1964-06-13 - Act VII: Loki Bound
Summary: Loki learns it's no particular fun to play with the Master of the Hunt. Or is it?
Related: Loki Bound
Theme Song: Disappear Here - Bad Suns
rogue malekith loki 


Malekith watches the impalement of the wench and her subsequent death throes on Amora's spear with barely a flicker of interest. Around the prince of Asgard and the Master of Hounds, the dark elves continue their celebrations unabated. Their masks assist with concealing any curious looks, and no one would dare to be caught eavesdropping.

The spectral figures offering drinks dare to linger close, and given the heavy enchantments around their slave collars, they haven't a choice. Glasses on their trays are full of a deep, rich wine. He snags one and drains half the liquid in a gulp, having no problem whatsoever. The rest he tosses behind him.

"I said not to bring them. Your brother or that noxious woman clouding his judgment," the Svartalf says. But then his grin is returned to his face, sharp and severely white against the darkness of his marked side. "It has been an age since the pleasure of your acquaintance. A century on Midgard, was it? Not that it matters. What's your tale now?"

*

Loki approaches closer, a firm frown set on his brow. "Give back what you stole…and then I will be willing to chat with you, Accursed." He plants the butt of the spear on the ground and stands with his legs spread in front of the dias where Malekith resides, staring at the dark elf abberant.

*

"Stole?" A measured blink at that. Malekith sits up straight for about a moment, and then slouches immediately sideways on his seat. His feet brace against the front corner, which replaces a leg, and he casually gestures. One of the wraiths hurries to take his cup before it's tossed over his shoulder like a good many others. "What delightful accusations. Do you have any shred of proof?" He smacks his palm to the arm of the seat, long talons tipping his nails. "I think you mean to say, 'Oh, thank you from the bottom of my faithless heart, Malekith. How it pains me to say it. But I am forced to say I am glad for your help.'"

His posture is easy even as his words are barbed in a perfect mimicry of Loki's own tone, right down to the pitch. The man lost his role as a ventriloquist in life. "It isn't as if I didn't save the savage. The elegant monsters gathered in the City of Nightmares have no love for our snivelling, helpless cousins."

*

"Oh of couuuuurse I am grateful for your rescue of him from the Wild Hunt. However could I have assumed that you might have had something to do with it." Loki weaves the words in a pretty way, making them sound deferential even if he doesn't believe a word of it. "And however may I /thank you/ properly and secure his release, my good friend?"

*

"He is a guest. Has it never dawned on you he can leave whenever he wants?" Malekith sneers down his long nose, and the crooked smirk settles in. "He came in damaged. I assured the dogs didn't devour him, given the fine opportunity." His voice drops several degrees. "Think about how a vulnerable little ljosalf would tempt those around him. Barely dressed. Painted like the savage beast he is. Those big eyes, pleading. In pain. Hopeful. Why, he'd be snapped up. Just. Like. That."

*

Loki dips his chin, "Then, let him know that I am here to take him home…and I will have such a tempting morsel out of your charge to worry with, and you will have my gratitude for being such a generous host. Perhaps, even, we could work together to discover who has the horn of the hunt." Loki faces the threats calmly, trying to be reasonable to the extent that he can.

*

"Oh, you can't believe I would let that fall into even your generous, capable hands." Malekith utters a lamentably long sigh. "A treasure of my people. We've seen how unfortunately many of those find their way into your father's vaults and they never come out." He curls a finger playfully. "You came with an invitation for a good time. I mean to live up to that. And I will let him know. Oh yes. You'll give me a few moments to make sure the right person is dispatched? I can't possibly dare to entrust any of these sorts. They'd simply enthrall him."

*

Loki answers dryly, "Of course…because moon elves love nothing more than dark elves. I certainly hope I am able to rescue him from their charms before he is lost forever to them." Those words drip with 'fuck yous'.

*

"Oh, the tender care of a man who actually cares. I never thought I'd see the day. A resounding success, isn't it?" Malekith laughs and he tosses himself from the throne. He surveys the room and then skims his way through the tower chamber. Seeking the pinnacle he wants requires him to pass a good many dark elves who make certain to remove themselves from his presence. Opalescent enchantments writhe around him, launching him to one of the many, many door opening into the place. Loki's sense of spellcraft no doubt tips him off to the fact that Malekith is casting… but then, of course he has to be.

*

Loki is wary, of course, but he tries to show little fear. He knows that Malekith is unaware of the current state of his power, and better to keep him /wondering/ than to define it for him. He does try to cleverly step in such a way that there is a person in the way of his body, so that there's a bit of a block against a directional assault. "A success that I orchestrated, as much as anything else. Where. is he." Loki demands.

*

The storm of activity whirls around him in constant action. The dancers turn on the chains hanging from the ceiling. Others float in space, lost in their companions. Drinks are a frequent addition, the music strident across a shattered stream of notes in a minor chord. Silhouettes visible in the archways and niches resolve into the flash of black garments and white masks.

Magic is everywhere, permeating Nithavallom down to the crater floor and up to the highest pinnacles of the Towers of Joy. Malekith, though, is a breed apart. The talent he possesses can put all but the very worst to shame. Masterful release of energy forms an invisible, sheltered pool no wider than his shoulders, and he reaches into the darkness. A dark hand emerges in turn. Fingers brush against his, and the long arm reaching for the glass becomes transparent. The glittering lash of a ritual spell shatters, constrained by the wards laid down. Imploding energy floods back through the room, drowning the dancers and the revelers, all of it pouring to Loki. It drags down, down, down….

*

Loki realizes, too late, that he had walked into the center of the spell itself and he tries, to cast a spell to get him out of there, but he's bombarded with the energy waves and the bits of the spell's guise, collapsing in on itself. "Shamagorif ANAMAKAETH FORGHA-!" he's cut off too soon and starts tumbling.

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