Owner	Pose
Sif	Even the gods must practice in order to maintain their edge. Natural ability counts only for so much. Even so, Sif has completed her weekly task of seeing to the newest recruits to the Einherjar -- teaching them well-rounded lessons in weaponry finesse and minding themselves not to assume. Every single recruit ended up in the mud; one lucky soldier managed to land an elbow to her temple and while it left a smudge on Sif's temple that the elder Odinson noticed when they last spoke, her feelings on matters aren't sore. It was a personal lesson to not become too cocky of her own martial prowess. But the Princess of Vanaheim doesn't continually focus on the sword and shield. Some days, it pays to practice her other hobbies. This leads her to a side balcony off of the main hallway, through a small sitting room decorated in golden hues with bold accents and a pair of gauzy curtains in deep royal purple separating it from the gentle breezes of autumn. The season has arrived in force in Asgard. It means while the air might be soft, it holds the crisp of leaves and impending frost. Sif weaves a lilting tune from the strings she plucks of the standing pedal harp, a beautiful creation in deeply glossy wood and gilded touches here and there. Taller than she, she sits astride a stool in an ankle-length gown with a deliberate slit along each thigh to allow the instrument's body to rise between her knees. Soft doeskin leggings beneath keep decorum present. Cream and gold, the gown, and wine-red, the leggings, for a contrast to her knee-high hunting boots of brown. Her hair is drawn up on one side with a comb-clasp and her eyes are half-closed in deep concentration, her mind focused on weaving the song rather than her surroundings -- at first.
Loki	Sif's harp playing has attracted attention, in a visible way. Loki had been outside, in the rich night of Asgard, enjoying the feel of their home. That Asgard is back is still such a fresh, new thing, that simply feeling the night is stirs something deep. The musical notes of the harp enter into it: a familiar sound as well. Loki can't recall the last time that harp sounded in this place, though he keenly knows who the musician is. And so it is that a big raven soars up from the lower gardens, turns once in the evening's crisp breeze, and alights smoothly on the thick stone railing of the balcony. The bird is a healthy, glossy male, the black shining with greens, eyes intelligent and observant; he folds his wings neatly and observes her playing, tail speading just a little, taloned feet easily gripping the rail. He was not silent in arrival, his wings created a whirlwind of feathery sound, but he is silent now, watching her play.
Sif	Silvery strings hum their notes off into the air. Its displacement nearby has Sif glancing over in a manner markedly less concerned than she might display elsewhere -- or else-world. The large darkly-feathered birds are common around Asgard as messengers for both the people and royalty, but... Bringing her fingertips in masterful reaching strums back towards herself, the Valkrie gives the large raven a gentle smile. Glittering, the results, as if the atmosphere around them might react to her playing. "And good evening to you, my lord," comes the greeting in warmly amused tones. "What brings you to my balcony?" Twinkling glissandos then begin to take precedence, winsome in their minor key, like a gaze upon the horizon awaiting the moon's rise. It hangs bright in the sky as is and casts silvery light somehow not cold.
Loki	The raven tilts his head just a hair, eye moving as he takes her in, the only indication of it a shift in the sheen of the bird's eye. Then there's a very 'human' flick of beak towards the harp, in answer. The harp playing, the music brought him by. Or perhaps her. The gesture could have meant either. In a flux of magic as the raven hops off the rail, though, Loki shifts out of his bird form and into his own, stepping smoothly to the stones. His nearly-black cloak flows up and out from the movement and shift. Loki's dressed for travel: his version of 'hunting' leathers, sleek and comfortable in shades of black and browns, though not without trims in his personal colors of green and gold. He begins to remove his gloves slowly, by pulling each finger in a relaxed way, smile bemused. His hair is down and loose, some of it forward, windblown. "Would you not prefer an audience?" Loki asks lightly in answer. "I did not come to critique, though I think you'd find my opinion positive."
Sif	"Ah, yes," the Aesir murmurs as she looks from the directive beaky motion and back to the instrument. The dreamy smile lingers as she tilts her head to one side, pserenadeing with the strings to weave in and out of the minor key as easily as the breeze in the curtains. When the Trickster regains his humanoid form in a flawless flowing shift of self, he earns himself a brighter facet of her attention. Sif glances over to him with a light of greeting in her pale-blue eyes. "I thank you kindly for your critique, my lord," the Princess replies in courtly airs clearly put on by the quirk of her lips. "You are welcome to have a seat. I got to watching the moonlight's fall upon the city and could not resist revisiting my very old friend." She must mean the harp itself. "There is something about how the light silvers all it touches..." she muses as she continues plucking out a quiet serenade in reverie.
