Owner	Pose
Mercy Thompson	OOC: This is before Wendigo Hunting Why does nothing ever happen at more normal hours of the day? That vague thought is what's going through Mercy's brain right now, as she parks her car within the lot attached to her garage. With an easy pop, the door opens and the coyote slides out of her car. She'll offer a vague stretch of arms and back, before her gaze turns towards the back seat of her car. A grimace bends her lips downward as she steps over and reaches behind the front seat. "And why do I get to take everything home?" She murmurs in both exasperation and some amusement, because really, what else can she do? She did say she had a friend who could possibly handle what's in her back seat. It's her own fault, in the end. The little cardboard box that holds the remains of a shattered mirror is carefully pulled free and once upright again, Mercy will kick the driver's side door closed. The faintest of kerthunk can be heard when the door hits home and then Mercy's heading towards the side door of her garage. Balancing the not-so-heavy box upon the flat of one palm the coyote will start to dig in a pocket for the shop key, as she approaches the door.
Loki	Certain stalker behaviour might go announced as //weird// and //nerve-wracking// in the lexicon of 'Things Visitors to Midgard Don't Do.' Randomly appearing on doorsteps, for example, could be construed as a vastly problematic issue. One will hopefully have to make it less troublesome by whistling a jaunty tune and carrying a latte in hand, one of those ubiquitous drinks. It's not that Loki has much of a taste for caffeine or the arabica bean, nor does he particularly need the energy input. It's a convenient thing to carry and the heat is pleasant. Better still, it allows for a handy weapon when problematic creatures show up. Oddly, no New Yorker in their rough brand of cynicism ever questions a man holding a cup of some hot beverage, like they might if it were a bottle of foaming alcohol or a large staff with an Infinity stone in it. Strange people they are. "How thrilling an hour, to discover in thine travails, such resplendent illumination alighting upon yon door." That's why he keeps the lattes, because the prospect of being a poet requires a certain Italian or French indulgence. Especially upon seeing Mercy manage a box that clearly she needs no assistance with, he tips his head and grins at the coyote. "I thought you might use an oil can or a plastic container to Bury the evidence. No one would be the wiser." The tip of his head catches any sound, whether the soughing of a captured mouse or the crackling of a weapon wrapped in cellophane, all the possibility of the realms present.
Mercy Thompson	Or creeper. Some people might call that being a creeper. Not that Mercy considers Loki one. No, she just considers him something else altogether. Either way, as the woman fits key to lock and turns, her sensitive ears will 'prick' upward as she hears that whistle. The cadence of the sound is familiar enough to cause a grin to curve the corners of Mercy's mouth upward. She'll finish unlocking that door and with a slight nudge from her elbow, the door is pushed open. Then the dark-haired woman will pivot slightly upon heel and turn her gaze towards the coffee carrying Loki. "Loki." She says in greeting, even as as her next words hold the light sound of her laughter within them. "A lovely greeting that -" She adds, even as she tilts her head towards the door and the interior of her garage, "- come on in?" And then she'll step inside, careful of the box and its contents. "And no -" Comes her still amused voice from the doorway, "- I'm pro-environment, so it's only biodegradable evidence boxes for this girl." Within the box sits a shattered mirror, the glass, metal and pewter shards tinkling softly against one another. The faintest of zings of magic might also be felt once one is close enough to the box. Two spells overlaid atop one another and while inert now, the shadow of the spells can still be felt.
Loki	Never assume he can sneak up on her, Loki. The mental note is filed away, though his own peculiarly acute physical senses make this an easy lesson. His hand lifts up in something of a hailing wave, though he drops his arm in a casual arc from above shoulder level to his side. The same covers a simple dispellation around him, banishing the influence of any lingering magics from wherever he's been. No need to track that kind of detritus into the house or the garage, as the matter would be. The scent around him sharpens to a clearer blend of sandalwood and desert spices on the back of a rosewood elixir, faint and woodsy. "No Liam? I do suppose we're past that, my lady." Has he ever noted how little her first name is used? Maybe this is polite, and maybe this is entirely the business of some Asgardian courtship ritual no one in their right mind knows, least of all him. He wanders in, anyways, holding the door from closing on himself. A push of a shoulder makes that easy. "Dare I ask what happened? I am doubtful you encountered a broken mirror on the side of a door somewhere. One of those things you look at often." His understanding of vehicles is somewhat limited, unless they're hyper futuristic. Then life is simply so much easier. That said, though, he brushes his hand against the surface shared by the box. Enough that he can get a taste of their flavouring without alarming anyone.
