Summary:Loki reaches out to Ambrose across oceans and continents to follow through on his bargain with Lena. Then, he and Sigyn travel to the Jackal's abode to deliver foodgoods to Kazimira, Ambrose's daughter, and the erstwhile Sterling. Kazimira learns she's more than she appears and there are cookies! Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Right now, at least, all is quiet on the front. It's the early morning hours where the world goes still but for the most nocturnal of creatures and worried of minds. The dreamers dream while the fretters fret — and within the confines of the well-warded bolthole kept by himself and Kent while on the city limits of Patna, India, the Jackal slowly paces back across the small living room for the umpteenth time. In a long-sleeved thermal shirt and black tactical pants against the cold, his socks are equally thick. About his neck, slung loosely, his fringed scarf, both for additional warmth and familiar comfort. Winter in northern India is sometimes no warmer than elsewhere, if not so prone to frost or snow.
A fire is banked low in the pitiful hearth. Ambrose pauses as he hears noise from the one bedroom present, but it's Kent rolling over, and the master-thief can tell from long knowledge that the mage is deeply asleep rather than awakening in concern. The wan golden light from the embers gets prodded with a blackened-ended stick to stir it up and casts his features flattering before he pulls away to continue pacing. Arms are tightly crossed and eyes downcast. His mind blazes through idea after idea, memory after memory, and he fusses with the latter like a miner sifting for flecks of gold.
Having struck a bargain with Lena Snart, Loki has taken to scrying on Ambrose, and sensing through those wards is no easy task. Truly, that's a good thing. Eyes bright, Loki leans in his throne-like chair with a hand cupping his chin, and a flagon of wine held nonchalantly in his off hand.
After watching the man think and think, he laughs to himself softly.
A formal spell is woven, his power engaged with considerable artistry, and ancient skill. «Hello Ambrose.» Loki's voice flows into the Master Thief's mind. «I trust you are well?»
|ROLL| Ambrose +rolls 1d10 for: 8
Like ink into water comes the voice of the Trickster God. At the speed of neural synapse, Ambrose reacts: utter shock — recognition hot on the heels of something shy of absolute panic — a knee-jerk mental swat back at the vocal presence like a hissing cat — and, frankly, he clears the floor by a good three feet or so before landing nearly soundlessly. Out come a pair of beautifully-tended trench-knives, their metal black and glossy as sin, and he stands panting, looking around for something that isn't there, before logic waves a flag in his forebrain.
A sigh is blown and he swallows hard before sliding the knives away, useless as they are. «My lord Loki, greetings. I was not expecting this contact.» It is proof of Kent's tutoring prowess that Ambrose has the ability to refine and funnel his response into clarity of speech and not some willy-nilly grab-bag of unchecked train of thought. «Well enough, I suppose.» Curiosity is a bright twinkling felt in his reply, even if it's muted like a blanketing over candles by caution. «I suspect you are well enough if you've the time to reach out to me. Your mastery is great to cross this distance,» the Jackal notes in plain admiration.
More like a glacier invading a vale, even so, the mind voice is /perfect/, the clarity of it astonishing. There's nothing but Loki there, no extraneous anything, and a looming sense of the Mage of Asgard's power lurking behind it all.
Back at Cover Story, he laughs with sheer delight at the Master Thief's freaking out. "Oh delightful." He murmurs, and some of that amusement flavors his next words.
«I am indeed well.» A pause as he ponders. «How goes your efforts at finding about this 'Oliver' of yours? It occurred to me that you might be in some small amount of danger, and well, you owe me a favor - it is in my best interest to see that you not die just yet.»
That sounds suspiciously like an offer of aid!
Ambrose's knit at the Trickster's question. His mouth falls open a small mouth even as he glances off to both sides quickly, appearing to be calculating why on EARTH the Liesmith would be asking after Oliver — and then comes the reminder.
Ah yes: favor owed.
