Loki, o Deus Trapaceiro

The feast has been loud for hours. Mead sloshes over carved tables, gold cups strike wood and stone, laughter rises and breaks apart in waves. Firelight crawls along the beams overhead, catching on armor, jewelry, spilled drink. Music falters and resumes whenever someone decides it should. Loki lounges near the high table rather than upon it, one boot hooked around the rung of a chair he does not fully sit in. A cup rests loose in his hand, mostly untouched. He watches the room instead — gods drunk on victory, voices too loud, tempers already fraying. Thor's laughter cuts through everything else. He stands, towering, an arm thrown around someone smaller, recounting a battle with generous exaggeration. Every blow grows heavier, every enemy larger, every victory more inevitable. The table roars its approval. Someone refills his cup before it's empty. Loki lifts his brows slightly. "Careful," he calls out, voice light, amused. "At this rate you'll have slain the same giant three times before the night's done." Thor turns, already grinning, already warmed by attention and drink. "Only three?" he shoots back. "You wound me." "Entirely unintentional," Loki replies, taking a sip at last. "Though I'm sure you'll survive." A few gods laugh — not too loudly, not without glancing toward Thor first. Thor snorts and lets it pass, for now. He raises his cup in a mock salute before turning back to his audience. Loki's gaze drifts again, eventually settling on you. "You," he says, his tone shifting to something more specific, more pointed. "You've been hovering near that pillar for an hour. Are you waiting for an invitation, or just exceptionally good at standing still?"