The Grey Mare and the Wild Hunt

[coldsong]

Mari Lwyd, Horse of Frost, Star-horse, and White Horse of the Sea, is carried to us.
The Dead return.
Those Exiles carry her, they who seem holy and have put on corruption, they who seem corrupt and have put on holiness.
They strain against the door.
They strain towards the fire which fosters and warms the Living.

V. Watkins, Ballad of the Mari Lwyd.

----

A group of four children in masks and bells and colorful clothing roams the Nexus today, tumbling and giggling and unorganized. Those who know Loki’s wards may recognize them by stature or voice or accent. Agnarr, the tallest, is silent as usual, but he has a riot of bright ribbons braided into his hair. He carries Eindrid on his back, the smaller boy waving chubby fists around so that the bells on his wrists jingle. Una is all over the place, as per her usual, yelling greetings and playful challenges and tossing snowballs at signs, tree branches, and individuals who seem receptive.

But where is Loki? Well, the answer to that would seem to tie into Sigrid’s position. She is as giggly and keyed up as the others, but she follows last, leading a strange figure under a tattered shroud. The shape is like nothing so much as a tall, lean person hunched over nearly double, bearing a pole which is attached to the shroud. At the end of the pole is a head made of wood or papier mache, horselike but stylized and strange, almost skeletal. The eyes are round and huge, made of glass: one blue, one red. Ribbons and bells and greenery decorate the head, and the jaw moves and snaps, evidently at the will of whoever is under the shroud. There’s a curled velvet ribbon in the mouth, in lieu of a tongue.

The obvious assumption, for those who know the children, is that Loki is operating the hooden horse puppet, but if anyone dares to tug the shroud aside and look, they will see nothing but shadow and fabric. But they will hear his laughter, bright and unmistakeable.

The children and their horse knock on doors indiscriminately. Residences, hotels, businesses. Loki leaves it up to the kids to choose where to go, and where to sing. The song always begins the same, translated by the magic of the Nexus:

Well here we come calling in innocent amity
To ask your leave
To ask your leave
To ask your leave to sing to thee!

(Will you let them in? Or will you argue?)

A sung response will receive a song in answer, and it may turn into a sort of battle of improvised carols. The children are clever, but only children, and sometimes the Horse will take over, singing with a familiar baritone.

If turned away, they will leave without a show of disappointment or complaint, but the snow will be scuffed where they go, in the shape of horseshoe prints. The tracks will not fade for hours.

If allowed inside, a scene will ensue, with the children being very much children, playing inside the home. The horse will snap its jaws at the occupants (though none will actually be bitten), and may give chase. And Sigrid or Agnarr will follow, eventually grabbing the shroud to tame the creature once more.

Anyone who plays along will receive a flurry of childish hugs and kisses when they leave, and may find candy, nuts, oranges or apples, in pockets or tucked in out of the way corners of their home.

---

Evening comes. The sun goes down early, and the temperatures plunge. That is none of Loki’s doing, of course. He does not cause weather, not like his brother who calls the lightning. Not like the Spirits who call the seasons. But he thrives in this time of year, this climate.

The children are tired after running about all afternoon with the hooden horse. They’re full of sweets and good food, and the lightest spin of his seiðr will help them sleep deeply. Mrs. Hedgeworthy, their housekeeper, will be watching them; no one is to venture outdoors tonight.

Sigrid is the last to go to bed; his little blue icicle. Normally, he is careful not to favor her, but she is the oldest girl, and the most likely to follow her adopted parent’s footsteps.

“When Una is older, I will show her this as well,” he says, and takes her by the hand. Even as she touches him, his form shifts and blurs, angles softening to curves. Sigrid smiles up at Loki; the children are used to seeing their guardian in both masculine and feminine forms by now.

Loki-the-Princess picks up the little girl and carries her outdoors. There is no moon tonight, not yet, and the purple darkness is heavy on the snow. Facing across the meadows, Loki draws her spine up, fills her lungs and calls.

