9365/Asgard's Requiem: Moonlight Serenade

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Asgard's Requiem: Moonlight Serenade
Date of Scene: 29 September 2019
Location: Asgard Castle, Gardens
Synopsis: Loki shows Sif a garden display to celebrate the return of Asgard.
Cast of Characters: Loki, Sif
Tinyplot: Asgard's Requiem


Loki has posed:
The gardens aren't as Sif or any other Asgardian will remember them.

They are covered in decorations, magical ones primarily, such as floating candles, long sweeping carpets of beautiful silky blue and white cloth, magical illusory animals flitting here and there chasing butterflies. Several magical crystals are set up on stone pedestals, casting elaborate light displays that illuminate everything into a very grand, festive manner. Benches are covered in drapes and cushions, and magical food is set out, never to go bad.

There has not been anyone there to witness it, it seems, which makes the show a sort of quiet, private thing to those that stumble upon it. Perhaps it is in preparation for some kind of royal welcome... or return.

Sif has posed:
Now that the gardens have been revived, it's impossible to resist visiting them. Sif has even dressed down for the occassion...whatever 'dressing down' composes in this instance. It means she's left her silvery Valkyrie armor in her room in New Asgard and instead, teleports into the middle of what appears to be a very grandiose party...

With no one present. Her battle-leathers make no sound as she turns in place, her mouth slowly falling open. Arms fold across the fitted corsetry of her sub-armor bodice not in disdain, but in combat against the sheer wave of surprise that overtakes her. Her eyebrows are about to disappear into her hairline as is. She steps to one side to allow a spectral dog to cavort past in chase after a ghostly cat and watches as twinkling dust disappears in their wake.

"What in the seven hells...?" A hand combs her lustrously-loose dark hair behind one ear as she turns to look now at the food.

"...Loki?"

It can only be the Trickster God.

Loki has posed:
There's a long minute without any Loki response. Then, from amidst the revelry of the animals and twinkling lights, a spectral snake slips subtly up one of the garden's beautiful trees. It is an apple tree, of course.

"Yeeeeees?" inquires the snake of Sif, in a voice that is identifiable as Loki's. The snake is a ghostly thing, but has jewels for eyes, bright blue. The snake is about the size of a pythron: pretty sizable, really, with patterns along the body of swirling patterns and elegant spirals.

Sif has posed:
And what a long minute it is. It allows Sif to further appreciate the wonderfully gaudy display for what it is. With care does she walk over to inspect the lighting and find them all little will-o-wisp orbs of collected sunlight where hued gold, moonlight where hued blue. The food itself is redolent and in some cases, still steaming. Despite herself, the Valkyrie glances around and plucks a berry from one of the shallow serving bowls set on a white-clothed table. It breaks with the pure flavor of summer on her tongue and despite herself, there's a small musical sound of appreciation.

Seeing a spectral deer with great antlers arc across the expanse of the green, Sif sighs too at the unusual grace on display. Then comes the voice. She spins and feels for a sword which isn't there -- oops. It's a familiar voice, at least, and as the Aesir then approaches the goodly-sized snake slung comfortably through the tree, she allows him to see her lips turned up in a faint smile.

"I thought to inquire if this was your doing," she says lightly, looking briefly away from him. "It is...quite the display."

Loki has posed:
"Everything around here isssss my doing lately," says the lofty-voiced illusory snake. There is no question at all that the thing is illusion, not Loki himself, but it is quite common for Loki to use his illusions to communicate, spy, startle, or entertain. (Often entertain himself, that is.)

The snake, therefore, simply moves through the branches more, coils of the length of it moving with confident grace in the apples, as if both were as real as anything else.

"Eyes, ears... taste," The snake's gaze finds the fruit the Valkyrie sampled.

"Touch." The snake's slippery body moves amidst the apples again.

"You like my display, then?" Loki asks, though his tone agrees that he knows it is truly amazing.

Sif has posed:
Sif's lips remain fixed in her subtle smile. She makes no point to correct the Trickster because it's entirely truthful, interestingly enough and for once. Following the line of the snake's attention back to the table and lifts her eyebrows in silent acknowledgement of her sampling.

