1077/When the Music Ends, the Stars Come Out

When the Music Ends, the Stars Come Out
Date of Scene:	10 April 2020
Location:	The Met
Synopsis:	Following a concert at the Cloisters, an unabashedly romantic interlude. Also introducing Strider the totally awesome flying horse wingman!
Cast of Characters:	Dane Whitman, Jane Foster

---

Dane Whitman has posed:
It has been a very unexpected sort of evening for Dane Whitman. An out-of-the-blue invitation, a long conversation running across time and space, from the vagaries of the soul to the heart of conviction. Set to the accompaniment of a string quartet and the remnants of ages past, artfully arrayed in an environment meant to both emulate and celebrate those same ages. Hand-in-hand with one Dr. Jane Foster, the walked and talked and even managed to catch the last half of the live performance from their seats, and without the interruptions of fans or otherwise. There was only one brief interruption from a young grad student who rather politely asked for a selfie with Jane, and it wasn't until the concert was over.

But with said selfie probably already on LexaGram, Dane and Jane have made their way to the coat check to retrieve Jane's coat, and slowly ambled their way outside.

Dane glances at his StarkWatch, looking a bit rueful.

"I don't suppose you've got anything up your sleeve that can tack on a few more hours to the day, do you?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"Not exactly." Jane answers the question while pulling her coat on over her sweater, finally deciding it's worth the weight and effort to deal with. "The equipment I have would displace us by a few minutes at most, and I cannot guarantee you would still constitute a human. You might have the same volume and mass, though not configured the same way. Transporting carbon-based lifeforms isn't particularly easy." She gives a wan smile. "I rather hoped for the opportunity to improve on that, though it seems we have Doctor Hastings beating me to the punch through dint of... however, exactly. Innate talent instead of replicable scientific achievement. Harnessing something that gives additional hours of time would require the old-fashioned method. Fly backwards to the International Date Line. If you find the right island, you could have yesterday and tomorrow at the same time."

Just like all those New Years celebrations capitalize on in places torrid and flat, aquamarine under the sea's gentle advance with climate change buoying them up. "I promise I can book you an interesting open jaw path, but you will still feel the fatigue."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"I wasn't even expecting you were to the prototype stage, but I guess I should stop being surprised at being surprised where you're concerned." Dane grins, offering an arm, "Well, I've got at least a little bit before I likely need to go catch some shuteye. Bright and early at the Triskelion in the morning and back to the school by afternoon." He glances about, then adds, "Unless of course, you've got other plans."

Jane Foster has posed:
The brunette shakes her head a little, straightening her sleeves to her wrists. "Barely. I can move a few particles this way or that for a couple of seconds, not much else without digging in deep to SHIELD assets. We have a long wya to go. Not Stark levels at all, and I wouldn't be surprised if he had not found a way to open the door between yesterday and tomorrow. Sorry, Mr. Whitman, the best I can do for you is that plane ticket or showing you a place where the ceiling is painted in eternal twilight." Jane tips her head and gives a bit of a smile, conceding the point. Her arm curls around his, locking them back together again. "Other plans? Might think of a few, but whether they hold any interest is the hard part. Could find ourselves somewhere quiet to get wine and walk along the Hudson River front, though up here in Washington Heights, choices may be sparse after eleven." A hint of a smile follows, still present. "Climb the roof and admire the stars?"

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Look at the Stars, huh?" Dane considers a few moments, then grins most impishly, "Well, I think I might be able to arrange a much closer look than the rooftops, honestly, but we might need something approaching a secluded spot...unless you feel like really making a spectacular exit." He does start looking around, considering an avenue toward that hint of seclusion. He doesn't mind a few witnesses but he's not sure how much of a scene Jane might be comfortable with.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Look at the stars. You need a powerful telescope to see more than Sirius or Orion in this mess, but you can still achieve it," Jane insists as she lifts her hand to sketch the sweep of the heavens up to their highest point. "One of the reasons the star maps we have in the Hayden Planetarium are so popular. I can map an entire quadrant of the Milky Way around you in a perfect three-sixty sphere, focus in on nebulae or dust lanes, and leave you floating suspended in space. The people who come can barely make out the constellations from their apartments. It gives us a closer connection to the places near us." She lingers for a moment, her eyes half-closed, surveying who comes and who goes. "Spectacular exits are sort of a stock in trade for many friends. Floating cars, rainbows, horses."