The notes are eerie, wild and bittersweet. Kulning, this is, but no mere herding-cry to summon the cattle home. It’s a song to the wind, to the ice, to the quaking heart of the earth beneath their feet, to the shimmer of the night overhead. There are no words discernable, only a high, keening glissando; long notes with a sharp rise and a glottal stop in the offset. The sound echoes across the meadow.

Elsewhere in the Nexus, residents will hear the kulning cries hi-i ri-i oh! oh, hi oh! Some may find them alluring, a siren song. Others may be unnerved by the nameless voice at dusk. The unusually alert and prescient may consider the nature of the call, may know what walks abroad at this time of year, and may choose to slip away to avoid finding out what answers.

Carried safely back inside, tucked in bed, Sigrid watches the dark sky through her window, waiting for the aurora to respond to Loki’s song, but she’s asleep before the wind changes and the hoofbeats begin to drum against the ground.

--

Loki does not dare to allow herself the luxury of sentiment. Before the ride, she casts a spell on herself, blinding her ability to recognize the faces of those she knows. Thor will be the only exception, and he is also the only one to receive an advance warning--or an invitation.

The Odensjakt rides tonight, brother. Reads the text that comes to his PINpoint in the early afternoon. In honor of the season, and of the dead of Asgard--who will ride with me. You might be well served to stay away, but if you choose to join us, meet me in the meadow.

It would be good to have Thor along on the ride. But Loki would rather not surprise him with the familiar faces that will join the Hunt. He is still mourning many of them.

The winds pick up as the night deepens. Perhaps that is the source of the hoof-beat sounds? Or is the ride the source of the wind tonight?

---

It is almost midnight. There is a screaming across the sky, a rumble that drums the ground below, like the warning of an approaching avalanche.

The Wild Hunt rides, rushing around the outskirts of the Plaza as if in memory of the torches of last season, then ducking aside and plunging through the main streets of town. The riders move as one, a flood of bodies dark and ghostly-pale, horses and riders, dogs and deer and hunters all rushing together. The animals have red eyes and red mouths, and the air steams from their mouths as they pant and bellow. The riders are harder to read, faces tranquil or focused, dreamy or laughing, sometimes even screaming battle-cries. At the head of the procession is Loki.

Sometimes she appears as a woman, pale and green-eyed, with skirts and hair flying behind her as she rides. Other times, he is as a man--or more accurately, as a Jotun--red-eyed and dark, chest bare in the frigid night. Either way this is Loki, and the twin-horned helmet stays as a fixture.

The Hunt surges through the streets, overturning garbage cans and cars, knocking lightposts askew, cracking windows. If they choose to enter a place, there will be damage left in their wake. Things broken, pipes frozen, food and liquor missing. But these are not mere thieves or vandals. They will never leave a place uninhabitable, nor will they take all they find there. Just enough to frighten. Enough to inconvenience.

Here, tonight, a plan Loki set into motion a long while ago comes to fruition, though not at all in the way he intended. Tonight, the ghosts of the Statesman ride at his side, and so, too, does Skurge. Loki originally made a passage from Hel to the Nexus with the intent to later rally the dead to fight Thanos in some way. His plans remained unformed until they became somewhat less relevant. In some worlds, there may still be chances to oppose the Titan’s attacks and their aftereffects, but now, this is a different game. A simpler game. A display of the thinness of the walls between worlds both living, and dead, and in-between.

The ghosts of the Aesir will be joined, no doubt, by others. Living monsters and dead ones, witches and wizards and psychics, may feel the call and follow of their own volition. Others may find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and be snatched up in passing, by cold, ghostly hands.

No real harm will come, no injury that cannot be eased with an aspirin and a bath in epsom salts the next day, but the ride will be rough and disorienting for these unsuspecting conscripts, their ears will ring with the spectral cries, and they will find themselves dropped off far from where they were found, dumped unceremoniously onto the sidewalk in an odd corner of the Plaza.

They will have to find their own way home from there.
---

Like all things, the revelry of the Hunt must end. When the night begins to turn toward dawn, the surge of ghosts and their leader return to the meadow where their ride began. Those that joined them voluntarily peel away and head wherever best suits them, for a rest. Loki dismounts the steed she rode lightly, bare feet sinking into the snow but melting it not a whit. She smiles up at the dead as they begin to depart, some riding away, others fading in place.