"I am impressed, Loki." The Aesir royal turns to look at the ghostly snake again. "The people will be pleased to attend upon it when they arrive. You've laid out the very best of foods... I do find the spectral animals charming." Almost on cue, a small translucent rabbit hops over next to her boots and sniffing at one, its silvery-fine whiskers wiggling. Sif glances down at it and her smile deepens.

"All that is missing is the music," she notes lightly when her glacially-blue eyes rise to look upon the snake again.

Loki has posed:
"So demanding," Loki observes, as if he were very put-upon, through the snake.

"Extremely so. Visuals /and/ sound?" comes the moved voice. Loki's laying on one of the benches entrenched in pillows. He's in courtly garb, well covered, in silver edged with light greens: a very light toned pallete for the trickster god, so often in emerald.

The snake resumes climbing the tree, once again left to it's basic illusionary design.

"I wouldn't want to take the pleasure away from our minstrels, when they arrive. I understand many poets and sonnets are prepared." In Loki's honor, probably. Loki has private bards.

Sif has posed:
Sif lifts her face to locate the new source of the familiar voice, having knelt down to see if she could touch the rabbit seemingly made of pure starlight and magically-driven motion. Alas, her fingers fall through but for the barest tickling wish of physical presence. The creature moves on when she full stands to walk over to the reclining Trickster God.

"I can imagine many were moved to pen words upon paper and notes upon staves when they heard of Asgard renwed. Perhaps there will be good music and poetry instead of saccharine sweetness. I miss the ballads of battle..." the Valkyrie admits easily, given it's likely no secret for her preferences. "But demanding? Not at all. I am simply noting the lack of music. All well-planned gatherings do require it." Her hands rest easily on her hips as she looks down upon him in his moon-hued garb.

Loki has posed:
Loki reaches out to some of the food next to him. He selects from a bowl of glittering silver cookies - they look like fortune cookies. An amusing little thing he borrowed from humans. He cracks one, pulling a snippet of magic out of it.

'Today is an opportunity to begin again' says the cookie writing, in beautiful calligraphy in the air. Loki considers it with a curious little 'hm' of expression, and tosses the cookie aside into bits that disintegrate. He might not be aware you're able to eat the cookie.

"I have required of them to do a piece with a powerful, moving central line of renewal and strength, not a quiet or reserved ballad, this time. As Asgard's return was a very hard won feat, much as an epic war: a series of battles against Ragnarok itself."

Sif has posed:
The dispersal of the cookie's sparkling remnants drift away on the wind. Sif watches them go before considering the bowl's contents. Reaching out, she plucks one and sniffs at it while Loki speaks.

"These have echoes upon Midgard, do they not? I recognize them from the restaurants with Asian cuisine in particular." Rather than open the cookie, she places it delicately back upon its piling within the ivory-hued dish.

"I believe the people will respond well to a ballad about overcoming the difficulties of loss. The minstrels might even need to bring in instruments rarely seen in order to fulfill the grand theme of the song. I suppose even a choir." Given her classical training in music at a young age, Sif fully intends to sit quietly...

...and judge the hell out of the piece.

"Though I do expect the lyrics to be simple enough to sing in the mead halls. If they are difficult for the soldiers to remember, it will be mocked rather than lauded," she notes with a mild grin.

Loki has posed:
"Who would you recommend to lead such a choir?" Loki asks immediately, with a curious interest. "Supply me a name, and I will procure it. As I have procured everything." There's a smirk there, as there is now fairly commonly with his new tendency to pat himself on the back. Nobody else is, so he'll have to do it.

Loki hasn't moved otherwise from his position, he rests back a little bit more in the cushions, with a slight settle of shoulders into them, comfortable cat he is.

"And yes, the bits of wrapped wisdom were charming; I find them amusing. The mortals there think they bestow a truth of the future, instead of simply generic wisdom."

Sif has posed:
Upon being asked after her opinion, Sif is pensive for a minute. Her eyes wander away from the silver-clad figure ensconced so comfortably on his couch and beyond to the stretch of gardens, a sea of flora in all shapes and textures blued over by the fall of moonlight and charmed lanterns. Eventually, her attention returns to him, she so unwittingly underdressed in comparison and yet lacking none of her bladed beauty.

"I would volunteer first my voice teacher from my early years, but I believe she has passed. She had a wealth of knowledge and a voice strengthened by age rather than diminished by it. You would want someone with the stamina, given the length of the ballad -- someone able to retain their composure in the face of an emotional sweeping of the trials of our recent lives." Her chin tucks even as she glances to one side again, frowning.