Mercy Thompson	It is hard to sneak up on Mercy; though it can be done. It would just take work. Or a suitable distraction to pull her attention away from what she hears, sees and smells. Either way, once the two are within the garage, Mercy will reach for the light-switch to the side. A quick flip and click and the fluorescent lights above will shine brightly to life, illuminating the work benches, car-lift and battered Rabbit that's slowly starting to be re-built. His remark about her use of his given name earns a quick look from Mercy, as she still offers that grin, though perhaps it's more smile now than actual expression of amusement. "Liam for when we're out in public, but by ourselves - yes, I think we're a little beyond that." And while she hasn't said anything about his deference to my lady with her, versus her name, she doesn't seem to mind. It harkens back to a more polite time; and in the end, Mercy finds it sweet gesture, no matter what the meaning behind it really is. His next words bring that amusement back to her expression though, as she laughs lightly again, "No, I can definitely say this is not a side view mirror." She's quick to say, even as she pauses walking when he reaches for the box. "A hand mirror. I found it in the woods and let's just say whatever it touched it changed those things. And not for the better." A head-tilt then from Mercy, "Well, not for the better in /my/ eyes." At that soft touch Loki will likely be able the vaguest flare of powers, as the spells still try to sluggishly reach out and warp those living creatures around it. The shattered pieces have two enchantments placed upon them, one of change and beauty, expertly placed hundreds of years ago and then overtop of that a newer, rougher enchantment; chaos. The second spell influenced that beautification spell into something more; something sinister and evil, and ugly.
Loki	His eyes flash impossibly bright in the transition from dark to properly lit, stealing more radiance than the bulbs in here happen to possess. Just a subtle reminder of his otherness. Loki doesn't have to advertise it, and for all he downplays it, it cannot be overly forgotten about. "I daresay we are. Though I shall not complain if you take to calling me your prince or such." He's bold as brass, that one, and shows not an iota of shame for it. Right and proper as things go. "Or perhaps you save that for talking to your friends in a hushed voice. Either way." There is no shrug whatsoever, as if he has the slightest idea of what a mechanic does with other grease heads and people who fix death machines instead of scrapping them to build a death //ray//. Ambition matters. Mercy speaking of a handmirror in the woods raises his brows. More for the woods than the mirror. "Indeed, you discovered it lying about? Broken or was that your work?" He clicks his tongue against his palate. "I would almost suspect her... no. Not so likely if it were any acquaintance of mine. I'd know the one likely to do this sort of thing from leagues off." No Amora the Enchantress lying about, no threat to them. His eyes narrow slightly. "It then begs the question who is twisting people to such despairing ends."
