It's a curious look from her; she may be able to sense magic, but work magic like this? That's beyond her capabilities. The most she can do (beyond change to a coyote) is ignore some flavor of spells. The controlling types in nature.

With an easy roll, Mercy will rise to her feet. Her hands do a quick dust check upon her skirt, just in case any grass or crushed herb tried to cling. When all seems clear, the coyote will move towards the shovel that was left for her. His more ornamented one earns a glance to it and then him - perhaps silent amusement seen in her eyes. Then she's moving over to help. Again, not afraid of dirt.

With the two abled bodies digging that hole it shouldn't take too long, and as she pulls dirt from one place and puts it to another, Mercy will finally remark upon his idea of how to plant it. "Agreed." She says, even as she stabs the dirt again, "I'd be afraid it might leach from the earth as well. It may not have a soul like you are I, but it's a living thing. There's something there." And she would never want to hurt it, even unknowingly.

When the hole is large enough the coyote will put her shovel aside and go for those trowels. The floating axe is left for Loki to handle; Mercy will be happy to push the dirt back where it belongs once it's planted.

Loki has posed:
A depth down to about three feet ought to do it. Loki looks down at the gaping wound in the soil he helps to carve out, the evacuation of loam and other protections noticed. "Salt, quick lime, and rocks, I would wager are sufficient." The shovel is jammed into the soil again, giving him a chance to prepare various goods and Mercy to deepen the contour with a smaller source. As to where one finds salt and quick lime? It's not like a hut is anywhere in evidence, so magic again. The man is going to be exhausted by the end of this, or beating his head on a brick wall at the delights of physical labour when he'd rather not.

"Stay put, and I'll be right back. Easier to get this rather than saturate it with magic." He glances around again and then back to Mercy. "Anyone finds you, don't talk your way out of it. They won't, of course, but on the off-chance someone invades."

His grin is sharp as it is mischievous, and in a dazzle of green motes, the bastard is gone and leaving her with an evil weapon in a mysterious realm full of people who are probably derived right from myth. He knows where to go, mostly, skimming down the paths and giving at least one startled guard a frown as he heads to the stony hut used for storage.

Give him about five minutes. He has to walk back, after all, with his fair got gains.

Loki has posed:
Quick lime is heavy. Salt, a little less. Rocks, a whole lot more so. Even for Loki, a bag of fine pebbles and a scoop of the loose river stones they use to edge certain paths requires both hands, and the sacks carried like potatoes over his broad shoulder. He trudges his way through the winding paths in the sinking grounds, passing through the less travelled corners of the verdant gardens. It's not the first time, nor the last, he has been subject to looks at his physical labour. As a boy, he frowned under their scrutiny and learned to his discomfort the consequence of dawdling or showing too many bruises.

This evening is quite another matter hastening him on his path, and keeping to himself. Eyes on the dazzling prize, after all. A growl at the unwelcome attention from that damn raven perched on a gilded railing twenty storeys in the air shouldn't be audible, but the omnipresent bird flaps off to hoarsely chuckle at its master.

The first bag hits the ground without splitting, though its weight dumps it over on its side in a puff of broken grass. Second he carries into place, and tears the metal clasp free, sending a cloud of white powder spilling down into the trough. Lime and salt apparently are mixed together, coarse and finer, enough it should completely coat him from head to toe in the mass. Disappointing to see most of the cloud contained to the hole, rather than leaving him the victim of a run-by ghosting. Clearly magical.

Only once a good wave of his hand clears the air does he turn partly, looking over his shoulder at Mercy. It's safe then to speak without inhaling the mineral dust. "There, first layer down. Let's lay down the stones and place the axe within." Perfunctory and to the point, it speaks exactly to how driven he is to focus on another matter.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
As soon as Loki reappears Mercy is moving over to help. Whether her dress makes it out of this situation dead or alive isn't really a concern for her. Moving now, Mercy will go for that bag of rocks, so heavily dropped upon the ground. While she may not be as strong as some, she's stronger than her body belies. It's the coyote in her. With a faint grunt of effort, Mercy will pull the bag of rocks closer to the edge. Whether there is clasp to undo, or a simple tear at the top will do, the bag will be opened and the woman will use a hand to pull the rocks free.

