For as long as could be remembered, the jotun's life had been marked around death. In his infancy, his mother — his true, birthmother — had died and he knew nothing of her. His first love had been taken from him after their children were torn from them and cast across the realms, his only daughter and youngest born half dead in his arms and forced into the realm of the dead where she reigns still. Centuries passed and in a fit of rage and desperation to please the adoptive father who perhaps never truly loved him, Loki committed patricide, slaying his birthfather. He had briefly danced with death has he fell from the Bifrost, only to survive by the manipulation of a being who was in love with and worshipped Death. Even later still, the sole living being in all the realms left who truly loved him was slaughtered in battle and on the crust of a dying planet, Loki courted death again though only briefly.
To separate death from his life was impossible, he knew that now, but to meet someone who claimed she was Death, a beautiful impossibility and as fascinating as it was terrifying, well, that was something else entirely. Loki carried with him an air of incredulity, prepared to be disappointed, however he certainly jumped at the chance to investigate. If she truly was Death, Loki was riddled with curious questions. A personification of the oldest companion of all the Nine Realms, the inevitable fate of all living beings, their final and eternal rest.
Loki would certainly be on as best a behaviour as the Prince of Mischief was capable of.
Of course, there was an almost childish giddy excitement that he carried with him as well. If she was truly what she claimed she was or not, Loki would walk away from this meeting with something.
The one benefit to this place was that, while it limited his sorcery insomuch as it prevented his leaving, it left all of his other abilities intact. As such, it was an absent thought to alter his appearance and alter it he did. Knowing well that he was a recognisable face following his brutal attack on New York, strutting around this pathetic town in his armour was entirely out of the question. His attire was entirely human, unassuming and in neutral colours, greys and navy, stylish but certainly not as showy as his golden armour. Even his hair was changed, much shorter and not quite as dark. The only thing left unchanged was the unnaturally vibrant green of his eyes.
Punctual as always, he arrived at the restaurant and stepped through the doors, eyes scanning the area for the woman — personified abstract concept? — in question.