What these spirits think of her, she knows not. She invited them, and they came, perhaps more for the honor of the hunt than for fondness of Loki. As much as she may have done for redemption in the eyes of her people, they are not obligated to forgive or understand. But they did come, and some will come again.

Skurge is the last to leave, lingering on horseback where he is, with words or questions on the tip of his incorporeal tongue.

But he was never good with words, and after a moment he just says, “Be seeing you.”

Loki smiles and gives him a gracious bow of her head. “Soon, I hope.”

He does not answer, but the look on his face as he vanishes says: Yeah. Probably.

--

As the sky grows bright once more, another kulning call echoes across the empty space of the meadow. This one is a farewell, a gentle send-off; to ears that do not understand, it sounds no less eerie.

The Odensjakt will ride again, after all. Soon.


------
OOC notes

[[This is an open post with a twist. I cannot commit to long threads, but I wanted to make this available for people who wanted to have interactions with the hooden horse/Mari Lywd or the Wild Hunt.

Please feel free to tag in with your character(s) reaction to any of the above. They can encounter the children, they could hear the sounds of the Hunt, or for a more lol-like experience, they could join or be caught up in the Hunt themselves.

Two things should be noted. First: Loki will not recognize any character except Thor, potentially not even his own alternates. He did that on purpose so his fondness for certain individuals cannot get in the way of his plans. If you get close to the Hunt, even if you’re on good terms with him and don’t wanna go, you’re coming along. Feel free to yell at him later. He may or may not be remorseful, but probably not.

Second: People who either join the Hunt voluntarily or gain control after being snatched up are essentially invited to participate. Feel free to smash some stuff up, steal food or drink in small amounts, etc. However, the Hunt’s purpose is not to kill or maim, but to frighten and disrupt. Anyone who gets too violent or otherwise overly enthusiastic risks falling out of synch with the rest of the Hunt. If that happens, the character may be yeeted out of the group and find themselves in a corner of the Plaza they didn’t start out in.

For each tag-in, I will respond with at least one prose-heavy tag detailing what the character is likely to have seen, felt, or experienced in the Hunt or during the visit with the hooden horse. These responses will probably be slow in coming, but you know, that’s the holidays for you.

Some things might get threaded out, too, it just sort of depends on whether my time and energy permit and how hard something hits me, inspiration-wise. Please don’t feel bad if I only respond to you once! Also, you are welcome to handwave that your character got dragged into this madness without tagging in, if you so choose.]]

Comments

[pirateangelbaby]

Yule is a subdued event for Thor this year. There are fewer faces at the feast, but Asgard's oak burns on their own land beneath a green-laced night sky, and those that are left celebrate their survival to see the Wheel turn to another year... and drink to those who didn't.

It's hard to smile at them and wish them a happy Yule, to put on the attitude of the strong and noble king his people need to lean on for their own support, when inside he feels as though that facade is made of crumpling paper. Even through last year's losses, he'd still had Loki. He'd still had Heimdall. People he'd known for hundreds of years, who knew him as Thor, or... Thor as he had been, at least. He's made friends since then, of course, but there's no one in this crowd who he'd consider such for more than a mere handful of years.

So he greets those friends, and offers his blessings to others, and slips away the moment he feels he's fulfilled his obligation as jolfather so he can go and drink in peace.

He's several bottles in by the time he gets Loki's message, not so drunk he can't understand what offer is being made. The dead of Asgard will ride, and Loki will ride with them. Will he go? Should he go? Will they blame him for their misfortune, and would they be wrong to do it? Will Odin himself be there? What will he think of what his son has become?

He thinks about it, and drinks until he doesn't anymore.

It's several nights later before he stirs up enough courage to face his demons, a tremor in his hands as he plaits his beard and pulls his hair back up out of his face. "I am a king," he whispers to his reflection, forcing himself to look himself in the eye, facing down the part of him that wants to turn and hide and bury himself in enough ale and mead that he doesn't know his own name. It's so very hard not to give in, as he has every other time he's tried. He reaches out to Mjolnir, still yet to be returned to its proper time, and feels a knot in the pit of his belly loosen as the hammer easily lifts with his touch. Still worthy.

