Owner	Pose
Mercy Thompson	It's early afternoon in Williamsburg and it seems the full force of the neighborhood is out and about. It's spring break for the majority of schools around so the teen-aged element can definitely be seen. The weather started out quite fair and bright, with the sun shining resolutely through the blue sky, but that shining sun has now turned less bright, as something more dark and sinister begins to roll inward. Dark black clouds can be seen quickly skidding across the sky and the wind, which was non-existent several minutes ago, suddenly picks up. The gusts are strong enough to buffet people further down the sidewalks and streets and it even goes so far to impede the progress of those moving against it. Once the clouds have blocked the majority of the sun's light away, large fat rain-drops begin to fall. Each individual drop can be seen splatting against people, places and sidewalks, as the storm's beginning is a slow build-up. It won't take long for the rain to kick into high-gear, as the wind once again picks up with even stronger gusts. Along with the smell of rain and wind, comes a fainter sense; a scent of magic underlying this storm. Whatever created this foul weather was anything but natural. For Mercy Thompson, her steps were taking her down the sidewalk, but with the rain beginning to fall, her course has now changed towards the nearest available awning. "Rain? Goes to show you can never trust a weatherman." Comes her vaguely amused words, as she makes for her impromptu 'umbrella'. Even as she goes for that shelter her brown-eyed gaze turns upward toward the dark sky. The faintest of frowns begins to mar her features. r She may not be a witch, or practical magic user, but her coyote nose is sensitive enough to tingle with that hint of 'something'.
Loki	Williamsburg overflows with people, just the way Loki likes it. He ambles down the sidewalk without a care in the world, some kind of pastry obtained from a local eatery where they charge far too much money for a simple organic product filled by regulation apricot jam. He nibbles on a corner while eyeing those who go past, in turn receiving equal eyefuls from hopeful young men and women alike. His loping pace gobbles up the sidewalk though he shows no signs of a rush. None, at least, until the sky darkened. Those lively green eyes turn up to the grim ceiling lowered over the skyline, shrouding the Financial District and Manhattan's collection of steely spires from sight. No hints of his brother's influence spill through those thickening clouds, it seems, though his gaze widens to wavelengths English doesn't even have names for, only formulae. Brushing a few crumbs off his coat lapel, the fellow pauses for a moment or two. Water pelts the sidewalk in growing ashen blooms, the petrichor and sage scent rolling past him. Hunting for the signature takes a few moments, and if his clothes get wet, so be it. "A bad habit to peg your day on the word of another," he idly replies to Mercy, glancing back at her over his shoulder. "I ought to stop tempting the sky to open." Fateful words; a moment later, the shower lands in earnest.
Mercy Thompson	Oh look a conveniently placed awning right over there. It's perfect for her. Just enough room for a handful of people. However, before Mercy can manage to make it to that shelter a voice speaks up. Automatically the Coyote will turn her gaze towards the speaker, "Well, they are supposed to be the experts.", comes her prompt response, perhaps a note of dry humor found within her voice. "If you can't trust the 'experts' who can you trust?" Beyond yourself, is the unspoken words there. Still, even with those words, Mercy can't help but show some surprise as her senses register the man before her. He's magical. Very much so. He all but lights up with it. It's enough to cause the coyote's footsteps to slow and stop all-together, as she considers Loki. Her eyes narrow slightly as she looks at him, then, back up to the sky. The magical flavors aren't the same. At least, not to Mercy's senses. As for Loki's senses, he'll be able to follow the magic back to its source. It's several miles away, within a dilapidated warehouse. A small coven has enacted a spell and unbeknownst to them, the spell was real; not fake, like all their others. Now that spell has gone haywire and with it danger forms. The rain continues to fall, that gentle shower quickly turning into a harsh and cold downpour. Wherever there's a dip in the road, or walkway, puddles begin to form and as those small pools of water take root, the magical hazards suddenly appear. The puddles act as doorways to another magical dimension and when the doorway is large enough things come through. With the puddles as small as they are the first wave of magical critters turns out to be small. No bigger than tea-cup poodles; if poodles came in a variety of leather-skinned demons, with very sharp and large teeth. Mercy, who was looking down the street, can't help but see that first wave of creatures appear and with a blink, the mechanic says rather straight-faced. "Oh my. You don't see that every day, do you." And it's at this point that the first mortal screams.