Mercy Thompson	It's always the eyes, isn't it? A window to a person's soul. The person they really are. Why should Asgardians be so different? Still, one can't quite just transition away from what Loki just said. Mercy's gaze turns wide for a single split-second as she stares at Loki, those words of his hanging there in the air. Or at least, hanging in the air for Mercy. Perhaps not Loki, since his sense of self is such that he sees nothing wrong with what was just said. Eventually, Mercy will find her voice and with a quirk of a grin, the coyote will say with just a hint of tease to her voice and a definite twinkle to her eyes, "Shall we save that name for special moments then?" As for her friends, her mechanic friends, most would likely never ever want to hear Mercy talk about Loki in the terms of 'my prince'. Most of her fellow mechanics are men and while they may talk about their conquests, Mercy just can't. It'd cause the men to run away mentally screaming; as most see her something akin to a sister, or sibling. It's a hard and firm 'no' in their minds. Moving with the shift in conversation, Mercy's attention moves back to the box that still sits within one of her hands. Taking a step to the side the coyote will move to one of her work benches, intending to put the box down. Once it's upon the top of the work bench, Mercy will neatly pull the lid of the box open, allowing Loki to see what's inside. "I actually didn't find it." Begins the coyote, as she looks at the contents of the box, "A man by the name of Sam Winchester did. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time to help." Her gaze sharpens when Loki mentions a suspect and automatically, Mercy will ask, "Who?" Though when Loki dismisses that idea of his, she'll offer a quick wave of the hand. He doesn't need to reveal if he doesn't want to. "He's also the one that broke it. Shot it to pieces, in fact." And what's inside are hundreds of shards; pewter, glass, metal, all shattered by two carefully aimed bullet. Normal sight will show nothing out of the ordinary with the pieces, but otherworldly will; there's a miasma of magic around it, the spells broken and flickering in static little pops and hisses, as the green sickly aura tries to continue to reach out towards Mercy and Loki to change them, twist them. Turn them into something so much more - Loki's last words earn a nod from Mercy, as she says, "Agreed. There's just too many coincidences at this point. Too many magical artifacts flooding the 'market' to be simple folly." And while the enchantments can be sensed quite easily, with actual study of the bits and pieces, one might find how the enchantments were placed. Not by spoken spell, or cauldron of liquid, but instead written upon the artifact with sigil. One writ with magic fire, the other with blood.
Loki	The laughter fills the garage and rooms beyond, the reaction from the coyote priceless. Mercy's reaction delights as much as it beckons in some part of that tattered soul to see those very lips forming the title, and giving benediction to the rank to mean something. Mischief crackles in burning delight across his features, giving his face an animation missing from so many. Wildfire, another of his kennings, is wholly apt. The Asgardian crosses his arms over his chest, still holding the latte, and allows the amusement to play out on its natural course. It could take at least ten minutes to fully get ahold of himself, but he does muster some effort to at least be quiet for a more serious matter. Those times on Midgard for humour are so rare. "Od's bones, putting you in an evening dress might be stretching credibility enough for some of those images, but you no doubt would sooner eat a centipede, wouldn't you?" And this makes it worth the challenge. Yes, yes indeed. His expression changes a little when the name is mentioned, as though it rings a bell right adjacent to 'will not die' in the thesaurus. His nose wrinkles slightly. "He //shot// a mirror? Not the most elegant of options." Not at all. "But tolerable, I suppose, given the need. And my acquaintance is a woman named Amora. The goddess of desire, she thinks, though she has all the grace, wit, and allure given to a lionfish, and she may be more venomous on the whole of it. Neither make her prickle or eat her, in general." The shape-shifting magic trying so hard to fit together, and he is not going to give them a chance to bite into his form. "This is cunning. Someone was hungry."
Mercy Thompson	Laughter. It's good for the soul. Even for those souls that feel so tattered and trodden upon. She may not say much to Loki, but she's caught those hints of bitterness within him, and the occasional flash of pain here and there; though hardly the full story, she knows. Still, to see him laugh in such a carefree manner is nice, it brings a matching smile to her lips. And the coyote won't try to stop that laughter of his anytime soon, so, it'll go on for however long is needed. Or when Loki makes that effort to become a touch more serious. That mention of evening dresses, however, earns a faint look from the coyote, not quite a grimace per se, but definitely a faint moue of displeasure. She's at her most natural in her typical daily wear; jeans and t-shirts, or mechanic overalls. Dresses are so impractical. So, yes, it'll be a challenge to get the woman into anything beyond a cocktail dress. "I'll have you know centipedes can be quite delicious." Which is likely all the answer he needs where it concerns evening wear. With a grin still quirking her lips upward, Mercy will reach for the box, though she doesn't quite go poking at the pieces. That's just foolish in her mind. "You know of him?" She asks, catching that slight shift in the Asgardian's expression, "He seemed nice -" She continues, even as she nods, ruefully, to those next words, "Yes, shot it. It really was the only way. We found a charred body near the mirror, so I would say neither of us really wanted to touch it." The mention of Amora earns a thoughtful look from the coyote, and while she could say something, she doesn't. She simply files his reference away for later; so many tidbits to follow up on, really. "Hungry?" She says, her tone sounding a little wry now, "I'm not sure I'd put it quite that way." She'll fall silent then as she considers the pieces, "Do you think I should bury it? He asked me to put it someplace safe and I figured I'd either bury it, or possibly see what you recommended."
