9707/Post-Feast

Post-Feast
Date of Scene:	22 October 2019
Location:	Celebration Hall, Palace, Asgard
Synopsis:	Sif and Loki discuss what the court might think about status.
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Sif

---

Loki has posed:
The days of celebrations have concluded. The magical decorations have faded away, leaving the palace in a state common to just after days of celebrations: hangovers. There are many painful heads floating around, in those whose duties it is to clean up.

Loki is neither of those categories, and sits out in the garden area at one of the tables, with a glorious breakfast set out around him in the warm mid-morning sunlight. Chipper and relaxed, with his booted heels up on the seat next to him, he is sampling fresh fruit and enjoying the morning with the air of one who has not a shred of a hangover or headache. He's dressed simply, in a clean silver poet shirt, slim, snug leggings, black boots, his hair down and loose to his shoulder.

Overall the place is pretty vacant, except for some workers starting to clean up tables and other items from the feast.

Sif has posed:
Emerging from her bower is the Princess of Vanaheim. She'd retreated after enjoying the feasting to its fullest extent -- or very nearly that. Wisdom kept her from indulging as much as other Asgardians might have done, but there is the mild, ever-present vice about her skull amplified as her booted steps take her out into the palace proper. Sif has returned to her battle-leathers, eschewing the silver-plated armor, and she emerges with a marked wince from the arched doorway exiting into the gardens proper.

Originally intending to pick flowers for the vase on her bedroom table, the Valkyrie is at least mildly surprised to see Loki present. Admittedly, she had figured he would return to the needs of delegating court where necessary.

"Loki." His name leaves her lips with a soft friendliness as she approaches, her pale eyes lingering on him openly. Delightful, the causal display of fashion. "I did not expect you here."

Loki has posed:
"Sif," Loki replies with a flick of smile, tossing a grape into his mouth with two fingers, and grinning around it at her. He's a cool cat right now, clearly in a very good mood: it reads all over his body language that he's having an excellent morning.

"No? Why wouldn't I make myself available to the people, when they are so eager and pleased to see my very presence?" Loki asks her openly, as he turns his gaze briefly to slices of blood orange on his plate, picking up a piece of the delicate citrus and sampling it slowly with tongue and teeth, watching her approach.

Sif has posed:
"I suppose I expected the people to immediately request your wisdom within the great hall itself." With the admission given easily enough, the Valkyrie glides over to beside his chair. She pauses along the line of his thighs. Slowly, her smile deepens without revealing her teeth. It brings the plump of her cheeks to rise.

"And who have you entertained as audience this morning? Surely no one more delightful than myself," she claims in the light way of courtly tease. Sif's eyes shift to consider his boots making claim of the chair and then return to his face in a silent request to claim the seat herself. Someone's slices of blood orange are at immediate risk if granted...

Loki has posed:
"WELL," Loki says, with a huff of breath, "That would be making it to easy on them, wouldn't it? At least put a little effort into the situation to deserve my presence," Loki banters, and offers her a slice of the blood orange, dangling from his fingers, expression elusive.

"You are the first that is worth note," Loki answers, drawing his feet off the chair, but also pulling the chair closer with one hand: if she wants it, she'll be right next to him, clearly.

Sif has posed:
"Ah, worth note. I am of such esteem," comes the musing reply, her lips pursed now against smiling all the stronger. To be in such proximity to the mage doesn't seem of be of bother to Sif at this point. She steps in and around to seat herself, even making to smooth the lay of the skirting of red-dyed battle-leathers along her thighs; beneath, similar leggings as to those of the Trickster seated less than an lean's worth away.

The slice of blood orange, taken earlier when offered, is nibbled upon. Its tart and bright taste breaks over her tongue and Sif smiles despite herself, looking upon the fruit's glossy flesh. "You do have good taste." A coy side-glance is given to the Prince before she leans back into the chair with a small sigh.

Her eyes now linger upon the expanse of the garden, back to its pleasant and pleasing spread of greenery touched here and there by autumn. "I doubt the people will forget such a fete, especially with your touch upon it."

Loki has posed:
"In all things, yes," Loki agrees arrogantly of his taste. He narrows his eyes on her a little bit, smile sly, inclusive of her as things that he has good taste in. Valkyries, in this case. Or something else.

"Is it so wrong to want the finest of things surrounding me?" Loki wonders mildly, selecting another section of the fruit for himself to enjoy, before adding a buttered scone, covered in a maple and hazelnut glaze, shavings of honeycomb glossy with powdered sugars light over the top.