Loki	"Experts make up statistics eighty-five percent of the time," the dark-haired man fires back, a grin on his tone if his mouth is a bit more restrained. Not so much the eyes, either, crackling with mischief and amused. "Those ranges might as well be selected by a machine spitting out balls, given the machine would have less airs about the process. Or a blog, really." The Twitter feed or the Snap app or whatever social media app of the day is a whole other story. Indeed, the man radiates a lustrous vibrance of presence uncommon for a human, other than one of exceptionally pure spirit. He simply tickles the nose as larger than life, for all he walks lightly away from the middle of the sidewalk to shelter. "Would you mind if I joined you? I put no thought into bringing an umbrella." Never mind there are doorways or other awnings, and possibly even a trendy shop that only sells brioche toast with different toppings, calling itself a deli and insulting every deli from Katz's to Queens. The question is polite enough, and even narrowing her eyes is enough to ward him off from bothering the coyote. They do, after all, have a thing against wolves from time to time. He doesn't smell of wolf but there is the wolfish about him. And possibly shark. Certainly leopard seal, with a dash of penguin and kookaburra, if anyone ever thought to look or ask. "This is mildly inconvenient. Here I thought to be a layabout." The English accent drawing from his lips has all the charm of Sting's theme for such encounters: An Englishman in New York. Water runs through the gutters and collects detritus of lives past, dreams lost, the wreckage of yesterday hurtling headlong into tomorrow to make a messy deposit on some unfortunate beach. If only they swept away carnivorous poodles that resemble sphinx cats, but worse. He gives a sharp look from woman to pedestrians and worse, insult to injury of a damp coat. "Is this how residents fight back against developers and city planners removing rent controlled buildings? I suppose it rather is too much to hope for alligators? Or crocodiles?" When no green, scaly lizard bursts out to feed upon demons, his choices diminish greatly. As does his humour. "Never a dull day. You might wish to take cover, miss."
Mercy Thompson	There would have been an acquiescence to that question of his; may he join her. No matter that he trips her magical senses. Mercy is nothing if not polite - that's how she was raised. By polite werewolves, if there's such a notion. Either way, the time for standing under awnings has clearly past, as the would-be killer poodles begin to disperse upon the sidewalks and streets. The majority of the people around immediately echo that initial scream, as they all try to scatter at once. Herd mentality, it happens all the time. As for Loki, while Mercy definitely has questions, especially with how he reads to her own senses, those questions are pushed back. "I'm Mercy." She says quickly, offering that introduction, as she steps towards one of those puddles, "And I'm pretty sure today is not going to be your lucky day with being lazy." She comments quickly, even as she flicks a look between Loki and that rippling surface. Already in that particular puddle the critters on the other side can be seen lining up. It's only with Loki's words about crocodiles that the brown-haired woman will flash him a quick look, "No, don't say that you'll jinx us! " "And no - " She adds quickly and with that odd-ball sense of humor of hers, "- Never a dull day in this city." She ignores the remark about taking cover, as Mercy is never one to shirk responsibility and while this isn't technically her problem to handle, it's now fallen into her lap. "I suppose we could call 9-1-1, but I'm pretty sure there's nothing in the handbook on how to handle this particular situation." And just like that, right after she finishes her sentence, a demon pops up from the puddle she stepped up to. "Ugly thing, aren't you." She mutters and even as the rain flattens her hair against her face and makes the majority of conditions terrible, Mercy will still lash out with one quick-foot and punt the little critter away. It goes flying down the street with a screech of indignation. Another puddle two steps away from Loki suddenly disgorges three little critters at once. And while the puddles are currently small it won't take long for them to grow, as the rain continues to slant downwards to the ground.
