Your God

July 05, 2014: Loki answers the burning question, 'Who are you?'


One of those 'typical' abandoned warehouses. You know the type. Perfect for trading in illegal items.



  • Marcos, Italian antiquities fence - Emitted by Fenris
  • Monique, sorceress of the Ton Ton Macoute - Emitted by Fenris

Mood Music:

It's not strictly speaking true that all shady deals happen in large, mostly empty warehouses down by the waterfront… not by a long shot. That said, in a large, mostly empty warehouse down by the waterfront Marco is waiting ainxiously with about ten of his 'closest friends.' Heavily armed closest friends. Normally he wouldn't bring this kind of muscle to a simple sale, but the Ton Ton Macoute has a well earned reputation for duplicity and brutality. Fortunately they also have a well earned reputation for having a lot of money, so here they are, watching as Monique and three of her enforcers park in the lot and get out of the car.


The God of Chaos and Deception has eyes and ears everywhere. At least that's what he'd like all to believe, anyway. Getting a proper, competant network together isn't as easy as it may seem. The best ones are those that truly -believe- in what they are doing, and faith in whom they serve.

Loki stands in the darkness, his outline barely perceptible as he leans upon his cane with both hands, his suit impeccably tailored, and piercing blue eyes rapt upon the scene before him. The cars arriving gains his attention, but it's not for long- oh no.. and a ghost of a smile begins to creep across the Trickster's face. There's purpose set upon that face, and in his mind.


The Haitians approach the Italians and it looks, as it should look, very tense. "Monique." Marcos addresses the woman who'se smirking. Monique is wearing a rather tight black dress accented with skull earings and what might be a gris-gris bag around her neck.

"Marcos." She says with a think island french accent. "So nice ta see you again. You have the goods?"

Marcos nods to one of his compaions who wheels forward a large crate and pries it open. It's full of… well, old things. A lot of them are native american in one form or another. Illegally excavated from Mexico and points further south. Most of it is just rock but Loki can feel power emanating from several of the crates… and, curiously, from Monique.


Canting his head, Loki listens, eye narrowing, and that touch of a smile still playing lightly. These mortals.. though now, as the box is prised open? The sorcerer can -feel- the pulse of magic coming from the crates. As if something that had been blocked is no longer, and the aura can come out to play, to beckon, to taunt.

Undoubtedly, it's affecting those present in different ways; tenseness, fear, and perhaps a touch of paranoia. (Always a good emotion.)

Now, it's to Monique that the Asgardian Prince turns his attention. As the power pulses, he can feel her presence. Straightening in his lean, Loki takes the pressure off his cane, and lifts it into the air; in the next second, those Italians become little more than dogs. Literally. From human, two legged, to dog, four-legged. All of them.

At the same time, now, the God of Chaos shows himself, approaching casually, blue eyes locked on to Monique. She's the biggest 'threat', but as far as he's concerned, she's no threat at all.

"Exactly what I wanted. How did you know?"


Monque's hands come up in a defensive posture, not a martial arts one either. Her enforcers tense but don't raise their weapons. Yet. "What is da meaning of this?" The short, dark woman demands, her eyes narrowing. The aura from the boxes affects her less. A lot less. But it still affects her. "This is our buy, what ya think you're doing interferin' like this?"

Outside there's another magical presence. Several of them in fact and they're getting closer. They feel almost like the ancient viking Bearsarks… though wilder and less contained somehoww.

"If ya be thinking to steal from the Ton Ton Macoute… ya got another thing comin'…"


"Oh no," Loki chuckles softly, but there is little humour to be found within. "Things like this aren't bought.. they're—" and in the next second, the cane shifts from it's form of a walking cane to sword. And the God of Chaos himself shimmers and retakes his form in his 'usual' green and gold leathers, his hair slicked back.. "- taken."

He can feel the presence of those 'other' creatures, but he's not overly concerned. Perhaps it's a flaw?

Canting his head, Loki's got that theatrically perplexed expression that rises, "Who? Ton.. who?" It's fleeting, however, as he approaches, his tones taking something of a commanding tenor, "Kneel to Loki."


"Loki?" Monique sneers. "Ya may be a conjurer of some skill, I give ya that, but th' God of Chaos? Maybe ya need a new moniker. And if ya gonna operate solo in this town, let me give ya some advice."

Her hands begin to glow with arcane power and her enforcers raise their guns, all of them military grade assault weapons.

"Don' screw with th' Ton Ton Macoute!"


"I've seen your world grow, and this is all you can do?" Loki chuckles softly, and without the amusement, it sounds dark. Hostile. Shaking his head slowly, he stops to look at those gathered, the clicks of the safeties as they come off. "Loki. Prince of Asgard. God of Chaos and Deceit. Trickster. Brother to Thor, God of Thunder.." and as he turns back around to face the sorcereress, his tones take a snarl, "Kneel… or watch your men die."

There's a moment, however, when Loki's head.. quirks. Cants slightly as his animated expression shifts towards contemplation, and a hand shoots out towards a couple of them standing together. From his hand, a force pushes out, ready to knock them with no little force into a wall of a warehouse, "Your job is to DIE."


Crunch go the bones of the luckless enforcers. Monique cries out in French and a pulse of magic goes out from her. From outside, along the gravel and dirt of the lot, figures begin to pull themselves clear of the ground. Corpses. Dessicated ones. "Now ya gone and made me mad 'Loki.'" the Witch says coldly. "Now ya gonna join my followers. I don' care how powerful ya think ya are… ya gonna be wormfood tonight."

Those wild magical bits are getting closer and moving at speed. They'll be here any moment now…


"Didn't you know my daughter is the Goddess of Hel? Oh.. spelt 'H-E-L'.." Loki sounds casual, but there is an edge there; he's in instruction-mode as if to chastize an errant child in her ways.

Spinning about, the area now is spotted with more than one Loki. Lokii? One, two.. three.. four.. all hold the sword, and in unison, they raise it; electrical charges come from the blades, looking very much like smaller versions of lightning bolts, touching the ground in and around those corpses. And all at the same time, they speak as one,

"Surely you have something live to speak for you."

Loki can -feel- the 'bears' approach, and it's getting near the time when he really should go. As fun as all of this may be. Truth be told, however, he's uncertain if those creatures are of her magic (he hasn't gotten the full -feel- of her yet) or perhaps those creatures will do that which he would, should he remain.

Instead, the 'original' Loki turns, though they all do, and a command is given to those remaining on their feet. This time, for those poor unmagicked mortals, it's a command they really can't refuse. Unless she kills them.

"To my car. Now." Oh yes.. and he has a driver, too.


The witch's eyes widen as she feels Loki's power go out. "I… what are you?" She doesn't have time for anything else because with a howl and a crash, several werewolves burst in through the warehouse's souther windows, to Loki's left. "I thought we told you to stay off Silver Syndicate territory, Witch!" One of them snaps as they begin to prowl forward, taking in Loki leaving with the mortals and deciding it's not worth worrying about since he seems to be on his way out and they don't know him.


"Your god."

The words are spoken, enunciated clearly enough, and as he spins around, Loki's sword-hand hand rises and those other forms of himself shimmer out of existance. "You should have knealt when you had the chance." Now, with the crates being carried and loaded into his car, he departs with a smirk playing upon his face. Oh, this shall be interesting, but it will have to wait, sadly. The sword becomes a shortened dagger which is placed upon his side, and he begins his stroll out, kicking a skull in the dirt as if in a game of football or somesuch.

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