Open-ish, for Nexus_crossings
Jun. 14th, 2019 01:31 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
coldsongThere is a sensation that Loki knows, for which there are no words in any language he has ever heard. It’s a feeling particular to a shapeshifter, the sense of something caught, pinched or wedged or wrong-side-out. He felt it in his earliest days, when he was first learning to shift—true shape-changing, not illusion; there is no such risk with illusion—and he would get the bone structure slightly wrong, or some thin, obscure internal membrane would get tangled. Pain, deep-inside pain, and restless agitation that cannot be ignored. Wrongness.
It happened more and more rarely as he aged, grew to understand his body, what it could do and what it needed. Mostly, for the last few centuries, the deep-inside pain only happens if he keeps a shape too long without shaking out his body and unspooling his seidr. Like a cramp. Like a reminder he is not beholden to one body. He doesn’t really even belong in a single body.
Today, he feels the discomfort. He is out of joint, bent up inside, and shifting doesn’t seem to help.
It’s too warm for the Jotun shape. Another few weeks will be the time of year he used to get summer fevers, as a child. Age has made him hardier, but he’s still not looking forward to the beat of heat on his skin, the sear of angry sunlight. But he’s missed stalking the snows in this shape. Ironic how the form he hated and eschewed for so long is so much a part of him now.
Even oversized, eight feet tall and wandering barefoot in the woods, it feels like him. But the pain only eases for a little while.
He steps into the water of a little lake in the Wilds, sinks to his knees in it, and the coolness washes over him, but there is still something inside him that will not ease.
She is a good shape for the Plaza, a pretty woman, dressed in flawless, tailored dark clothing, green-eyed, with inky hair that lies straight and smooth around her face only to ripple and coil into waterfall-waves as it nears her shoulders. She walks from shop to shop, peering in windows as if she’s looking for something.
More often than not, it’s her own reflection she’s looking at, gauging the stress and tension around her own eyes. Her skin feels like it wants to shiver and writhe and peel away from her body.
Loki has never tried the shape of a Jotun woman before, and in the quiet by his frog fountain, the ruined playground where he has made a safe house, he tries.
Bare feet slip into the green water, heedless of the algae, circling around to touch the frogs’ heads each in turn. North, South, West, East. It takes several cycles around the stagnant water before the algae clears, and the surface lies dark and clean. Another moment before it stills.
Loki was not expecting the face that looks back at her. The skin is not cobalt but white, white as bone, the eyes shadowy and dark, the long, thin fingers tipped with dark claws. It’s not a normal face for a Jotun woman. Loki has seen few of them, but she knows that much. There is something else here. This, this is the face of an aberration, a predator, a blade.
She likes it.
The pinch inside is unfading, the agitation maddening. An animal shape is a last-ditch effort, and Loki chooses the Mare because all she can think to do is run and run and run until she exhausts herself, shakes out the pain through sheer force of will.
She is magnificent, as close a match for Sleipnir as Loki could devise, a dark blue-dun fjord horse with a white face and mane shading near to black. She is small, not much larger than a pony, but when she runs the ground trembles, and she roars and neighs out her frustration at the edges of the meadows beyond the Plaza. The sound cuts through the air, stings the ears up close, and from a distance it sounds like a woman screaming in rage. In way, that’s what it is.
The sun sinks. His energy fades. The pain inside does not.
Loki brings himself to the yard beyond the cottage where the children dwell, sinks into the grass, and calls for Fonn. She brings him a hot drink, painkillers liberally poured into it, but he knows it will not work.
“I’m tired,” he says softly. “I’m so tired.”
But he will not come inside. The idea of being kept, boxed in, trapped under a roof, makes him sick. The grass shivers around him.
She brings him a blanket. “Can you rest?”
He doesn’t know the answer.
[[Loki is Loki in every form, but they may respond differently to other characters depending what form they're in. The Mare, especially, may be aggressive and wild. Tags may be slow.]]
It happened more and more rarely as he aged, grew to understand his body, what it could do and what it needed. Mostly, for the last few centuries, the deep-inside pain only happens if he keeps a shape too long without shaking out his body and unspooling his seidr. Like a cramp. Like a reminder he is not beholden to one body. He doesn’t really even belong in a single body.
Today, he feels the discomfort. He is out of joint, bent up inside, and shifting doesn’t seem to help.
It’s too warm for the Jotun shape. Another few weeks will be the time of year he used to get summer fevers, as a child. Age has made him hardier, but he’s still not looking forward to the beat of heat on his skin, the sear of angry sunlight. But he’s missed stalking the snows in this shape. Ironic how the form he hated and eschewed for so long is so much a part of him now.