He sets it back down, letting the ancient hammer lie in wait for his return, and instead calls to Stormbreaker to take him to the meadow.

[coldsong]

Loki rarely wears the female form around Thor, though it’s likely he’s seen her in it before, enough to recognize her on sight, and the sound of her speaking voice. He’s probably never been close by when she sang like this before, though, as kulning is typically done to signal across distances. As Thor lands at the edge of the meadow, he can hear the rise and fall of her voice, echoing. If he looks back at the cottage, he may see a couple little faces pressed against the window. The children know not to come out right now, but they are listening.

The song tonight is sweet, a major key, both wild and welcoming. Loki didn’t actually expect Thor to come, though, and the thundercrack sound of his arrival and the wash of light he brings with him cause a brief pause in the highest note. She turns and looks at him for a moment, smiles and holds out a hand, then picks up the melody again.

When the notes die, the wind picks up; the Hunt approaches. But there is a moment to speak, first, and Loki gives Thor’s hand a firm squeeze. “You honor the dead by riding with them, my Brother. My King. The ones that are here, and the ones that are not. Remember that, and fear nothing.”

The hoofbeats vibrate through them both like drums as the dead approach. Some of the faces are familiar, others less so, because it’s not just the recent dead of Asgard that join them. There are others, souls who left the living world before they were born, and some that come from worlds that are not their own. But at the front of the line, first to approach, Skurge is…perhaps more familiar now than when Thor first encountered him in Heimdall’s place.

[pirateangelbaby]

Even knowing that he's been invited, that the kulning is calling to any who will join, Thor still hesitates a moment before taking his sibling's hand with his own. The unknowns lurking ahead of him seem all the more real now that he's here, and it's a constant war within him to fight against that urge to leave, to seek the refuge at the bottom of the bottle once more, and avoid this whole thing. But he stays, hand clasped securely in Loki's, the other clenched around Stormbreaker's haft, and waits for the sounds of phantom hoofbeats.

No balm will soothe away his anxiety as if it never was, like a child being comforted after a nightmare being assured their fears were not real. But those little encouragements make all the difference still, bracing him against the relentless fear, preparing him for what is to come as best they can.

He only flinches this time when he recognizes Hela's reluctant executioner, the same in death as he was in life, what little Thor remembers of him. He hadn't witnessed the warrior's final stand, but those who had been in the belly of the ship had told the tale of his sacrifice, wielding weapons of both Asgard and Midgard as he paid for the Statesman's escape with his life, downing dozens of Hela's draugr before he'd fallen. Another person that Thor could not save. Another Asgardian life lost. Time and distance and devastating perspective have helped dull the sharpness of that blame, and when he looks upon the specter now, he sees no hatred in those eyes.

"Skurge," he greets him hesitantly, and forces himself not to think of what might have been, struggling instead to see a warrior who has earned his redemption at the point of a sword, one of Odin's honored dead. If not for Skurge, the lives paid due to Hela would have been much higher than they already were. Thor can be grateful for that with little effort at all. "I... it's... good to see you."

[des_troy]

If anything, Skurge looks like he feels more or less the same as Thor about this meeting. Did Thor fail him? Did Loki? Did Odin? Probably. He failed them, too, and almost failed Asgard. If not for that last chance to turn again, what would his legacy be?

Perhaps they're all in good company, three failures trying to make something out of their own insufficiencies. It seems like some of the dead that ride gravitate around Skurge, especially the dead soldiers that might, in other times and places, have served alongside him. He's not the leader here, not yet, but he's a touchstone, and he's not sure he deserves that much honor, but he's not turning it down, either.

There's a bittersweet flicker across his face when Thor addresses him by name, and then he draws himself up a little, proud to be known. He gives the princes of Asgard a seated bow from the back of the horse he rides. "God jul, right? Little late, I guess, but better late than never."