"I have heard tell of many Midgardians with musical abilities, but this is an honor best bestowed upon one of your people. Perhaps ask around New Asgard? Or hold a showing, under the guise of lightening the worries of the city?" The suggestion comes with a graceful lift of her hand off one hip, her eyes returning to Loki.

Loki has posed:
Loki is listening, but took another cookie to play with while she spoke. It is not dismissive: more just the same as if he were considering her words without directly staring at her. "I will then have my minstrels determine amongst themselves, and seek out the best. They will like the opportunity to offer their expertise in giving their advice, I think," Loki agrees. Loki's good at managing people's dreams. It helps when it's towards a positive end. It so often can be a destructive one.

"I would not suggest you take on the labor of song, but I didn't recall you having a voice teacher." Then again, Loki didn't pay that much attention to her in their youth compared to some other things. Her particular lessons weren't interesting to the often moody young prince.

"Do you keep up on it?" he wonders, with a sleek, sneaky grin. She might see where that's going: he's not hiding it. "Aside from war cries. I've heard those."

Sif has posed:
When the Aesir nods agreement with his thoughts upon the minstrels deciding amongst themselves, a loose curl of her hair falls forwards. Given the rest of it is behaving itself //behind// the line of her shoulders, Sif takes a moment to give a quick side-glare at it -- as if her hair itself might misbehave.

A brush across her collarbone pauses when Loki takes up his inquiring. Her gaze narrows even as what could be a smile fighting to appear is forced back down and away from her lips. It quirks one side of her mouth traitorously nonetheless.

"I did have a voice teacher in my youth, yes, Loki. I have not let my teachings fall to the side. Perhaps you did not hear it, but during the trials of removing the last of the Tesseract's venom from your veins, I was humming." The faintest color touches her cheeks, but it would be useless lying or side-stepping around the fact.

She rallies. "But you are not incorrect. Breathing from one's diaphragm does increase the volume of a shout in battle. I see my reputation in matters precedes me," Sif comments lightly, amused by it in her way.

Loki has posed:
"That is quite true, you were, weren't you," Loki says, in mock surprise. The slippery god knew, though. She may or may not sense that she's being 'handled', but is it necessarily so bad to be handled by the currently gentle hand of the Asgardian prince? He isn't leading her to her doom.

Not yet, anyway.

"Come, I would quite love to hear the rest of the song you had begun. Join me," Loki requests, gesturing to the bench he's relaxing on. "Pretend that I am still suffering the extreme toll of resurrecting our home," Loki chuckles. It screams of truth, though: Loki is making a joke to soften a reality. He's not back to full strength by any iota of anything, and probably is laying down for a real reason. Not that he'd admit it in a direct way.

Sif has posed:
How Sif manages not to roll her eyes at the mimcry of shock is a thing of wonder. Manners no doubt have play in it. With her hands on her hips, the Valkyrie in her battle-leathers takes a moment to look around the grand display still blossoming with vibrancy and without a single other party-goer save for the two of them. She then gives Loki a momentary sharp look. It softens quickly enough in the face of the polite request.

Memory hasn't been dulled. Oozing blue magical poison is easy enough to recall leaking from the pale, sweat-dampened magician's cut-riven hands.

"I shall humor you in your wounded state," she replies in a tone of mock patience. The lofty distancing evinces a lifted nose and while Sif doesn't clasp skirting in a joke at curtseying, the implication is there. The bench is long enough for her to seat herself comfortably as well within a divoted assortment of pillows. Momentarily, her palm presses at one and eyebrows rise.

Wow, these are extremely sumptuous pillows.

Loki has posed:
"Indeed, my wounds are deep, under this cascade of illusion. Use your memory's eye, for I rather not wear them," Loki says, adjusting his language type as if to raise his politeness all the further: courtly behavior does require a similarly polite response!

The pillows are very sumptuous indeed. Loki must have some experience with being comfortable; it helps others forget how prone he is to backstabbing.

Loki was about to add something else, but senses she is about to humor his request, and instead smiles softly and settles. Nothing in his expression is sharp: no, only encouraging.

Sif has posed:
Clearing her throat then, and pointedly not looking at Loki but rather up and beyond the gardens, she opens her mouth.

