9422/No Place Like Home

No Place Like Home
Date of Scene:	04 October 2019
Location:	Royal Palace, Asgard
Synopsis:	What is the truth? Whispers from a silver tongue parried by the armor of wisdom end in answers abounding. Perhaps it's a gift.
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Sif

---

Loki has posed:
The beauty of Lady Sif's room is hard to compare. The royal rooms are all very extremely well crafted and designed, kept neat as a pin by servants usually, though magic still handles much of that, as the Asgardians have yet to fully return home.

There's something there, on the end of Lady Sif's perfectly made bed: an object. A walk closer will show that it is a piece of jewelry: a cross between an earcuff and and earring. It is made of pitch black metal or stone, and curves in the shape of a lustrous python, intended to loop over an ear and drape down against the lobe, the head hooking towards the inside of the ear, as if it were ready to whisper secrets to the wearer. It rests there on the bed, with a jade green ribbon looped loosely near and under it, a strange little spiral of color.

Sif has posed:
Darkwood doors framed in delicate scrolling gilt-work open as Sif herself enters, her chin and nose lifted high. It's deliberate swanning given she was just rubbing elbows in court. Her silvery armor as well as sword is not only a statement; it appears to be psychological buffering as well alongside her crisp, cool front against unkind words. Funny how things slip right back into old 'bad' habits with Asgard being restored. Already, she's heard whispers of 'frigidity'.

Joy.

The doors close and she pauses with palms pressed flat to the space above the handles to rest her forehead against it. Lowly growling to herself, the Aesir whispers a few //very// unkind things about other Asgardian members of court before turning to begin divesting herself of the armor. A glance towards her bed after she's removed all but the red battle-leathers beneath means Sif pauses in pulling a bracing strap into place. The mannequin in its defended state is left behind for the curiosity of the item.

Her lips part in a hesitant smile as she recognizes what the animal is: the snake, muscular, indicative of... The color of the ribbon is considered as she mulls its shiny surface between fingerpads.

"Hmm." A musical little hum. Sif turns and looks around her room, frowning to herself. She's picked up the intricate jewelry but left it set on her palm for now, the ribbon hanging over each side in a spill of thin green.

"Loki...?"

Loki has posed:
Nothing happens. He doesn't materialize in the room in front of her, and the object doesn't do anything. The ribbon remains a ribbon, the metal doesn't move or do anything other than quietly, sutbley lay there in her palm.

No, it doesn't bite.

Yet.

Sif has posed:
The name spoken, a true Name, still doesn't result in any sudden inveiling of clever illusory magic like the world's largest, most magical bipedal chameleon. Sif laughs to herself and looks down at the ear-cuff on her palm. She steps over to the window to hold it up in the dying light of day and turns it, watching it wink and glisten in the finest patterning of scales -- how small the tool must have been to accomplish this.

Or perhaps just magic.

Still, her fingers close around it and she looks askance, towards the bedroom door. A minute later and she emerges with a sleeveless tunic pulled on and belted over the battle-leathers. While simple, it is elegant in its rich red fabric stitched with platinum-white braided patterns along its selvage lines. Its length reaches her knees and leaves her arm free of fabric to move. With chin lifted again, she swans her way towards the royal rooms in particular.

Upon reaching the immediate hallway, she stops a passing steward with a lift of her hand. "I wish to speak with the Prince Loki. Is he in?"

Loki has posed:
The steward gives her a polite look, but it also reads of so much. The Stewards never have /any idea/ about Loki's whereabouts or what he's doing. He could be in the room, it could be illusion, he might have vanished, he might be at his castle. The look of uncertainty tells her all of those things, really, though the steward just smiles afterwards, and answers, "He was there within the hour, Lady Sif. I cannot guarantee anything of Prince Loki's current location." That's as diplomatic as 'trickster god does whatever' as it's going to get.

"Would you like me to attempt to rouse him for you?" asks the Steward, with unusual fearlessness. There isn't much fear around Loki right now: even the court was hopeful and favorable to see him. The wonders restoring Asgard can do.

