Cailleach (
toocoldforthis) wrote in
nexus_sages2016-11-01 05:38 pm
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A Chill in the Air

The Nexus may have seen a glittering and glorious ball the night before, but every party must end. Every overindulgence has its morning-after regrets. The pains of burning eyes and revolting stomachs have visited more than a few people like malevolent fairies. And then the lucky denizens of the Nexus get another treat.
Cailleach may well be the grumpiest looking grumpy old lady ever. If she'd been sucking on lemons for a thousand years she could not look more sour. White hair fragile with age is hidden beneath a scarf and within the hood of her raincoat. Her glasses are old-fashioned, her makeup is out of style, and her shoes are sensible. Do not ask her for candy. She is not your granny.
What is is watching the goings-on with increasing vexation. Something about everyone passing by seems to set her to an ever-increasing amount of angry muttering. Finally, she can't contain it anymore. "Why don't young people prepare for the lean times coming? Do you all think it'll be sunshine and flowers forever?"
It doesn't matter who answers. She's grumpy and demands an audience.
((She's going to be 100% mean to just about everyone, be warned. #sorrynotsorry))
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:P
"No, it won't."
She must have left her sense of humor in her other scarf.
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Staaaaaring. Creepy old lady staring.
"I know the type," she determines after an uncomfortably long staring session. Is she impressed by the godling?
No. No, she is not.
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She hmphs at the idea of their getting along, nevermind famously. The boy's a tricky one, and she has no patience for that. "Cailleach. Loki, eh? I've heard of a Loki. He was a grown man, not a little boy."
She didn't like him.
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"Cailleach, that's a pretty name. It sounds a little... Celtic?" He looks hopeful, as though the query will tease forth some bit of lore about the lady. Fat chance, he knows, but even a rebuff can be informative. "Ah, yes. Everyone's heard about that Loki. Good news, he's dead. Bad news if you were hoping to kill him, though, I'm afraid you missed it. Pardon me if I don't wish you better luck next time."
This kid, seriously.
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"Aye." That's as much agreement as she intends to give him about anything for the rest of forever. Just because. If he wants lore, he'd be better off going to a library for it. "I had no particular issue with that one, but I am glad to hear he's gone."
This boy! To have to hear such glee at the thought of death. Not even doing the killing, just the idea of a god dying. She's almost... smiling.
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By Ymir's craggy britches!
The gods of Asgard are a bloody bunch, if truth be told. For all their merriment, they have a great love of death. The hailing of it is a sound that rings familiar in little Loki's ears. "Yes, that's what everyone says. Usually before talk of an encore. You wouldn't do something like that, would you?"
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True, his kind are bloody-minded. How much does he really know of hers? "No, boy, your time is not yet come. But." Her gaze shifts to the side, where surely there is not a bird sitting and preening while he pretends not to listen. "A season for all things, and everything in its time."
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Loki follows her gaze. "You can see him?"
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"Don't tell lies, boy, you're no good at it." Really, these two, they don't even add up to one proper god. No wonder things end so badly.
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Just watching the boy and all his youthful energy is making her tired. It's so unfortunate, all that wasted on those who can't appreciate it.
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Loki appreciates his youth quite well, thank you. "Someone saying I'm not a brilliant master of deceit, whose mere greeting is the opening gambit in yet another duplicitous scheme? How could it not?"
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"But would they believe you about what I said?" She is the gray cloud to his silver lining.
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"Well, admittedly, they aren't exactly the sorts to take a notarized certificate, but just having a counterexample can break someone's rhetorical rhythm."
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"Then by all means. Not that I expect it will do you a lick of good." Not that she thinks anything could do this willful child a lick of good that didn't start and end with a few lessons about the price of false cheerfulness.
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Oh, Loki Laufeyson knows all about the price of false cheer. Even buying it wholesale, he pays a price.
Sketching a bow, he grins. "Thank you, dear grandmother!"
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The bowing and grinning draw her up short, briefly but long enough to be noticed. "Flattery will get you nothing good, boy."
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His allowance is, like himself, tiny. And who would extend Loki any credit?
Okay, Verity, but she's not here. "One man's trash," he counters, "is another god's treasure."
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"Is that what you're hoping for? That if you are kind to me, and patient, that I'll have a sudden change of heart and see some spark of goodness in you that sparks warmth in my own old heart?" Her tone grows softer, quieter while she talks. Like it's possible. It's only to make the truth hurt more. Sharp blades cut soft meat better. "That is not possible."
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Surely not. "Ah. That's a familiar tune, grandmother. I can't think of where you mightn't have heard it."
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