silvertongued'

LÆVÍSS : LOKI LAUFEYSON as primarily inspired by the Marvel Cinematic Universe (Thor: 2011, Avengers: 2012, & Thor: TDW), blended with headcanons & cherrypicked 616 comics. Highly-selective, mutuals only, low activity.

RULES ᛭ VERSES ᛭ DOSSIER ────── (BLOG UNDER CONSTRUCTION! Currently only RP-ing with friends.)

[ Provided that most of my animosity for the Loki TV series has died down, I've grown endeared to both Stories!Loki and Sylvie. So if one ever wants to roleplay with them in the future, they will be options ~ ]

In terms of their place within the power hierarchy of the Nine, Loki is likely recognized as one of the younger gods—Thor 1 includes Thor's coronation to Hlidskjalf (Àsgarðr's throne) which likely implies that he'd only come of majority quite recently, and remember that Loki is the younger sibling of the two—and due to this limitation, naturally, isn't the most powerful in comparison to the Celestials (Khonshu, the Eternals, Ego) or someone as Thanos (though with the Mad Titan, that's mostly due to both physicality and his advanced inter-realm politics.)

That said, Loki's use of seiðr is definitely not one to be scoffed at. They managed to operate the Tesseract with very little time to learn it as well as navigate the Mind Stone, which testifies that they, at the very least, knows how to navigate the Mind-Space realm quite well. In Thor: Ragnarok, they have shown that they could read Valkyrie's mind with a touch, despite not showing much of this ability anywhere else. Their illusions are strong enough to not only appear like them, but act like them as well. This all not to mention their Jötunn roots that undoubtedly carry with it ice seiðr mostly untapped by the movies.

(If we want to count D+ Series, they can cause projections that are tangible, but this Loki cannot do that. Not yet.)

That all to say, upon meeting a deity or figure or god that is stronger than them, their strength plays in their words—they are, after all, called the Silvertongue for a reason—and is likely to peek into the current state of extraterrestrial politics to decide whether or not to appease them (before betraying them later, Loki bows to nobody) or to challenge them where they stand (Chaos fuels their life, after all, what would a little more hurt?)

Before it got louder. The pitch raised to an almost annoying degree, and the source of the noise approached Loki from behind. Taking three steps toward him and pausing. And taking another three steps, and pausing again. Waiting for a reaction.

And then, a voice. Unnerving, not exactly human but something just shy of it.

["Hello, Laufeyson, Father of the wolf."]

#[ @r4d1os1lence, FM 109.3]

It is not the first time, nor would it be the last, that someone thought it a good idea to sneak up on Loki from behind. Given his reputation throughout the Nine, he would expect no less, but over the centuries, his adversaries had become smarter as to not doubt the origins of his most popular kennings.

Which was exactly why he welcomes every instance of fresh audacity with nothing but open arms.

Except the buzzing ran persistent in his ears and it became too evident that this was not an ambush, and oh, a grin threatened to break out of him then. Showing off? Was the noise meant to intimidate him? He opt to not physically react, continuing his farce of concentrated meditation, all the while toying with the phantom sensation of his dagger in his pocket dimension with his seiðr primed for the quick reach.

One step, two step, three, a pause, then three more followed. The hum of the words that followed were unusually mechanical, but the address they referred to him nearly caught his breath.

"You've clearly shown that you've done your research," said Loki, taking great care not to let the hiss slip in his voice. Laufeyson. Word does not spread that fast in the Nine, unless the All-Father had risked an openly distasteful declaration of his true origins. Somehow, he doubts it, and so he will have to find an alternate explanation for their extensive knowledge.

The kenning that followed was more interesting, one only someone from Miðgarð would recognize, having ordained to him from a visit so long ago when he'd descended into the realm and raised a pack of them to guard a particular town he had been fond of. "Quite impressive, given where you hail from."

Loki turned—raised an eyebrow at the mechanical contraption where their head was meant to be, the sight of 3 and 9 all but supporting his theory—and offered a smile. Not what you would expect a typical Miðgarðian to look like. It almost reminds him of Stark.

"I do not believe your Realm looks favorably upon me," he said, on the off-chance they would react to predictions at all. "But clearly, you've come here demanding an audience. What is it that you want?"

The choice words did not escape Loki, for what they implied. Once more? It is a rarity that he gets to talk to mortals more than once, primarily due to his busyness or present disinterest and their pitifully short lifespan on top of that, but some certainly do have the opportunity. It is odd to think that he forgot this one—surely he would have remembered, if such the case. Has the burden of his work culminated to such a feat that his concentration truly slipped him?

Perhaps it was also the other pressing frustrations in mind. Thor's coronation is due very soon, after all.