Mercy Thompson	"Not to keep pushing all this stuff off on you." Mercy adds quick enough, "But I have to say I consider you far more of an expert here than I."
Loki	"I'll have you know that no amount of augmentation to a tastebud makes them palatable," Loki fires back, giving Mercy a pointed look down the elegant line of his nose. He can master that without losing any of his pride in the matter. Though if she wears a cocktail dress, he'll consider letting her have the win. He nods to the question of Sam Winchester. "By reputation more than anything. Perhaps I ought to meet this marksman simply to set eyes on him and decide I never want to see him again. I have the depressing thought that many of the things he doesn't like end up hopelessly in ruins." No thanks to a certain Castiel, such as he exists or does not. Or a bunch of other factors that probably start and end with 'gun.'" A charred body near the mirror and then a warping spell within. I have no doubt that it intended ill upon a target, and that is a sort of hunger. Not the kind I would say means 'eat a person.' But blood magic is always empty at heart. It's one of the reasons it is dangerous and unwise to use, there will always be a greater price to pay. Of course, plenty are happy to ignore that fact altogether, to their own peril. We know better." They? Asgard or Mercy and himself, he does not say. The answer may be all and option c, the one he didn't clarify. His latte is put down out of reach, just in case. Then, he gives a narrowed look at the fragments. "There //is// a way I can find out the details, but I will need water. And a bowl, preferably a metal one if you have it and if not, I won't raid the cat. I can reconstruct a ghost of the mirror before it shattered, and perhaps we can see the face that looked into it." The benefits of temporal manipulation are many, but this is more a divination, a recollection of the object's own past he has in mind, pulling up the intact ghost of itself and discovering what it did, not so much what it is and does, now.
Mercy Thompson	Blood magic. That's enough to make Mercy's expression turn grim, the light-heartedness from just moments before leaving her features for something far more serious. "It always comes back to blood, doesn't it?" Comes that rather rhetorical question from her, even as she nods along to what he says. Yes, C is always a good option. "I have one." She says, and she'll reach to lightly touch his arm, both because he's so near, but also in thanks, then she's moving away. She's going towards the locked cabinets that sit to the other side of the room. There's a rustle of key and the slight squeak of metal hinges as the woman sifts through the various contents within. Eventually a very battered and dented metal bowl will be found. "Here we go." She says, then it's off to a small sink where she'll rinse the bowl out, before filling with fresh water. 'Fresh' in the city sense of the word - no pools of crystal clear water here. Once the bowl is filled half way, Mercy will bring it over and set it upon the work bench near Loki. "You know what else was odd?" She'll say, keeping that running commentary going between the two, as she so often does, "When the thing exploded it released a wash of energy, not unexpected really, but after all was said and done, I found myself human." And while there's a touch of concern for her words, and herself, mostly puzzlement can be found within her voice. "Never had that happen to me before." She finishes with, even as settles herself a step away from Loki. Not far, but enough of room left between them for him to easily work with. Whether he reaches for that mirror in the classic sense, or the magical sense, Loki might be in for quite the surprise. Instead of allowing the divination to occur, the mirror resists. It may not be sentient in the defined sense of the word, but there's an awareness there and it fights. The awareness can be traced back to that newer sigil, the one laid in blood. Even shattered so, the sigil strives to pull what power it has to itself so that when Loki reaches for it, it'll be ready. Its influences start out as little nips of annoyance; a twist to a word spoken possibly, or a glyph written within the air before him, or even with those upon spells enacted within the mental scape of the trickster's mind. It doesn't seem to care that Loki, or even Mercy or itself, are all part of same chaotic school of magic; it just doesn't want Loki to touch it. And so that broken, bent, sigil, inscribed by untutored hands, will interject its own powers of chaos upon the Asgardian. The snarled quality of its casting and its subsequent destruction adding an almost wilder abandon than one might expect.