Dane Whitman has posed:
It is perhaps fortunate that Jane's particular sort of celebrity isn't the type that normally attracts papparazzo. While certainly photogenic, the fact remains that she is a scientist first and foremost, and while it may be something of a tragedy that such people are often overlooked in terms of relative celebrity, it nevertheless remains that there isn't as much money in a candid snap of Dr. Foster as one of Janet Van Dyne and Steve Rogers out on the town, or Tony Stark and his sudden bride, or any given member of the Fantastic Four, or a whole host of garden-variety celebrities who fold, spindle, and mutilate social media to fuel their little Kingdoms. An occasional admirer or well-wisher? Certainly. The occasional random person approaching to ask about "Science" stuff? You bet.

But thankfully, not the constant flashing of cameras, cell-phone or otherwise. Her social media is busy enough, but such that a couple of dedicated helpers can help manage it, not a legion of publicists.

"Well then..." Dane grins a bit, stepping just a bit away from Jane, into a relatively empty patch of space.

It's not as spectacular as the full-spectrum eruption of the Bifrost, nor as noisy as the hum and whirr of Lola's engines, but there's still a fair bit of spectacle involved. A portal opens, glowing a pale blue-white, seemingly filled with mist, and out from it trots a magnificent white stallion, with matched, feathered wings at it's side, and tack and harness of black with red trim and bits of gold-hued metal. Strider comes to a halt, briefly snorting and flicking it's mane, standing proudly and unabashed among the small crowd, many of whom are most certainly paying attention now, though reactions range from curiosity to confusion to typical New Yorker blase, to even mild annoyance, though so far no one's making an issue of it, even if some probably -are- digging for their cellphones.

"Hey Buddy." Dane speaks to the horse, giving it's head a few strokes of his hand and smiling fondly, "Feel like stretching your wings a little bit?"

A whinny comes in reply...it sounds enthusiastic.

Jane Foster has posed:
Quite true; Jane is not Sue Storm-Richards or a certain prince of Asgard, though the two of them in conjunction -would- potentially rouse interest and give Nick Fury an apoplexy because it could suggest New York is subject to another battle all the live long day. Asgard and mortals rarely come together very well, do they? It's not as though a nascent goddess and an Arthurian knight from a creed of medieval times are enough to snap heads and photographs left and right. Rather the point made to Reed Richards: things are at a pretty pass when a self-made billionaire with Daddy's money and no skills to speak of holds more clout than the leading scientist of the day on matters of his or her particular authority.

"You have a night where dawn only comes when you wish it. That stretch of stars and shadows is all yours," Jane says merrily, swaying her hand far and wide to trace the horizon. "What choices do you make to enjoy the time set out before you? I find these a good way to remind myself what I want to do, rather than should be doing."

Their hands break when Dane steps away and she has --

-- horse.

A look of dazzled light turns into a matter of gazing long and thoughtfully over the pegasus, a sound of muted confession choked up in her throat. Especially what with the handsome arch of the neck, the supple pearlescence of the powerful body, and the fact this is a freaking pegasus. Which makes Dane presumably Bellerophon to her... no, bad analogy. Bellerophon tries to ride to heaven and that goes rather badly thanks to a sky-father. And she's due to meet a sky-father.

"Your theory might be sound," she says in an airy little voice. Totally not falling over, no. But she holds out her hand to Strider, waving too. "Hello, friend. I'm Jane and I'm with him." She nods to Dane.

Undrjarn gleams.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Strider puts a hoof forward and leans, approximating a bow at Jane's introduction, before straightening and nuzzling his head against her hand. Gentlemanly, indeed! And apparently able to suss out meaning in English, or perhaps gleaning enough from his link with Dane, or...who knows really? Any number of possibilities abound when magic is afoot. Dane moves over to the awesome steed's side, and extends a hand towards Jane.

"Shall we?"

Trying hard to impress? Maybe (and maybe a bit unnecessarily at that), but if you have a flying horse, lead with the flying horse!

Jane Foster has posed:
"I have dreamt of friends like you. White as seafoam where waves crash into the cliffs, pale drops of moonlight wept from the crescent bow of the sky. A great constellation of pterippi -- I can hear my Greek teacher now, yelling at me there is only one Pegasus, but many winged horses -- frolicking around the sky. Apparently a girl needs a winged horse in her life if she intends to be an outstanding cosmologist," Jane murmurs, divulging shards of a hidden life, a private self, with less ease than Dane has. But these are gifts in return for his honesty, not strung out for mystery's sake. Some other cause colours her cheeks faintly pink.