Loki	"Mercy," is repeated, and if it needs a shadow of a syllable afterwards, that might only be because he is devoutly English in the moment. He discounts the need for a response for only an instant punctuated by the rising tide of terror. "Not precisely the circumstances one would choose to introduce themselves, is it?" Must keep that lighthearted aspect, no? "Liam," he offers, simple as that. Short, simple, eminently British. Much like the stiff upper lip as he stares down at the puddle doing its best to demonstrate what sort of mythology takes root in the Americas; rule of thumb, never good. His shoulders tip back. It's the beginning of a shrug. At least to loosen his jacket. "Nine one what? Is that like Nine Nine Nine?" Cultural touchstones be what they may, but they have their pride on the edge of the European continent, especially with the deconstruction of empires. The man is himself about to kick the beast by the time she does that, and he gives her another once over. "Fascinating. I thought all the football players were south of here. Well, then, it wouldn't be sporting..." He walks forward and introduces the toe of his polished shoe to the malcontent infernal being, sending it up into the air. With only a fraction of his strength used, it really doesn't make a difference; the creature may not land intact, as it wobbles through the rain. "Now satisfying as this is, it doesn't address the root cause." His nose wrinkles. Mischief may be brewing, but a mass riot of terrified residents hardly constitutes much fun. Or anything worthwhile. He reaches into the inner pocket of his coat and comes up with a handkerchief, indeed monogrammed, which he offers to Mercy. "You may need this. The scent is unlikely to improve." Depending on if she takes it or not, his hands shall be free. And in that, the calculated decision. His hand lifts, extended from him, angled at the clouds gathered overhead. Somewhere is the knot of power, and feeling for the threads makes severing them with a calculated attack easier. A line forms on his forehead, concentration settling in.
Mercy Thompson	"Not precisely the best time, no, but introductions are a must." She hazards, even as she flashes another one of those lopsided grins at Loki. "Nice to meet you, Liam." And just like that the polite Coyote turns back to the puddle nearest her, the one that just had the demon punted away from it. Already a second demon is looking to join its brethren and Mercy quickly grabs a public garbage can and drags it over to block the puddle. There's a faint hollow kerthunk as a demonic head hits the bottom of the can and then a second ringing kerthunk as it once again tries to come through. They're clearly not the brightest. "9-9-9? Yes. It is." Is Mercy's quick answer, as she's known a few British werewolves in her time. The poor demonling that Loki kicked does indeed land and while it still lives (if one can call a demon living) it's never ever going to get back up. Thankfully, its life will be cut quite short in a few seconds, as another demon approaches it with a hungry gaze. Dog eat dog world, after all, especially the demonic realms. Turning now towards Loki, Mercy will begin to say, "So, what sort of magic person are you? The kind that can wave their hands and make this all go away? Please say it's so -" And while she would have said more that handkerchief is offered to her. The monogram will be looked at and while there's a hesitancy to accept the prize, eventually she will. She is polite, but she also knows accepting gifts from strange magic users could have consequences. When Loki reaches up with his hands and focuses upon the storm, he'll find the knot of power is directly over head, with a slightly lesser line leading back to that warehouse. The lives of the witches are currently fueling the spell and eventually, when all their life energies are used up, the spell will wind down, but for now, there's still six witches left. When Loki raises his hands, Mercy will give him a quizzical look, before she adds, "Well, I'm going to say that pose means you're doing something, so I'll watch your back." With that said, Mercy will step closer to the godling, intending to do just as she promised. It's only when the woman spies a larger puddled expanding with the force of the demon coming through, that she says, "Uhh. We better make it quick. Something big bad and ugly is coming through and I don't think I can distract it by complimenting what big teeth it has."
Loki	"Direct, aren't you?" He might as well tag 'American' after that, the lamentation for the rest of the world painted in the sigh parceled out. Still, the distraction evident in his face is subtle if present, rimming those altogether green eyes with a narrowed focus. His lip curls upon discovering something so unfortunate and ill-advised as a life binding. One can say many things regarding practitioners who are not him, or his ilk, but the most he manages is an off handed, "Sloppy business. I do really recommend the awning or a rooftop, but failing that, a good game of kickball, mm?" She might be encouraging him to hurry, though Mercy might as well shout at a tree. A tree with particularly fine leaves, but a tree all the same. He lowers his hand to his side, ego pinched, but only for a moment. "What, would you have me make grandiose movements like a conductor? That is truly unnecessary." While he speaks, the vision forms in his thoughts, and the silence gives a space to form the necessary incantation to match his will. He flicks his finger against his lapel, though the crumb is absent, and intones a spot of French. It sounds like French, albeit to a Francophone, it sounds Walloon, to a Belgian, Dutch, to a Dutchman, Frisian and so forth. It probably could stand as an irritated curse, a prickly wedge of sound that lends little purpose to what he does. The tethering thread takes the first slice as he focuses the banishment upon their lifeline first. Cut off the energy, and sap the strength of the spell, or not at least have to clean up after the knot otherwise. His cold, burning eyes lose something of their pupils as he neatly pinches away threads and disentangles lines from the main source.
