( So, the thing is called Nightmare. A little on the nose for Loki's tastes, it's true, but then another sorcerer's familiars are only a real concern of his when they're attacking him. He watches the way the man moves as he stoops for his cloak and briefly wonders whether he's sick—but then if he was, why not tap into his magic to come up with some kind of cure?

Perhaps there's more to it than that. With magic, there often is. )

For your own sake, I hope the rest of them aren't as opinionated as this one.

( Loki raises an eyebrow at the bird, although there's an amused little smirk touching the corners of his lips already. Other sorcerers are always a source of interest to him, especially when their powers are so very different to his own, and it would be remiss of Loki to see this as anything other than a gift-wrapped opportunity. )

I am Loki, of Asgard.

( Who, among other things, has decided to brush up on his alchemical magic and potion-making. Perhaps he could come up with something that will provide the man with temporary relief from his weakness. )

Would you tell me about the nature of your ailment? There might be something I can do to help.

( The "for a price" should go without saying. Loki is pale, sharp, and dressed entirely in ground-skimming black; it's fairly obvious he isn't the type to offer assistance out of the goodness of his heart. )