Loki doesn't care for the retreating forms. He hears them go, senses them go, but even if he could follow, even if he weren't completely disoriented, it's likely that he wouldn't. Not when someone is trying to beat him at his own game. Interesting, yes, the scent of fresh blood. Loki's head inclines faintly, sightless eyes turning on Mina.
“Hvat sagðir þú?” he asks, his voice a rasp, ruined by long years of silence broken only by screaming. What did you say?
A grin grows on his face, wide and predatory. “Lág spákona.” A little witch-woman.
There's so much here, at his fingertips, dizzyingly much, his senses flooded with information. All but his eyes, though a sorcerer has other ways of seeing. Other ways of sensing, and he can feel the power she calls up, a thread running underneath it all. A thread, and threads can be pulled from both ends. He wonders how long she'd last if he tried.
Loki can feel her magic twining about him, binding him as best it can, but clearly it was never meant for jǫtnar. For gods.
“Centuries in this rock and all the Æsir can send me is you.” He takes a staggering step forward, bracing himself on the wall of his cell, and gives what might be a laugh, though it sounds like a bark, something animal, utterly devoid of humour. “They ought to have killed me when they had the chance. There's no stopping it now. You would do well to run now, vǫlva. Feel alive for a little while longer, while your sun still burns.”
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“Hvat sagðir þú?” he asks, his voice a rasp, ruined by long years of silence broken only by screaming. What did you say?
A grin grows on his face, wide and predatory. “Lág spákona.” A little witch-woman.
There's so much here, at his fingertips, dizzyingly much, his senses flooded with information. All but his eyes, though a sorcerer has other ways of seeing. Other ways of sensing, and he can feel the power she calls up, a thread running underneath it all. A thread, and threads can be pulled from both ends. He wonders how long she'd last if he tried.
Loki can feel her magic twining about him, binding him as best it can, but clearly it was never meant for jǫtnar. For gods.
“Centuries in this rock and all the Æsir can send me is you.” He takes a staggering step forward, bracing himself on the wall of his cell, and gives what might be a laugh, though it sounds like a bark, something animal, utterly devoid of humour. “They ought to have killed me when they had the chance. There's no stopping it now. You would do well to run now, vǫlva. Feel alive for a little while longer, while your sun still burns.”