Mercy Thompson	"I am." She states, a flash of even white-teeth as she smiles, "It's what people say they love most about me." Self-Deprecating humor there, but it's all Mercy has at her disposal right now. Especially as that rather large puddle offers a shudder; the surface tension of that little pool beginning to break. From the depths of said puddle a black claw-tipped paw can be seen emerging and the paw itself is as large as one of Mercy's own hands. And while the mention of kickball earns a faint snort from the woman, it's only when he retorts back with that conductor comment, that she'll finally speak again. "Or a wiggle of your nose, that's good too. Doesn't have to be grandiose. Really." That 'curse' of his earns a faint head-tilt from Mercy, but nothing more is said, as the woman takes a step or two away to deal with a few unruly demonlings that get a touch too close to the duo. When Loki reaches upward into the ether and pinches that tethering line away, the woman within the warehouse all drop, from the frozen stances they were held within. Most have blood coming from their eyes, ears and mouth, but the majority them (all but one) will survive this particular debacle. And when that lifeline suddenly ceases to exist the knot of power above the heads of everyone within Williamsburg suddenly loosens. Even the non-powered individuals might feel the sudden lifting of leaden energies. Instead of fear choking their throats closed, they can now take a breath; oh yes, there are still demons running around, but that oppressive sense is beginning to dissipate. A pity it wasn't just a few more seconds earlier, as that large puddle, with the claw-tipped hand emerging had just enough time to release its beast. The beast resembles a dog, if a dog had horns, blackened skin, oversized teeth that go past the lips and red-glowing eyes. Those red-eyes turn towards Mercy and Loki and the vaguest of lip-curls can be seen as it offers a deep-throated growl. "Aw, come on." She mutters, as Mercy stares at the dog, "You couldn't just disappear with a poof?" Is her rhetorical question to the demon-dog; as she too felt the unraveling of the spell thanks to Loki's magical workings.
Loki	It's hard to grudgingly admire someone. Easier than she is behind him, out of sight but not out of mind. Not that the glittering prickle that is her presence goes without notice, but only a few braincells dance around to pay attention there. The rest of "Liam's" efforts are turned wholeheartedly upon the business at hand; notably, he has much to worry about overhead, rather than on the ground. His thoughts spin through the empyrean heights of the cumulus clouds choking a view of the vault of the sky. To his luminous eyes, everything takes on a patterning of chaos and order, mystic designs formulated accorded to the chanted spell from a coven on the far side of town. He reaches through the illuminated cobwebs strung on atoms and cloudy spires, tearing them down and pulling the energy into his own working to make good on the imbalance already present. There is a gleeful, delighted edge to the act hidden within, a vicarious thrill of mastering the corrupt and turning it against itself. Let the rain fall and the winds blow, but this is... Inconvenient. Demon. Hellhound. Better than a helhound; still. He turns with a burning look in his eyes, and that levels upon the pup. "No biscuit," he tells it bluntly, positioned away from a puddle and very clearly charged with the skyborne energy of the decimated spell. A grin forms, sly and quick, though his eyes narrow a fraction and hold warmth, yes, the warmth of a forest fire rather than the pretty thing in the grate in a cheery winter cabin magazine shot. "You //really// don't want to do this, friend. Back in the puddle, and live to see another day. Run on, leave everyone here alone..." There's a benefit to being, well, Loki. No matter what tongue someone speaks, they can understand him, when he chooses to speak it. Why speak a threat? He clearly isn't cowed.
