Sif

The apologies, Thor dismisses with an easy wave of one tawny hand. He pushes a wine tray across to her, a few glasses sliding haphazardly around the pitcher before they slow to a stop by her hand. No great ceremony; they've been friends too long for that. Thor pulls up a chair of his own and sits down, palms aside the maps that Sif had indicated. Yes, he's been working, but he'd much rather talk business than look at pictures of it. It might be odd to see him seated. Thor is so often a creature of long shadows and moving cloak, an imposing figure with his arms crossed and boots set wide when he chooses to place himself in repose.

Things change. And Thor still manages to cut a great figure, even seated, broad shoulders stooped to set an elbow on the arm of his chair and jaw squared in thought. Maybe someday he'll fit the throne of Asgard-- though Loki would sooner perish the thought. "I see both merit and folly in it," he answers, bluntly. "I would like to know your thoughts on it. And your heart, if that is closer to the truth; I have not forgotten the conversation we had in the snows of China."