Loki	Loki's removing the gloves 'absently', but there is an intent watchfulness to the way he's looking at her sideways. It's a sort of look that many that know him could find unnerving: it's a very calculating expression, but indirect. Usually from Loki that can mean his attention is very focused: which means he's very dangerous. "I am glad you have your harp restored. I know many, many things were lost in the evacuations," Loki answers evenly, but does move to take a seat. "Everyone has known /some/ amount of change."
Sif	"Yes..." On a breath comes the agreement, as if Sif in her moment can't muster energy to speak overtop the soft music. Still, her eyes land upon him again where he settles and her smile deepens a touch. "Many things have changed since the world itself has been restored. To be able to touch her strings is to know a special kind of peace again." Letting a chord ring, the Vanir reaches back to fuss at the clip in her hair, as if it might be hanging too far down from its placement. The lines of her neck remain graceful even with martial strength apparent. "Do you find things to your liking?" Yet again another playful overture not too unlike a cat reaching to pat for attention. Perhaps the shift on her padded stool was deliberate; the arch of her lower back seems proud now. Back her fingers go to the strings while she looks to Loki; they move with long-practice and without her needing direct visual attention upon them.
Loki	Loki finishes removing his gloves, and adjusts his position, languidly turning sideways on the bench, and then lays backwards on it, reclined; his knees are bent, feet resting on the bench as well. The whole of the sprawl is not a flop, though: Loki is very physically aware of what he does, and his body language is always full of messages. He considers her question through partially lidded eyes, his eyes moving over her and her variety of body language on display. "Perhaps, but it would be rather tactless of me to say my life has improved, even over before Ragnarok, wouldn't it."
Sif	"Mmm...tactless? You believe so?" Notes gently ring in a slow descent down the scale as Sif considers him in his sprawl. "Whatever secret might you be giving away by affirming any improvements?" One deeply resonant note rings almost as a held breath. "I will share my own." Back up the strings again, even more quietly yet, and the woman subtly pouts her lip in thought, eyes downcast to one side. Then, with a particular brisk dancing of fingertips over the harp's strings, she rises to her feet. How delightful: the instrument continues playing of its own accord as if her ghost were still sitting to indulge. Her bootsteps take her silently over. "I would say the company is most pleasant," she murmurs, then making to settle on the edge of the bench's seat, as not to overly bump into the reclining Prince.
Loki	While Loki didn't expect her to approach him -- people don't do that -- he also doesn't react. He was well prepared when he came to land on her balcony: ready to observe and sort out the interesting puzzle that Sif had somehow become. And so it is that Loki doesn't move at first, but he also doesn't ignore her or make any actions that show dissatisfaction. "That /would/ be a change, I am not usually pleasant, most will tell you," Loki says slyly. The joke does reach his eyes, then his lips. His gaze drifts to his knees and her position, but he doesn't adjust yet.
Sif	Sif's gaze slides down his body and specifically to his knees. A delicately-manicured eyebrow arches and she gives him a canted side-look in return, lips very obviously holding back at smiling further. An affected sigh follows as she shifts in place just enough to bump against his legs. "And neither am I, despite what rumors might claim, but here we both are. I am told many things. That I choose to believe them is of my own choice." Turning her face fully towards him, the Valkyrie's expression softens. "Does this evening find you well?"
Loki	Loki observes her touching his legs with her side, a sharpness in his gaze as he follows her choice to accost his person in that way. He doesn't move: his eyes turn a little challenging: in that he also looks specifically at his knees, then back to her face. The smile that comes is more in play than insult, though: he's not annoyed. "I am not responsible for /all/ rumors," Loki says, as if hurt she'd suggested it. "As usual this evening finds me overworked. Your music is a welcome respite."
