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: 2019-07-21 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."