There's something like a frisson of laughter to be heard in the mental connection, decidedly not entirely comfortable. «I see we are of similar mind. I prefer to remain alive as well,» comes the rejoinder. Ambrose, when startled, can be a smart-ass. «Oli… Oliver has admittedly not been in my immediate purview as of late. I am in India at the moment, seeking the locket you assisted in finding within my memories.» The sense of a respectful nod comes towards Loki. «Again, I thank you for your assistance and acknowledge that I owe a favor, yes.»
There comes a brief pause, as if he were gathering courage or threads of ideas or both. «Did something come about in New York that inspired this conversation, my lord?» There comes the flittering of anxiety and a flash of a particular feminine face: that of his daughter, Kazimira.
Another warm spate of laughter in New York. "Oh my goodness, this one is /worth/ poking. I shall take great delight in helping him, and in claiming his favor, and claiming LENA'S favor too when due."
«Yes well, one needs must protect their investments when able, don't you agree?»
A moment to nod, and then with the image of Kazmira, Loki smiles. After all the deal wasn't just for Ambrose, who's safe enough at the moment, but also his family. «Well, as you're far from home, I could look in on the girl you just thought of, your daughter? Neice perhaps? Lover?»
Ambrose's mental connection jolts. There's a quick few moments of consideration, fogged to keep the musings private to himself, and on the outskirts of Patna, the brunet reaches to span his eyes with a hand before dragging it down his face. The hand closes in a fist before his mouth as he looks into the middle distance in concentration, eyes a thousand miles away.
«My daughter, Mira.» Bleeding in like a watercolor painting comes the picture again of the young woman's face. Her bloodline isn't entirely English by the cant of her eyes and the color of her skin, but her hair is only one or two shades darker than Ambrose's own. Her eyes…yes, blue as his and bluer more, like Tanzanite gems, and there's a smattering of freckles across her cheeks like cinnamon sprinkles. In a half-moon curve across one eye, a scar never healed out of sight, a mistake and lesson well-learned in her own demi-immortal efforts.
«She knows of where I am and naught else in this regard. One cannot spill secrets if one does not know them all.» A jaded, callous outlook to take. «She knows too to be wary of strangers at this time, as does her step-brother, but the house cannot sustain them forever. She needs must get groceries and the like and…»
How his heart twists painfully: a father's worries flood through his mind to shadow all. «She is strong and well-trained, but…»
Of course Ambrose is uneasy. If Oliver learns of her…
Loki is considerate, he makes no attempt the penetrate the fog, in truth such is difficult for him with a set spell and close proximity, let alone through a scrying bowl half the world away.
He smiles, that fact translating into the mind-speech they share. «Mira, a lovely name and a lovely girl. She has her mother's eyes, I would assume.»
He lets the Master Thief worry and fret, every bit shared giving him more to work with. «Well then.» Loki nods. «I shall see to their provisioning, Ambrose Atherton. There is *nothing* in this world more important than family.» And despite being the Liesmith, the truth of that statement throbs. Sure, he COULD be tricking him…it really doesn't feel that way, even a little.
«Yes, her mother's eyes,» the master-thief confirms. There's a wistfulness swirled with…embarrassment? — that dissipates like mist in the morning sunshine. «And again, my lord, we are in agreement. There is little on this green earth I would not do to keep her from harm. She is my treasure.» Loki will absolutely hear, even at a distance, the deep, draconian growl of the Bane vibrating to the Jackal's protective streak in regards to his daughter.
In the bolthole, Ambrose steps slowly over to one of the small windows, out of immediate fall of ambient light through it. He's not committed to scanning the view for trouble; it has more of a nuance of chary long-habit.
«I can accept no more of you but for your kindness in this, my lord. Thank you. Mira will ask what you are doing if you speak to her directly — tell her that her father sent you, and prove it by this: <khoshgelam>.» — Farsi for 'my beautiful', a term of endearment Ambrose uses for his daughter alone.
«How many are there, Master Atherton?» He'll need to know how much in the way of supplies to provide. «It truly is an inconsequential act for me, Ambrose. A trivial matter, not even worthy of consideration as such.» After all, Lena's already paid any debt! «You need not ask for my I aid, I offer it freely and without strings attached.» Again, because that debt has been paid in full already.