Sif	Sif watches and weighs his reaction in turn. It appears to be as if she hasn't pricked him to a knife's edge. However, the dark-haired woman doesn't press her luck further with attempting to better seat herself further. "I did not claim you responsible as such," she replies in a lazy parry. "Though if it would please you, I can return to the strings. It is a simple ballad they play at, an apprentice's cantrip I wove into them a long time ago." Her glacially-blue eyes move to the harp gleaming with silver moonlight. Indeed, the tune continues with what appears to be a natural shifting of creativity, but a masterful ear will catch the repetition of a more basic set of chords beneath it all. "What has you so busy to find you overworked?" she asks regardless, her gaze returning to the Trickster.
Loki	Loki chuckles softly as she adjusts in the conversation so smoothly. She's always been good at courtly 'banter', he'd forgotten. Or just hadn't focused on it. His expression is watchful, but relaxed. But then it moves. "In truth, I consider myself overworked if only in that I -deserve- a vacation, rest and relaxation," Loki determines, in a sudden little mood swing, his tone abruptly grumpy: but distinctly /honest/. He didn't do a little dance around it, it may feel like: he told her exactly how he actually felt about it. "Repairs to the bifrost. I'm tired of opening portals all the time back to New Asgard, so at least that's over with."
Sif	There is a sympathetic nod from Sif. "Repairs to the Bifrost would take no little skill. The combination of magic and our technology has always been a wonder. To not have it..." She frowns as if coming to a realization. "It too was a deep loss along with Asgard. Do let me know if you require assistance. You remember I too can open portals?" Her hand wanders leadingly to her outside hip and makes to feel at a sword pommel not present. Hela had been most impressed with Brumeoalfold, the Bridge Between Worlds. "Though...where would you go if you had such time available to you to exist and set aside your cares for Asgard itself?" It is an honest question accompanied by an equally open look in turn.
Loki	Loki shrugs slightly as she observes the skill requirement to the Bifrost. "If you ignore that I'm tired, I've never been more powerful than I am now," Loki comments. It is a bragging statement, and he smirks a little, though there's some elusive other emotion in it too, that gets swept away as he answers her last questions. "I /do/ know, yes." There's a pause before the last one. "Back to my projects, I'd imagine," Loki says evasively. "My mischief, you'd call it; collecting information," he adds. He draws one leg in finally, sitting up. "But I think my hand is heavier here than it has been in the past. The largest 'change' -- lacking Odin--" Loki considers, then moves one shoulder in a partial shrug. "I'm still needed." Loki was looking at the harp, and he slides his eyes back to her.
Sif	"You are needed." Sif agrees with a subtle gravity before she too glances over at her harp. The cantrip continues. A moment of musing ends with her rising to walk over to it. A strum along the myriad strings seems to reset the magic woven into the instrument and while the Vanir Princess begins another tune with her own fingertips, when she departs, it continues without her. In her own understated way, she's equally the braggart. Her shadow falls over and across his chest in a moon-blued hue and this time, she doesn't sit. There's a small, almost hesitant curve to her lips now as she holds out a hand. "Let us say you are not tired and test your mettle yet. You may tell me of which information you intend to collect. I promise, I am light on my feet," she adds with a decidedly whimiscal air. After all, the harp is now playing what sounds terribly like a folk waltz.
Loki	"/Are/ you light on your feet? And yet there's evidence otherwise," Loki answers her. He accepts her hand with one of his, but doesn't stand up: instead, he lifts the other hand towards the bruise on her forehead. He doesn't touch it, but does hover his fingers over her eyebrow, just barely near it: enough to move the air, but nothing that would make her flinch. "While I know you don't /need/ it," Loki begins, smile playing coolly, "At least one of us could be happier." He lifts a brow, questioning. Does she want his help?
Sif	By the mild drop of her mouth and the slight widening of her eyes, Sif is clearly caught off guard by the observation. She considers just how hard she fell in mid-scrum with the young Einherjar recruit not a day ago. There's a fretting of the inside of her lip as her regard falls to their clapsed hands. "I...overreached," she admits slowly with a wrinkle of her nose. Through her lashes, she looks to Loki's face again. It is a heavy admission on her part, she of the bright blade and icy prowess on the battlefield. "The impact was deserved. He used his couter well." The flexible plating guarding the elbow had made her see stars briefly. "Mind, he also found himself flat on his face with my pommel at his neck shortly thereafter, so I was avenged." Still, with a light blush appearing on her cheeks, she nods. "I did not know you could heal, Loki." Demurely comes the adjoinder: "If you would please. It does yet linger and distract."