Loki	Blood. Blood is a dangerous connection to life, a fierce fuel that death burns through and wicked intentions can shape in so many ways. Loki's mouth tightens, the crowsfeet around his eyes the lone indicator of his opinion on the matter. Mercy is not a practitioner. If she were, it might be different, the revulsion possibly mixed with a grasp on power, a yearning to expand her talents and knowledge. "There are always shortcuts," he says. "With cost and consequences, though. For some would substitute their lack through use of an empowered medium, and spells such as this invariably demand more than a wise mage would pay. Those who do not leave their fingerprints all over it, and the foulness assaults me even now." It is more than a breadcrumb, in a way, better than scraps. The woman taken on his arm is not treated with a disenchanted boredom, but rather something better than he might offer other humans of this sordid realm full of wonders and countless scapegrace imperfections. "The fire was pure, the blood is not." This much he offers and takes the bowl. His process of casting is singularly unfancy, odd for a man so bent upon fanfare and pageantry and decorum when it counts. Yet he, too, is a creature like Mercy: split between realms spiritual and wild and earthen, rather than merely trapped in two legs, two arms, and blind to much. He intones phrases in his native Aesir, the language of the gods, and the incantation over a bowl of still water proves terribly unimpressive at first. Mere glints of power form in the water, a stirring of the surface as the liquid rises and falls, reflecting a fine vapor. He pushes in a thread of energy, contained and yet wild, full of possibilities to better latch onto the distrustful currents of time. Time scratched and warped by the force of the shape imposed on the fragments, the glyph defying simple reading. Not the first time something of a relic has lashed out against him, and normally he would exult in the challenge. There are countless books he can consult, tomes and artifacts in his library caches that might ease, but nothing is so sweet as a sorcerer contending with his will and discipline against something that defies him. He might be at pains to explain why to Mercy. "You attained your human form? How long?" That snatch of a question follows as the recalcitrant spell insists on being in charge, imposing itself against //him// and not the other way around. Them's fighting words. Rolling up his sleeves is pointless. Off with his coat, then, and a shake of his arms loosens his sleeves. He reaches out a hand and makes a gesture, causing a sliver of wood to crash out of nowhere into his waiting palm. Mistake to call it a wand, it isn't, but closer to an Icelandic curse stick beautifully and richly carved on every surface. The dust of its container tumbles to the ground, inert volcanic sand. Fire to fire, chaos to chaos. He cuts several neat runes in midair, intersecting lines made visible through the weft and warp of infused natural energy in his prodigious aura. Pulling out a bit of actual, liquefied mana is not hard, if one knows the trick. It involves a series of murmured incantations for the wildfire stuff to manifest. It looks like the northern lights, right down to the hue, dancing and whirling around Mercy in an affectionate riffle before returning to him. Poured into a thin bridge, it makes a spell matrix, the other half of a pattern waiting to be filled. If the baleful glyph wants to play, let it. He'll tease it with a construct that looks and quacks and waddles like a human duck, and is nothing of the sort, something close enough a key to himself to make a jump possible. And, of course, aimed at the wrong target, an inert one. But he's not up for mere games. "Show me what you are, you wicked thing. Tell me what you want, what shape you crave, what end you desire. I can //make// you, shape you, and breathe life to you. Acknowledge me."