Loki approves of the Bane and the Master Thief's accord. It is something that makes him consider the Bane as something more than a parasite grown swollen with hubris, a bloated tick — but then again, the thing DOES also keep Ambrose alive, and in good shape. It does not HAVE to do that. It /chose/ to. That's another point.
«Farsi is such a lovely language.» Loki bespeaks with another hint of smile through the communication. «And she is well named.» A faint smirk. «I could always approach her…» He pauses, no, better not to worry the man with that thought. "…with care, with all due care, you have my word.»
The unspoken thought? 'In your seeming'.
Agreement comes as an echo of a nod. «Farsi is one half of my cradle-tongue, my lord.» Most mindfully does Ambrose lay out this next tidbit of information: «Even before I knew Mira to be mine, she was trained by hands more cautious than my own. Might I recommend, my lord, that you present yourself as…yourself, all the better to allow her understanding of what you offer in protection. She is not a braggart, my daughter.» A moment of wry amusement glitters. «She did not take after her father in this.»
As the Jackal scans the grounds beyond the bolthole, ambient moonlight catches carmine in his pupils. «It is just Mira and her step-brother, my lord, not too many mouths to feed. Both are used to rationing as it stands. They were not ours until adulthood.» His and Kent's to vouchsafe and to love, the man implies.
«I have a great fondness for languages, Ambrose. I probably speak and read…hundreds, and that is irrespective of All-Speak.» Which Ambrose will most likely know of having a daughter by a Vanir. Not that Loki knows that yet. Strong amusement. «Oh, shall I go there as a Jotun then? Full battle regalia, maybe break out a Jotun great axe then?»
No, he isn't joking. He'll do just that if asked to.
«Ah, just two, very well. How long do you think you'll be?» That will give him the last piece of the provisions puzzle.
A moment to focus on the image Ambrose sent, and then he scries for her, getting a feel for the location, then pulling the vision back and back until he gets the address.
An image of the house forms. «Here, yes?»
Even more delicately does Ambrose reply, wincing in the physical, «I think perhaps go as your usual Asgardian guise, my lord, the better to not startle her. She has powers of her own. Her step-brother will be less inclined to react if you appear akin to Midgardian; these, he knows well enough.»
An interesting thing to note. Just what is Kent's own son that he comes with this mild warning…? The Jackal doesn't elaborate further. He's now attempting to swallow carefully again at the ease shown in finding where the manor sits in New York City proper.
«Yes, my lord, that is correct. I request that you not test the wardings set upon the grounds. My mate is skilled in the subtle if dangerous defenses and would be informed as a spider might of trembling threads. His focus should be here and now, not concerned of our home.» Ah-hah: so Ambrose wants to keep this particular protective boon up his sleeve for as long as possible. He'll tell Kent…eventually.
«Very well, since you deem it prudent.» More laughter in New York. This is so much fun that at this rate he's going to end up owing LENA a favor! He does find it interesting that Ambrose felt the need to warn about the step son, curious. Curious indeed, and that will be a fun thing to discover when he delivers them from starvation.
Loki is VERY good at scrying, and safe in his home, using his scrying bowl…yeah, it would take some pretty solid wards to block him.
«I hope you don't mind, sir, were I to set a few ward spells of my own? After all, they might need more supplies or have some sort of emergency.» And top of that list? Scry Wards.
Ambrose almost fires back that it is more than prudent not to startle either of his offspring, blood or not, but holds his tongue. There's a flicker of wry amusement like phosphorescence in the blackness of a cave.
«I thank you for your prudence, my lord.» This seems more appropriate. «As to the ward spells…» Musing silence follows and then a twinge of uncertainty. «I am no spell-caster, my lord, and it would be better that my mate weighed in on this offering before I accept it, given it is his mastery upon the grounds. Might I speak with him on the matter before I give you an answer?»