Mercy Thompson	"Where are some wolves when you need some." Mercy mutters to herself, even as she glances aside to Loki and again, like previously, her movement pauses. While she isn't a magical practionater per se, her senses are attuned enough to see that he's absorbed a portion (if not all) of the storm's power. Again there's the vaguest cock of her head as she considers the man so near her, but that consideration takes back seat as the demon-dog takes a step forward. Where is paws once were blacken imprints can be seen; denoting the heat of the dog's touch. With each step the sound of sizzling will reach the ears of those nearest and with Mercy's own heightened hearing, there's no chance in her missing that sound. "Careful, that thing is hot." Is her response for now, as she skirts slightly away from Loki. She's trying to determine who the dog wants, her or him. When she moves the dog's attention will focus upon the Coyote in hiding for a split second, before that redden gaze turns back to Loki. It seems Loki is the prey of choice. If only it knew what it really was going up against. With Loki's threat the pup will tilt its head slightly to the side, a momentarily curious gesture, but that interest soon wanes and another lip-curl replaces the previous somewhat non-threatening expression. Then, just like that, it moves - - Fire reaching for fire. The creature, for all of its size is quite fast, and as soon as it can it'll reach out with one of its paws to take a swipe at Loki. The obsidian-like claws are sharp and vaguely curved; the better to sink into prey and be able to drag it closer.
Loki	There have been smarter moves, and there have also been progressively less intelligent ones. The devil-dog is neither first or last to make a mistake of underestimating a nice man in a gorgeous Belstaff coat. Woe upon those ruining perfectly good outerwear. It's a crime, bar none. The simmering lightning dancing in his veins and the pelting rainfall saturated in his aura feels uncomfortably like someone else who never listens to reason. Not one who sizzles on the sidewalk, a fried egg sound and a thick smell of brimstone and ozone. The initial swipe finds the man moving back at a speed marginally quicker than most, but the casual backhand in response lets out a roaring gout of elemental force. The wind and the rain want to be free. He merely eases their path, encouraging the water to be set free. A tinge of his own icy nature coming through just can't help itself, turning a good many of those horizontal raindrops into tiny spears pointed on either side, a full halo of them blown forward and around him to close the Loki-shaped silhouette. He may have claws in his trousers trying to cut through, but so too does a storm make a demonic hedgehog. "All yours, my dear, if you want." Courteous, especially when it may be half-dead, all dead, or not dead! Maybe this is where they bravely run away.
Mercy Thompson	The demon-dog moves and it moves fast and while it's not necessarily coming after her, Mercy still can't help but reach outward toward 'Liam', a wordless shout of warning coming from her - - Thankfully, that shout isn't really needed, as Mercy feels the sudden build-up of magical energies; the location Loki. Her outstretched hand will hang there a moment as the Coyote watches the man unleash the wraith of the storm upon the demon-dog. The poor demon-dog, at this point. The force of that back-hand easily slams the dog backwards and while it gains to wobbly feet, that second attack of ice spears is enough to do the dog in. The carcass, because that's really what it is at this point, of the dog falls onto its side. While the ice spears will eventually that time is not quite yet and as such, they make formable weapons. At this point Mercy's gaze is going between Loki and the demon-dog, as she tries to muster a witty response to what just occurred. "Uh -" Begins the brown-haired woman, "- I think I'm good. I'm pretty sure he-it isn't getting up from that." And it's true, there's nary a twitch from the downed demon-dog. "What do you do again for a living?" She'll inquire, only half joking with that question, even as she trots towards the well-dressed man. As she steps up to him she'll lash out (again) with a foot to punt another demonling away from the duo. And while she could ask more questions she doesn't, as she cants her head slightly to the side, her fledging (compared to his own) senses extending outward to get the lay of the land.
Loki	Liam has no kindness in his chilly eyes. The immediacy of movement around him only serves to emphasize his lack of motion after the splintering atmosphere roars its revenge upon unwanted presences. Thin icy spindles pierce flesh and sink deep into sinews, hopefully better at pincushioning muscles from functioning properly. He brushes his hand over his hair to smooth out the strands ruffled up by the brief, passing wind. His electrified aura won't fail to throw some static electricity for a few seconds yet. That may be a little awkward. A low thrum of a growl wants to crawl out, and it could be a laugh or maybe a snort or a weirder noise altogether. "Travel," he says, shoulder popped up and down. "Write a bit about it. Digital nomad, you might say." Indeed, they write many famous picture stories about him in certain places, and he knows every last one that fuels his power, given god of stories along with trickery and mischief. (Don't listen to the stories about the lies. Haters gonna hate.) His shoulders sink a little and he pulls his Belstaff straight. "I think that's most of them around here. Still." A reminder to the awning gives a glance to formerly safe space. Mercy may be forgiven for not listening to him. At least she held her own. "You? I feel obliged to see you at least somewhere relatively safe. A cup of coffee to warm up."