Loki	Loki mooved smoothly to his feet, agile, while she described the story of what befell her forhead: and the one that did it. "Well, I'm not offering to heal //his// face or neck," Loki says, his voice low and conspiratorial, and included a lean in. It isn't like anyone was listening to them: it was part of the truthful joke. "No need to spread it around that I'm able to help others. Think of my reputation," Loki teases, still close. "Let's see," Loki says, dropping fingers from her eyebrow to her chin, a gentle guide for her to turn her head, and then he lifts his fingers to gently pull her hair away from the bruised spot, inspecting it.
Sif	Sif smirks despite herself, responding to the tease. "I would not dare sully your reputation," she murmurs back even as she obligingly turns her face to better be lit by the fall of moonlight. The bruise appears to be mending at the standard rate. It's progressed beyond the immediate reds and purples into the greens and golds; mild black speckling is proof of friction having nearly broken the skin entirely. That must have been a hell of a blow -- no Midgardian mortal would have survived it. "I admit that it has been causing me a small headache." Of course Sif would continue about her day after being concussed.
Loki	Whether Loki really had to take a look at it may be unclear, but he does take his time brushing her hair back and putting it behind her ear for her, before then casting a quick little spell: a spark of arcing gold between his fingers, that shivers it's way up middle and ring fingers before fluttering into the wound, pulling new mended flesh to the surface as it dessolves in. "Was it? I would not have known. Practice at keeping secrets?" Loki asks wryly. He looks over his handiwork with a thoughtful eye, as if skimming for more injuries she failed to mention.
Sif	A warmth like the drop of mead into her stomach seems to melt out from the epicenter of the bruise. Sif rolls her eyes up as if she'd look at it before blinking at Loki. Her chin remains in his gentle hold. "I suffered no trouble in sharing my secret with you. My headache is gone now and I am grateful for it." Her hands rise and dare to land again on the spread of his chest. "Thank you, Loki," she adds in quiet, heartfelt sincerity. Funnily enough, the blush lingers, perhaps brought on by his scrutiny. "I promise I am otherwise hale. What few results of the bout to linger are nothing new to me, the bruises far lighter on my hip and ribs. They will be gone by morn." Then comes the softest laugh and almost shy fall of lashes, her gaze briefly sliding to one side before returning to him. "And I am, in fact, light on my feet," she asserts with a playful mulishness.
Loki	"Hip and ribs?" Loki asks, his jade eyes suddenly flaring into that familiar, mercurial way, as he angles his head down and looks out from under his brows at her. Many call the following smile fiendish, as it often comes with a flash of painful magic. "Here?" Loki questions, dropping his other hand to ribs on left side, then left hip, though we watches her face: possibly for hints of whether or not he's accurate with his guess of location or not. His eyes then drop to her hands on his chest, or maybe her chest, before returning to her eyes.
Sif	Sif's eyes flash in turn. Her smile is challenging in its way, more often seen before she levels a blistering retort across the mead-hall table or comments blithely on the lack of skill at the training grounds. "You are very astute, my lord. I did fall heavily to that side after withstanding the blow," she murmurs, holding those changeable verdant eyes. "It has been difficult to sleep since then. You can imagine the discomfort when rolling onto that side and twinging awake." Which means Sif's bruising is probably deeper than she's letting on.
Loki	"Hm. I'll just leave that there, shall I?" Loki asks. It's like shades of the past coming back in: Loki's sliding into the tendency for light mocking he so often moved to when they were younger. It's so automatic. This automatic thing he does that pushes people back. He pauses, hearing himself, and looks at her hands on his chest for a moment. He doesn't withdraw what he said, but he does step towards her, and waits, expression strange. Strange in that the smile dropped off, with a hollow place where the mocking was. He's sabotaging himself and realized it.
Sif	Sif is momentarily boggled; the old habits in stark counterpart with the trusting forwards motion is like an unexpected chemical reaction. She blinks again, looking between his eyes. When she finds it missing the critical bladed element of the cold tease, her brows quirk. "The healers have told me before to let the body mend of its own accord," she then offers, continuing to hold the Prince's gaze. "Something about it will tell me to behave when necessary to allow it proper healing." There is a half-hearted scoff, as if they were taking away all of her fun in telling the Valkyrie to sideline herself. Then slowly, with care, she lifts her palm and attempts to settle it lightly upon his jawline. "Thank you, Loki, for your kindness." There is a familiar tone there, unbending if gentle at that.