A bit of Loki can sense something going on over there, and then he drains his flagon, and sets it aside. This has been a very entertaining scrying session.
«Of course, ward spells are not a trivial thing. And I applaud your caution. Speak to your mate the ritualist, by all means, and be sure.»
Rising, he prepares to banish the scrying. «I will see to the provisions, and follow up with you on the morrow…unless you need more time?»
Ambrose sighs his relief in the physical. There is an undercurrent of weariness despite the Bane's inability to let any form of lethe or tiredness haunt its host.
«I shall speak to my mate, yes, and on the morrow, absolutely, if I am not otherwise occupied,» he sends back to the Trickster God. «If you are unable to reach me, wait but another day yet and try again. My mate might have shored up my mind against sudden connections in defense. We walk upon thin ice as it stands here. I cannot predict what each sunrise and sunset will bring.»
Still, the Jackal, raised in class long ago, doesn't hesitate to add: «And I thank you again, my lord, for thinking of my family's safety during this time.»
«Tomorrow then, good sir.» Loki sends politely before ending the Scrying spell, and the mind speech.
Vastly amused and engaged, Loki rises then and seeks out his wife. He KNOWS better than to just make off with whatever's being cooked, besides, SHE is the expert at such things. Sure, provisioning an army? That he could do. Provisioning two young adults? Different sorts of things.
"Sigyn my wife, how would you like to save two children, well…adults, but Ambrose Atherton's children, one his daughter…from starvation?" He moves to encircle the woman from behind, hands splay-fingered across her abdomen and surely making it all but impossible to cook. And no, he did /not/ just steal a cookie.
It was six.
Sigyn frowns at Loki, leaning back against him. "I don't like the idea of anyone starving…" She wiggles free of Loki's grip, with a faint sigh at the cookies. "And what should I bring? If they have literally been starving, I should start them with broth and bread… if they are just short on proper food, I can bring that too." She starts bustling around the kitchen. "If they've been ill, then the soups with the healing charms…" She's muttering to herself as she starts sorting through supplies in the walk-in pantry. She cans her own soups and sauces for when company drops in unexpectedly… no, she doesn't do modern convenience food, too many preservative chemicals, she'd rather trust to her magic.
"I was, perhaps, exaggerating a tiny bit." Loki admits as he devours those half-dozen cookies. Hey! Stole them fair and square. Not like she didn't make dozens, and hide more when she knew he was approaching. Regardless, as she starts her bustling he adds. "Two adults, unknown species, consider them Asgardian, I know they both have powers, so better too much than not enough." He nods. "In good health, one male, one female and I doubt they've /ever/ eaten to your standards." Which are high.
A smile. "I'll Walk us there once you've got a couple weeks supplies ready, mm?"
Sigyn hmmms, "I'll spare some of the duck confit then." Not the duck confit! That is a two day project to make. "Maybe a side of the smoked salmon, and two of the hams…." That takes weeks! Sigyn is going to be buried in the kitchen for WEEKS after this. Ah well, it will keep her occupied safely where he can keep an eye on her. She loads a large wooden chest with various preserved foods at the bottom of the chest, bags, boxes, and jars. And then adds fresh food and baked goods on top, all wrapped up in food preservation spells. Then she smiles sweetly at Loki, "And so you can say you helped… you can carry things."
Loki picks up the no doubt magically overfull chest with ease, settling it effortlessly on his shoulder. A moment of concentration and he's dressed in attire suitable for Hod's blizzard outside, and then offers the free hand to Sigyn with a smirk and a half bow. "M'lady wife."
Once taken he steps them between worlds, walking Ways known to less than a handful on Midgard, a double handful at best. One long step…and they appear outside the home of Ambrose's kids, and himself and his mate no doubt.
Loki didn't ask.
He moves to the door and knocks, wife on arm. What could be more disarming than that?
