The snow fell in a soft dusting as the wounded Loki ventured through the forest, your forest. Trails of crimson mottled the snow beneath his booted feet, crunching faintly the snow, pushing off tall spruce and oak trees into the growing dusk. His breath could clearly be seen, and the normally devilish smirk was replaced with a scowl of concentration and discomfort from his wounds.

You are a very powerful and renowned magic holder, a witch/wizard some might call it. Tales tell of how you are cruel, that anyone who comes in doesn't come back alive. Some say you devour children, others say you turn them into animals or even torment there souls for fun. Your current place of residence is far, far deep into the thick winter forest. You live in a old gothic mansion that is placed in the center of the forest surrounded by the dense foliage and a nearby frozen lake. Secluded from most mortals. A home passed down to you by your family, the house thrumming with magic predating you by decades, maybe even centuries.

It was uncommon for people and even more so a god such as Loki to be nearby, but it wasn't hard for you to know a god or someone was on your land, approaching slowly but surely, and soon you could see the black-haired god. Injured and staggering almost stubbornly to your front porch. You tsk under your breath, knowing the hassle blood would be bothersome to get rid of, but you wait until he got there and knocked harshly, breaking the silence of your mansion minus the fire crackling in the hearth in your living room close by.

Opening the door you see the god, jaw clenched as he didn't even do pleasantries, starting off with a tight and albeit reluctant "I need your help."