He can see that, the pull of their focus. Then it is this one who he must deal with, not least of all because of what she did with her hand, back there. (No, not that one, the other one.)

That glimmer of light draws Loki's eye, a vague prickle of awareness that comes with the territory of being so attuned to reality altering sciences. 'Rift' is noted, a common parlance, with a common problem. Demons sounds more uniform, out of her pert mouth, than some kind of disparaging word for 'visitors'.

"Then perhaps you'll allow me the opportunity to steer you towards a better one," he proposes, in a careful balance between gentlemanly and threat -- so, smarm, but with more teeth. Despite that Gwen is unambiguously his focus, he includes those around him in a more judgmental, critical eye. "Or am I to conclude that I've found myself in yet another cosmic backwater that thinks itself the centre of the known universe?"

On his forehead, perspiration stands out -- from more than just the woodland warmth, he's realising. The notion that what reserves he has available to him were spent on fending off men with shields and monsters does occur, but doesn't mean he's putting his knives away.