Sif has posed:
Sif recognizes the expression well enough. There's a small indent of empathetic understanding between her brows to see it. She nods curtly to the steward and the answers given to her.

"Thank you, but I shall see to it myself." With that, she walks on into the main receiving room. Beyond, the hallways leading off to the rooms branch out like so many burrows in a rabbit warren.

The Valkyrie chooses the one leading off to the wing dedicated to the Trickster God. Once she's far enough within, and paused for a long enough time to count a good number of her own heartbeats while listening if anyone has followed her, she speaks again.

"Loki?"

Loki has posed:
Silence. Just a blow of wind through curtains, at first. Then as the wind subsides, a soft sense of music coming from the deeper bedchamber flows: soft little patterns of a harp, sweet little notes, singular and lingering, though the tune is not a familiar one. The song has a relaxing, hypnotic appeal to it, like the even sounds of the tide.

When investigated, she'll find a somewhat amusing situation. A harp is present, near the window, in the room. And Loki IS, in fact, home. He's face-down on the bed, head turned a little bit. He's dumped a courtly robe onto a garment holder near the window, and very clearly then sprawled out... and stayed there. He's dressed in what he'd had on under the robe-- a long sleeve dark brown loose tunic, and a mix of leathered and armored leggings with boots still on.

Loki doesn't react to her, and might be dead.

Sif has posed:
The Vanir Princess does push down an old worry about entering the main abode of Loki even as she slips through the cracked door. Following the music has lead her here and she pauses upon seeing how he's looking more akin to a cadaver than his usual spritely self. Lips rise to cover her lips briefly against what //has// to be a laugh attempting to slip free. Then, silent in her indoor soft-soled leather boots, Sif walks over to stand by the window.

Her glacially-blue eyes watch the breeze strum and pluck at the harp strings. Aided by magic no doubt imbued in the instrument itself, the Asgardian breeze shifting slowly from summer's frisky notes to autumn's more refined grace continues playing along. Her lips curl into an approving smile. Nature does have its own tricks, after all.

Then turning in place, she seats herself on the small alcove beneath the windowsill plumped with sumptuous pillows.

"I see you too braved the intrigue of court this afternoon," she offers, pitching her voice to wend between the harp's notes and perhaps gently awaken rather than startle.

Loki has posed:
Still he doesn't move. Loki might really be dead. Wouldn't she feel foolish, talking to a corpse.

Something else moves, though. From the upper area of the bed, in the canopies of drapery and extreme gold interwoven into fabrics, comes a really enormous snake. It was just THERE, draped up there, perfectly camouflaged into the fabrics with the shimmering patterns all down it's massive body. It watches her with calculating dark eyes, small tongue testing the air as it lingers there like a strange guardian. The alcove is far enough for it to have to take some time to get to her if it chose, but she'd have to go past it to leave, probably.

Sif has posed:
When Loki doesn't immediately move, the Aesir glances up from considering her jeweled gift still sitting in her hand, hidden by half-curled fingers. Her brows meet. A pensive tension makes her posture all the more formal as she puts her free hand down upon the pillowed surface to her side in readiness to push herself to her feet.

Seven hells, did he finally manage to magic himself to true death?

Sif then espies the snake at the very second it begins its shifting. Her eyes flick to it and widen. That is unexpected. Still...on the off-hand chance it might be some temporary spirit in-residence with the mage, she greets it calmly enough.

"Good even. I wish to speak with Prince Loki. I am not here to harm him." Talking to snakes with a girth of a tree and a head the size of a dinner platter -- totally normal around here, apparently.

Loki has posed:
Loki, laying on the bed, vanishes in a flutter of illusion. Simply gone. The snake moves down from the rafters of the drapery, shapeshifting smoothly out of that form, and revealing Loki. He's squinting at her a little bit, as he smoothly exits the area above the bed and pours down onto the main bedspread area into his natural form. The illusion that had been on the bed does match what he's wearing, except he got rid of the boots.

