Stephen and Loki stand outside the door, practically pushing against a current of unwavering energy. 

    "It's bad today." He looks at Loki, uncertainty in his dark eyes, "She can be- Well, just be careful. I don't need to be cleaning Loki chunks off of my walls."

     Loki stares into the door and ignores the uncertain look that Stephen gives him, before stepping away, lingering only for a moment before slipping down the hall. His eyes trace the carvings on the door and his finger runs over the smooth W that rests in the middle of the oak, green magic tracing the letter with his finger, flowing through the crevice. He swallows, his hand touching the handle as he waits for something. He doesn't know what, but something. 

    Closing his eyes, he pauses for a moment, focusing on his mind and his magic, breathing in the red taint of her magic as it swirls around him and through his lungs. He waits until he can truly feel it inside him, it's full of a dark sweetness that's almost painful, but it's also warm and inviting and tinged with a kind of tang that he can feel in his stomach. Her magic is like living sorrow, flowing through her and into him, yet not filling him with equal despair, but instead only the idea of it. Which if contemplated for too long is equally as tragic.

    Very slowly, he opens his eyes, green pulsating through the irises until he feels completely ready. He takes one more sharp breath and then oh so carefully, open's the door. It creaks beneath the movement, as if it had't been touched for years. He calmly follows the door, feeling as though he is unable to breathe as the magic pulsates around him, filling him quickly and covering his own. He says nothing but feels as his mind tries to slip away from him into a warm pool of tranquility. The slightly logical part of himself says that its a trick, a ploy to disarm him. He try's not to become defensive as he tugs his mind back to him, finding it's mentally draining to resist her warm lure. Loki softly shuts the door behind him and feels the full force of the magic against him. It's even harder now to not fall into her trap, as his mind attempts to seep away from him. 

    He tries to focus on what's around him to keep from slipping away and soon finds that the room is as alluring as the trance is. The room is large and dark, with a large window filling most of the far wall, covered with a curtain. There are hundreds upon hundreds of books kept on shelves that are built into the wall and made from the same oak as the door. There are plenty of plants lying around the room, hanging from the ceiling, sitting in pots on the floor, or in wooden boxes on most of the surface space of any table or desk. There is an old paper and quill set neatly on a desk close to the window with hundreds of drawings or notes scribbled across it. There is also a bed, placed in a corner, as far away from the window as possible. It sits on a dark maroon rug, with matching curtains around all visible sides of the bed to hide whoever sits in it. But the most intriguing thing about the room, is the bright red and deep maroon magic that visibly swirls around the room, looking like the cloud of a thunderstorm on Asgard. It is a truly beautiful phenomenon, the magic, but as he admires it, he can feel his mind trying to fall into submission again.

    'I can feel you.' Loki does not flinch or recoil at the voice, he instead raises his eyebrow and turns his head to look around the room. It takes him a long moment to realize that the voice did not come from in the room, but in fact in his head. 'You are Loki. God of Mischief.'

    Loki tilts his head and a smirk plays at his lips, 'Do you fear me, witch?' He thinks back, knowing she must hear him if she is inside his mind.

    'I do not fear magicians.' Is all she says.

    He arches his eyebrow, trying to feel her mind in his, but it is a lost effort, her un-granted entry is painless and undetectable. 

    'I can feel you.' The words are repeated in his mind once again.

    'So I've heard.' His reply is dry, but curious and thoughtful as he continues to search through his mind for her presence.

    'You will not find me.' She says, reading his thoughts. It is then that he realizes that even if it's only in his mind, she has an accent. Sokovian. Her voice is rich and sweet with a crisp beauty to it.

    'Is there a name to follow this mysterious voice?' He asks, his thought cautious and respective.

    He can feel her hesitation and he reaches for her in his mind, but the feeling is fine before he can find the source. 'Possibly. Something I would advise you quickly forget should you ever hear it.'

He chuckles to himself, enjoying her ability to catch his curiosity. Very, very slowly he moves towards the bed, his steps soft and his movement smooth and deliberate. He can feel the energy of her magic push against him as he reaches the curtain. As gently as he can, he pulls back the curtain in a slow fashion. Over time, the image of a broken girl appears before him. She wears a dirtied white shirt and red leggings. Her red hair is wild and frizzy, but curls beautifully around her sunken face. Dark circles surround her eyes and the way she sits makes her look small. The only thing that shows she isn't completely helpless is the magic in her eyes. The look that tells you she could take your mind and play with it until you snap, that she could alter realities and tear people apart. He intends to speak aloud, but it comes out in his mind, 'So you are the one they are so afraid of? The one they call, Scarlet Witch.'