It's an odd place, the property they arrive upon. To anyone sensitive to the mystical arts, the entire manor itself is strung with a glistening webbing of spells. There's nothing here that would bombastically blow up in someone's face…at least, not off the bat — no, it's more insidious, the wardings, gauzy like smoke and thin and dark like shadows, underlined with a ruddy red light surely boding no good. Let the imagination do its worst and…that's likely half of the wardings' purpose: let the unwary concoct their own demise while goaded on by the fear-mongering the wardings incite.
Still, the bronze knocker on the door, shaped as a dog with flopped ears holding the ring itself, resounds into the home itself. The response isn't immediate. Then, to sharp ears, comes the soft tread of steps approaching the door. Through the grand dark wood, it can be heard: "«No, brother, go back upstairs, let me answer it. This isn't a discussion, go!»" It's an Asian tongue of the Steppes, not of any of the great sprawling cities. Then, slowly, cautious, the door opens.
It's a young woman that Loki will immediately recognize as Kazimira, Ambrose's daughter, whose face he saw while in mental communion with the erstwhile master-thief off on another continent entirely. Her eyes, blue as Tanzanite gemstones, flick from Sigyn to Loki and one can see her swallow. Her dark hair is pulled back into a messy bun to expose the long lines of her neck; the freckles on her cheeks spread down onto it to disappear beneath the neckline of a long-sleeved t-shirt, long enough to hit mid-thigh overtop black leggings and indoor slippers.
"May I ask who you are?" Her voice is steady and inflected with an accent as if English wasn't her first language. The door is still held ready to be slammed shut at any instant, only half-exposing Mira as it stands.
A smile, his most winning smile, his green eyes almost /exactly/ the hue of the heart of a glacier, such an exotic green, and Sigyn would know it is the one constant between Loki's birth form, and the Asgardian self he more usually wears. "Hello Kazmira, your father, Ambrose, sent me." A nod. "As surety of this he vouchsafed a word 'khoshgelam', and suggested I reveal my true name."
He stands with wife on his arm, and essentially a steamer trunk balanced on his shoulder in the blowing snow of the unnatural blizzard outside. "As a favor to him, we have come to see you and your brother are kept in adequate supplies."
A smile then. "I am Loki Laufeyson, Prince of Asgard, called the Liesmith, the Lord of Fire, Trickster god of the Norse and…a damn snappy dresser." A wink. "This is my Wife, Sigyn, I will let her share what titles she chooses. I swear that we come here with nothing but kindness in our hearts by what I value most - my family and my magic."
Sigyn's smile is warm, her eyes are kind. If one wasn't aware of the greater than human strength of Asgardians, or the sorcery that she works into every niche of her life and craft, you might think her harmless. But still, it's a very domestic sort of sorcery she wields for the most part. "Goddess of fidelity, but being Loki's wife is truly the only title I care about. More importantly, I made and preserved the food we are bringing. Might we come in?" The blizzard doesn't bother her at all. She's been married to Loki for more than a millenia, she's learned more than a few tricks for dealing with both fire and ice.
Admittedly despite her status as demi-immortal, Kazimira is not as long-lived as her father and not prone to socializing with the gods as is his wont, so her expression is plainly dazzled in the face of that most winning smile from Loki and Sigyn's kindness radiating from her like a hearthfire.
They'll still see her struggle to compose herself. It's really the nickname-drop from Loki that seals the deal insofar as her next words: "Oh — oh, my goodness. Um, yes, please be welcome in our home." With a hand on the door, Kazimira then steps back to let both Asgardians enter. Given she's one of the few allowed to offer such honor on the property, the warding spells part to allow both Loki and Sigyn entrance — still, they are marked, as if the spells also had a semi-sentience of memory.
Once both are inside, Kazimira shuts the door and motions towards what appears to be the kitchen, her eyes still taking in the great containers of provisions apparently brought over. "Follow me, please." The interior of the house itself is spartan in terms of decor, all modern and nothing overstated but all subtly luxurious. The kitchen itself is warm though, well-lit and catering to someone with an inclination to be at the counters concocting some dish — this is Kent, of the two gentlemen of the home.