And pauses to glance over at him. "Tell others of this and you will be aware of when I know of it." A gimlet look implies follow-through.

With hands folded neatly in her lap, spine straight, the warrior then begins to sing. It is the cradlesong she was humming as she worked. Sif's voice has a magic of its own, it appears, when in full stretch. The gentle rise and fall of notes speaks to the closing of the day, when the sun is long beneath the darkened horizon and the silken clouds on high have muted colors slowly melting away to the deep blues of night -- where the stars come out and glitter like diadems on a blanket of depthless velvet and the moon hangs as a crystalline cusp for musings to collect and drip down upon waiting sleepers -- where the brush of a soft hand along the brow soothes away the worries of the day and the descent into rest comes as easily as a sigh -- where the promise of a dawn is hours away and to be expected as the next heartbeat, bright and true, but for now...

For now, for the weary head to be at rest and wander the argent paths of dreamings until the gloaming ends.

Loki has posed:
Loki listens dutifully, except that he does move his hands midway through: he's calling up the little illusion creatures to come sit all around her feet, as if she were a proper Disney Princess. It's subtle, but meant to quietly tease her... while also showing, in a quiet way, the appreciation for what she's doing by allowing her voice to once again soothe.

Loki moves twice: once to sit up some after she has begun, and then secondly to move the hand that was on the back of the cushioned bench to set it at her shoulder near where it joins her neck: subtle, possibly mixed in with illusion. Loki's slippery when he deliberately makes the effort. The touch isn't firm at all: either he's being light on purpose, or he's still weak. Or both.

Sif has posed:
With her attention distanced in the manner of the musician, Sif is -- at first -- unaware of the collection of transparent animals gathered about her boots like a veritable audience sans the side-whispers and rustles of humanity. She finishes out the cradlesong on a legato run of notes that whisper away like the low-lying mists presaging daybreak. A blink brings her back to the present and she lets out a sigh even as her posture relaxes out of the deliberate carriage of the singer.

"Oh." The first sound to escape her is upon noticing the translucent chipmunk seated on her toes of her right boot. Then follows a small laugh with her fingers before her lips. Her gaze flickers to Loki and finds him closer. This is cause for transparent surprise to cross her features.

"I...that is the cradlesong I was humming," the Aesir says quietly, brought to stating the obvious. Her eyes slide to the placement of his hand and she looks back, question written in how she holds his eyes. Given her hand's lift and hovering over her sternum, it seems terribly easy to just...rotate her wrist in order to lightly brush at where his fingers have settled -- and she does.

Loki has posed:
"I don't recall the title of it immediately," Loki replies, his tone thoughtful, distant, dark brows briefly lowering in a puzzled expression, as if looking through her for the moment, out into the notes that somehow still linger around them. Illusions, or echoes, or real: it doesn't matter, maybe. Reality is in the eye (and ear) of the beholder. If they both hear it, and remember it, that's 'real' enough.

Loki spots the question but doesn't reply either with any answer, nor a question. There's just an open look, there, that gives away very little, but also takes nothing away.

No pressure comes from the god: just a finesse, a flutter of fingers as his eyes refocus from wherever they went back onto her as she looks at him and touches his hand. "Sometimes the oldest songs have the deepest meaning. Like coming back to Asgard. The new place just could never measure up. Did we have to lose it to see that? Hm. For some. I think many of us have always just... known."

Sif has posed:
"Yes. Many of us have always known," comes the agreement further solidified by echoed words. "Some of us near to the loss of a beloved...or a phantom limb. But...no longer." Sif's attention lingers on the magician's face, her features solemn and gaze shifted azurine with the lingering influence of her own personal magic on display.

"I think...tell your minstrels and your bards that the ballad must contain elements of our oldest ballads in turn. What better way to give thanks for the past than to honor it, but also usher in a new future? Like the phoenix reborn," she muses, looking between his eyes.

Then, another small sound that could have been a laugh. "And the cradlesong is called 'Evensong', simply as this. I was taught it at my mother's hip."

Loki has posed:
"I am more used to /giving/ the advice and council, rather than the other way," Loki says, his expression closing off a little bit, just some, with a slide of his green eyes sideways, a liquid movement. Loki's dodges, sidesteps, those are a part of him always. He is never simple: it is never just one thing, but a tapestry of intertwined things, when it comes to Loki.