"Lady Sif; I didn't expect you in my palace bed chambers," Loki says smoothly, coming out of sleep somewhat quickly, but not all the way out, yet. She didn't shock him into immediate need to be alert: there's some trust there.

"How can I assist?"

Sif has posed:
"My apologies for assuming to interrupt your sleep." Sif rises even as the Trickster slips from one form to another and then to the bed itself from on high. She remains standing by the window and studies him with an expression both solemn and yet somehow secretly amused.

"I was wondering what you might make of this. I found it in my own bedchambers, you see, and I have not seen anything like it before." A palm extended towards him showcases the glossy black ophidian ear-cuff.

Loki also receives a knowing lift of eyebrows. Now the Vanir Princess is clearly attempting to not smile and failing by the subtle up-turns of the corners of her lips.

Loki has posed:
Loki stretches his heck a little bit, adjusting his shirt some at the collar, and then strolls over towards her, in his tall, poised way. He'd be elegant regardless of his attire. "May I?" he asks, extending a hand towards the ear-cuff, though he doesn't lift it from her palm, merely turns it some with just the very tip of an index finger. He comes right over, close, to examine it, leaning in.

"Does not appear to be cursed," Loki says, thoughtfully, head inclined down towards the jewelry, though his eyes flick up to her face. "Though I suspect it may have a thing or two to say, if you listen. Or perhaps not?"

Sif has posed:
Her examination of the ear-cuff breaks only when the Prince speaks softly of it being free of curses. This does set Sif at ease to an extent; she learned long ago to take everything Loki says with a copious amount of salt to taste. Her eyes rise from the jewelry glinting darkly against the lighter skin of her hand and meet his own, her chin lifting to follow.

His presence is close now, bringing in the scent of leather and cleaned clothing as first notes. The Valkyrie looks between those jade-green eyes still with questioning apparent.

"You think it capable of speech?" she asks with a mocking hint of innocence. Her smile hasn't faded entirely and now gone more impish yet.

Loki has posed:
Loki lifts one brow, questioning, and then leans across her palm, as if listening. He considers, eyes partially lidded. Was that a whisper? Or something else? Or just illusion?

Loki draws back to where he was. "Yes, I think it capable," Loki grants, coolly as one could ever please, and shrugs slightly. "Do you not like it? That's too bad. It's quite a rare piece of magic, there."

Sif has posed:
Sif looks back down at the ear-cuff as she watches the Prince lean in. Was it a whisper? She glances over her shoulder to see if the breeze merely shushed across her skin just right. Her gaze returns to Loki to see him on the retreat. Her free hand hovering before her sternum unconsciously turns to spread fingers gently before she catches herself. It closes again as she looks down upon the ear-cuff.

"Given your confirmation both of its uncursed state and yourself as the giver..." Loki is considered from beneath her lashes, the look very nearing a true flirtation at this point. "It is a fine, fine gift, your highness." Shining in the light falling through the window, the jewelry is then lifted. Sif turns it about by its tail before pulling aside the fall of her hair. Looking aside in focus as she slips it into place on her ear, she then brushes a fingerpad along its muscled design.

"I do like the patterning of scales upon it -- so delicate and fine. It is a masterwork," she murmurs, finally meeting Loki's regard again.

Loki has posed:
Loki's expression moves from a sort of self-satisified, mild smile, to a very clearly flattered, pleased look as she puts it on. He straightens up, hands resting near his belt, observing her do it. There's a feast of his eyes on it, as if he were anticipating it biting her, perhaps.

Not that it does. There's a chill from the surface of the snake as she brushes her finger down its body, as if the metal were cooler just for an instant.

"Now... listen," Loki says, moving towards her, one hand moving to her back, as he slides in next to her, intending to set his right ear to her left: her left that now contains the piece of jewelry, as if he were quite interested to hear what it says. He is, it seems.

"This gift.... carries deeper meaning," whispers the earring, so soft. Loki looks thoughtfully curious.