Mercy Thompson	With the rage of magical energies within the storm abated the rain begins to slow, before disappearing all together. All that's left over are the various bodies of the demonlings and the one demon-dog. And while Mercy doesn't spy any new demonlings, or moving demonlings still about, a few have escaped. They're in the back alleyways now, hiding with the trash and eventually their presence will become an Urban Legend of sorts, but for now, they simply hide. Hide mostly from Loki, not Mercy. He's the scary one, not she. "A digital nomad." She echoes, one of her slim brown eyebrows shifting upward in surprise. She wasn't quite expecting that vocation from the man. Idly, her drenched hair will be pushed off her face as she considers his offer of hot coffee and also, the mess around them. "I suppose a quick drink wouldn't hurt and then we'll call the authorities for clean up." Not to mention she'd like to find who started this all, but that's best left unsaid. "And I'm a mechanic." She'll finally say, answering that returned question of hers. "I own a small shop down the way. I specialize in Volkswagens." Her chin will bob towards a small cafe that's not too far down the street. "Shall we head over there?" And while the streets are mostly devoid of people, the shops are still quite open. The majority of them haven't even realized the oddness that's just happened outside; thanks to being enclosed within their various buildings.
Loki	Nothing like garbage in back alleys to dispose of a problem in New York. Hey, it worked for the Chitauri dragons, might work for a few demonlings. He isn't frightening really. Just a bit too composed and a bit too pink in the cheeks, a sign of fading remorse or anger. Pick an emotion; it's probably as likely. Loki adjusts his collar lightly and then he nods. "Let's be gone before someone assumes we had something to do with it." A good idea, really, as nosy citizens have more than once dashed a trickster god's plans. The last of the veiled anger shivers off him and evaporates into the air. It may be slightly wetter around the spot he stood than before, but nothing to stand out entirely. "There should still be a decent spot for coffee. Even here." Hipster haven full of warehouses, either they hit the jackpot or wear through their shoe leather. "Such a mess." The situation? Mechanics? "You do work with your hands, then. Or do you have those machines that perform all the fixes?" These tricky questions are less leading than genuinely curious. Mercy's lead satisfies him enough and he follows with a nod, though remains alert for any sign of fat-bellied poodle demons running around. Or their big bad cousin. "You'll have to forgive me but Volkswagens are the German car brand, aren't they? I don't drive much."
Mercy Thompson	The high points upon his cheeks are seen and while she doesn't necessarily remark about the high color, she does understand what it means. She's good at pretending the anger, or heavy emotion isn't seen, as she's often had to do the same with wolves. Wolves, for all pretense, feel quite intensely and there are times their dual nature isn't not easy to live with. Thankfully, as the color fades so too does the spark within his aura and when the two fall into step near each other the atmosphere is much easier on more mortal nerves. Well, half-mortal nerves for Mercy, even if she is unaware of her birthright. And while (again) she doesn't say much, that spot of pavement he stood upon is given a curious look, when she spies the added liquid upon the sidewalk. "I have machines for some of the harder tasks, sure, but mostly I fix the cars with my hands. Makes the job more satisfying, you know?" And to that second question of his, she'll nod, "Yes, German. Best cars out there." She'll add, as she flashes a grin, totally knowing she's biased and not caring one bit. As the two continue down the sidewalk they'll find no apparent signs of any other demons. People are also returning to the walkways and the vaguest hint of a siren can be heard. Perhaps someone already called the local authorities? While they walk, Mercy will turn a curious look towards Liam, "Mind a personal question?" She'll ask, as they near the small cafe, the pungent scent of coffee wafting towards their position.
Loki	If only he had a dual nature. That would be a blessing in disguise. Whatever the feelings are, they pass away somewhat quick. It behooves Loki to stride along with a jaunty, proud stride. Nothing that eludes to being more than mortal except that magic, and wizards aren't so out of the ordinary as walking legends embodied across cultural venues. Really. Her grin lightens his mood a good deal more. "I thought they said that about every country. The absence of floating cars is a disappointment. Hasn't some engineer mastered the knack of that now? The electric ones, though, are much better. Quiet. Good for sneaking up on the other traffic, I have to imagine." Because traffic is a game of sharks queueing at a reef or some nonsense, but the colourful notion earns a chuckle from him. Fertile imagination has its dividends. The cafe makes for an excellent diversion, roasting beans and the unpretentious wooden interior a draw rather than something trying to recreate the charm of a place in Paris or Milan or Vienna with no success. The door with its hammered horseshoes is a bit odd, but he has no issue with opening it for Mercy. "Go ahead."