"I wonder if that is because there is a belief that I already know everything there is to know," Loki wonders, with a grin.

Then Loki leans in a little bit, voice a whisper, teasingly confidential: "Or if it's because I'm generally surrounded by people that don't know what they're talking about." He makes a teasing face of 'oh dear', with a suck of breath against his teeth, a click of tongue.

"Nah, I jest. It is actually because I work alone," Loki says, with a tilt of head. "At least, until it becomes utterly /impossible/ because I am repairing Ragnarok." As he talks, he settles more next to her, fingers moving slowly, as if unaware of them at her bare neck.

Sif has posed:
Sif subtly tucks her chin when she sees the Prince close space between them, her brows still lifted high and slightly quirked in concern. His claim makes her huff a quiet laugh and purse her lips in what could have been an aborted smile. He continues before the Aesir can interject with her tart retort and, instead, it disappears in lieu of another approach.

"I understand the need to work alone. While it does isolate oneself, there are less pieces on the proverbial chessboard to mind," she muses, her voice still quiet. The movement of his fingerpads at the crook of her neck garners another brush of touch from her own fingertips in reply, as if she'd remind him they were there, novelty that they are.

"Still, it seems a lonely task if aid is 'unnecessary'." The notation comes with those invisible quotations in a Midgardian tendency she's observed before.

Loki has posed:
To suggest Loki is entirely unaware would be foolishness, really. Or, if he wasn't before, he picks up on things quickly, and covers his tracks. Something changes, and the trickster pivots on the fly. There's no shift in his behavior to herald it, though.

"To what should I owe your support lately?" Loki asks, in a thoughtful way, gaze moving to her raised fingers, as if to consider them. It also proves his awareness that he does know where his hand is, and doesn't pull back at the realization.

"You haven't always been a fan," Loki adds, with an easy laugh, head tilted towards one of his shoulders: an expression of openness, to expose the other side of neck in that way. Or tiredness, because he rebuilt Asgard. But it is not body language of seeking battle, even a battle of wits.

Sif has posed:
The Trickster receives a mildly imperious look complete with lifted eyebrows. Sif shifts in place with a short shaking of her head. "Loki." And all she has to add on the particular note of fandom is a quickly-curled length of her own lustrously-dark hair about a finger to complete her point. The lifted hand remains at a jaunty angle as she lifts her eyebrows at him as well.

Still, she lets the lock fall back to lie down along her collarbone; her hand falls back to rest upon her lap. The other still lingers rested upon her shoulder and gingerly upon the knuckles nearest to the ends of the mage's fingers. Ambient lighting of the garden catches on the fall of hair and brings forth raven-blues uncommonly seen even in daylight. "But that is familiar country that I need not expand further upon. As to support...why, Asgard itself -- the fate of our people turned upon itself against the legends. Why should I not lend a hand or spindling of my own power? It is my land, my world, my home too. That, and you suffered for your efforts." Her face is poetic in its solemnity. "I do not wish suffering on any soul, much less you."

Loki has posed:
"We've gone over that," Loki brings to voice, as she says she need not expand upon it, agreeing with her. "We've also mentioned how much you appreciate it /now/. It appears I am an acquired taste, in your view. My wisdom takes some time to mature, like a wine."

Yes, Loki summons wine next to them. Technically he just moved it from another nearby table a little closer. It's one of those uses of magic that's simply a way to show how powerful he is, that such things are effortless in comparison. It's not a city, after all.

"It's my suffering that won you over?" Loki asks, incredulous. "You and Thor," he says, with an insulted little huff of breath in his throat, rolling his eyes.

"Much less me?" Loki catches on that point, though, and fixes a steady look right on her. "I have suffered enough, is that it?"

Sif has posed:
"Have you suffered enough?"

Sif puts a rhetorical little twist on her reply, answering query to query. She looks away from the Trickster God to take up one of the silver chalices of wine. Having proven she'll drink it when offered, even if she's been long known for haunting the mead halls, she sips at it. Tongue touches her upper lip in passing before the Vanir Princess nods her approval.

"We did not need to be won over though, Loki." Her eyes rise from the dark surface of her wine. "Granted, we would have liked to have been told of your endeavor before you began, but...it is not proper to look a gift-horse in the mouth, as the Midgardians would say."