The wooden chest is plain by Asgardian standards. Handmade of wood, pegged together without nails, the only ornamentation is a band of knotwork around the top edge and around the edge of the lid. Of course, it's handcrafted wood, fitted together so snugly as to be air and water tight, a kind of quality that costs on Midgard. Inside is packed, the top layer is freshly baked bread, cookies, muffins, and under that fruit and vegetables. But under that are dried beans and rice, flour, small containers of spices, and beneath that, jars of home canned soups, curries, and sauces, preserved hams and sausages, smoked salmon, jars of duck confit. Technically, the dried rice and beans alone would keep two humans (boringly) fed for a month. with the other food they'll not lack for variety
Sotto voce, with teasing tones. "Suck up." He quips to Sigyn, she'd surely know he's teasing to set the girl Kazmira at her ease. "Thank you, Mira." He looks to the girl quizzically. "I can call you Mira, can I not?" Loki escorts his wife in, and then once in the kitchen sets down the rather huge chest with a thump that gives a solid indicator how much it weighs.
He looks around the spartan but well made decor, the simple but well made furniture, the costly materials. "Nice." He approves. "Understated…but nice."
Moving to step aside and allow the contents of the chest to be perused. "Oh, and if you need anything else, let me give you my cellular number, just in case."
Sigyn answers Loki teasingly back in Asgardian, ~But you enjoy it when I do that.~ Ahem!
Sigyn smiles at the girl. "It is our pleasure to be of aid. Your father is an interesting man, and so far he and Loki haven't annoyed each other too much." Her voice has a hint of laughter and loving teasing for her husband. "Besides, I enjoy cooking and Loki's son hasn't stopped by recently, so the pantry was full." Cooking to feed Fenris is an interesting challange. And leftovers are never a problem.
Kazimira seems not necessarily any more at ease with the two Asgardians in the kitchen now. She is admittedly and openly intrigued by the wooden chest so finely made and containing what sounds to be a great volume of content by how her eyes linger upon it.
"Sure, Mira's fine," the young woman allows to Loki, idly rubbing a hand along the outside of her forearm. Her skin, a deeper golden than her father's own tones, seems warmer yet against the pale-cream of the long-sleeved t-shirt.
Sounds upstairs prove that her step-brother is heeding his step-sister's edict to remain out of sight for now. Is he moving furniture around? By the sounds of it, just maybe, but for all that Kazimira doesn't react, this might be normal in the household.
"My father doesn't try to annoy him," Kazimira notes with the barest hint of a smile, as if uncertain of her own audacity. "I know who you are very well, sir — m'am, you too." Her brightly-blue eyes land on Sigyn and warm a touch. "We really appreciate the help." This she says after turning and fetching a sticky-note and pen to offer out towards Loki for his phone number. "Have you heard from my father recently?"
Boy, those are some softly-hangdog blue eyes now: masterful, young miss Kazimira…young at heart, at least, given she's technically nearing eighty-five in true human years due to partial-Vanir blood.
"And my daughter never writes, and my other sons either. Granted, Sleipner and Jormungandr lack thumbs, but Jormy at least has some magic and minions." Sore point maybe. Ah well, he doesn't dwell. Eyes bright, he smirks at Sigyn at her Asgardian, and says nothing either way. (He does in fact love it, yes).
"Ah, Fenris. Good lad, can be a bit testy though." Still, he is THE wolf. "Oh, I know that Ambrose would never intentionally antagonize me." He managed, but that was due to other circumstances.
He does write down his number, and after a moment Sigyn's, producing his own pen - a fountain pen crafted by the dwarves to do so.
"Actually, he seemed well when last we spoke." About an hour ago, or lses. "He sends his love, and instructs you to obey our every word as if spoken by himself." Loki pauses, and then does something REMARKABLE. "Okay, not the last bit, though he did send his love."
The big blue eyes have no effect. Nope. TOTALLY immune!