Regardless, the Oracle served a welcome distraction, so he attempted to recall her identity from her distinct features—glittery red eyes should be unique enough, he'd assume—only to discover that she had appeased him multiple times in the past, and was surprised when his memory of her extended centuries. Something that should be impossible, yet here she was, youth seemingly unchanged and not at all looking worse for wear, if anything, equipped with an improved sense of outfit and style.

"Hmm," he muttered to himself, pleased as all the hints came together. Unchanged features, unusually experienced practice. Dragon's blood. "The gift of immortality."

Many ways to acquire such a feat, though not many outlets visible to the populace of Miðgarðr. How fascinating that this one seemingly has served consistently and so thoroughly for centuries on end, and yet continue to do so tirelessly without breaking a sweat. Even after obtaining a quality most mortals could only dream to have. In many ways, it raises more questions than it provides answers.

"Your offerings are more than acceptable, if not inordinary. One wonders, with gifts abundant and experiences so comprehensive, what one would need to keep worshipping gods to begin with." Was she a vessel of a kind? Indebted? Surely if she was indebted, it would be only to the one patron, not given free reign to worship all. Deities were usually particular about that. "Is what you have not enough?"

Perhaps it was not anything of the sort. Satisfaction was not in his nature, and he would understand if a mortal likewise saw it as such.

"Many appease me to avoid chaos interfering in their life, but it seems that your everchanging self as you are comes with it an innate sense of it. Much has changed since we last conversed." He was never one for retaining pieces for too long, far more interested in keeping them all moving—and, at any rate, a direct line of communication to someone who'd witnessed the rapid changes of Miðgarðr over time would be extremely invaluable. "Tell me, Gná Sibyl, how have you yourself changed in the development of these past centuries?"

What I offer today is a plenitude of things that I wish will appease to you. Devoted candles, my finest mead and whiskey, dragons blood incense burning at this alter. As well as an assortment of meats dished into a platter with many engravings on it, fruits, fresh baked goods, along with cinnamon.

Please accept my offerings. . .

-Gna Sybil

While significantly less in number than a few centuries ago, prayers directed towards Loki were always welcome, and offerings even moreso. It was quite a pleasant reminder every now and then, knowing that not all of Miðgarðr had forgotten of Ásgarðr's might, that not all dismissed it as myth. It would serve their realm better in the long run. The thrill of worship may have died down long ago, but its brevity was enough for him to come to terms with that fact of the realm: Miðgarðr was unpredictable, chaotic in a way that pleased him, and it served to be their greatest strength and most fatal of flaw.

Still, they find continuous ways to surprise him. Not of startlement, but of unexpected delight.

Loki had adopted the habit of glancing at the realm whenever he felt a calling for it, occasionally leaving behind a brush of seiðr in a way that assured his assent, which was still far more attention given than the blatant disregard Thor has been showing of his followers. He knew it was chalked up to his brother's minimal practice of seiðr that the thought of even a simple scrying does not even occur to him, but he can suit himself as Loki preferred to reap for himself the delicacies they occasionally leave him, and this time, he was rewarded for his glance, catching an immediate strong whiff of cinnamon.

Mother-Father of Monsters. Clever, this mortal, to recognize his dual-nature, even if the kenning was unusual and likely misattributed. He is not the descendent nor the parent of monsters, but the comment was easily sweeped away as he surveys the offering: Fine quality mead, well-prepared meat, and surprisingly, authentic dragon blood. He'd quirked a smile at that, thought those creatures extinct in the current time of this realm.

A thoughtful offering, one of the most in a long time.

The spread delighted him, and while they're certainly not lacking any food in the kitchens, he opt to whisk them for himself regardless. Some mortals were reassured by the thought, or sight, of their god accepting their offerings in its entirety—this one seems like she would be relieved of it, from the way she carries herself. Assured, yet practiced in the altar-creation, and—Loki confirms with a slight wave of his seiðr—harbours the blessings of many other gods, be it of Ásgarðr or other pantheons. How intriguing it was to see one who has pledged her fealty to so many patrons, and while he is unbothered by it, wonders the cause of it.

"Is it truly blessing that you seek," he questions aloud, allowing a small whisper to be audible in her ear, though keeping in mind to remain invisible through the scrying, "or merely the reassurance that you are never alone in your journeying?"

Idly, he wonders if she would respond. Not many have the courage to, but regardless, he is well aware of the reason people appease him—with a theatrical wave of the hand that nobody but himself could witness, he lays upon her a light spell of protection, heightened endurance to withstand tribulations in the next few days.

Chaos, is, of course, uncontrollable—it would be antithetical of him to try and steer it, but he knows the way mortals work: beyond the work of protection, sometimes merely the presence of a god watching over them was more than enough for their determination to endure all things impossible.