His fingers get a gentle squeeze. "You have done wonderful things. I acknowledge this." The garden receives another spanning consideration and again, a small moonbow's worth of a smile appears on her lips.

"If I were not aware of your propensity to be unpredictable, I would have guessed this wonderful display were for my eyes alone..." Those darkly-lashes eyes return to Loki again, twinkling in what could be a tease.

Loki has posed:
"It would be only mead here, among other things, were it specficially for your eyes and enjoyment only," Loki answers, his tone sweet, pleasant, revealing that he is capable of such a tone. To actually leave the snide off of his voice when he does that. Even if it's deliberately done, he has it in him, of course, to be that without also being some other character other than himself.

"I did select the garden based on you, though. I suppose that's rather unpredictable of me, though it it would have been MORE unpredictable to set it out in the orchards, I didn't think I'd push my luck with making the whole of the returned court walk out there," Loki grins, moving his fingers to nudge her ear a little with two fingers.

Sif has posed:
"Yes, a wise idea," the Valkyrie agrees even as she tucks her chin and shoulder up at the ticklish pass of fingers. A wisp of a laugh leaves her before she seems to compose herself with a roll of lips against a poorly-hidden smile. The wine, thankfully, doesn't slosh. Another sip of it is longer, appreciative by how the sampling is mulled over her tongue.

"I cannot imagine attempting to herd the crowds off to the orchards. This is far more appreciated and appreciative, I believe. I thank you for thinking of me, Loki. It has been some time since..." Her voice fades out when she realizes it's a mildly selfish complaint on her part -- since the transplantation to New Asgard, there has been no time for any enjoyment purely to her druthers.

Loki has posed:
"Well, if you have gone so far as to appreciate and support /me/, is that so odd to you to see it returned?" Loki asks, in a manner that suggests he's playing, and his tone implies other things.

"/Would/ you prefer mead?" Loki asks, as if that were the only thing he were talking about. His smirk has surfaced, though: Loki's pleased with himself, which can mean a number of things all at once. Often that smirk comes with problems, such as pranks, in the past.

"It has been a time since what? Whisper to me your selfish desire; we're all friends here," Loki says, easing his hand to be more of a reassuring palm to her shoulder where it meets her neck, instead of tickling.

Sif has posed:
Loki gets a very level look from Sif now. She brings down the silver chalice from her lips and searches through his face. Finally, the woman speaks again with a small touch of color at her cheeks.

"I shall humor you." Only the barest hint of lofty pride is present, as if to offer anything more were to be too much of a goad for the Trickster God. "I have had no occasion to dress in the vein of court. Though I find the armor of my calling to be as a second skin, there is..."

Sif briefly glances to one side. It seems to take a rallying effort on her part to continue. His chin is a safer place to look, apparently. "I do not mind wearing finery. It will be good to have a reason to wear a gown once again, if only in passing. I once knew them well."

Before she went off to Valkyrie School for lessons in war cries and parries.

"Wine is enjoyable for now," she adds, " -- but thank you." A sip proves her point.

Loki has posed:
That was not the answer Loki expected, and his brows lift, as well as a very sleek grin. There's a lot of straight white teeth in one of Loki's full grins. And such mischief, the sparkle not just to the smile, but to his eyes when his brows come back towards a more usual spot.

"I would not have guessed that of you, Lady Sif," Loki replies, like the proper shoulder-devil of corrupting influence he usually is: encouraging by not encouraging. "/I/ think you should wear exactly what you wish, even if it is nothing at all," Loki says, leaning across her to get the other glass of wine, entirely unncessarily: he could have summoned it, of course. That was very intentional.

Sif has posed:
As beholden to a Goddess, the color to fill Sif's cheeks is as soft as silk, as rosy as the bushes lightened now by the ambient garden-party's atmosphere. She blinks, taken aback by the mage's bold statement, and as he leans, she manages only barely a complimentary shift in turn. It brings them close enough for the Aesir to count the stitches along the collar of his finery; no doubt the thread actually contains silver metal.

"I...rather think that would be //too much// of a statement for me to make, Loki," the Vanir Princess finally finds by way of reply. "I am no Amora to flaunt as such." Her nose wrinkles briefly at the mention of the other infamous Asgardian caster before she hides most of it away behind a large sip of her wine. "I thought to commission a piece, but I am uncertain. Still, it feels a frivolous thing. I need to remind myself that it is time for celebration rather than continued guard." Her glacial-blues look to him again. Then, as if to tempt Fate itself, she allows herself a full smile.

