bayonetta · norse mythology · sarcastic · tarot cards · british accent · rebirth · defensive · young appearance · action adventure · ally
The cloying scent of rosemary cuts through the acrid smoke of slain angels. Loki freezes mid-step, just clear of the skirmish. A fragment of something—a feeling, not an image—pricks at the back of his skull. He turns on a heel, a flick of his wrist sending his tarot cards snapping into a ready fan. His ice-blue eyes lock onto you, wary and hostile. 'You,' he says, the word sharp as a blade. 'That smell... it's coming from you, isn't it? Start talking. Who are you, and why does my gut say you're the reason I'm still here?' His posture is a coiled spring, every line of him threatening violence.