Mercy Thompson	"Shortcuts." Muses Mercy, her tone sounding quite sardonic with that word, "Rarely ever result in anything good." Mostly. There are times shortcuts are needed; but mostly not, in her book. It's probably the mechanic part of her, shoddy workmanship just sets her teeth on edge. And while more could be said, it isn't. Mercy will fall silent when Loki takes the bowl from her. His words, really incantations, are listened to with open curiosity from the woman and while she can't understand what he's saying, her eyes will still move towards the bowl of water. There's a faint narrowing of her eyes as Mercy watches everything with more than just the typical senses of eyes, ears and nose. And while others might show signs of impatience when nothing seems to happen at first, Mercy doesn't. She's been around enough spell casters to understand magic isn't always quick or always visible; so, she waits. Patiently. "Seconds." Is her prompt response to his question, "Then I shifted back like normal." Is what she ends with, even as she straightens slightly when Loki strips his coat off. She'll automatically reach for that coat, to take off his hands and place neatly aside if needed, "Problems?", she asks, even as she takes a slight step forward to look into both box of shards and bowl of water. The arrival of the stick isn't missed, nor the sand upon the floor. For now that sand is ignored, and instead Mercy will turn a look from that magical tool back to its owner, as she considers whether she should be worried or not. He seems quite unworried and while she'd like to feel the same, she doesn't, as the smallest seeds of anxiety blooms within her. Almost her anxiety is forgotten when Loki pulls forth the mana; and the space around her lights up. Her lips will part in surprise and in an unconscious movement Mercy will raise one hand upward - to try and touch the conflagration of power and light. And that's about the last good thought Mercy has, as suddenly the shards within the box begin to tremble. The bridge before it is too much of a temptation and the sentience held within isn't evolved enough to see that trap for what it is. A trick - - But perhaps Loki might also underestimate the scraps of blood magic within those shards too. For when the thin sickly green tendrils of powers leap from the bits of metal, pewter and glass, to touch upon that matrix-bridge of power, it will immediately try to circumvent Loki's hold upon it. It wants to twist the bridge into something it can use, it wants to actually open the way so that it might jump to Loki. A twist here, a slice there, and the thing sacrifices stealth and even power, to scrambles towards Loki. Then, like any predator, it leaps. At the exact same time the power tries to leap, Loki speaks those words of command for the presence to show itself; to be known to both. Before its leap it might have been able to resist the Asgardian's will, but now it can't. Its energies are too focused on corrupting the matrix Loki has built, and so - - A shape begins to form, above it, near it, somewhere around it. It begins to coalesce into a human face, but before any features can be formed there's a shift, a distortion to the image. When it reforms something all together different is there; a wolf, coyote, raven, crow is suddenly standing there. Its form is hazy, ghostly almost, and malevolent yellow eyes stare out from the face of a bird and the muzzle of canine. Dark pointed ears lay flat against head, then glossy black feathers rise upward from the ruff of black fur. The form, or forms, revealed. A twisted nature of animal, magic and something more.
Loki	The will set against that malicious creature loses all laughter and smiles. It comes down to nothing more than sheer grit. For very few things in his life has Loki truly had to //work//. Magic is one of them. Prowess attained at his mother's foot, the painstaking and bruising climb while nursing pains inflicted by the warrior society he doesn't quite occupy right. A litany of other sins collected to his name, these mean something. And to hell with some upstart evil spell impacting his one attempt to do something halfway fun and good for another purpose. The princely pride is tarnished to the core, but still metal. His shoulders harden in a firm, demanding line as he braces himself. The water in the bowl forgotten, the liquid heaves about and bubbles through a rapid transition. The air around him physically cools, sloughing off twenty degrees in a blink of an eye as he pulls the ambient energy into himself, in preparation for a spell. He can practically taste the crackling minerals on his tongue, the fluoride to save the children's teeth alongside the stony underpinnings of the Adirondacks carried down through the centuries. The forming shape wants him to bend, does it? Ice can bend and flow in the most miraculous and unbelievable of ways, its properties more like a liquid at times than a solid. He bares his teeth in a feral grin at the thing, pulled into being by his own spell trap, and so tantalisingly close. If it wants to survive, it better listen. If it wants to thrive for more than a heartbeat, it better accept the price of consent. Crow feathers and wolf skin boil together, torn asunder, and reshaped. Chaos incarnate, even as his own features start to bleed in the face of such unknown horror. If one looks too close, he ages in reverse to an adolescent and becomes a wizened elder, still upright and aged, those fierce green eyes touched by no jack frost of rheumy loss. Another moment he is a serpent, another a dragon, a bear, a torrent of flame, a spirit of the void, the night. All it dares to be, he reflects flat out at it again through the imposed impressions. Aura magic. Shape-changer. //I am,// he tells it in the silent fortitude of purpose, even as the magic bursts in its vertiginous luminescence that seethes across a green spectrum, buoyed up yellow chartreuse and shot to the inkiest of sylvan hues known only to the forest's heart. "You," she, for once, snarls, "will abide. I listen. You are mastered." Then it's back to the man, in human guise, voice steady, amused, darkly masculine and unyielding an inch. "What do you make of that, my lady? It most certainly is there. Whether it sees fit to talk is another matter. Though it has an audience, and attention."