Loki	"It isn't that. I don't like it when my dance partners flinch away from me," Loki answers, finding his footing verbally, easily adjusting to cover his momentary lapse. It's as if he had some strange problem with being considered kind: and yet much of what he's done for Asgard has been kind. And selfish, too. Loki looks down, breaking the gaze - but it's to cast. He's not good at healing spells, he has to pay attention, and it reads as such on his face. It isn't like casting some illusion, he doesn't do healing spells on other people. He still looks pleased with himself as he finishes, though, and the cocky smile returns.
Sif	Sif has no clever rejoinder for that because...well, she's frank enough to acknowledge that nobody at //all// likes it when their dance partners wince and hedge against relaxing. However, Loki's shift in attention draws her own in turn with the same unconscious force as a flight of birds turning in midair. Again comes the spread of warmth and cessation of pain she'd been ignoring but for the spikes of realization where it broken through her forced ignorance. Her shoulders visibly relax. "...that is a relief," she declares on a sigh, searching for his eyes, and a smile appears again. "Thank you, truly."
Loki	"Do not tell my brother," Loki warns, moving hand up from her ribs to level a finger near her chest. "He injures himself constantly, and I would be badgered all the time," Loki says, with a very serious tone. "He //should// learn to behave from those." Loki then drops the hand, though it finds a spot back on her hip. Loki watches her as she gives him the honest thank you, and shrugs a little bit. Getting thanked for fixing a problem he didn't cause is unusual, though he's had recent experience for Asgard, and has a bit of practice taking it gracefully. "Nevermind. I don't want to talk about Thor," Loki says, abruptly. "He wants to talk to me, and I know it isn't in praise."
Sif	Her eyes drop to his finger and rise to his face. The nod to follow is short, entirely respectful given the wipe of the smile from her lips. Fingers star across his chest at their anchoring placement at his statement. Yet again, a sympathetic light turns her gaze compassionate. "Then let us not speak of him now. Your dance partner will not flinch away from you," she murmurs. Again, with care, her left hand slides up to perch upon the round of Loki's shoulder. The other slides from his elbow to snake up and into his palm. The gentle coaxing intends to leave them properly prepared to waltz with frame present and dignified, courtly and, in Sif's case, well-drilled. The Valkyrie's harp, enchanted to play without attending, continues to lilt through the music offering coaxed out earlier.
Loki	"They never do; I'm good at this," Loki replies arrogantly, with a quick little smirk. He steps into the proper position with no need for coaxing, as she moved her hands. Courtly dignity and pomp and circumstance have always been things Loki valued and learned. It's something he's always liked, too. He moves outward and sideways, drawing her in a spin. Amusement returns to his face, along with the aloof expression appropriate for the activity. After a minute of dance, though, he draws her in close, brushes his cheek to hers, and lingers there, close, fingers moving in a similarly timed caress to the back of her hand. "Not bad."
Sif	Sif lets out a breathless laugh of exultation. With her own defenses lowered in his presence, she allows the slip of delight. Concentration comes after she's painstakingly certain of her steps and harmony with his lead. Loki doesn't lie, not this time: for all his grandiosity and displays, he is showcases confidence in the dance pattern. There is a thrilling ease to falling into the rhythm of the music -- how the world disappears around her. Time passes like it were stretched like taffy, sleekly as quicksilver, and when Sif finds herself lead into his presence, it warps more yet. He's warm in comparison to the night air and she closes her eyes, trusting him to continue leading through the half-time count now to the harp's folk waltz. Brushes of his fingertips send prickles up her arm and to her neck. "You seem surprised," the Valkyrie murmurs back; her small smile can be felt against Loki's cheek.