The first handful will be dropped into the bottom of the hole and then smoothed quickly out, even as she goes back to grab another. She'll put in as much as needed, before she looks towards Loki.

"Grab the axe?" She'll ask, as she risks a glance towards the floating specter of doom. She wouldn't be surprised if he was already moving toward it, even before her question was asked.

Loki has posed:
The bag of rocks contains all the varied pebbles, some the size of quarters and others quintuple that. They gather in a massive heap if dumped on their own, and if thrown by the handful from the cinched neck, eventually the hole fills.

Loki ignores the fact of his fine clothing and kneels, the specific cut suitable for maximum mobility and action without being hindered. He sinks down onto one knee and gathers a trowel, scooping out a heap covered by his bare hand. Dumped into the hole, he angles the scoop to spread out the gathered mass. Small meteors land in puffs of lime, the salt displaced to the edge of crater rims.

That he held no intention of taking in any guests matters not one bit, as they hasten together to fill up the space. Neither did he anticipate gathering a soul drinking weapon. A look of mirth sparks his eyes and he looks up to the tawny-skinned coyote in her human face. What he can read of her expression is measured, and he uncurls a grin. "I thought you might want to haul the nuisance and toss it in. Clever girl."

Rolling back onto his heels, he dumps another handful in preparation. Meandering over to capture the long haft of the weapon is easy. No magic here, either, the telekinetic spell fallen by the wayside. His grip is firm and assured upon such a relic, showing it only a measure of respect rather than awe.

And with it, what damage might the Trickster do? He inclines it over his shoulder as he closes on their offering to the All-Father's wife.

It wouldn't do to toss it in head first. Barring any possibility it might fight them, he carefully turns and swings it down, dropping it blade-first into the prepared spot. "What are your hobbies? Other than trouble."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That lime and salt. If it would just stay down within the dirt Mercy wouldn't feel the annoying tickling urge to sneeze. With each handful of rocks the minerals rise upward in a near invisible assault upon her sense of smell. It's enough to cause her to lean slightly away from the hole when the majority of the rock is in. Sometimes keen senses are both a hindrance and a curse; right now it's just plain annoying.

Not going to sneeze. Really.

When her sense of smell has finally settled, Mercy will turn her gaze away from rock and towards Loki as he rises. His casualness with the axe actually earns a faint wince from the coyote. One supposes he's far more used to these types of powerful artifacts and when they become familiar, they lose some of their scariness. For Mercy, she just feels the vaguest ball of anxiety knot her stomach slightly when he takes hold of the axe. Almost she says careful when he brings it over, but she doesn't. She keeps her mouth firmly shut closed, since they both understand the dangers of this weapon; him even more so than her.

That offer of a slight change of subjects helps to turn her attention away from the axe and back to Loki, "Ha." Is her first response to his question, "I believe I'm not the only one who finds that to be a worthwhile hobby." Getting into trouble, she means. "Otherwise it's mainly what you see in my garage - fixing cars, re-building cars, feeding a demanding cat and avoiding too many of the supernatural crazies out there." Like vampires, they have a particular hate for her; though she doesn't quite say that yet. "Yours? Beyond not sleeping - some people do consider that a hobby, you know."

A trowel will be picked up in preperation for pushing the dirt back into the hole, over axe and stone, lime and salt.

Loki has posed:
No wonder he spent that time not talking. The concussion beat of pebbles on the lower layers helps not one bit to avoid an asthma-like response to fine particulate when inhaled, and the one with excess material ought to be helping out the coyote. He plucks the hideous spangled stole from the axe and hands it over, as though the scratchy evening gown material and the bits of glitter may assist. They could. And then Mercy will be the Shimmering Bandit -- the bedazzled bandit is simply too awful a name -- or the Dazzling Zorra.

The wood may be warm in his hands, and the danger of the sharpened edge far too apparent for someone who slung it over his shoulder, but he is more than happy to transform the axe into eldritch sculpture. Spangle a few ribbons and ornately link some wire for a pretty effect, and he shall satisfy himself tremendously with the job well done. Preferably from the comfort of a chair far from the gardens. His lady mother's kind mien aside, there are subjects not even a doting adoptive son wants to broach with another highly competent sorceress.

