Action Log: Morning of the 19th.

[brosif]

Characters: The horse formally known as Sif
Open? Yes!
Where: Schwanheim or the woods, depending on the time.
When: Morning of the 19th.
What: The magic peddler gave Sif a very special hat. Too special.
Warnings: Sif is an angry horse, yo.

In the village of Schwanheim, there is a horse in place of a prince. Her color is lovely – a deep, rich brown. Her temperament is not. She runs through the city, vision blurred, knocking over whatever lies in her way in an attempt to leave the village walls. There is a bandage around her front left Fetlock, but it covers no wound.

Being in the city enrages her. Sights and sounds are filtering into her mind in a way she is wholly unused to. She thinks of the face of a peddling man and is enraged further. She will find him.

Comments

[sorcerous]

He takes advantage of a horse's instinct: he steers the mare well, and dodges between the trees, until they are running in parallel. Until they are in synch.

And only then does he begin to slow.

[brosif]

She does not slow her pace when he does. She feels hunted – as a human, it is a feeling she would respond to with some degree of excitement. Of challenge.

Now, it causes her to flee. She takes the paths that Sif knows best but soon finds herself in a small clearing with a single, easy outlet.

She canters back against the trees on unsteady legs. If the hunter comes through the clearing, she will charge him. There is nothing else to be done.

[sorcerous]

He dismounts, and leaves his horse, and steps in slowly. He is calm, and his voice is low.

"You're frightened," he murmurs. "There is no need. I won't hurt you, won't take a rod to you, won't mistreat you."

He does not advance, does not trap her, but steps aside, leaving the exit mostly-unblocked.

"Come," he continues, "come to me."

[brosif]

She knows that voice. To her bones she knows that voice, and the horse stills for a moment in recognition.

But: images of saddles and bridles, and the unfettered thought that a kind master is a master still. She whips around, wonders at jumping over logs.

[sorcerous]

Loki turns away, brief, and draws dagger and apple from the saddlebag in his hand. He slices it in half, quarters, and slips the dagger away before he turns back. The crisp apple-smell drifts across the clearing, and Loki lets it rest on his palm.

"Come to me," he says, again. "Here," and he hums, a soft, tuneless thing.

[brosif]

No, Sif thinks, clearly. The apple is cut, so he has a knife.

But the animal is hungry and has not eaten since its birth. It walks over to the hunter, slowly.

[sorcerous]

He offers her a single slice. Laid flat on his fingers, easy for her to take between her teeth. He advances only a step, two, not far at all.

"You're lovely," he tells her. "Lovely, and graceful, and quick."

[brosif]

The horse takes it, while the woman inside rebels. The taste of the apple, juicy and oddly cold, drowns out her voice. The horse licks at his fingers. Another.

From this close up, the man may well be able to see the strange hat on her head.

[sorcerous]

The second of the slices, and he shifts closer to her still. Ventures out a hand and touches her warm nose, feeling her still-quick breath.

"There," he says, "there, calm."

Perhaps the hat was what she so strongly objected to. Amusing little thing.

[brosif]

Inside, she is screaming. She is not cognizant enough to recognize who he is, but a thousand years of battle have taught her how often steel blades follow silver words.

The mare cares not – she has been fed and it is quieter here than in the town grounds. Outwardly, she is calm, nudging her nose against him. But her breath is quick and her eyes are very wide. This is wrong.

[sorcerous]

Paranoia. He recognizes it.

"Who has hurt you so?" He strokes her mane, and gives her the last two slices, one at a time. "I would kill them, for mistreating such a creature as you."

[brosif]

You, the human thinks. Her, the mare says, the latter thought drowning out the former. The apple helps to curb her hunger, and she scratches her chin against his shoulder.

[sorcerous]

"There, there." And as she munches on the last, he reaches up, and takes the hat from her head.

[brosif]

The creature cries out as its muscles and bones rethread, and soon enough the docile horse is replaced with a naked and furious Sif.

She spits out the remaining bits of apple and pulls from him on shaky feet. Her sense are once again being assaulted, reshaping, and she doesn't trust anything around her. Including him.

"I am no mare."

[sorcerous]

The only reflection of Loki's surprise is a blink. He is still, a long moment, a hint too long, and then, avoiding glancing at any key areas of her exposed body, he examines the hat.

"So it seems," he says. Ah, he can feel it now; a pesky little curse.

[brosif]

"Though perhaps that is the form you would prefer me in," she spits. "So docile, with no mind to speak of."

She is furious that she was so easily coaxed into complacency. Had he not taken off the hat, she might very well be saddled by now.

"You--" she cuts off, as the contents of her stomach rise up, rebelling at the change in shape. She turns to a nearby tree and uses it for leverage while she becomes sick.

[sorcerous]

"Perhaps I didn't take the hat off soon enough for your liking?" returns Loki, mildly, sharp words and a sweet tone. "I should have lunged for it as I gave chase, then. I am so very sorry."

He sweeps his cloak from his shoulders, and whistles for his own mount. She trots into the clearing, whinnies, and Loki hushes her, reaching to her saddlebag.

He offers Sif a skin of water, from the saddlebag, and the cloak.

[brosif]

She takes both, fastening the cloak and rinsing her mouth out with the water. She crouches down against a different tree, one she has not just been ill all over. The world feels new and she slow in it.

“I was not...in control of my mind or senses,” she offers, resting her forehead in her hand. “I was very far away.”

[sorcerous]

"Where did you get this?" he asks, half-turning away. He doesn't dare come closer. Best to, instead, find what caused this, and ensure it never did again. Best to be a sorcerer and not a man; best to save her, and not want her.

[brosif]

“A peddler.” She laughs at herself, though there is nothing of humor in it. She knows better than all of this. “I meant to have the mages look at it, but it found its way onto my head regardless.”

Eyes closed as she fights back another wave of nausea. Her body is unsure of her, now.

“I have no idea how you do this. It’s terrible.”

[sorcerous]

"It is a skill, to retain your mind and to understand your instincts. And there is a reason that I return to the same few forms, over and over again." Cultivated beasts of land, birds of the air, creatures of the sea. He has enough forms to suit his needs, and can change between them. Others are dangerous.

[brosif]

“The apple. When I – when she went over to it, all I could think was ‘he has a knife’.” She seizes up at the memory, under the folds of the cloak. “He has a knife. And it didn’t matter, because you had food. She went anyway.”

She tells the story to the ground, not to Loki. Her greatest fear: immobility in the face of a threat. Not being in control of her own body. She has just experienced half a day of it.

[sorcerous]

"I always have a knife," Loki dismisses.

But he understands, and his gaze lingers on her. That's not enough. He has to say more.

"But I never would have used it on a horse. Especially not one like you made."

[brosif]

“I did not know it was you. Only that I was being chased.”

He could have been anyone. Any hunter.

[sorcerous]

"Nonsense. When you heard my voice, you knew it was me."

Though he's not sure, and perhaps it shows, in his voice, in his body.