Loki	"Because I so rarely compliment you?" Loki questions in response, increasing the difficulty of the the dance, just because he can, but he leads well. Perhaps there's a magic involved, to some extent - or it's just skill. There's a certain point where skill often can feel like it's crossing into something magical. "What is it you expected?" Loki asks, turning her outwards across his body in a spin, an underarm turn. Then he's stepping into it, checking forward, with a rotation of his upper torso. He follows then retreats, drawing her to spin the other way, his opposite hand coming smoothly down across her upper body to her abdomen lightly. He lets her hands go fully to guide her body around to the other side, then turns to follow, returning into the waltz form... after another guided spin. "Or wanted?" Loki asks, suddenly pausing the dance fully, outside hand lifted up against the side of her cheek and neck, fingers splayed open, thumb near her lips.
Sif	And the Princess of Vanaheim rises to the unspoken challenge with a fierce relish. After all, to dance to an instrumental tempo is not so different than dancing with the sword itself -- the cuts might bleed differently, but a stumble is a stumble. She follows where directed and each delicate, dedicated turn unfurls the skirting of her gown like dogwood petals from the graceful stem of her waist. Whomever designed it meant for it to be fashionable as well as functional; metallic stitching gleams in the moonlight like ripples on water. It seems impossible to break the magnetism of his verdant gaze as they move counter to one another. The dance comes to a breathless pause. Gleaming pale silk curls about in perfect countered mirror to the darkness of his cloak -- for a second, they are ying and yang, legs each momentarily enwrapped, and then gravity pulls clothing back to its respective fall. Sif raises her palm to rest lightly upon the outside of his hand so gently touching her face.. "Both," she murmurs barely above a whisper. "You are astute, remember?"
Loki	"Yes, isn't that what's drawn you in?" Loki teasingly asks her, amused by her response, her murmur. He doesn't fall out of dance form, but he does entirely pause his movement, fingers not just hovering, but drawing against the perfect warm tone of her skin. His thumb curls a little against her lip, his gaze leaving hers to follow the path of his thumb, before it flicks back to her gaze. He moves postures, stepping in, leg past her exterior leg, as if he were going to dip her backwards, but he doesn't. "What /are/ we doing here, Sif?" Loki asks her, quiet and thoughtful, eyes slightly narrowing.
Sif	At first, the Valkyrie answers with a simple truth: "...dancing, I thought?" Her throat moves in a silent swallow. Her lips still tingle from the teasing brush of his thumb. How his dark lashes partially shutter his eyes makes her pause. The process of her thinking is transparent as the gauzy distancing from reality begins to fall from around her connection to reality. "...what do you think we are doing, Loki?" comes the equally thoughtful counter, both evasive and curious of her own accord.
Loki	"Testing to see if your healing is, indeed, complete," Loki replies. "Though I suspect you'll need to lay on your side in your bed to fully be certain," he says, evasively, a little smile coming forward. Her evasion causes Loki to mirror that, and turn his attention away for a moment, sleekly returning into the dance form, picking the beat back up flawlessly to lead her back through another spin, resuming the dance, though he doesn't come as close.
Sif	Loki doesn't garner himself an immediate reply. Long-practice means she can dedicate attention to considering his question even as she moves as directed. There's little delay in reaction time; the tell might be the distancing in her glacially-blue eyes. Again furls the skirting out into riffling waves of moon-paled cream. Again it pulls in about her limber doeskin-clad legs. On the pads of her feet, Sif floats as a moth on the night breeze. "I think we are playing a game, Loki, that has been played for millenia yet and shall be for millenia more." Her thought rises above the bluesy notes of the harp. "I think I am playing my hand as I see fit. So far, I have seen it in my favor. I am willing to bet more heavily yet." Her eyes flash at him before she commits to a turn.
Loki	"Gambling metaphors? Games of chance and risk?" Loki answers, his voice suddenly amused. "Showing you know your audience, appealing to his sense of fun," Loki describes, as if weighing her actions. "You think everything about me is a game, I think." Loki spins her out from his body, and then flips his outward hand towards the harp with a swirling pulse of magic. The harp is joined by a full orchestra of sounds, brilliant instruments of illusion joining in ghostly dancing shapes that sing out in harmony with the harp. "I like that you think so," Loki adds. "So, let's see. To use your metaphor -- I'm the house. I always win in the end," Loki says, with a sudden rakish, dashing grin, energy brightening his green eyes.