Sigyn gives Loki a look. HE knows it means 'Thank you for being honest, even if a bit late. I'll reward you later when we're alone'. After being married over a thousand years, they have an entire vocabulary of looks. She rummages among the goods at the top of the chest, removing a basket with woven lid, and opens it to reveal an assortment of cookies. "Your father is doing fine, but he mentioned to Loki being worried about you two, and Loki mentioned it to me, and well, I enjoy cooking and sharing what I make." She pushes the tray of cookies towards Mira.
Kazimira takes back the sticky note from the Trickster God with both his and his wife's contact information on it. She gives it a lingering look, no doubt memorizing the numbers, before glancing up first at Loki and then to Sigyn from beneath her brows as if for confirmation…the latter because even after the pause and amendment by Loki, her bullshit radar goes nuclear. The young woman is quite certain her father would not have leveled such an edict, not indirectly.
Either that, or that infamous Jackal stubborn streak is something Kazmira did inherit.
The tray of cookies is eyed but not for long. Kazimira sets aside the sticky note to take one and bite into it. Frankly, it's delicious, crispy and buttery alike, and she makes a small sound of contentment — surely a compliment to Sigyn in matters. "That he's worried about us both means he's up to his ears in some stupidity…" Kazimira grumbles from behind her hand as not to spray crumbs. Swallowing, she continues. "But he's wise. Not telling us means no one can get answers from us." She leans back against the counter and still looks down at the cookie forlornly. "I just…I hope he's really okay and not lying about it."
Sigyn communicates with brows and eyes, Loki with eyes and smirks, it works out, their 'marriage' language actually incredibly complex and flexible. "In truth, in an emergency come to Cover Story, our home if you can manage, I offer you and your brother our protection. Even if I am not there, Sigyn's magic and power are greatly boosted in our homes." Again, offer paid for in full by one Lena Snart.
He grins, unrepentantly at the BS-dar he triggered. GOOD! She's capable -and- smart.
"Oh, well, he never actually said he was fine, he just seemed it."
Sigyn shrugs modestly, "I'm a rather domestic sort of goddess… my powers are focused on home and hearth. Though that does include defending the home." She smiles gently at Kazimira, "I won't tell you not to worry about your father. It's hard not to worry about the ones we love. Even, or perhaps especially when they are trying to protect us from the trouble they get into." She is so deliberately NOT looking at Loki that she might as well be shouting that Loki is guilty of protecting her like that.
The young woman nods even as she finishes eating her cookie. The process seems neat and quick, as if she had been long on the move before taking up residence, never to linger if unnecessary.
"I'll remember to come to Cover Story, thank you," she tells Loki very sincerely. Her eyes then shift to Sigyn. "Right. I know…it's just…you know sometimes when you feel it in here," and her hand moves to rest overtop her heart, " — that they're in trouble, but you're not sure if it's bad trouble or something else? I've had that since he left. I mean…Kent's there, I know. He's nobody to underestimate. He took up with my father, after all."
And the young woman rolls her eyes even as she laughs, chin then tucking. Her shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. "«Baba» has always been impetuous."
A snort of laughter, yes, Loki caught the hint. Nope, not even a hundredth of a dram repentant. His JOB is to protect his wife. She'll just have to deal.
He smiles then as he studies Kazmira a moment, and then purses his lips as he gets suddenly thoughtful. A softly murmured cantrip, uttered in Jotun because why not? Fuck conventions! He'll cast in a non-magic tongue if he damn well pleases.
And then he laughs softly. "Oh that is rich." He actually wipes his eyes his mirth is so intense.
He grins to Mira. "Oh, be welcome in our home any time, little Vanir. I will protect you if you need it, even your brother, you fathers."
And the protection of Loki is no small thing.
Sigyn hmms? And looks at Mira, studying her intently. "Definitely stop by Cover Story some time, even if you're not in danger. I can teach you to bake if you're interested. Or knife fighting if you find that more fun." She'll talk to Ambrose before mentioning teaching her sorcery. Magic is significantly more dangerous than knife fighting, after all.