[pirateangelbaby]

It's a far more deserving greeting than Thor had given him the last time they'd met, and there's a part of him that's glad to see it received without grudge. "God jul indeed," he agrees, managing a small smile, even as his gaze travels to those who ride alongside the dead warrior. Already it feels like forever since he last saw any of Asgard's soldiers, and some of the faces are ones he knew in passing - seasoned Einherjar who were in the King's guard, footsoldiers whose support once helped the then-Crown Prince win the day, beardless boys who had been barely old enough to be blooded in battle.

Too soon for them to be called to Valhalla, most of them. Yet he can only assume that they did reach that golden hall, that they will return there once the Hunt has run rampant on its ancient course, and fill their days with feasting and song until they are once again called forth to ride. And though Thor himself has made significant strides in finding his footing in the land of the living, he cannot help but wonder if he might've been among them now if he'd fallen during the Mad Titan's massacre.

Well. He supposes there is little point in such thoughts, a living king and Allfather standing amidst a legion of the dead. He is joining them tonight either way, but when the night is over, a little cottage on the edge of the sea waits for his return. Peace and quiet and a green garden soon to bloom, under a seidr-green night sky.

He draws himself up a little straighter, invoking the shadow of the man he once was, pushing down his anxiety and fear as best he can. The remark on lateness, of course, he takes to mean his own absence these past few nights, whether or not that's what Skurge meant. "Some things shouldn't be rushed," he answers instead. "But there's something to be said for keeping tradition alive. Er, so to speak."

[he_put_the_devil_in_me]

Matt hears the strange call better than most, though he doesn't have any idea what it means. He's still wondering about that when the drum of hoofbeats start, phantom shivers through the ground under his feet, a strange rush of air at the approach of something large and numerous, something even his senses are not entirely sure is really there.

The Wild Hunt was never exactly part of his Catholic education, of course.

It's laughs and cheers and battle-cries, smashing and galloping and thundering across the land, a savage heartbeat thrumming out to all and sundry. Yet even this is measured, deliberate; destructive but only to a point, restrained but violent.

Before he knows he's doing it, he's approaching the place where the ghostly riders will travel next. And when the Hunt passes close, chaotic and clashing with all his senses, a hand grabs his own and hauls him up onto horseback.

[coldsong]

They who seem holy and have put on corruption. They who seem corrupt and have put on holiness. Which are you, Daredevil? A little of both, perhaps, in the end?

Either way, the Hunt will have you.

It would be somewhat exaggerated to call the Hunt organized chaos. It is ordered in the sense that Nature is ordered, mad and wild in the sense that Nature is wild. It will take what is due to it, no more and no less. The clanging of spears and the thunder of hooves surround Matt in advance of the semi-physical presence of the riders. Loki's voice sings and calls out over the others; Matt may or may not recognize it, but if so there is something reminiscent of the battle in the Wilds last year. Here, now, Loki stands on the side of both the living and the dead, because they need one another.

The hand that grips Matt's and pulls him up close is not Loki's, and he will never know what the rider looks like, but he can hear her voice--very clearly feminine, but low and clear and fierce--murmuring: Find your place, pretty mortal, and ride with the dead.

Ominous or encouraging? You decide, Matt.

[sweetcandygirl]

It is the rumble of the drums that first catches the attention of Harley Quinn. She was swinging from her aerial silks when she felt the beats -- almost mimicking her own heart. Beat beat. Beat beat.

And she leaps down to the ground, landing solidly. She grabs a bat from her weapon case, the drums already speaking to her on a primal level, that she is not quite able to identify. The madness calling to her. And as she leaves her Harley Cave... she grabs her new warded jacket gifted to her from the Angel of War during Christmas over her skintight aerial outfit. And a pair of boots to protect her feet. Not much else.

She sees the shadows of the Wild Hunt first, and heads towards the chaos that is calling her. Something deeper and more meaningful to the chant of the drums and the sounds of the ghostly riders urging her forward. Towards the Hunt.

As she gets closer, she recognizes some of the ghosts of Aesir… for she was with Loki when he made passage from Hel to the Nexus. Her first mission as his Valkyrie completed so many months ago. And she knows in her heart that this is another reason for Loki's Valkyrie to be here. To be with the spirits that he has awakened for the Wild Hunt.

