"A mutant," Loki repeats, much in the same tone as Nate said Asgardian earlier; he's heard the word, before, but isn't aware of the nuances it is meant to convey. However, he can piece together that it's probably something about a mutation from whatever stock Midgardians are made of, and, you know?

Fair enough.

The carafe pours itself out into the sink, Loki shuddering at the coffee grounds that have gathered at the bottom that are now splashing into the sink. The rest of the machine follows suit, each part disassembling itself and dumping its contents.

"I was taught magic, though the ability is somewhat... inherent, I suppose, to what I am." A Loki as opposed to Asgardian or even Jotun. "What else can you do?" How old is he, anyway?