"We are making new memories for them, of the home that they lost. Important that it lives up to the memories."

Sif has posed:
Sif's attention returns to him, wanders over his face and along his torso, before returning to the former. "I daresay the feast will be a thing of tales for the children to hear and tell their own offspring in turn. I believe I've already heard it coined as 'the Homebringer's Feast'," she shares before reaching for a scone appearing to be dotted through with dark berries and drizzled with a light zigzagging of pale frosting.

"Fine praises, fine memories..." Suddenly, her lips split in a bright grin. "Fine company as well." Another coy glance is shot towards Loki. Picking a bite of the scone free, she lifts it to her lips.

"I...thought to ask you a question, Loki." Sif chews with her eyes focused upon the pastry held almost delicately in her hand. "Surely...you are aware of what our dancing engendered. I was asked...more than once -- and like as not through //jealousy//," the Valkyrie stresses with a more...self-satisfied little smirk; " -- as to our state." Her glacially-blue gaze lands squarely on his face as she even turns in her seat to better address him. "I believe the court suspects us to be courting. I believe we are."

Blunt as always, dear Sif.

Loki has posed:
"'Homebringer's Feast', yes. I have done little to discourage that, I think it's extraordinarily fitting," Loki replies, just about preening in his chair about the title and situation. He's easy to flatter when he's in a good mood, and now is one of those times. He's just soaking up the positive energy like the most massive sponge. Maybe some of it can fill in those deep scars that are causing the need to hear such things?

"It is about time something positive about me came out of my brother's mouth," Loki adds, smirking, though his mood remains good. He eats a small piece torn from his scone, observing her, green eyes calculating, and picking up every shred of evidence in her expression.

"Yes. Would you be very upset if I'd started such a rumor?" Loki asks, flicking a grape into his mouth and giving her a half-lidded, imperial look, paired with a sly smile.

Sif has posed:
Sif becomes more transparent yet upon being informed of just //who// started the rumor. Her eyebrows lift in tandem with a subtle widening of her eyes; her chewing slows to something almost nonexistent to hear and how she swallows speaks to a moment where she wasn't quite sure how the whole concept worked for a second.

And is that a blush? It must be; the sun's not strong enough to cause nary a burn if even heat-flush.

Then comes the smile to break into a breathless chuckle. "Oh...no, Loki, not at all. I...am //very// pleased." Her fingertips briefly rise to cover her lips, as if it might be impromper to display such a great degree of delight in circumstances at hand, but they don't linger there. Instead, they reach out with intent to rest upon Loki's nearest forearm.

"I will then confirm it next I am asked regarding the matter." The words are so formal -- the twinkle in her eyes is radiant.

Loki has posed:
"Confirm it, don't confirm it," Loki says, easing his hand back and forth, a playful indifference there: he's being impossible, as can often be the case with trying to pin down Loki about anything. Elusive mage of tricks and lies, naturally.

"It amused me to let them wonder," Loki answers her, in his lofty tone. Which may cause worry, briefly: if he's only spreading rumors to entertain himself. Loki has a quality of being able to be suddenly very cutting.

The threat is there, but no actual follow-through on dropping the floor out from under her. It was him circling, protecting himself if she had decided to laugh. Instead, he's reading pure interest on her. And relief, and radiant hope.

Loki draws her hand from his forearm to his lips, and kisses not her knuckles, but turns her hand and kisses the inside of her wrist, the very sensitive skin there. It's a tender, and clear enough signal, even if his words are all over the place.

Sif has posed:
Tidbits of scone have fallen to Sif's lap at this point, but she hasn't noticed. Instead, her eyes rise from where morning air still cools the lingering impress of Loki's lips and to his face. With a gentle turn of her wrist, she attempts to brush her fingertips along his jawline and chin. Her brows, briefly knitted to see the defensive stance taken, smooth out.

As if Sif knew how telling this next thought was in turn, she's delicate in delivering it. "I...do not blame you for finding amusement in harmless confusion. There is...the element of a game to this as well, if one considers the court for its ability to breed raucous popinjays who repeat what they hear until it becomes as muddled as the training grounds in a late-spring storm."

Oh dear: someone else appreciates causing trouble as much as the next lady-of-court after all...as long as it doesn't involve herself directly.

"Mind you, I said the court," the Princess points out, which excuses them both by bloodline, apparently. Realizing she's let her mind wander aloud, she clears her throat and nibbles on her scone yet again.