And there is a small chance that Mira might not have a gift for sorcery. Or the discipline and interest needed. It could happen.
Mira's eyebrows can nearly disappear into her hairline, it turns out, in mimicry of her father's own behavior of surprise. She doesn't, however, clear the floor as is his tendency.
"…Vanir?" she echoes quietly before falling briefly silent before Sigyn's interested look. "Thank you…m'am, yes — thank you." The young woman recovers her manners, but it's clear that the two Asgardians have stumbled upon something breathtakingly new in Kazimira's eyes. "Maybe the baking. I knew how to wield a knife in my defense before I was six and «Baba» tutors me regularly."
"Oh yes, most welcome, Mira Ambrosedottir, be welcome in our home, hearthwelcome you and your brother." Loki takes out a hanky to wipe his eyes — and her incredulous look so like her father's sets the Liesmith to laughing once more.
Okay, but really, it IS funny. To Loki.
"We can offer you some magical training, training at arms, I am one of the finest swordsmen in the nine realms, does a sword appeal more than daggers?"
Sigyn gives Mira an innocent look, "Well, if you don't feel like you have anything to learn about knife fighting, we could always just spar. Or you might be interested in other lessons as my husband suggests." She nods to Loki's suggestions. "There's also mixing lessons… for example, I have frequently put a touch of healing magic into my homemade soup to help out sick friends when we were living in places where openly using magic wasn't possible." She gives Loki a fondly amused look. "It's also startling how a little bit of luck, good or bad, can swiftly turn the tide of a fight."
Loki's overt amusement still means there's a wrinkle of the young woman's brows, but Sigyn proves an anchor for her manners in the moment. "Um. Magical…training, that's something I wasn't expecting. I know about luck," she says, hands lifting off her biceps briefly from where she folded them. "Kent explained to me about Fate and how it affects people. «Baba» says he's got a lucky coin, but I don't know… I mean, at least uncanny stuff runs in the family." Her laugh is faint and admittedly a little awkward.
Which means Ambrose's own powers had an influence in the end.
"I'm out of the espionage business for now though, so…I think baking's a good start," Kazimira demurs with a little smile that showcases her father's dimples.
Eventually, Loki manages to stop laughing. Barely. The handkerchief is tucked away, and where the hell did he even get it from? "Luck is more than a penny, Mira. Luck is a significant part of who you are, of what you are, and it can be borrowed from or loaned out. Even lost." Loki smiles at the interest in baking. And you know what, if Mira wants to learn to bake, and spend smore time at Cover Story, that's fine with him. She'll be much safer there. "Well, you could hardly find a better teacher than Sigyn."
A grin. "Yes, the uncanny tends to follow bloodlines." Loki confirms. He smiles to Sigyn. "I like your chicken soup." Not that he ever gets sick, at least not on Midgard.
Sigyn smiles gently at Kazimira, "And I would enjoy the company. It's not easy for me to make friends." It wasn't easy on Asgard even before she married Loki, and since then her life has been one complication after another. Including being mostly dead for a couple of decades, though she considers that a fair trade for not having had to live through World War II.
"I wouldn't mind the company either," admits the young woman just a little shyly. "It's…" Kazimira's blue eyes fall to the kitchen floor and she wrinkles her nose in brief irritation at herself. "I wouldn't mind it." This is said as if coming to a final decision on matters. She gives the plate of cookies and then the grand wooden chest another look before returning her attention to both Asgardians.
"I know you're probably very busy, but really…thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for reaching out to my father. He loves all of us so, and…I feel safer knowing there's someplace to go if the house's defenses are ever breached. I'll try and let him know that you dropped all of this food off." Her gesture towards the chest is graceful and now more composed. "We'll ration it if we need to. At least there's a blizzard to keep us all indoors."
Upstairs comes the sound of another large piece of furniture moving. Kazimira looks up and sighs to herself. "I don't know about cabin fever, but we'll work through it. Thank you." The gratitude from Ambrose's daughter is, by all appearances, heartfelt.
The dimples really make the point.