Open Log: The Two Faced Forest

[brosif]

Characters: Sif and anyone interested in ~*~Quests~*~ and rewards!
Open? Yes, to those who want to join the ~*~Quest~*~
Where: Outskirts of the forest.
When: Noon
What: A research trip: checking out reports of the thorns that grow overnight and the beast that lives there. When the sun goes down, so does Shit.
Warnings: It is completely possible to have your character attend both this thread AND the ball, so long as they cut out before dusk. If it seems like your character can't hold their own against a threat, Sif may encourage them to leave (but whether they listen or not is up to you). Relatively open format: Thread hopping and mingling highly encouraged!



Sif waited on the edge of the forest, near the stables. It looked lovely in daylight, but she had heard tales enough of the land’s danger when the sun went down.

She wasn’t in full armor, only chain mail. It was something that she might have come to regret, but the weight of the armor they had to offer here was too restricting. Better fast than untouchable, as she suspect the thorns didn’t care about a few extra inches to eat through.

Comments

[brosif]

"Yes," comes out, quietly. She steps back, looking down. "Of course we did."

We. As a group, they mourned him. As one person, as the Lady Sif...it seems better that she include herself in the group, right now.

[sorcerous]

There is no 'of course'; there is no guarantee. His hand grips her shoulder -- it is wrapped with a slim bandage, done himself. The same hand he injured the day prior.

"And you," he persists. "What did you do?"

[brosif]

What does she matter, in all of this? Sif shakes her head, trying to keep her voice level.

"I offered my condolences to your family. I spent a great deal of time with your mother. I went hunting, a lot."

What is she supposed to say, here? She wants to shove him, again, but her arms feel heavy.

"I was sad." Quietly, still, and under her breath. Lost words, etched in her deeds, that she had not yet let out into the world.

[sorcerous]

He struggles. He struggles, but he cannot understand. The reality -- I was sad -- no, she must have been sad for Thor, sad for Frigga, sad for the assistance she no longer had. She must have been angry and betrayed. She must have misread it all.

He struggles.

"I don't," he says, softly, "believe you." He can't. He can't make himself believe. His fingers hook into her tunic; he cannot let her go, either.

[brosif]

He has been pushing at her since her arrival. Calling her oathbreaker, calling her false, calling her weak, calling her a thousand other names for liar.

Sif is no liar. And she does not do well with being pushed.

“I can see that,” she says, roughly, pushing at his hands. “I see your opinion of me, and you have mine of you. I am done giving my thoughts away so freely. You only throw them back at me.”

Sif spent enough of her time fending off weapons. It would be foolish to provide ammunition she would too soon have to dodge.

[sorcerous]

No. No. He will not let her go.

"And why shouldn't I?" he asks, his voice hushed. "You see, there are those I would have called friend, whom I have fought beside and who have fought beside me. They shine. They are the Aesir. And I am the one who has always fit ill. I find that there is a reason for it, that I am a monster, and that the terrible things I've done have reason.

"And I find myself here, where they greet me as a hero, and I embrace it, for it is all I have ever wanted. But you follow. You follow, and against such honor, what chance do I have? Against such courage, I am but a mote of dust."

His voice is even, smooth, tinted with an emotion he cannot name.

"Why should I believe any such as you have regard for any such as me?"

[brosif]

"Because I speak it," she growls, features contorting. "And I am not false. You call yourself monster. I do not. You call yourself dust, I do not."

She draws in closer, face inches from his. Her hand darts out and grabs his jaw, caring not about being gentle. If he will hold her to this conversation then he will look her in eye.

"Look at me. I am not false, Loki. And you know this."

[sorcerous]

He does meet her eye; strangely, now, he is unafraid.

"Then, for the sake of truth, perhaps I will be a villain for you," he says. "You alone."

The spectre of Thor looms over him, over them both. But Thor is not here, and Loki's evil, his mischief, his taint may be constrained to one alone.

[brosif]

She has no need of a villain, here. This strange place is villain enough. She opens her mouth to say as much, but something in Loki’s words – she isn’t sure if they can be called threats or compromises, or an unmarked distance in between – compels her to take a moment.

Sif’s hold relaxes. Her alone. It’s something. It feels like untying a particularly complicated knot when she smoothes down the front of his shirt and says:

“All right.”

[sorcerous]

It feels as though something between them has settled, though Loki is hard-pressed to pinpoint just what it is. He lets out a long breath, and folds his hands.

"I will go with you," he says. "To the forest."