Sigyn hadn't wanted to come along. He can't blame her, really--twelve thousand years underground can leave a person less than enthusiastic about a bit of spelunking, and anyway someone had to stay behind to babysit the whiskey. But he wishes she were here, not because she'd enjoy it, but because then he'd have something to do with his hands besides don't touch anything.

So he's got his hands clasped firmly behind his back as he leans close to look at things. It's interesting to see other people's offerings, a window into what they hold dear and what they're willing to give in order to ensure it.

For his brother's people, it was blood for blood, suffering (preferably other people's) for power. For Loki himself, he'd never wanted blood; instead, people had cast their children's baby teeth into the hearth-fire, a token both worthless and priceless, endearingly precious yet something even his people could afford. Loki, watch over my child. Make her clever. Make him strong of heart. And he'd made their offerings into a necklace, baby teeth strung like beads, and he resists the urge to touch that now too.

Hands still clasped firmly behind him as he leans in to watch the scanning of the pottery. What would the people who'd left these gifts think about their offerings being disturbed? If they were still alive, that is.