Loki, Prince of Asgard, Odinson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
coldsong) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
nexus_crossings2021-03-28 04:14 pm
coldsong) wrote in nexus_crossings2021-03-28 04:14 pm
Rope the South wind; Canvas the Stars
There is an ocean in the Nexus--at least one, maybe many--that comes and goes. It has been seen frozen over in the winter, laced with sand and amusements in the summer. Sometimes it's within sight of the Plaza, but more often one has to seek it out in the Wilds, tracking it by the cry of the gulls.
Today, it's close enough to smell the salt-spray.
No one is called, no one is compelled to wander closer, but should the adventurous depart the main Plaza and follow a pebbled path through long grass and winding trees, they will come to a place where the ground rises into a gentle dune, then drops into an expanse of sand and rock sketching out a sort of cove. Indigo water laps the shore there, low waves splashing froth onto the shore. And in the water there is something that could be called a ship, if a ship could be made of ice and bone; if a ship could be strange and hard to look at, if it could stretch up so tall toward the sky it seemed eldritch and unbalanced.
The prow is sharp as a blade, and when the wind sings in the ropes, the noise is high and sweet, like siren song.
Loki is on the shore, and his children are with him. Agnarr and Una are playing in the sand together, the elder stacking rocks and building castles for the younger to knock down. Sigrid and Eindrid, though, are on the Ship itself. A casual observer can see the form of Loki up there with them, guiding them gently as they explore, but he is also below, seated on a heap of driftwood to observe his other two children. Bilocating.
He glances up and nods at whoever wanders close, polite, if protective of the kids.
"Do you believe in birthright?" he asks. "Something beyond the gift of existence itself, to which a person is entitled just by entering the world?"
((ooc: Just to warn, my tags will be VERY slow!))
Today, it's close enough to smell the salt-spray.
No one is called, no one is compelled to wander closer, but should the adventurous depart the main Plaza and follow a pebbled path through long grass and winding trees, they will come to a place where the ground rises into a gentle dune, then drops into an expanse of sand and rock sketching out a sort of cove. Indigo water laps the shore there, low waves splashing froth onto the shore. And in the water there is something that could be called a ship, if a ship could be made of ice and bone; if a ship could be strange and hard to look at, if it could stretch up so tall toward the sky it seemed eldritch and unbalanced.
The prow is sharp as a blade, and when the wind sings in the ropes, the noise is high and sweet, like siren song.
Loki is on the shore, and his children are with him. Agnarr and Una are playing in the sand together, the elder stacking rocks and building castles for the younger to knock down. Sigrid and Eindrid, though, are on the Ship itself. A casual observer can see the form of Loki up there with them, guiding them gently as they explore, but he is also below, seated on a heap of driftwood to observe his other two children. Bilocating.
He glances up and nods at whoever wanders close, polite, if protective of the kids.
"Do you believe in birthright?" he asks. "Something beyond the gift of existence itself, to which a person is entitled just by entering the world?"
((ooc: Just to warn, my tags will be VERY slow!))
no subject
"If the day ever comes that Guardians aren't needed as warriors, it'll be a happy one," she adds, hoping that helps unsour his face a little. "We could be historians who have actual eyewitness accounts of events from centuries past, maybe. I know a warlock who'd be happy to spend the next five hundred years just reading, or writing her own book. I wouldn't mind going into construction, myself." The odds of such are so low that it's not worth mentioning, but maybe it'll ease his mind if he doesn't think they're nothing more than killing machines.
She tilts her head as she listens. "What kind of tricks?" she asks. A distaste for frontal assault is one thing; she's used to that from non-Titans, and occasionally from Titans themselves too. But this sounds like something else, and she's not certain what the distinction is.
His name is familiarish - not from her time here in the Nexus, but in old stories from her own world, though she's never been huge on mythology. "I'm Aegis-9, of the Sentinel Order of Titans. I've heard your name before, I think, but it's been a long time."