[sticky entry] Sticky: How's My Driving?

Jan. 2nd, 2013 08:49 pm
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thehandmaiden: ([anger] angry)
[The keepers of the dead do not sleep. It is a luxury reserved only for their charges. But some point during her forced residency in Midgard, Leah has learned to envy those who sleep. The long hours of night pass slow when there is no assignment to carry forth. Only so much of her time can be spent watching Loki's window far away in Asgardia, envious of his nocturnal rest. It is a rest she so much desires, though such a gift would undermind her duties as handmaiden. Had she not been tasked, after all, to keep watch over Loki at all hours as to ensure fulfillment of his debt to her mistress?

A little sleep, she thinks sometimes, would be of no harm. It would make instead for an interesting escape, a chance to perhaps observe her subconcious at work. Restlessness does not often get the better of her. Neither do these fancies or whims. But tonight, one does. And for a full three minute, she closes her eyes and pretends to sleep.

When her eyes open, the surroundings are not what she expects. She sits no longer on a rock outside the entrance to her dirty great hole in the ground. There is no Thori grumbling in the distance, threatening to cock his leg (tonight on the great world tree). The sky is no longer black but for the pinprick of light from stars and moons or the faint glow of Asgardia a mile away.
She is in what she recognizes as a Midgardian apartment, sitting on a twin-sized bed with an unfamiliar journal opened in front of her. Sunlight streams in from an open window and the chilly breeze of winter only faintly tickles her skin. Her arms are bare, a fact that perhaps catches Leah most by surprise. She only owns one dress, a long gown of dark green. This simple white shift is not her dress.

There is another glance down at the journal, at the words appearing on it as if it were the Stark phone Loki so foolishly brought her. Her hands ball into fists as she raises them level with her chest and sparks of neon green magic (magic that looks very much like lightning to the unfamiliar) flicker both from hands and eyes.

Leah of Hel is not amused.]

Loki Laufeyson! [The name is yelled even though she suspects the young god of mischief to be nearby, observing for himself the mischief, it seems, that he has just concluded. The hows of her sudden transport to Broxton will be puzzled later. For now, she knows no greater desire than to flush out the boy and pummel him fiercely.] Cease this joke of practical nature right now and show yourself!
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thehandmaiden: ([others] what's a bff?)
Leah of Hel does not sleep. It is a luxury only afforded to the dead. The keepers there of do not share in the same privilege. Someone must keep an on the spirits at all time.

Back in Broxton, she had entertained herself by watching his window. She would tell herself that it was an extension of the duties set forth by her Mistress. Someone must keep an eye on the young trickster god at all times, least he attempt to weasel out of the favor he still owes Hela. She refused to think it had anything to do with the title he had bestowed upon her. B.f.f. Best friends forever. When he would not provide a definition, she had taken it upon herself to look one up. It was a surprisingly kind title, one filled with a sense of hope she would not expect of Loki Laufeyson. But she would not be so naive as to ever tell him that it made her smile. Why, as the mortals put it, should she wreck a good thing? It was more enjoyable to quell his blathering, to remain superior, was it not?

She had never had a friend before Loki. Only a Mistress to serve. And a realm that looked upon her in apprehension.

Here in Luceti, in a place where her presence is no longer kept hidden from those he allies himself with, she does not necessarily have more options to pass the long nights. Businesses close. The journals fall empty of their normally ceaseless cries for attention. There is no Internet full of stupid people in which to improve her secret education of the Midgard. No ability to search for images of the men without shirts she rather enjoys. There is nothing.

Here, Leah claims she does it to alleviate the boredom of the night. She sits cross legged on the grass outside the dwelling, skirt of the simple black shift covering her legs. Her head tilts upward. Not at the stars but at a window five stories above the ground. The window of Loki's bedroom.

The definition of b.f.f. had been enlightening. And what was a b.f.f. but someone who always watched over the other? Who knew them better than they knew themselves?

It was a task assigned by her Mistress; nothing more. Or so she told herself each morning when the trickster awoke and she took to her own quarters, lest he discover her habit.

Nothing more.


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Leah of Hel

January 2013

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