Sif	Sif's smile starts hesitant, her own eyes narrowed thoughtfully as she watches the magician's reaction to her gambit begin. Following the turn outwards, the Valkyrie elongates her arm and anchors herself by his fingertips alone; her opposite arm continues in a sleek extension, ghostly mirroring the grip of a sword. His quip about ever being the victor is enough to make her break. Sif laughs brightly and without malice. "You have already won your dance partner for the evening, have you not?" she dares to sally back at him, chin tucked almost shyly even while her blue eyes glint at him.
Loki	A laugh follows her, though it isn't full or open: it's a measured laugh, a more deliberate one. Natural, sure, but also not freely relaxed. She's known Loki long enough to know the difference, perhaps. It's a distraction, but that doesn't make it bad intentioned as he takes her in a brisk waterfall waltz across the balcony towards the instrument, allowing her to spin outwards once more, but when she returns from the extension, he steps along side her, draws in close, and kisses her.
Sif	Dizzied in a measured manner from the brisk travel across the width of the balcony, Sif lets out a soft trilling chuckle, no louder than a nightbird in the sprawl of the gardens below. Feeling as if to be twinkling with the glee of the dance and the masterful leading -- because a truly-taught lead knows to put their follow on full display for the audience -- she glide-steps back into his embrace. Swiftly comes the stoop as Loki did in raven-guise to the balcony's railing and she manages half a breath before he steals the rest of it as easily as a purse at a whist table. The magician will feel her melt, her hand needing to anchor herself on his shoulder as she weaves in place before stepping fully against him.
Loki	Things could have gone one of two ways --- either doing the playful kiss, and then sweeping her off breathlessly into a continued dance, or a slowing to the dance as the kiss extends. It ends up being the second choice, the dancing falling into a secondary thing. He adjusts one arm to support behind her waist, the other letting go of her hand and drawing into her hair at her nape. His features relax, should she check him visually; he allows his eyes to close and lean into the kiss.
Sif	Sif slowly inhales through her nose. Now the night is thick with the scent of starlight, the rising cool of greenery from the gardens, and of him -- of the magician strong and lean before her. The Valkyrie further melds herself against him. Her lifted hand goes nearly limp in distraction uplifted with fingers still interlaced to his. Heady from the kiss, there's another betraying hum of a sigh to escape her, its notes far below the more obvious music playing on around them. Perhaps it will be felt by the vibration in her chest.
Loki	As the kiss breaks for a bit of a breather, or to adjust to exactly what's going on perhaps, Loki's gentle with her. His expression has dropped entirely out of his laughing, confident one, and some of the uncertainty he wore so often in their youth is present. A look akin to when the group of youngsters were going on an adventure, and Loki wasn't so sure about the wisdom of it. From a time before Loki laughed anything and everything off, or even deliberately went along with a bad idea to smirk as the others paid for being foolish. It's an expression from before he pretended nothing mattered to him. Something matters, here, and uncertainty comes with that.
Sif	When the kiss parts, it leaves Sif to follow for a millimeter's imperative fowards sway before she takes into account her spine. Her tongue barely peeks to wet her lips even as her lashes lift to reveal her eyes gone warm and dark. To see Loki uncertain is to burn away some of the gossamer haze of her heartbeat's lull from around her, but not all of it. "Did I not say you have won your dance partner for the evening?" There's a lazy humor to her gentle reminder.
Loki	"Just the evening?" Loki questions naturally, silver tongue easy. It's comfortable to just fall back into stride, and Loki's little fades never last long: not these days. His recovery is fast, his defenses near impossible to penetrate. Still, he helps draw her to comfortably standing, though if she doesn't pull away, she'll remain in an embrace similar to the one from the waltz. He does draw one hand from her hair to slip fingers over his own, sleeking his hair back, as the activity had mussed it. Just as he's recovering emotionally, there's some preening that happens too.
Sif	In a lithe shift of her weight, Sif remains close to him. Her hand hasn't drifted from its settled resting point at his shoulder. While the mage fixes his hair, she allows herself a little knowing smile -- the gesture to her, trained in both court and battlefield to watch the language of the body under consideration, speaks to self-soothing. This, she understands. "I think beyond this evening...if you'll dance with me yet, my lord." Diplomacy it is, but a playful facet of it yet.