Sif has posed:
Sif remains very still as the Trickster slips into her personal space. With a soft inhale of surprise, she then blinks off into the middling space of the bedroom as she concentrates upon listening. It's difficult with the gentle weight of his palm to the small of her back; her attention keeps being electrically drawn to this.

Brows come near to knitting again. She hears the harp, yes, still uttering bluesy notes that fall like violet petals on the breeze -- she can hear the city beginning to come to life below -- a steward walks by in the hall, potentially the same as earlier --

Another gasp: yes, the Aesir catches the whisper. Turning her face towards him, she finds him...very close. It's enough to bring a swift pinking to her cheeks which can't be missed.

"A deeper meaning, is it?" The question is nearly as soft as the ear-cuff's assertion.

Loki has posed:
"If you believe it speaks the truth. Truth is an interesting thing," Loki says, slippery in tone. He isn't always, but it's particularly apparent at the moment. Silver tongue is out in play.

"It is a /type/ of truth, that you can get information from," Loki explains. He purses his lips slightly, tongue touching inside of his bottom lip as he allows some anticipation to grow as he chooses his words.

"It is what the magic determines you would like to hear," Loki says, moving one hand up to gently brush her hair back from it. "It is seductive in what it will say, if you forget it's nature." A grins. "Much like me, in a way," Loki admits. "But when you know its nature, it can teach you a great many things: in this case, you learn about what you want to be true. And you can consider why you might want that." Loki gently attempts to brush his fingers over the jewelry and her ear, his other hand still against her waist in back.

Sif has posed:
"I...I see," Sif replies, unsteadiness beneath her quiet words. Paths lightly traveled by his fingertips leave her skin beneath the ear-cuff tingling. The metal feels to have warmed to her skin by now and her cheeks to have warmed more yet in turn. "If...I have heard you correctly, it is both soothsayer and true north and... I am to be mindful of what I think as it may influence what wisdoms it might share?"

Lifting a hand, she bumps pads against his knuckles in an echoed brush. Eyes demurely dropped rise to his face again.

Loki has posed:
"Mmmmm, not quite," Loki says, though his tone has turned kind. "It's primary use, then ... is to help you to not lie to yourself," Loki replies, "If you are wise." He moves the palm from the back of her waist up her back, fingers curling against the angle of shoulderblade, body easily slid to be fitted against hers, his chest touching her arm and shoulder, face close to her ear and turned cheek.

"What else does it tell you?" Loki whispers, but his question isn't really seeking an answer. It's Loki's way of also asking her to look at what she might want.

Sif has posed:
Close enough now to catch her throat work, it won't be missed. At this short distance, Loki might even be able to catch the flecks of silver scattered throughout her icily-blue irises behind the fan of dark lashes. Her fingertips slide down the tendons of his gracile hands to land and linger on the cuff of his dark tunic; the other hand remains half-lifted, half-reaching at the level of her waist as if even Sif weren't entirely believing of the current circumstances.

"I have not heard it whisper again since the last it did," she informs the Trickster God at a private volume, given he wouldn't miss a word slipping her lips at this point.

Loki has posed:
"Unusual," comments Loki, with a tone that doesn't suggest he finds it unusual at all. "Should I fill in?" Loki asks, dipping his head, to touch chin to her shoulder near her neck, and then rolls his dark eyes thoughtfully upwards at the ceiling, as if he needed to concentrate or listen to determine what he should whisper.

"Let me see. What is it that I think you long to hear...?" Loki mulls, lips twitching in his smile. He's mildly predatory; this is really his element, more than anywhere else. The liesmith.

Sif has posed:
Goosebumps tingle up the Princess's neck upon his chin landing. Fine hairs on her nape rise as she looks again towards the middling distance of the room. Is the ear-cuff going to speak its wisdoms in a sussurance without the God of Tricks present? She wonders for a second before her tongue slips to wet her dry lips.

"Do humor me with a guess. Perhaps we shall see if the jewelry echoes it." Sif tries so hard to keep her voice light. She knows if she turns her head further, they might bump noses -- no doubt Loki knows this too by his mannerisms. Teeth mull at the inside of her lip as she dares a sliding sideway glance to meet those jade-green eyes.

