Loki laughs again, oh, oh, what a funny little thing she is. "Are you pulling faces at a blind man?"
He pushes himself away from the wall, back straight, head inclined. Regal, almost. Would be, were it not for the blood. For the ruin of his face. For the madness. For the ice.
"Still, if that's how you wish to dance, then let us dance," he adds, a faint smile on his lips. "My turn."
If she knows her stories, she'll know this face. She'll know the chill that rises in the air as Loki's skin begins to darken and turn, a deep blue creeping up his extremities. Sclerae, or what's left of them, redden. Scarifications raise on skin that emanates a cold so deep that it's tangible. Jǫtun. Frost Giant.
"You opened my cell. Ask veit ek standa, heitir Yggdrasill." I know an ash tree to stand, it is called Yggdrasill. Vǫluspá, the poem of the prophetess. Legend, yes, but true tellings, and something with which the opener of this box must have some vague familiarity.
"Do you know my name?" And if you do, do you still want to play?
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He pushes himself away from the wall, back straight, head inclined. Regal, almost. Would be, were it not for the blood. For the ruin of his face. For the madness. For the ice.
"Still, if that's how you wish to dance, then let us dance," he adds, a faint smile on his lips. "My turn."
If she knows her stories, she'll know this face. She'll know the chill that rises in the air as Loki's skin begins to darken and turn, a deep blue creeping up his extremities. Sclerae, or what's left of them, redden. Scarifications raise on skin that emanates a cold so deep that it's tangible. Jǫtun. Frost Giant.
"You opened my cell. Ask veit ek standa, heitir Yggdrasill." I know an ash tree to stand, it is called Yggdrasill. Vǫluspá, the poem of the prophetess. Legend, yes, but true tellings, and something with which the opener of this box must have some vague familiarity.
"Do you know my name?" And if you do, do you still want to play?