"And given I must remain proper in such a gathering, what color gown do you think would suit me best, my lord? Gossamer is not an option given its public nuance."

Loki has posed:
The mention of Amora brings a little snort of amusement to Loki, gaze moving sideways to her as she makes that interesting comment of the sorceress. He leans back with his drink, mostly back to where he was, except the hand at her neck moves more behind her instead, a play of palm and fingers on the back of her nape instead. Subtle, easy, comfortable, nothing more, on the surface.

"Let me see," Loki says, thoughtfully looking at her, eyes narrowing in calculation. "Not black; we are not mourning the loss of Asgard," Loki begins. "Not white; it is not your wedding day."

Loki looks thoughtful. "I think your suggestion of the phoenix was apt. I'd suggest a dark wine red, perhaps trimmed in white-gold," suggests the mage, lifting his wine glass a little, a slight shrug in it, before he samples from it, still watching her.

"And no, I will not be providing dresses. I am not a Midgardian fantasy fairy godmother," Loki smirks.

Sif has posed:
Sif smirks right back. "As if I would be one to assume you a quaint little harridan capable to either fulling wishes or rendering Midgardians to tears because they were thoughtless in the wording of their wishes." And then, to accent her point, a little snort. She knows precisely which half of that statement is truth enough.

The Valkyrie still gives the royal seated beside her a look through her dark lashes, her lips still lifted at their corners. "I will take your suggestion as to colors into account. You may see me at the festivities proper in such hues." A subtle lean back against the pillowed bench's backing presses her neck more into the touch. "I might toy with fabric of many hues if I am to truly capture the essence of a phoenix. Surely there is a seamstress of known in New Asgard... An errand next I walk the city," the Valkyrie says aloud, half a reminder to herself.

Loki has posed:
"/Obviously/ not," Loki agrees with her assessment of what Loki definitely isn't, in relation to magical faerie godmothers. "I am so very, very much worse," Loki deadpans smoothly.

"To them, of course," Loki appends. Right. He'd never be worse to anyone else. Just /everyone/ else that has come into his notice, Loki has been a problem. It's part of the Loki Experience.

"Perhaps not at the moment, though," Loki says, with a sort of distant dismay to his voice. "Because I am, frankly, just tired." His eyes rove the garden briefly. "Don't tell alone. They might think me kinder, currently." Ugh, and wouldn't that be awful.

"Should you find inspiration in the decor, here, I also would not complain," Loki mentions of the dress, nodding towards a silvery, shimmering fawn nearby, fluttering colors of violet inside the spiritual shape glossy with silver sparks.

Sif has posed:
Though her thought could be leveled in tease, Sif instead keeps her voice gentle, back to the tone she used during the period of blue ichor's removal. "I shan't tell a soul you need more time to recline. Such a behavior provides a good cover for your recovery regardless. You have a penchant for displays of comfort, which is not a negative habit -- it simply is," she's sure to clarify.

Having not noticed the young deer until Loki mentions it, the Vanir Princess glances over when he indicates its presence. Immediately, her hand lifts to her lips in a passing display of pure appreciation for the small creature. "Oh, that is...rather charming, the little thing. Your opinion is again noted -- perhaps the hemming in a silvery-violet rather than gold." The musing comes with another half-lidded glance towards the Prince.

Loki has posed:
"It usually is not me doing the heavy lifting, is it?" Loki says, with a scoff in his tone, like someone who can't quite figure out how an 'honor' fell to him in the first place. "At least, not in an area that is so /visible/. So often the credit does fall to those on the front line of a battle... until there's no clear enemy to battle." Loki's regaling himself with credit, again: but he's used to being the only one that sings his praises, so this behavior is, in fact, very learned. If he doesn't stick up for himself and his usually subtle magics, no one will. Loki's attempts to find approval so often have fallen apart, that he lends to being so destructive.

Attention is attention.

"You /do/ have my appreciation for sticking by me," Loki adds. "Not many do."

Sif has posed:
Her wine is lifted to him in a gentle salute. "Your cause is a good one, Loki. I would be remiss to stand aside and risk its failure. Asgard will flourish from its grand rebirth." A deep sipping of the wine leaves but the dregs in the bottom. The silver chalice is set aside on the small table gestured over earlier by the limber-fingered mage before Sif settles more comfortably back against the pillowing yet.