Loki has posed:
"Loki isn't lying to you," Loki says quietly in answer, with a perceptive little narrowing of his eyes. Still leaving his chin close to her shoulder, smile self-satisfied: but he isn't actually certain. He is confident in his guess, though.

"Am I close?" Loki wants to know, though, and adjusts both hands, moving to settle them, overlapped, around her on her opposite hip, if she doesn't elude him due to his questions.

Sif has posed:
Her cheeks flame. Sif bites hard on the giving flesh of her lip until color can be seen to leech from it before she tries to compose herself again. The encircling of his arms both seems to settle and to discomfit her. Where does old wisdom come into play? Difficulties abound when she turns her head to find herself really nearly nose to nose with the Prince now.

"You are astute as always." It seems to take a great effort to admit this despite the whisper of its confession. The Vanir Princess looks between his eyes as if she might find more answers there.

Loki has posed:
"Am I? Do you think yourself less astute? Tell me. If I were wearing it, what would it say to me?" Loki asks, tone serene, relaxed. By his tone, there's no wrong answers here: not at all. And no judgement. That is, of course, a lie: of course it matters, all of the careful treading of this interaction: it does matter. A score is being kept.

Sif has posed:
"It would say..."

An idea lingers on the tip of her tongue, but dies even as she wets her lips again. Her pulse can now be seen at her neck without fail. Sif remains still within his arms, poised, electrical with uncertainty. It must be satisfying in some manner to see her so discombobulated -- outright torn between the usual blunt approach and critically weighing her words.

//You are a worthy blossom in his eyes//, the snake ear-cuff whispers. Sif can barely hold his eyes for that split second.

"...it would tell you of your charms and their difficulty to resist," the Aesir offers softly.

Loki has posed:
There was that soft whisper, and Loki automatically ducked his head just a little, to listen close. Its hard to hear: it isn't like the snake-head is in HIS ear. It's in hers, and already can be different to pick up. It's hard to tell if Loki heard, because his expression remains elusive.

"Hmmmmmm, you feel I want compliments?" Loki asks. "Or that I might be concerned about the effectiveness of my words?" Loki wonders, smile growing. He quiets, lifting one hand from her waist up towards her face, a playful attempt to put one finger up against her lips in a 'shh' touch of bare fingertip, settling with his head now close to hers, an electric amusement keeping his green eyes alight. Will it speak again, and betray her? Such fun.

Sif has posed:
Sif subtly leans away from the finger, but it lingers closely enough to do its job well. As such, she has no immediate response for Loki's inquiry. Light harp notes continue to fall upon them and within the room, fluctuating with the breeze as it plays past the strings still yet. In her peripheral vision, she can see the shifting of the thin drapery in pristine white silk.

Is it going to speak again? The Vanir Princess finds her heart in her throat waiting.

//You will fully heal his scars,// the jewelry whispers again. This particular gemstone has her rolling her lips. She's still brave enough to hold his regard; the twinkle found within them is serpentine in itself.

Loki has posed:
There were certain things Loki expected it to say. It says certain things to him, of course: often very shallow things, which Loki tries not to take to heart too far about what that reflects of the things he wants. Could it mean that what he wants in a moment is very shallow, most of the time?

Sif ends up with not only something deeper, but something aimed right at him. And a perceptiveness and selfless quality he didn't expect. He thought it might have been going to say something about looking amazing for the feast. This is a different level.

Loki draws his hand from her face and releases her partially, brows moving before he can catch them in quick puzzlement. Scars? Much less ones that need healing?

Loki watches her sideways, the cocky seductive quality gone, replaced more with an exposed nerve, maybe. Knowing him, though, Sif may realize that he'll probably turn snarky very quickly, if he gets defensive. For this moment? He's deciding how he feels about it, and how to adjust his 'play' to this new hand he didn't expect to be dealt.

