It wasn’t often that she encountered deities of different pantheons; most of them knew how to blend in and concealed themselves well to the point that they couldn’t be detected at all.
But then she felt the surge of magic, and it pulsed through her. Nemain then found the source…a god or maybe a powerful sorcerer, and she watched him, heard his low growl before she made her presence known.
“You are injured,” she said, coming closer. “I can help you, if you let me.” she offered, smiling just a little. “I am Nemain, of Ireland, and you?”
The nefarious moment in which he was, in fact, made aware of his lack of solitude, came about far too quickly for the God to register it with anything else aside from a disdainful glance to the point of spiritual power.
A deity of Irish descent, he came to understand swiftly; intrigue bleeding through his pointed brow; and as he scanned his vision across her, he leaned away, just slightly.
“You needn’t point out something so blatantly obvious,” Loki dared to respond with, initially, spoken with surprisingly cold tones; but they melted away to a much more sinister smirk, shortly after. “I am Loki,” he said, ignoring, momentarily, the pain on his hand. “God of Destruction and Mischief.”
“I must say; it isn’t often I am met with another of power that may possibly breach my own.”
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