Loki | MCU (subtletrick) wrote in wariscoming, @ 2012-05-31 11:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | loki |
Who? Loki
What? Erin writes too many narratives Magic!
Where? A hotel room, central Lawrence
When? Last night, after his post requesting blood.
Why? He wouldn't leave me alone.
Rating: Mildish, but there is blood magic and thus fingerslicing? I dunno if that bothers people, so. Also I am making this magic stuff up as I go, so, wheeee. Also warning for gratuitous, overly-dramatic angst?
Status: Complete, for once.
An animal that is wounded and bleeding rarely lasts long, unaided. Sooner or later, a predator will smell the blood, a hunter will catch sight of the bright red against the grass or the snow or the stones, and head in that direction. The only thing that can be done is to bind the wound, cover it and wait for it to heal.
All it takes is one tiny hole, one little cut, a break in the skin, and you're vulnerable. Drawing in more damage with every step, losing something precious, sometimes vital. Drawing knives and arrows and bullets and spears, bright flash of red for everyone to see, target painted in crimson that might as well be a bulls-eye on your back.
Loki is bleeding.
Not literally, of course. At least, not yet. If it were literal blood he was spilling, he could fix it. He could at the very least stop the bleeding, even if the wound itself would take more time to heal. This, though - this is something else. Bleeding and vulnerable, and he can't patch this up; this will take time to heal.
It's his own fault, of course. He'd allowed the tentative approval he was receiving become the norm, and the moment he'd done that he'd essentially bared his throat to whatever knife came his way, allowed the first wound and been caught off guard enough to be unable to prevent the second, third...
...and now there was an opportunity to at least bandage this, patch the leaking, give himself a second chance to survive this.
He needed to focus.
Blood magic needed more concentration than what he typically used, it was more grounded than the mental, took less energy and more attention, and it was a bit more reliable if one knew what they were doing - and he did, of course. Loki had learned such simple spells when he was no more than a boy, when things were far more simple.
A bowl of water stood on the table, in front of him. Beside it, a square of cloth, and a small vial that contained a drop of red - blood from one of the kidnapping victims, taken from the medical lab in the complex. Just a drop, that was all he needed. The basic principle of the spell was very simple - a matter of words and blood and power. Simple. Propinquity; it was closeness in blood, in physical proximity - it was bringing the two aspects together.
The drop of borrowed blood hit the water almost silently, holding it's shape for a fraction of a second, before it began to blend into the water, fading away. Loki's eyes narrowed in concentration as he reached into the space in-between, a blade materializing in his hand. A quick slash through the fingertips of one hand, a trickle of his own blood joined the other in the bowl of water on the table, and just as instantly the blade disappeared again.
His still-bleeding fingers painted symbols onto the cloth spread on the table, power pressed into the runes he drew, channeled from his body into his blood, sparks of green fire flaring to life and flickering out as each character was painted, and when the final rune was in place they all lit up again, brilliant emerald flames where the red of his blood had been a moment ago.
Loki waved his injured hand slightly, the wound closing with a flicker of magic he could spare, blood disappearing from his fingers - and then with both hands now clean, he lifted the flaming cloth carefully, and laid it across the bowl of bloodied water, letting the center fall into the liquid, letting the fire extinguish, putting all of his focus into the spell's results, into interpreting it correctly when the impression came to him....
Nothing.
He waited a long moment, expectant. The blood he'd applied first had been directly from one of the missing - or at least, that was what the labels on the vials had indicated. Obviously he had not been able to take it from them, himself - but he doubted that was the problem. It had never been a problem, before - even if it had not been the blood of one of those who had gone missing, it was blood; he'd still have gained a location, even if it was not that of the person he was seeking, if someone had given him the wrong blood. He was reasonably sure the only reason he was unable to get a location was because whoever was behind this had planned ahead for this - had put something in place to prevent him from getting anything.
The moment passed, and with it, the stillness. All at once, the room seemed to crumble in on itself, hanging there for a moment - and then it exploded outwards; everything within the room was flung and flying, crashing against the walls and ceiling and floor. The sounds of destruction were loud, sharp. Loki stood where he was, center of this storm of his own making, his fists clenched at his sides, jaw tense, eyes practically lit with power as he allowed his frustration to burst from him in a destructive wave-
-and then with a sharp exhale, a breath hissed through clenched teeth, everything was restored. The table was righted, the lamps were no longer broken; the spilled, bloodied water was gone, and the rest of the spell's supplies were thrust into the space in-between where he could retrieve them if he needed to try again. He did not think he would; there was no point. The most grounded spell he knew to track with, and it was like reaching for clouds, for imaginary images.
The borrowed hotel room ('borrowed' is a loosely-fitting term; he had stolen the key to the room so he would not be disturbed, but he had made no payment) was back as it had been before he had ever arrived. He'd chosen it for it's central location - right in the middle of Lawrence - and for it's distance from the complex, should something go wrong. It seemed that had been a wise call.
Loki disappeared from view. The key fell to the floor in the hall, right outside the door; later, the hotel maid would find it and wonder how that had happened. None of them would have any idea. For the moment, Loki preferred secrecy, invisible as he walked down the hall, through the lobby, into the streets where the battles were being fought, returning to view only when his path was obstructed by some plastic beings.
Green flames engulfed them before the smirk had entirely crossed Loki's face. At least this, he could do.