Sif has posed:
Potential for defensiveness has the Valkyrie shifting from her own momentary state of hanging free-fall woven by the Trickster God. As if awakening from a daydream, her own regard sharpens a touch without losing much of its softened darkness.

Her eyes fall to his lips after marking the microtells flickering across Loki's face. When they rise again, she lifts her chin a touch. Here is pride, a wellspring of it within the Vanir Princess, and apparently, she's not going to deny what the ear-cuff said -- as if she had any true control over its paper-thin utterances.

"It is a gift with deeper meaning." With care does she echo his previous sentiments about the enchanted object.

Loki has posed:
Loki's a great deal like trying deal with a slippery knife. He's suddenly a razor edge, and if any force is applied, he'll dig that cold metal deep.

"Yes, it can reveal many things," Loki says, turning out from his touch on her waist, moving in front of her, head angled in, a posture similar to a hypnotic snake, gaze locked onto her eyes, though it doesn't require she return his stare. He suspects her pride won't let her demure away, though.

"About what you think you know." Yep, there's Loki's defensiveness. He hasn't stabbed, but the blade is out. The princeling can be so strangely brittle .... and revealing of his sensitivity about her thinking him scarred.

Sif has posed:
The suspicion pans out true. Once the particular angle of Loki's angle dawns on the dark-haired woman, she does her absolute best not to drop their shared connection -- or her chin. Her own fragility is on display with the shielding of her composure thin overtop the churning maelstrom of her stomach.

Of course, she thinks; of course the gift would be double-bladed.

"I do not dare to assume that I know all." She still swallows carefully. A hand rises tentatively between them, palm upright, as if in placation.

Loki has posed:
Loki's recovered: perhaps it was a false alarm. He can be weird to read, when he turns dangerous. That's part of what has always made him dangerous. Hard to tell where the traps are, and where the poisons are concealed. So there's a smile, somewhat playful: and it does reach his eyes.

Does that mean the blade is gone? No, just cloaked, now. Which could be worse. Or it's fine.

"No, only the foolish person thinks they are done learning. Much has changed for both of us, since we were children," Loki observes. "I am not who I was, but neither are you, hm?" He looks at her hand lifted to calm him, and steps into it, allowing her to touch his chest: 'proof' of his disarming.

Sif has posed:
Treated leather is fine and warm beneath her palm. Sif's eyes momentarily drop to her hand as if she can't believe what just happened; they're quick enough to rise again to hold his eyes. Finding them lightened makes a drop of relief melt through her posture.

"No. Time changes all in the end. I would like to think that what we have weathered has made us strong, perhaps granted us wisdom we would not otherwise have if we had traveled other paths." The starred spread of fingers agaist his chest rotates to a minor degree in an unconscious gesture of supposed familiarity.

Loki has posed:
"Listen to us, spouting thoughts on wisdom like odd philosophers," Loki observes, with a quick wry smirk hooking one side of his mouth up. He lifts one hand, gesturing back and forth between them, "I doubt you would have predicted us doing this, would you?"

Loki asks, a laugh in his voice that doesn't fully express itself. "I don't think I would have predicted any attempt to assist me."

Sif has posed:
Her palm remains gently settled against the soft leather tunic gleaming of good care and quality. Sif tries a smile too, a hesitant lift of the corner of her lips. It softens her features in a way rarely seen, bringing a sense of youthful hope rarely seen in the weathered Valkyrie.

Her voice remains velvety, soothing. "I admit that if a wise woman had claimed this of me decades ago, I would not have believed. Asgard then fell and I endured a great loss. To wake up one day and find your entire past gone as a scroll fallen into the embers..." Her gaze falls as solemnity washes over her. "It is a great leveler, this kind of loss. I believe our people were lost in New Asgard, a home temporary at best. How could I not lend my strength to bring back our home?" She meets Loki's eyes again. "How could I resist the chance?"

Loki has posed:
"I understand. I am the means to an end," Loki says, with a quality of tease in the statement, making fun of her, lightly, in that that's clearly all that matters. "Well. I have restored Asgard, Lady Sif," Loki says, serenely. It isn't heavy with brag or arrogance, for once: more that he's clarifying, to continue to direct the conversation along to the next logical place.