Mercy Thompson	A battle of wills then. One the little shard of blood will lose. Loki is far more powerful than it; but perhaps soon there will be rematch of sorts. Elsewhere, with the one who made this glyph of power. For Mercy, her reaction to the revealed images is a sharply indrawn breath. Not a gasp, but something perilously close to it. It's a sound of surprise and shock, as her gaze takes in the animals. That shock only lasts a moment, as her expression hardens slightly. Whereas others might see only animals, Mercy sees more. Echoes to her own heritage and something else, something that seems familiar, if in a twisted way. "The crow, coyote -" Begins the woman, but that's all she can say as her attention shifts away from crow, raven, wolf and coyote, from the sudden temperature change. Brown eyes will seek out Loki now and Mercy will reach a hand towards him; only falling short right before she touches him. The warning that something more is happening can be seen within the breadth of his shoulder, the stiffening of his stance. It's a warning that Mercy will heed. Not necessarily like, but she'll heed it. She was taught that hard lesson to never interrupt a mage when they're casting. Bad things tend to happen if you do. And really, couldn't the current situation be summed up as possibly 'bad'? The price of life for the bit of blood magic isn't accepted at first; or acknowledge. Instead the thing fights, the wavering form of wolf, coyote, raven and crow, begins to shift, change and reform. The sight of a were-beast can be seen now - half bird, half man, half coyote, wolf and raven. Its yellow eyes burn with hatred, its beak, muzzle, mouth, opens in a silent scream of rage and for all of that, another image can be found within its smokey depths. A buffalo, wounded and bleeding, injuries from a dozen wounds upon its pelt. The image is only there for a single heartbeat, before the fury of the beast is abruptly shattered. That onslaught of power from Loki finally breaking what chaos the glyph held. Weakly now, the energy pulls itself back into itself, a cloud of malcontent hovering around it. Mercy, for her part, is simply standing there. His words jar her brain slightly, sounding so sane, when what she just saw wasn't necessarily that. A hand will rise upward slightly as she says, "One second. I think I need a minute here." Then her fingertips will go to her mouth as she considers Loki, the box and then Loki again. While she understands he's powerful, truly in the most honest sense of the word, it hasn't quite sunk in just how so. Tonight, a little of it did. "Honestly, I feel a slight need for a drink, but -" And here's where she finds her footing again and her humor, "- I'd rather not give you the impression I'm a lush." Those fingertips of hers are dropped from her mouth, as she steps closer to the work bench, her gaze dropping to the box. "The animals it showed us, most of those are sacred to my father's people." Which is true, ashame she doens't yet know how literal that is.
Loki	"Is it one of your people? A child of Coyote abused in a fashion, or one of the shamanic peoples? I have seen the face of it before. The Raven and the buffalo, the coyote -- inland plains? Cordillera?" For someone who doesn't get human psychology in the same fashion as an actual human, Loki knows a thing or three about the First Nations wandering up and down the western side of the continent. Makes sense, perhaps; some of his folk were among the earliest to bring the legend westward, carried in the whispers of Scots and Finns and Norwegians who went to fish those fertile lakes, rivers, and coasts. He holds the web of energy in place, a binding as much as the first that holds glyph to mirror, even if this means a decided need for rest and relaxation, or at the very least, a good meal. He can worry about the cost later. When the spiritual impact reels back on itself, the bowl of water practically flings itself off the counter. The change in pressure leaves another dent in the collection of dings and holes. He isn't even about hurrying along to fix the situation. Better to watch for a moment. Turning, then, to Mercy, would signal a readiness of the Asgardian to deal with the obvious thing at hand. "This, I expect, was meant to find you. Something that bears a brand of art akin to your own soul, but in the wrong provenance. Buffalo; bison, give a very distinct geographical location to work with." No accusation lies there, but he does need far less time to adjust to the devilish revelations than some might. It comes with being subjected to one too many tosses of Mjolnir. One day he's going to learn to catch that damn hammer and give it a thorough scolding.