Mercy Thompson	An amused snort of sound can be heard from Mercy at the mention of floating cars and then electric cars. His mention of sneaking up upon other drives earns an equally amused look from the woman, as she says, "While I'd love to say 'I didn't realize driving was a game of cat and mouse' I've lived in New York long enough to know the truth." And yes, it's just like sharks and they're all out to get the biggest fish for themselves. When the door is held for her Mercy will step through, a dip of her head given to Loki in thanks, as she steps into the slightly warmer interior. She's going to make slight puddles for a little bit, but there's not much she can do about it. Giving an internal shrug at that particular dilemma, the brown-haired woman will return the majority of her attention back upon Loki, when he gives her permission to ask a more personal question. Her question will be considered for a silent second, before she finally asks, "I take it you're more than just a part-time practitioner?" And by practitioner she means wizard, she doesn't outright say that word, however, thanks to all the muggles that are currently within the cafe. "That felt like a lot of power you pulled down from the sky." The line of people is quite long, but for the most part the baristas at the counter are moving them at a relatively quick clip.
Loki	"This is why I prefer other methods." An easy answer for any number of inquiries, and exactly whatever the listener wants to impose their own views on. Where will an option take him? If he speaks up, where might Mercy wander? Something to ponder at a later moment when he's not scanning idly for anyone who might prove interesting or conspicuous. Flaws in any one of his enemies' famously stoic reserve could give them away. Finding none, he steps in. The wooden benches serving as seating around the outer rim are welcome enough. Small tables organized in comfortable lines will suit. "I'm a poor student, when it comes right down to it. I am more of an artist and tinkerer. Again, digital nomad." The phrase suits like a fuzzy sweater and he spins wholecloth from the seeds of truth. "Where the topics and interest take me, I follow. I happened to see an opportunity and I pulled. Not much more to it than that, honestly." And truth that is, though in an odd roundabout way. He did no more than yank out the cord and let the spell deflate. Never mind that made how many women in a coven lose a pint of blood or so, and one much more than that.
Mercy Thompson	With the line moving at a relatively quick clip, Mercy and Loki's initial far away position from the order counter soon shortens. Soon enough they're only a couple customer's away from order. "I got this - my treat." She'll say, as she fishes into one of the deep pockets of her coveralls for her wallet. "Order whatever you like." She'll add to the end of that, even as she considers his explanation. While she's not suspicious of him, or his answer, she does realize that he's not giving her a full answer. Which she can completely understand; after all the two barely know each other, and Mercy would likewise not offer up the full truth to a nearly perfect stranger. "Artist or tinkerer, either way, thank you for helping." She'll finally say, a smile twitching the corners of her mouth upward for the man. "If you hadn't helped it'd likely have been a slaughterhouse."
Loki	A treat? This is new enough. Still, the gentleman trickster is a gentleman born and his manners rigorously enforced by a woman prone to beating bad children with frowns and disappointed looks. Etiquette decrees nodding solemnly to the hipster cashier. Is there any other kind in Williamsburg? Cultist, maybe. "Tall tea latte, two bags of Earl Grey tea, if you would." A London fog is altogether an appropriate choice for a man with the dapper bearing and accent to match, though his pronunciation trends slightly more received pronunciation. The pattern of his voice has a delicate, flowing pitch. A furrow to his brow gives a pause. Laughter is bound to follow, a brief reverb. "Ah yes. And a shot of lavender syrup. And no, I am not at all emasculated by putting a floral syrup in my tea." Not when he's bold as brass about that, swinging around to the side with three steps that put him with his back to the counter, facing her. "I somehow think they might have managed. Resilient folk in these parts. So you happened out and that followed? Not the typical business or are you randomly wrapped up in it all the time?" A pause. "You're welcome. It was the thing to do at the moment." And other moments, he's still figuring that out.