"Perhaps it is me that healed your loss, your scar." Loki tilts his head questioningly, eyes dropping lightly to the hand on his chest, then smoothly up over her upper body back to the snippet of smile on her face.

Sif has posed:
The click of her tongue is hardly a sound at his tease. Her smile doesn't waver, lingering as the scythe of the moon in a night sky. There is a knowing glint to her attention very nearing pleased now.

"Perhaps it is you," she allows in a similar calm timbre. "I would say that you have a claim on this." The most tentative uplift of her tone marks it as partially a question. Again, her hand shifts very slightly, as if daring to continue to leave it where it is placed.

//You wish this scar to be healed,// whispers the ear-cuff in a summoned sussurus at her mind track. Color lost returns to her cheeks.

Loki has posed:
Loki looks alertly at the earcuff. Did he catch what it said? Perhaps a little bit of it. Enough. "What did it say, just now?" Loki asks, quiet, as if he were concerned he might drown out more interesting whispers. After all, he gave it to her for this purpose, really: even if it wasn't entirely doing the silly minor compliments he expected it to give her.

"something about more healing?" Loki asks, moving one hand up to her wrist attached to the hand on his tunic. He hasn't guided it anywhere, merely stroked his fingers at the underside of the edge of her wrist.

Sif has posed:
"...yes. Something about a scar, yes." The touch of knuckles brushing along the interior line of her wrist has her lifting her palm from the dark leather; left behind, the faintest phantom of a hand's outline. She then attempts to curl fingers down overtop his own with delicate presence no heavier than a bird upon a branch.

Her examination of the motion has her chin tucked now. Demure, not necessarily, for Sif looks back up at the mage through her dark lashes. "I think we are more alike than we expected."

Loki has posed:
Loki's eyes narrow, as she adjusts the tilt of her head just so, and acts with such careful precision. Never sloppy, is Sif: always measured, correct, aware. It's interesting to watch, and to play against. Or with? Not everything is a competition, is it? It always is. Someone is always out to get Loki. That's why his weird bed display: he's had people try to murder him in his sleep. And he hasn't come to a place where he'll trust even Asgardians yet. He's done so much for them, yet those old habits, those things he's learned, they stick and hold. Those old scars.

"Perhaps. Stick with me, Sif, we'll end up continuing to do impossible things," Loki answers. He turns his hand over as she inspects his fingers with hers.

Sif has posed:
His skin is cool and dry, the lines of his bones limber and svelte -- the hands of a caster, so critical to the magic seen and showcased with envious ease. Sif's own have the light roughness of sword calluses long abraided onto the gentle rises of finger bones. Her wrist rotates until they're palm to palm, aligned perfectly. Hmm. Her hand is still smaller somehow. Apparently, it makes her quirk her lips.

Her glance up at Loki again contains the faint twinkle yet. "I do like a challenge." This is leveled at him with the first very truest melodic hint of flirtation. "A //fair// challenge," the Princess is sure to specify with a knowing hint of a squint.

Loki has posed:
Loki grins. It's a quick flash of, indeed, a lot of mirth. He leans in, eyes on hers, almost to get close enough to brush her nose, and diverts to her ear. "I don't do fair," Loki says, in a warm breath agains the snake jewelry of her ear. He draws their hands from between them up out of the center to rest at his shoulder, instead, an easy little motion to make her feel like she has an upper hand. In his view, that is.

"You don't need him to play fair," the earcuff appears to say. Maybe illusion. Maybe Loki himself. His whisper is extremely similar to the voice of the earcuff, in that low, barely-there voice.

Sif has posed:
Curling breath seems warmer yet in direct comparison to the metal resting still in serpentine form about the seashell curve of her ear. Sif laughs despite herself and reaches up with her unanchored hand to brush at her skin, as if his words tickled it yet -- or maybe it was the whisper.