Mercy Thompson	"Possibly." Comes Mercy's answer, though it's not a very specific answer to that initial question of Loki's. She's still turning the various images around in her head; bird, coyote, wolf, raven and buffalo. And Loki's, as well. Still, the power of the mundane is enough to bring her back to the moment at hand, to release her from fantastical's hold. Giving her head a brief shake, she'll turn her gaze towards the bowl that now lays upon the ground. Good thing it was an old one. She'll leave the bowl upon the floor, as she turns back to the angry energy that Loki holds within his web of power. At his obvious explanation of the mirror and what the two saw this might, Mercy can only offer the vaguest of unhappy looks. Then, with a sigh, the dark-haired woman will nod, "Yes, it seems like it was meant for me, doesn't." A grimace then, as she says, "I suppose it wouldn't be too much trouble for you to give us a name, would it?" That question is addressed more to the grumpy-cat of a sigil and while it stirs at the voices around it, it sits, sulkily within the web of power. "Didn't think so." Mercy says after a minute of waiting, then with a hand she'll grab the box of shards, "Can you put it back? I've a feeling we should keep this thing close, while we figure this out. I can encircle it with salt, to help keep it confined within its box."
Loki	"At least you have the knowledge of something for you. Assurance, then, it limits the options considerably. So few random troubles happen in the world," Loki says. Maybe he means to reassure her. There could be a veiled warning in there, but unlikely when being mysterious and a fork tongued liar serves absolutely no purpose. Her question of a name raises a brow from him. "It might have been useful to ask. Though if you are asking me, I can name only a few situations of these instances, and none are likely to be helpful. Hardly recent names." Some ancient training from the dawn of his youth kicks him at that point, and then he stops to ignore the cranky glittering sigil made of ruined glass and metal. "Give her a name, I'll give you a reprieve." In case it wants to behave. Still, he stops to put his hands on her shoulders, assuming Mercy does not run away screaming or shrug him off. "Are //you// well?" The stress matters. "This has upset you. Salt would be proper, yes, and given blood magic, a bit of blessed water wouldn't go awry either." Distasteful, that comment.
Mercy Thompson	"Random." She murmurs, or more mutters to herself, as his words don't necessarily calm her down. In fact, they start her brain tumbling around in her head again. What if everything is connected - - All of it. That thought is considered by the woman and while she could have stood there, trapped in her turning thoughts, Loki's voice draws her out once more. Shaking her head, again, Mercy will return her attention to the man before her and then finally the shards of glass, metal and pewter. For a long moment it just sits there, ignoring Loki, but finally something within it finally offers a singular word - - Coyote - And that's it. Capital C there. "Coyote." Mercy says, hearing that whisper upon the wind, "That doesn't help." Or it does, she just doesn't realize it yet. Soon though, she will. His touch up her shoulders returns her attention to his face, as she considers his question about her well-being. A crinkle around her eyes and mouth denote the smile that briefly lifts her expression upward, accepting the touch for what it is; concern, comfort, "I'm off-balanced." She answers quite honestly, "But I'll be okay. Come on, let's get the salt and blessed water." And yes, she totally has blessed water in her house. Vampires. They're real. "And then food?" She'll ask, as now she returns his worry with some of her own. She understands working powerful magics can deplete a person.
Loki	"And then food." Witches in a bad coven practicing blood magic. An insulting mirror. The axe stolen from the tongs that splits souls. Buffalo stabbed and bleeding, rage from the beasts, the multishaped doom. Wendigo, in hours and days to come. A pattern falls into place, and one that needs a good scrubbing to be measured. Loki watches Mercy closely for a few seconds longer than normal. "Yes, you are." How charming and debonair. Maybe next he'll point out she looks like she lacks sleep and would do better without a bruise that size of Rhode Island on her forearm, in another place, another time. He's swell like that. "Food will settle it some. The rest, you need to take only in the moments as they come. It will not break free this instant and run amok." Damn straight it won't, because if it tries, he'll dump a salt block on it and make the Winter Soldier stand guard with a few enchanted bullets.
Mercy Thompson	Yes, she is. The look, his words, it's not enough. Yet. Later when all of this is said and done she might put two and two together, but for now; no. It's up and over her head. "Good. I'd really hate for it to run amok." Are her final words, before the two settle for warding the area around the box and then finding something suitable to eat. And perhaps a fresh latte for Loki as well.