Loki has posed:
"You're not smearing scone on my chin, are you," Loki asks, tone mildly barbed, lowering his jaw just a little, looking out from under his dark brows of his in one of his vary characteristic, unblinking stares. It is the same he uses in other serious matters, usually paired with dark, nasty comments: as those are usually what comes out of Loki when he's really pushing some agenda.

"What would you /like/ for them to think, Lady Sif?" Loki asks, sending his fingers in a brush from her wrist down her forearm to her elbow, before dropping his hand away--- to her leg, near where it is next to his chair.

Sif has posed:
Sif blinks. "...no, Loki, I am not smearing scone on your chin." Her throat moves in a swallow; she'd technically replied around a bite of the pastry in being taken off-guard by the question. Reaching out, she places the baked good on the small plate she borrowed and brushes her fingertips together to rid them of the more minute crumbs that cling. Her other hand curls back towards herself in order for her to cup her chin, elbow on the arm of the chair.

Regaining her composure from the momentary fluster, Sif then considers Loki. The sentiment is as transparent and blunt as before: "I would have them think we are courting, Lord Loki." Her heart dances to be seen in the pulse lines of her throat. His hand is covered by her other palm and given a gentle squeeze where it rests.

Loki has posed:
"Then you'd like them to see the truth?" Loki asks, smooth as liquid gold, tongue as easy with words as ever. So much is summed into that statement, all of what it suggests and promises, really, but he doesn't leave her time to think about it too long: he moves his hand from hers to either side of her chair's armrests, drawing towards her directly.

Like an arching snake, Loki comes from his seat smoothly, and draws his face in close to hers, eyes directly on hers, and leans in, very close, a brush of his smiling lips to the side of hers. The area is public, they are being observed, of course, though all of Loki's attention appears to be on her, and her response.

Sif has posed:
Thank the gods in all the heavens Sif wasn't holding the scone once she realized the Prince's intent. It might have exploded in a smushed fate of crumbs and piecelets all over her lap.

Her mouth moves in something that was probably "Yes" -- only Loki gets to see it, given his proximity. There is such a glimmer to those verdant eyes. The Valkyrie's cheeks darken more even as she very subtly returns the gesture; if she misses with the graze of her own kiss in return, surely the sliding nuzzle of her nose against the mage's cheek counts as something.

And surely it's not missed by anyone observing.

Loki has posed:
Loki's eyes move over the table, and alongside it, checking those that are observing in his subtle way, but his gaze flicks back to her immediately. There's posturing here, a lot of it from Loki; some showmanship in this whole little move he's made, but that doesn't make it fake.

"That was a yes?" Loki prompts against the side of her lips quietly, and then offers a more full and direct kiss, leaned over to her, upper body propped on his hands on the arms of her chair. His hair comes forward on one side to tickle her left cheek and ear, a brief soft veil.

Sif has posed:
A reply prompted is stoppered up by the kiss and Sif doesn't care one whit. What sounds like the briefest vibration in the back of her throat, the word dying, falls to silence as she commits to the brief cessation of all around her.

Parting from the kiss, her breath blossoms along Loki's chin in a light-headed laugh. "Yes," comes the confirmation on a sigh. Heavy, darkly-lashed lids rise to showcase her eyes gone mellow in counterpart to their usually keen glint. As is her wont of late, her own shift in the chair has brought her nearly into the magician's shadow.

Loki has posed:
The bullshit drops off of Loki's expression as he draws back from the parted kiss. There's no smile curving his mouth or bringing tension into his eyes. He just watches her for a moment, the movement of her eyelashes and the window into her feelings that she's opened to him. That defensive, near-hate thing he was doing has taken a seat somewhere in the back, leaving a more quiet, thoughtful visage to the mage.

If he held this expression more often, this quality of serenity and potential for a quiet power, there'd truly be a different story or future possible to him.

Loki draws in a quick clearing of his throat, and starts to slide his hands back off her chair.

Sif has posed:
With her eyes continuing in their smoother wash of hue, Sif simply watches the quietude in the Trickster's face. It is novel and as such, to be treasured. So very rarely had she seen it long before now. She drinks it in until things appear to shift.

Brazenly, the mage is given another quick and firm kiss. It seems his retreat needed a reparte of her own, with Sif left again seeming to search for air in the minute space between their lips.

"Yes," she repeats more firmly yet sotto-voce, trying for what she thinks is a quick, cheeky smile. It's far more fond and somewhat silly instead, but thank god for distance from the onlookers with their whispers; no one but Loki to catch the flickering of her being smitten.