"I thought you might not. When is life ever truly fair? But thank the wealth of Valhalla that we all do not get what we deserve. Sometimes, I believe, life does treat us kindly." His shoulder gets a gentle squeeze. "We shall see how fair things may be."

//You would be fairest to him,// the ear-cuff then whispers. Sif feels her cheeks yet again repink.

The Valkyrie rallies to try and recover from the temporary slip in attention the whisper causes. "Your gift is wonderful, Loki, and I shall treasure it always. Might I ask how to remove it for the need to sleep?" Very subtly tugging on it, after all, has granted her the realization that it's rather firmly affixed to her ear. "I am glad to find that it will not simply fall off should I shake my head wrong. So many times have I seen lesser quality jewelry dashed upon the floor at court."

Loki has posed:
Fire enters Loki's gaze. "Life treats us kindly here?" Loki's incredulous. His kind treatment from Asgard has a particularly skewed viewpoint. He doesn't see it that way all of the time, of course. No, Loki sees himself often as an outsider, pushed down or away. He's bridged it for now: maybe. Hard to know how long it will last.

"Not all of us. Some of us make it for ourselves," Loki says, with a bit of fierceness. It shifts him from that sort of perfectly controlled, debonair royal back into the blade. He just lacks someone to stab for now: it isn't her. The threat is outwards. It might feel a strange place to be: that he's sharp, but the blade isn't at HER throat.

"If you remove it, you'll lack sweet assurances while you slumber," Loki parries, but he draws one hand back up to her lips, to show her, on herself. "Though there are other ways to get such a thing, other than the jewelry." Barely a pause, and Loki continues. "Gently touch the nose, to ask it to be silent, and it will release," Loki instructs.

Sif has posed:
Sif swallows. It is morbidly fascinating to see the pique redirected away from her for once, like turning the facet of a prism to appreciate the new colors on display -- or to watch a snake strike beyond one's knees rather than at them. Her expression morphs clearly through surprise for a moment before she glances off to one side, as if she might see what the ear-cuff does rather than guess by skin sensitivity alone. Still, she reaches up and places gentle pressure upon where she figures the nose to be on the designed creature.

The metal cools and appears to relax for the lessening of tension keeping it in place. Slipping the ear-cuff free of her ear, Sif looks upon it fully again. It is no less beautiful than before resting on her palm, fine of design and scale alike.

"Thank you, Loki." Her finger close around it in a form of final claimancy. "In my way, I understand. I did argue for the art of the sword and shield rather than the recitation of poem and spread of gilded fan. It is unbecoming of a Princess." Her smile is wry at the old scar of her own in question. Brazenly, again, she moves her free hand to attempt to rest overtop his heart.

"Should I wish sweet assurances, shall I...whisper at you?" A little tilt of her head is deliberate again.

Loki has posed:
"I wasn't intending to intrude on you during your slumber," Loki answers sleekly, his response immediate. "But if you're inviting me...?" Loki trails off, but slides back just one step, and drops his hand to lift the one she'd set on his heart up to his face. His jade green eyes are dark and full as they consider her expression, while drawing her hand to his lips. Courtly kiss only.

Loki can be whatever he wants to be, or whatever others want him to be, so long as those two things come together. "Sleep well, Lady Sif."

Sif has posed:
Held within her closed fingers, the ear-cuff ends up tucked to Sif's chest as she draws up minutely in surprise at the return of her sally. Even after their enlightening banter, still -- still, she hoped she would not be another farce left out in the cold. It leaves her cheeks as roses even as she watches her knuckles be politely kissed.

"I shall whisper." -- and the Vanir Princess does this very thing. Her chin tucks in a final, courtly demurring in turn, holding to the oldest patterns of chivalry seen out on the floors of the palace. Those glacially-blue eyes again consider him through the fan of her lashes.

"And to you the same, Lord Loki." Sif then sweeps from the room in what she prays is a poised exit.

She does not wave, even if she wanted to at the doors. Rather, a final little smile and pseudo-curtsy is given.

It's out in the hallway that the Valkyrie stumbles over nothing.

But at least it wasn't in front of his face!