When she gets close enough to the Hunt, Harley lets her body go limp at the first outstretched hand, so she is snatched up easily. She does not look for Loki -- even though she has a feeling that he is here. It is enough for her to be among the Wild Hunt and the Spirits of the Fallen for tonight.

It is a very familiar feeling for Harley to free herself of the mischief and to participate. Along with the Hunt, she smashes, steals and frightens. She is able to keep just enough control to walk right on the edge of true chaos. There is no real violence from her... and she more watches for anyone who does get too enthusiastic. She protects the Spirits around her, and is the first to cast someone out if they are too disruptive to this sacred night.

She will stay with the Wild Hunt for the entire night, protecting and acting with the spirits of the lost. She walks with them. Guides them on the chaotic path that is the Wild Hunt. And lets the Wild Hunt guide her... as Loki's Valkyrie... to her next step. Her next purpose. Her true calling.

It could be here in the Drums and the chaos of the Night. Whatever has called for her will find her ready and willing to answer the call.

[coldsong]

He would not recognize her if he saw her, because it had to be thus. To honor Winter and its indifference to status, to social bonds, Loki could not permit himself to even be tempted to be soft toward anyone in the Hunt's path. As Odin's son, Thor has the right to join in, even to lead if he chose to take the reins from Loki--though there would be an argument--but no one else can be Loki's friend here, tonight.

If anything is a test of Harley's commitment to the role she has fallen into, this is it, to face the full power and wild focus of the Aesir without Loki's reassurance and protection. But he knew she would be here. He did not know which night, or nights, but he knows her well enough to recognize she would hear the call and be reckless enough to follow it.

And it is fitting. Loki's Valkyrie. Perhaps Loki's right to name and choose anyone for that role is questionable, and there is no denying it began as playful banter, a pet name based on Harley calling her Princess. But Loki is Loki; what begins as impulse can become quite serious, and he sees something in Harley that many others seem to miss.

They who seem holy and have put on corruption; they who seem corrupt and have put on holiness.

What is Harley Quinn, if not an outcast seeking to put on holiness? What is Loki's role, if not to embrace the outcast?

What is the Wild Hunt, if not a celebration of the flipping of the script. The Lord of Misrule appears at Christmas, the lowly are made mighty and the mighty are brought low. The dead live again, and the living die. The lonely find solace with others like them.

And so, she fits at his side, in a way that seems counterintuitive even to him, at times. But she seems certain, and that, too, is fitting.

Some of the Aesir recognize her as she joins them. Harley Quinn. Harlequin. Herlequin, Herla King. There are whispers. They know her, even if Loki has blinded himself to her presence. A woman with a trickster's name. A woman who has associated herself deliberately with one of the storied riders in the Hunt.

She is welcomed here. She is embraced.

[sweetcandygirl]

It is the feeling of being welcomed... or being embraced that is most appreciated by this particular Outcast. And she feels like she is finding her calling tonight... by riding in the Hunt, and respecting the others who join tonight, in only a matter befitting the ritual.

Tonight it does not matter how others in the Nexus might view her. Tonight she is Loki's Valkyrie. She will protect those of Aesir as if they are her own family.

For in a way... they are family.

[shardofwinter]

From start to finish the party is being watched. But then, Loki knew that. Loki didn't just expect that, he ensured it. The Season is watching. From the pristine snow to the biting gales, like all the spirits of every stone, every wind, every Winter past, every soul who fell into Winter's embrace. They're all watching.

An old man with white hair long enough to reach the end of his beard sits in the corner of one of the houses. Seemingly stuck in the corner in his chair, he startles at the unexpected guests and laughs at their antics, and hums along with their singing. One of the children slips him a sweet and he, in turn, amuses her with a magic trick, revealing a silver clip of delicate frost swirls which he slips into her hair before she speeds off with the others.

Later, when Loki fills the air with sweet-sheer melodies, the surface of the snow shifts ever so slightly. A faint breeze curling up snow like puffs of a breath. Whisper-songs twisting and becoming lost in the air. A trick of the ear. Perhaps Sigrid will dismiss the way a shadow nearby looks like a tall, thin figure that surely doesn't wave slender fingers at her. A trick of the eye.