"Travel. Study. Magic. The finer things in life as I am afforded my time with. You seem to enjoy working with your hands." He reiterates the point, a nod as she picks up the trowel. He favours the shovel, once the great burden is done with. Loki's ponderous thoughts spin off in another direction. "In addition to your honesty. An unusual thing to see nowadays."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
Or the Courageous Coyote -

- The Cutting Coyote. It needs to be something appropriately cliched there.

The stole will be gathered into her hands and while there's a flash of thanks denoted by smile, she doesn't quite drape it around herself yet. Instead she'll fold it neatly into a square and set it behind her. Away from pit, dirt, axe and sneezing dust.

Once the axe is within its grave, er resting place, Mercy will start pushing the dirt over it. She supposes she shouldn't sing 'Kill the Wabbit', but for some reason the urge is there. The day has been long, yes? Perhaps this is just a note of tired hysteria within her.

Thankfully Loki's voice is something she can focus upon, even as she continues to push the dirt home. She'll only abandon the trowel for shovel once enough dirt is within the hole to cover the majority of the axe. Then, like Loki, she'll start to move the rest of the dirt back with shovel. "The finer things in life." She says with some amusement, "I imagine you're not the only one who likes that as a hobby." Her head will tilt slightly with that last thought of his, as she asks, "Unusual - do you mean honesty? Or working with your hands? Or both?"

And while she should wait to allow him to answer, she doesn't quite manage it, as she continues to speak, "I do value honesty, though that doesn't mean I won't lie, or that I don't know other people lie - because I do, it's just something personal to me. If I don't have to, I won't, if I do I'll try to lessen it as much as possible."

Straightening for a moment, Mercy will pause in her dirt shoveling, "As for working with my hands -" She shrugs, a grin quirking a corner of her mouth upward, "- I'd imagine that's similar to spell work in some ways. Building something from the ground up and then seeing it work as anticipated or expected. That's a good day when it happens."

Loki has posed:
Who knew the coyote could sing? It might be a vaudeville performance, though burlesque with all the inherent drama and surprise certainly proves promising if Mercy means to start strutting about. He'll slow his work for that.

Though one can only slow pouring rocks and smoothing dirt atop the relatively even surface so long. Long minutes, yes, but hours, no. He hoists the shovel and turns over another mound of pungent soil, patting the blade flat and then marching around the edges to compact the earth closer to the axe. This after applying a multitude of pebbles, so he won't slice through his boot and become the drone of Asgard. That might be deeply uncomfortable, and a bit of a sorry end to a tale, nay, an epic.

"Both. Though in this day and age, most people seem happy for an occupation separated from actual labour. The need to hoist or lift or drudge about in a field, even if the field has walls and a roof." There is reason he gazes dimly and distrustfully upon logistics and suppliers of the big box online retailers. Mayhap it draws from anyone who spends a millennium in an apprenticeship mastering his craft.

The allusions to spellcraft and mechanics aside, the god hastens to gather up a bit of a fern, a broken twig, and a scrap of fabric faded by the weather. He'll work them together into smething of a very simple arrangement attached to the haft of the axe, further symbolising its descent from horror to modest sculpture. "This should be enough. I can set a quick ward and then... Let us return to a better pastime."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
When their project is nearly complete Mercy will pick up the two trowels, alongside her shovel, and also the stole. She'll drape the dark fabric over an arm, as she turns to eye that baleful axe.

That 'evil-eye' doesn't last long, as her attention shifts from weapon to dark-haired man. "Everyone needs a job to do - " She agrees, "- whether it's something that seems to better the world, or something that simply helps the daily grind move forward, it's all needed in the end. If everyone did what their aspirations wanted them to do, nothing would get done." Her head will tilt as she looks around the garden, "Is it not the same here? Unless magic takes care of everything for you." She adds after a quick though, her words quite serious. "Then I suppose everyone could have a life to pursue what they wish."

When the axe's transformation has been completed the coyote will give it another stare. "Please. I won't say I'll be said when this is all said and done." Then, with a slight step back Mercy will fall silent so Loki can take the time to enchant the area around the axe.

