<div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/9/95/LadyLokiBips.jpg)</div><hr/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: arial;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong>Name: </strong> Loka<br/>  <strong>Title: </strong>Goddess of Mischief<br/>  <strong>Affiliation: </strong>Resistance<br/>  <strong>Location: </strong>Cairo<br/>  <strong>Tags: </strong>Nightcrawler<br/></span></span><hr/><hr/><div class="floatright">(http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mdtivvXRHR1rv7osmo1_500.jpg)</div><br/>Their unexpected detour through the pocket dimension would have wrung a scream from Loka, had the transition itself not sucked all the air from her lungs. Her new form very nearly slipped as the energy expenditure required to maintain it – a negligible amount on Midgard, even in her magic-starved state -  multiplied exponentially in the alien realm. She was subject to a blinding flash of pain that reminded her just a bit too much of being struck by lightning. This unfortunate association brought a torrent of curses to her lips as they manifested in Cairo once more. Most of the words were obscured by her lack of breath, but the final “And by the balls of the All-Father, never do that again!” came out quite clear.  There was a momentary lull as she swayed on her feet in a swirl of brimstone and tried to remember that she was supposed to be a simple human.<br/><br/><em>Mere mortals don't have Asgardian tantrums, you fool.</em><br/><br/>Loka's hands flew to her mouth. “Forgive me, Nightcrawler! I was, ah, taken by surprise. And alarmed. And I must collect my... self.” Her eyes darted around the ruined cafe, catching sight of scattered heaps of clothing through a gap in the wall. “You must excuse me for a moment. I will find something more suitable to wear than these rags.”<br/><br/>She tottered towards jagged opening and climbed into the shop next door with a disturbing blend of fury and nausea on her face. There were a few muffled thumps and one last unladylike expletive before all was quiet for a few minutes.<br/><br/>When she finally reemerged, it seemed that the woman had recovered her cool disposition. She had also discarded her modest robes in favor of a webbed top and snug trousers that hid neither curves nor muscle. At her belt hung a dagger, a carved wooden baton, and a long leather whip, neatly coiled. She moved wearily across the room and sprawled in one of the few unbroken chairs in the cafe. “So,” Loka began with a pained expression and half a smile, “where did you learn to travel like that?”<br/>