A trick of the eye that Loki will share. When Loki rides in the Wild Hunt how many shadows; how many cracks in ice, and ridges of snow; how many reflections in windows and glimpses of posts and weapons look like an emaciated being only to turn out to be... nothing. Simple things. Simple tricks of the light.

There is no mistaking what appears before them, however. A doe of brilliant white, larger than any that roams Reynard's Earth in this era. More real than the spirits howling through the streets. Its breath fogs the air, its hooves mark the snow, its eyes shine in the light. It would be so easy to reach out and touch it as it stares at the Hunt with wide eyes. Unless the spirits stop in their tracks, the doe will turn and flee. It is Loki who leads the Hunt, so it will be Loki who decides.

[coldsong]

How much of this does Loki do out of respect for the Season, how much is out of his care for the mortals who need the sacred, how much is out of his strange, quirked affection for Reynard himself, and how much is simply Loki loving the chance to run wild? It varies, he would say, from moment to moment. There is undeniable joy in the jingling, cloying dance of the Mari Lwyd.

What mounted, murderous thing goes past
the room of Pentecost?
sinner and saint. sinner and saint:
A horse's head in the frost.

Hard to tell how much he's said to the children, from their behavior, but the older two seem to take the game with an appropriate blend of laughter and sobriety. And why should they not? They've seen loss this year, the pitiless frosty stars, and been brought back into the realm of sweets and laughter and firelight for another chance. It's Una that puts a piece of candy in the old man's hand, bolder than the others, or more innocent, but she stops in place, utterly absorbed and fascinated by the magic trick. The clip will stay in her hair until Loki insists on a bath, and even after that she'll keep it close at hand. She doesn't know the scope of the magic in the Nexus, but she knows enough to value the glimpse of it she's given.

Sigrid is better trained, only a few years older but locked onto Loki as her mentor and guardian with a certainty the others are still developing. He calls her his little blue icicle, where the others are dear heart or sweet one, and she was the first to reach for a hug from his Jotun form. She sees more of Loki than most, and that makes her able to see more of the other shadowy things around her than most. When the thin shadow waves its long fingers at her, her eyes are wide, and she doesn't dare wave back, but after a moment's hesitation, she smiles as she clings to Loki's sleeve.

The Hunt is watched. Loki knew it would be, though the only warning he gave the dead Aesir with him was in the kulning song. Odensjakt is sacred; they all know that. They all know their duty and all came willingly, with joy, to execute it.

When the Doe appears, Loki is in Jotun shape. His horse slows as his body tenses and stills, red eyes wide and awed. The sight goes through him like a bolt to the chest; what exactly Reynard means by this sign he does not know. There is a range of possibilities. But what he does know is that this sight is either the gift or the test of Winter. Perhaps both.

His hand comes up to rub his sternum for a moment, then he spurs his horse again. "We follow," he tells the others, and there is no questioning.

"Won't catch her," Skurge says beside him, a raspy, tentative whisper. "That's not the kind of deer you catch."

"I know. The point is not to catch. The point is to follow."

[shardofwinter]

Ears like dishes point at the Hunt, every inch of the deer like stone. It might have been a marble carving the way it waits and watches, as if hoping it hasn't been seen. Loki's steed stirs into action and in a flash, the doe turns and speeds down the street. The snow softens the sound of its footfall, but also provides clear tracks for the Hunt to follow. Such a large doe isn't as nimble as its smaller counterparts, but those long legs make it fast.

The second the Hunt moves the feeling of being watched intensifies. A sensation that builds with increasing pressure as the Hunt is led down streets and alleyways, over boxes, bins and fences. The twists and turns get more sudden and more elaborate. More desperate. Then, suddenly, the doe finds itself in a straight street and sprints at full pelt towards the end which leads to the Wilds. That feeling of being watched has turned into a pressure pounding at Loki's temples, the scream of blood pumping and bones roaring. A palpable, inescapable bellowing that shakes the air around the Hunt without ever making a sound.