Loki has posed:
Calling up protections here, within a place already layered with wards of his own creations, is not difficult. A bit of rerouting power from one corner into a new vicinity and netting it will beckon him to lay down a few runes. The rise and fall of magic in tides almsot stronger than those afflicting the Atlantic Coast off the city of their mutual residence speaks to the effect of the whole realm. Loki need not reach deep, but precision instead holds him silent as the shimmering bursts of leaf-green and gold emerge from the aether.

It won't be perfect, but for an ad hoc approach repeated many times in the past around other objects and sites where man should not roam, it will do. He hisses out a breath. "This will satisfy." As though it's a done deal. "Anyone foolish enough to roam here and disturb our sculpture will have more to worry about than the axe."

He chooses then to offer his hand to Mercy, depart from the hole covered over again, in favour of anywhere away from the greenery. She wanted earth and he has more than redoubled the promise on that. The smile upon his lips is sin incarnate for but a moment.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That power pulled is seen and felt by the coyote and she'll watch with undisguised interest. While she doesn't necessarily understand everything that Loki is doing, or can see everything for that matter, she can feel the circle being closed around the object. His mention of our sculpture will earn a quirk of lips from the coyote, "Our." She says, echoing that thought, even as she turns away from warded axe and to Loki.

"While I'm usually all for sharing -" Begins the faint tease, even as she glances aside to the trowels and shovels. "Where?" She'll ask, and then wherever he says to put it, she will, or if he makes it disappear that's good too.

When her hands are free she'll reach over to his extended one and place her hand within his. Yes, she's had quite enough earth for this night. Or, at the very least, gardening. She'll never tire of running like a coyote, for all she does it within forest, open expanse and more urban areas. "I'm ready when you are." Comes her final words, as she steps closer to the tall trickster God.

Loki has posed:
Vanaheim, then, one day. The great realm of trees and forest folk, who in turn have given up their gods to the Aesir, is well worth the visit. Albeit not on this night, not so when the promise of a long evening remains.

The tools and bags are dismissed back to the dust heap of history, or at least the stone hut he plundered by a wave of his hand. Somewhere a startled sentry may face a trowel knocking him on the helmet, and rolling away. He'll concoct a story over a bowl of stew later about a great flying bird that plundered some craft offshore, and dropped the thing from a great height. A wonder he isn't dead. Anyone capable of performing the least bit of math is likely to imagine the braining by trowel will overcompensate for the average Asgardian helm.

For them? Loki eyes the dirt on her hands, as much as his own, and the grin becomes something darker in the manner of a secret fire. His eyes are heavy with thought, ones not spoken fully yet. "Oh, I have been ready for quite some time."

Admissions worthy of deep, wild flames dancing across his eyes. His head is tipped to her, as though to see whatever Mercy might do. One arm curls back around her waist, to whirl her around in an easy circle for nothing else. Looking down upon the dusky features so unlike his own, and all the more interesting for their dimensions is bound to speak volumes of its own. "Whatever shall I do to you?" The answer may be none verbal at all.

Mercy Thompson has posed:
That poor guard. To be the laughing stock in a world such as this; a heavy burden to have.

Speaking of heavy, those unspoken thoughts of Loki's aren't quite so hidden to Mercy; not with the nose and sight of a coyote. Those senses allow a very small window of insight into some of what Loki's feeling, and when his mouth curls in that dark grin of his, Mercy can't help but meet it with an answering smile. "Have you." She says simply, her response an echo of his own words back to him. This close together Mercy must likewise cant her head to look at him, though for her it's slightly back and also up. He is so much taller than her, after all.

With his arm around her waist and her hand held within his, the coyote is content to allow the world to turn slowly with that gentle twirl. It's only once the circle is complete and the two are again facing each other that will Mercy bring her gaze to his ever-so bright one; back to where they started, began, or left off perhaps.

While others might play the coy silent part, Mercy doesn't. It's just not part of who she is, as such she'll step a little further into his personal space, or their personal space really. "You?" Gentle amusement can be heard within that one word of hers and in the next as well, "I believe that's we - whatever shall 'we' do." With a slight emphasis upon the we.