"I do note, however, that your prowess comes in the more subtle arts. I am not claiming magic cannot lift heavy things, but it is a showing of the possibility, and proof, that it can do as such. I have not yet seen you engage in the creation of fireworks on this note. Perhaps some for the celebration?" There is a surprising interest in the pyrotechnic wonders in her expression, something very nearing childish delight reigned carefully in.

Explosions AND delightful colors? Yes, please.

Loki has posed:
Loki partially lids his eyes at her, drawing his hand away from her neck and shoulder for a moment, to bring his hands both between them. A spiral of magic comes out of each fingertip, an array of dancing, moving lights: tiny specks in a swirl, like a tiny cosmos of colors.

"You tease the master illusionist?" Loki asks in amusment, and flicks his hands up and out, tossing the array of fireworks and color out into the general garden. It explodes in lights, cascades of tones in the trees, the flowers themselves bursting into elaborate patterns. All of it, of course, is illusion, which made it extremely easy for Loki. Sure, explosive spells could also work, but this? Looks and sounds the same, with less mess.

Loki grins, watching the reflections off her eyes and face, looking at her more than the show, of course, since he knows what illusions he's running. They're from his design.

Sif has posed:
"I never tease," the Vanir manages to boldly claim even as the rest of her words die for the realization that she's apparently enticed a reaction out of Loki. Her lips rise into a broad smile and she watches the sudden expansive illusory magic come into play with a breathless inhale of expectation. That the blossoming foliage is brought into display adds a whimsical note and to this she adds a chiming laugh -- a sound rarely heard from the stoically-inclined Valkyrie.

A prism of colors rapidly shifting between hues reflects from her skin and sparkles in her eyes. A clap of hands ends with them clasped before her sternum. One particularly spectacular illumination has her reaching to the side, her palm alighting upon his shoulder as if it were necessary to keep her enthusiasm channeled; she doesn't look away from the winkling fall of argent and gold like rain, interspersed with sky-blues and impossible sunset-pinks.

"It is beautiful," her lips can be seen to read given her attention is entirely upon the next round of illusory pyrotechnics..

Loki has posed:
Loki was amused by her amusement, he sat back, to look at his display as well. He's smug, perhaps, but then just observant: of her, and keeping his illusions. All is serene: but it doesn't last. Loki looks aside from her for a long moment; there's a distraction on his face: something is up. And he sighs thickly.

No doubt she is about to ask what it is: the fireworks won't hold out forever, so he lifts one hand a small amount, as if to ask her to wait just a moment. He'll tell her. "Thor was requesting my attendance, and has now thrown multiple objects through my illusion I sent to him to ask what he wanted," Loki says, voice dry, long-suffering. He moves one hand to press the palm to her wrist, then her hand, as he rises. There's a tired quality there that isn't put on. "Do enjoy the garden, lady Sif," Loki smiles sleekly.

Sif has posed:
Indeed, a glance has Sif then looking more fully at the Trickster God. Fireworks are absolutely enthralling to the Valkyrie, but a distracted Loki is --

-- apparently engaged in a side conversation with the elder of the two brothers. She remains silent, the light's showing still gleaming off her profile, and then nods. Her skin tingles where touched by Loki's palm, as if his casting might have left behind a sprinkling of magical frisson in return.

"Thank you, lord Loki, I shall," she replies quietly, regressing back to formality even if her pleased smile doesn't fade. While Loki rises, Sif does not, her hands back to primly set upon her lap despite the battle-leathers she wears.

"I believe I shall linger for a time more before returning to New Asgard to seek out the seamstress. I have reason for it now rather than idle daydreaming. Be well, and bring your brother my greetings."

Loki has posed:
Loki observes her a long moment, then looks up and around at the display of fireworks. They continue, even as he liquidly slides his green eyes back to her... and fades out, amidst the bursts of light. Only a slight tip of head was his nod of agreement: he possibly will relay that to Thor. It'll depend on the situation!

He'll maintain the illusion for her for a time longer though, while physically moving to deal with Thor's requests: the show doesn't just end. A bit of extra magic to continue to please Sif: and if she thinks he isn't still observing her?..., well, she'd have overlooked the nature of the trickster god.