Even oversized, eight feet tall and wandering barefoot in the woods, it feels like him. But the pain only eases for a little while.
He steps into the water of a little lake in the Wilds, sinks to his knees in it, and the coolness washes over him, but there is still something inside him that will not ease.
She is a good shape for the Plaza, a pretty woman, dressed in flawless, tailored dark clothing, green-eyed, with inky hair that lies straight and smooth around her face only to ripple and coil into waterfall-waves as it nears her shoulders. She walks from shop to shop, peering in windows as if she’s looking for something.
More often than not, it’s her own reflection she’s looking at, gauging the stress and tension around her own eyes. Her skin feels like it wants to shiver and writhe and peel away from her body.
Loki has never tried the shape of a Jotun woman before, and in the quiet by his frog fountain, the ruined playground where he has made a safe house, he tries.
Bare feet slip into the green water, heedless of the algae, circling around to touch the frogs’ heads each in turn. North, South, West, East. It takes several cycles around the stagnant water before the algae clears, and the surface lies dark and clean. Another moment before it stills.
Loki was not expecting the face that looks back at her. The skin is not cobalt but white, white as bone, the eyes shadowy and dark, the long, thin fingers tipped with dark claws. It’s not a normal face for a Jotun woman. Loki has seen few of them, but she knows that much. There is something else here. This, this is the face of an aberration, a predator, a blade.
She likes it.
The pinch inside is unfading, the agitation maddening. An animal shape is a last-ditch effort, and Loki chooses the Mare because all she can think to do is run and run and run until she exhausts herself, shakes out the pain through sheer force of will.
She is magnificent, as close a match for Sleipnir as Loki could devise, a dark blue-dun fjord horse with a white face and mane shading near to black. She is small, not much larger than a pony, but when she runs the ground trembles, and she roars and neighs out her frustration at the edges of the meadows beyond the Plaza. The sound cuts through the air, stings the ears up close, and from a distance it sounds like a woman screaming in rage. In way, that’s what it is.
The sun sinks. His energy fades. The pain inside does not.
Loki brings himself to the yard beyond the cottage where the children dwell, sinks into the grass, and calls for Fonn. She brings him a hot drink, painkillers liberally poured into it, but he knows it will not work.
“I’m tired,” he says softly. “I’m so tired.”
But he will not come inside. The idea of being kept, boxed in, trapped under a roof, makes him sick. The grass shivers around him.
She brings him a blanket. “Can you rest?”
He doesn’t know the answer.
[[Loki is Loki in every form, but they may respond differently to other characters depending what form they're in. The Mare, especially, may be aggressive and wild. Tags may be slow.]]
(no subject)
Date: 2019-07-15 12:04 am (UTC)This is one of those moments that Amelia's grateful for the translation ring she wears all the time. She's never heard the term 'kaffeeklatsch' before, and the quick implementation of the ring's magic means she only needs an extra second to respond to the idea. "I've grown an appreciation for coffee since coming here, and any place that Caspar recommends is one I'd be happy to visit - if someone would be so kind as to show it to me." Creature of habit that she is, the rogue isn't about to venture about the Nexus looking for this new coffee place. If someone who is slowly becoming a friend were to insist they go together, though... She could hardly be blamed for giving it a try, could she?
"I'm certain they have both." She smiles at Loki briefly and then flags down the waiter again who, anticipating what might be asked for next, returns to the table a minute later with a container of sugar, a small jar of honey, and a small carafe of milk. He sets it down on the table between the two women with a nod and then withdraws without a word. Amelia can't help but laugh a little at the show of formality before she returns her attention to the tea.
"I hope you don't mind that I'm taking on this task," she says softly as she pours them each a cup of tea. "I haven't had the chance to entertain anyone in quite some time. My home isn't well suited for it and since leaving my world..." Her smile falters for a half second before she shakes her head to clear away the thought. Adding a small amount of honey to Loki's cup, Amelia offers it to the other woman with a warm smile. "It's good to have this chance again with someone who seems like they could use a moment to catch their breath."
(no subject)
Date: 2019-07-15 11:46 am (UTC)No, best not to finish that thought. Both mother and garden are gone, but if Amelia is trying to cheer her up, the thing to do is not make it any harder than it has to be.
"Well. I'd recreate something like it, but I'm no kind of gardener. It could only be illusion."
