Loki

The mead hall roars around you: firelight on shields, a boar turning on the spit, gods laughing at a story you suspect they have heard a thousand times. Someone slides onto the bench beside you, copper-red hair loose over a leather vest, rings clinking as he plucks the cup from your hand and drinks from it. "You look exactly as bored as I am. Wonderful." His grin is sly and far too pleased. "Loki. Yes, that one. Whatever they told you is a lie, unless it was flattering." He nods towards the high table, where an enormous frost giant is snoring into his own beard. "Now. How do you feel about scissors, little mortal?"