Mercy Thompson	Money will be taken out of her wallet; a beat-up battered thing, but Mercy just likes to think of it as 'broken in'. Once a few bills are pulled from the confines, the leather wallet will be pushed back into that deep pocket. Her gaze turns curious when Loki orders and that curiousness will turn to humor when he adds that shot of lavender. "I'm not judging." She'll say quickly; and she's not. It's not like additions to tea and coffee aren't all the rage, currently. When it's her turn to order, she'll turn to the barista and say, "A regular coffee, two sugars please - wait, make that three." She could have gone for a fourth, but well, company and all of that. "Yes, people are resilient." She agrees, even as she makes the slightest of faces, "And yes, completely random that I was out and about here, but I do have to admit that several of my friends often compliment my ability to find trouble." Or is that complain? Likely complain. She'll offer a faint shrug, even as she slides the money towards the employee at the counter, "For both." She'll add to the barista, as she pays for both drinks. It'll only take moments for their drinks to arrive and when they do, Mercy will nod towards the tables, letting him choose if he'd like.
Loki	Tea isn't much of a cost, and a tea latte impacts little on the digestion system or the wallet. Manners perceived, and somewhere, the Queen can feel the disturbance in the Asgardian storm around her son settle, surely. Mothers are like that. They simply know. "Never you, I suspect. But..." He gives a sidelong glance to the audience and then back at the barista required to brew up his request with an Italian machine that hoots, hisses, and whistles like an electrified owl. "Don't pause on my account. Whatever satisfies you. I think after that walk, you are entitled." Lady Mercy the Brave. The Punter? He shall have to work on the tale later, grooming and combing it. He at least covers the tip, palming a few coins and detritus bills from his pocket and dropping them in the cup after they shuffle along. Then it's off to a table square with the window, giving them a view out onto the street in case any infernal mutts trot by. "Now that does sound compelling. What sort?" Hello, travel writer.
Mercy Thompson	Yes, mothers do know things, even when they're not supposed to. It's that intuition. It goes beyond the mortal sense of the word. With coffee in hand, Mercy will follow Loki to the table he selected; in front of that window. It's probably a good idea to keep an eye out for any strays, since these particular strays will /never/ be friendly, or make good pets. At all. Seriously. At his 'never you' comment, Mercy will offer a flash of straight white teeth, as she once again smiles and with a roll of one shoulder, she'll shrug. She won't outright deny that implication there, since she knows she is sometimes (often) a trouble magnet, but neither will she completely agree to it. "Oh, the usual types of trouble, someone telling me not to do something, or that I couldn't, and then deciding I would and can do whatever it was." A cautious sip of the coffee will now be taken and while it scalds a touch, it's thankfully not third-degree burn worthy. "I get a sense you might know how that goes." And while more could be said suddenly the rabid sound of buzzing can be heard from Mercy's other pocket. Looking surprised, the brown-haired woman will drop a hand towards the pocket to fish the smart phone out. Upon seeing the phone number the mechanic will frown slightly, "I hate to do this, but I really have to answer this. If you ever need anything or are having car issues just stop over at Mercy's Garage, that's where I can be found and I'll give you the friend's and family discount -"
Loki	Imagine those strays brought to a pound. Honest, officer, he was just sniffing around in the trash and whining piteously until he tried to eat my wife's face. Totally normal for a bichon frise, isn't it? "Tsk. Hasn't the world learned about the futility of 'no?' At least when the thrill exceeds the reason," Loki muses, lost in his own little glittering realm of mild laughter and rolled shoulders. There is an ease to him sitting back that shouldn't be so broad, as though he can bear the weight of the world without so much as a blink. A coffeeshop and some demons summoned by a foolish sorority coven? All in the cards. "As long as the conversation is good, or the need great, justify anything. That's what I've seen, anyways." No pressure lies in that direction and he blows over the pinched lid on the cup before drinking some of the contents. Always will a phone intrude. The great albatrosses of a good, civilised conversation. He gives the device the barest look. A look that says 'I could end you. I really could. But I won't.' Manners. Somewhere, Frigga of Asgard puts down her hairbrush and pauses. Odin makes a mental tally about his piled wool socks shoved in a drawer. "As you would, Miss Mercy. Business over pleasure, this one time, at any rate." His sly smile only broadens.