And to prove her point, Mercy will raise slightly upon tip-toes to offer a murmur of, "Take us away from here -", then with a slant of her head she'll bring her mouth close to his, though not quite touching, yet.

Whether she means back to her car, back to her Garage or someplace else altogether is left up for Loki to decide. Like a roll of a die.

Loki has posed:
The god of chaos, the lord of misrule. The Asgardian embodiment of trickery and stories. All these titles apply to the tall, dark-haired rapscallion. Shown up briefly by a girl, a slip of a thing in his general years, with her sooty hair and bronze-touched complexion, proverbial nose in the air and ears perked.

"Whatever shall //we// do to you?" A correction made. The fierce, dark flame burning under the surface flares hotter and higher, suffusing every sound to pass his lips stretched in a lopsided grin. "A very good question. Idle hands will be put to work, isn't that how your kind on Midgard think of it? We've established you are skilled with hands-on activities."

The words are spoken practically into the night-stricken veil of Mercy's hair, his head dipping down. Lips brand her crown. Every shaped syllable is thick with promise, an assurance all but stitched into the air. She might lift her head and he dodges her there, because there's another risk to be tried. "As my lady bids."

A faint tincture of starlight runs down from nowhere, saturating the world in cerulean and indigo sparks that start to play violet at one end of the spectrum. Calling down the Bifrost as a birthright is effortless, and the rainbow roars around them in all its translucent strength. His arm around her waist hoists the woman from her toes, shifting higher under her shoulder blades. His other arm goes under the bend of her knees to support her in a proper carry, assuming all is going to be well. Mercy might squirm out of the way, back to her feet, if she wishes. He won't fight her upon that; vertigo, though is a danger. Warmth spreads through him from under his leather and metallic detailed jacket, the scent probably more familiar than before, more true to him. Some part of her will have an iron grip on it to avoid separation in the dizzying cascade of immense power transporting them between the realms.

Power slides around them for but a second, and then he steps out into the middle of an empty parking lot absented not all that long ago. Betsy waits, good little death-dealing instrument of explosive glee that she is. Anyone who might be otherwise observing the street might be startled by their appearance from aether. Then they'll probably go get drunk.

"Go fetch your cake. We're going to have proper dessert," he says, voice roughened and thick around the English accent that places him squarely in the Garden of Kent or the city of London. Most can't tell the difference. "And if that isn't what you wish, Mercy Thompson, run and don't look back."

Mercy Thompson has posed:
He just loves having the last word, doesn't he. His correction shifts that smile upon Mercy's features to something akin to a grin, as one corner quirks up ever so lightly. For now, however, she'll allow him that last word, even as amusement flares brightly within her eyes.

Idle hands, indeed.

When the stars fall around the two, Mercy can't quite stop the soft sound of surprise that leaves her throat. Her brown eyes widen slightly with wonder (yet again) as she looks at the bridge below and the world around. Before she has that chance to feel that vertigo, or any sense of true alarm, Loki shifts her into his arms; that movement is enough to cause a second noise of surprise from the coyote. She wasn't quite expecting that. When he has her securely held within his arms, Mercy's own arms will automatically encircle his neck in a loose hold. By this time, her gaze has turned away from the world around them and back to Loki, and while she isn't one who often allows herself to play damsel-in-distress for this night, she will.

That heat from him is felt, his scent smelled, but for now they're not remarked upon. In fact, she has little to say until they're back upon Earth, in that dreary parking lot, Betsy waiting so. A look will be cast quickly to her car to make sure she isn't defaced and when all is well, Mercy will return her attention to Loki. Once her feet are back upon solid Earth, literally in this sense, Mercy will unwind her arms from around the trickster God's neck; though perhaps it's slower than it really needs to be. The mention of cake brings a quick quiet laugh to her lips, "All right.", and she'll manage a step away, before his last words fall. Those words cause her to pause, a look flashed over her shoulder, along with a singular response, "Not running." Her head will tilt then, "At least not away." Something like an impish smile morphs upon her features now; then it's to the car, box to be found and retrieved, before she turns back towards Loki.