Loki	Loki, observes her little knowing smile, and it causes reaction from him, as well: a tension flowing around his eyes a little bit, a shift of jaw. He's good at reading signals, the manipulative Loki has a reputation for it for good reason. Her knowing smile shows her comfort with him, informs that his actions are calming to her. "So long as each doesn't involve healing your forehead and ribs; you know how I feel about being badgered," Loki slyly jokes, lifting one hand to touch forefinger and middle finger to her upper forehead where the bruise was, smile subtle. The music also lulls, reducing just to the harp, a lone voice behind them.
Sif	How the Valkyrie turns her face into the touch is yet another sign of trust. Her smile deepens at the corners until there is the risk of dimples showing. Moonlight gleams along the crests of her cheeks and leaves cool shadows along her jawline and neck. "I certainly do not intend to resolve another training session with the young Einherjar as such." Again, color petal-pinks her cheeks. There will be some self-flagellation for another few days yet, like as not in the privacy of her rooms rather than out and about. "You will be spared," Sif assures him with another soft chuckle.
Loki	"I'll try to avoid needing magical fluid from a stone that can unmake the universe siphoned out of my veins," Loki says teasingly, as if that were an appropriate deal. Or maybe suggesting the healing he's now done for her made them even. Loki and his favors. A grin flows out, though, and after a small hesitation, he draws her close, hooking his head in near her ear, with a brush of lips to her neck. The verbal exchange drew him to the information he was after, it doesn't have to be said directly to be understood. He's astute, as she's noted.
Sif	"A wise plan," his waltz-partner agrees. His expression is easy to mirror and her own teeth flash as Sif looks between his eyes. Her gaze goes heavily-lidded, presuming that the closure of space once more will herald further little gifts of trust on the magician's part. That the harp continues to play by itself is proof of the magic within it rather than in the Princess herself, given her attention is far more engaged with the fine quiver to run through her from nape to toes. Otherwise, its strings would have fallen silent long ago. Her fingers rested upon his shoulder attempt to thread back behind and to the fall of Loki's own hair in mute encouragement even as one foot begins to roll up to booted toes.
Loki	Loki kisses her neck, but doesn't linger there. He does that, then draws his head back, hands moving to the sides of her waist. "What do you say.... we get something to eat?" Loki suggests, with a stretch of his shoulders, head lifting up and back a little, looking down at her. He gestures a little with his head towards the palace proper. "I'll be invisible if you prefer not to endure the rumors of my presence in your quarters while you make the request," Loki says, sly, without barbs in the offer.
Sif	Again, Sif needs to shed the thrum of her heartbeat. Her palm slides back to its prior state of rest upon the mage's shoulder and she seems to take a literal moment to process what he's asking. "Oh. It is..." For all she hesitates, the Princess also smiles to herself. The glance askance of Loki is an attempt to direct attention to the gardens. No doubt the mage wasn't the only one to indulge in a moonlit walk through the reaching expanse of color-turned foliage and late-blooming flowers. "I spoke to a steward when I searched you out not so long ago in your own quarters. I do not fear rumors." Her glacially-blue regard returns to him. A lift of her brows implies there are likely already some having begun of her own efforts to speak with the Trickster. "Join me in my quarters as you are, Loki."
Loki	Loki wrinkles his nose a little, his expression full of mischief suddenly. "Mmmmmm, no, I don't think I will," Loki decides. He pulls away from her a small amount, but it's mainly to use his hands. For magic. A flex of them straight down and his attire changes out of the hunting leathers, and into clothes of comfort - and fairly obviously to make himself more attractive: a low, open pearl colored poet shirt, slim but comfortable fitted pants held with a low, elaborately braided silver belt. He smirks at her and gestures with one hand towards the indoors, green eyes glittery.
Sif	Magic feels like a brush of cobwebs at this close distance on her bare skin and leaves behind the barest hint of sun-warmth to counter to lack of heat in the moon's shine. Sif blinks to see the darker clothing so swiftly and smoothly shed for far more fashionable and flattering garb yet. Approval flares in her gaze. "Let us retire then," she murmurs, content to curl her palm about the inside rounding of his nearest bicep. "I think something light for repast...perhaps seasonal. What say you to gamebird and soup? I thought I heard tell of the gourds finally coming into season. I have been craving the taste of it for some time." A decidedly polite conversational point to be overheard in the hallways of the palace, but then again, two souls raised to the finer arts of the court can play at decorum.