He only allowed a few short raps, before he returned the cane to the proper place, planted against the ground, his left hand resting on the silvered bird's head comfortably. The cold did not bother him, a chill that only he shadow could create forever settled over his shoulders.

He appeared as a specter, a splash of dark on white snow, and when Loki found it time to open his door, the Shade would be there, jaunty and lithe, one hand on his cane, the other tipping his hat in appropriate fashion. The quirk of his lips spoke of his amusement with finding the castle he now stood before, peering over a rather thin wire frame of sunglasses.

"My fairest Loki," he greeted when the door opened.