milliways_bar | (no subject)

Loki isn't bored with Milliways--yet.

Milliways has been entertaining. Much more entertaining than, say, the wormholeyswirlyvoidyspacy place he'd been before seeing?hearing?feeling? the door that opened here. That was boring. Milliways has provided its fun.

Robbing a bank was fun. Seeing ugly dreary sad little Midgard, and finding that it was every bit as ugly dreary and sad as he'd suspected, that was quote-unquote fun. Meeting Thor's little friends--and his boss--was fun. Exploring the library was fun.

Exploring the part of the library that held versions of books Asgard and its neighboring realms had lost thousands of years ago, and hundreds of thousands of years ago, that was fun. (Walking across a miles-long knife-edge of paper to reach it, and then fighting a beast made up of words, also fun. Were they put there on purpose to guard ancient lore? Or had the ancient lore drawn its own protection? Had the powers that be in Milliways just thought Loki needed a brief challenge?) Doing a little light reading on wormholes and the neglected paths of the universe--again, FUN.

Loki isn't bored yet, but he can tell he will be soon.

The only way forward is of course to step back into said wormholeyswirlyvoidyspace, armed with a little knowledge. Only way. But faced with the return, Loki finds himself...reluctant. So he's lingering in the bar, people-watching, door-watching, reading, fiddling with a little portable dimensional pocket thing he'd built for storing a few books. Right now it's storing--and unstoring--an emptied goblet of wine. Now you see it, now you don't. Now you see it...

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"Made with a spell that was gifted to me here." He carefully wraps the flute and places it in a bag made of what appears to be demon bunny leather. "I can fetch it if you would like to see?"

"Yes, do." A little pause, then, "Thank you."

If he sounds like someone who's used to ordering servants, it's...because he is.

As someone who use to be a servant, Sinric recognises the type. But he also said thank you so there's that.

Sinric nods and goes upstairs, returning a moment later with a leather hip pouch, the likes of which any eighth century traveler might carry. Not much bigger than the span of a hand.

Sinric reaches in and removes several books, a large map painted on vellum and a small first aid kit about a thousand years later that Sinric's time. Giving it a gentle shake to extract a change of clothes, neatly rolled and bound in a belt, he offers it to Loki to look at.

It seem very ordinary from the outside but the space inside is that of a large suitcase. And it weighs almost nothing.

Loki smiles a little at the books and maps and leather pouch: so quaint, and so reminiscent of some of the parts of old Midgard that considered themselves sophisticated.

But yes, it's a useful sort of spell, and it's interesting to see it attached to leather. It's not a material that generally holds much enchantment. He looks it over very closely indeed. "Who gave it to you?"

"A mage named Eliot. He taught me a few small spells. Since then I have learnt magic of my own world." Sinric very much has the look of some of the parts of old Midgard.

Eliot. He'll keep the name in mind. Sounds like a useful sort of person. But for now he'll give Sinric a look of slightly more interest. "And what is the magic of your own world?"

Sinric nods, cupping his hands. "The magic of the northmen. The magic of stories, woven in light and thought. The magic of words, chosen for their power. The magic of song, that can carry the heart of one to another."

He holds his cupped hands to his mouth, blowing into them softly. The space between his palms begins to glow a warm gold, like he's holding the light of the rising sun.

"The curse and blessing of Seeing. Of sitting at the weaver's knee to witness the tapestry of creation."

Well, that's...flowery. "The northmen didn't have much magic last time I saw them," Loki says drily. "So what do you See when you look around this room? With regards to the...tapestry of creation."

"When did you see them last?" He asks, letting the glow dissipate. Although it seems to linger on his skin.

Sinric cocks his head, studying Loki's eyes. "Do you wish me to look at your threads, or those of others?"

"Oh, by all means," he answers even more drily, staring back into Sinric's eyes. "Look at my threads."

Sinric's eyes flash gold. Then go very, very wide. His breath catches and he takes half a step back.

"They still worship you in the North. The god of cleverness. Of tricks. Of mischief. The one who straddles worlds, being. The god of otherness." There's awe in his voice. And a touch of fear.

"Good. They had better worship me. I'll be back." Or whichever Loki exists in that universe. Who might be quite different from him, and might be a brother and an enemy and an ally--if he's anything at all. "If you encounter the God of Mischief in your home, little Seer, tell him that..." He narrows his eyes, thinking. "...Tell him that Loki Odinson, of Asgard and of the blood of Laufey King of Jotunheim, says..." Shrug. "...Says hello. That'll do."

There's enough there for a Loki to unpack, seeing as how there seem to be all sorts of stories out there about his family line.

"As you command." Sinric sweeps a deep bow, graceful and sincere.

"That's right. As I command."

Loki flops back loosely into his seat, grinning, instantly cheery and casual again. "So whose knee exactly have you been sitting at, anyway? With the tapestry and the creation and the witnessing and all that?"

Sinric relaxes a touch as Loki sprawls back.

"The Norsemen call them the Norn. To the Greeks they were the Fates. Those who weave the destinies of men." And gods. But he's careful not to add that aloud.