Loki waggles her fingers cheerfully, and offers some cheesy-bread. She knows that look, and is willing to be indulgent of children.

"So you did," she replies. A dismissive gesture sends the grey-haired matron off to tend to other customers, and she goes, an expression of the kind of tolerant exasperation that so often graces the faces of peasants around congenial nobility.

"So," she continues. "I am Loki."