The idea of meeting again for coffee is sufficient to pull her out of a tailspin. "Shall we make it a weekly thing? You and me, Harley if you're both amenable and have the time?" Not that she wants to make things awkward, but Amelia and Harley were clearly close before, and Loki would rather encourage Harley's friendships, romantic and otherwise, than stifle them.
Loki gives the waiter a polite nod in response to the formality, but is too distracted by the honey to suffer much amusement. The jar is cut glass and sparkles in the light. It's not from Alfheim, of course, this honey, but it looks very nice.
"No, it's lovely. I wouldn't want you to feel compelled to cater to me, but if you're comfortable I'm certainly not objecting." She takes the cup and breathes in the steam, eyes closed, before taking a delicate sip.
"I know so little about you," she says after a moment. "But that you are a very private person. I wouldn't want to pry, but what can you tell me of yourself, that you're willing to talk about?"
(no subject)
Date: 2019-07-15 11:19 pm (UTC)"Maybe Harley could help you grow a garden?" she suggests. "From what she told me, she has a lot of knowledge about growing plants that could help you get started."
Mention of Harley causes Amelia to pause for a brief moment in her motion to pick up her own tea cup, but she tries to play it off by turning the cup before settling back into her seat with it. "I'd like that. Both with and without Harley," she clarifies. "It would be nice to get to know you better and to spend more time with each of you."
It's hard for her to admit that she's struggling to be a good friend to Harley right now. After everything that happened during the Winter and all of their own hardships before that... Moving on from all of it is difficult. There's no chance to go back to what they were. There needs to be something new and Amelia is the last person in the multiverse to know how to deal with that.
She smiles reassuringly when Loki voices her concerns. "I don't mind at all. It's a comfortable role for me." Host is easier than friend for the rogue, so the chance to do the former over the latter is one she's happy to take on.
Amelia laughs softly at the question. "A difficult question, but one worth answering in current company," she muses. She allows herself a moment to think on it with a sip of tea. Where should she start, she wonders, with such an open question? A story is best told from the beginning, so she decides to start where she feels her own began to form.
"I trained myself to be a rogue from a young age," she begins slowly, setting aside her cup. "My family expected I would take over the spice trading business, and I took the time to learn everything I could to do that, but I had other goals for them that I couldn't achieve from behind a counter. I wanted them to be noble, and so I needed nobles on my side - and more money than I could bring in with our business. I traded my skills for favors, promises of support, and money enough to buy a title when the time was right."
She hesitates for a moment, her fingers reaching for the strands of her ever-present hair pin. The light, musical sound of the tinkling strands helps ground her. "I didn't need any of it, in the end, but the skills I honed in getting them were useful to the goal all the same. It wasn't how I wanted things to go, but I earned them that title, and now they'll have it until the line of succession ends." However long that might be, she thinks mournfully. But that's not the kind of thoughts she should be having now. There's time for wondering if things will continue on later.
"How's that?" she asks after retrieving her teacup again. "Does it sate your curiosity or open you to more?"
(no subject)
Date: 2019-07-21 01:04 am (UTC)She tilts her head, watching Amelia's expression, her body language. She really doesn't know what happened between her and Harley before, how serious the split may have been or how close they might have been beforehand. It's not Loki's business. She just feels her social and emotional inadequacy so keenly where Harley is concerned. It makes her want to bend over backwards encouraging her other friendships.
The story is strange to her, perhaps because she's not sure what being a rogue entails, but the way Amelia responds to questions in general makes her hesitant to ask, reluctant to push for details. Dedication to her family, though, and doing what must be done, are clear themes.
"It explains a few things," she answers, instead, and then: "Why was a title so important to you?"
(no subject)
Date: 2019-07-23 08:19 pm (UTC)The question makes Amelia's brow twitch slightly. Not because it's a bad or unimportant question, but because of how the answer makes her feel. "I didn't like my family being looked at as something less than worthy." She takes a sip of tea to give her a few seconds to compose herself. "As merchants, my family was often looked down upon by those above us and scorned from below. I wanted them to be above reproach so they could always have a safe, welcoming place to be if anything should happen." A frown tugs at her lips briefly before she adds, "I wanted them to be more than they were and to live more comfortably once they were there."
It takes the rogue another few sips of tea and calming breaths before she can truly finish her explanation. "A title also gave my little sister access to the care she required. She was always sickly and fell ill very often. It was difficult to convince healers that catered to those above our station to look at her when my family was merchants. Once we were nobles, I could pick and choose between them based on my sister's needs." She sighs softly. "Her life was difficult enough - I didn't want her to struggle any more than necessary."