Totally not petting Strider's velvety muzzle and giving a proper scritch where hooves cannot reach. "You were not kidding. He has better manners than half of Harvard's tenured staff. Lessons to be learned for this one. Would he mind?"

Trying hard to impress, perhaps, but he's picked the right girl. Who else dreams of a legion of flying horses and crashing through the dimensional pale, cloaks streaming, swords flashing, the songs of choice and hope on their lips as they hewed through resistance of... of...

Those parts the dreams so rarely tell. No, the fallen sisterhood impart their soft murmurs, their sagas, in the enchantments and grandeur of more than death. Of choice and hope, service to something worthy.

She clasps Dane's hand in her own, the left with the storm-bound relic of a godly tempest, and smiles. "I would like nothing better in the world right now."

Dane Whitman has posed:
Strider is a mighty steed, both in power and in size, though still within the bounds that allow normal-sized humans to ride in relative comfort. Dane assists Jane in getting herself situated on the saddle, and then climbs up into place behind her.

There is an odd sensation, though, as Jane settles into position there. Not unpleasant, per se, but her seating feels very secure. Nothing that impedes her moving if she chooses to experiment with it, but with her legs at rest it's almost as though they feel "stuck" to saddle. Something to help keep rider(s) in place? Probably useful.

Now with Dane also astride, arms reaching around Jane to take up the reins, he grins once more, and with the slightest flick of the reins, actually unnecessary but borne of habit with more mortal varieties of horse, he takes to the air effortlessly, far more effortlessly than one might imagine. There's a sense that his flight is powered as much by magic as strength of wing, but also that both are likely needed.

"Don't tempt him. He'll want guaranteed tenure." Dane jokes as to Jane's suggestion of giving etiquette lessons to high academia. Her earlier comments are noted, and worth curiousity, but not a matter to be pressed right now, as they climb among the buildings, picking up speed in the ascent.

Jane Foster has posed:
Those relative comforts count. A girl from a modest family in the Pacific Northwest, what with the cost of living, rarely had an opportunity to sit more than a pony. Certainly not on the broad back of a horse that gives Andalusians like Shadowfax's equine actor a case of green envy. She needs the help; for Jane, flinging a leg over a horse and riding doesn't come naturally. "Thank you," she says to them both, horse and knight, holding onto the saddle with her legs a bit too tight.

Until it becomes unnecessary, of course, as a bit of wiggling around -- shimmying, to call it kindly, but absolutely wiggling -- to determine her seat. This is far better than that one motorcycle ride taken with a hothead friend, and the changes of being flung over the proverbial handlebars so much lower. Very useful. A gentle hand rests on Strider's neck, a touch of gratitude.

"How do you not ride around all day? Other than that it would be tiresome?" she asks before the horse transfers all the energy in his legs and withers into that madcap leap to reach the air. /How/ one does it strikes her silent and wheels turn, for all that she's a girl on a horse impelled to lean back with the ascent instead of curling forward over Strider's neck on the brilliant ascent above the Cloisters' four acres of greenery and then the dark, sludgy ribbon of the Hudson cutting off Yonkers from the rest of actual New York City.

Speechless she is not, but stifling a laugh all the same. Her hair comes tumbling free of her coat, whipping behind her, snatched up by her hand as she braves keeping it out of Dane's face. "Sorry! I need an elast-- that's /Columbia!/ Look, it's Morningside Heights!"

Dane Whitman has posed:
"I like to let Strider have his Avalon-time. I sometimes have to ask a lot of him, and while he's perfectly willing, even eager, he's also a friend. You don't abuse that kind of relationship." Dane chuckles, "I won't lie, I've used him for mostly-mundane travel on occasion, usually if I haven't seen him in a few days." Dane explains, "But you might see him around the Triskelion now and again. Getting back to Staten Island from there is such a chore otherwise."

They're above skyscraper-level now, and it may become apparent to Jane that while there is a sense of motion...the air moving around them if nothing else, it's not //cold//. Even setting aside the warmth provided by Dane nestled in behind her on the saddle, the ambient temperature feels...comfortable. And despite ever-increasing speed, well beyond what mundane physics would allow a creature like this, conversation can still be heard fairly normally.

And their course takes a turn eastward, towards the sea, as their speed continues to increase. It's not hard for a woman of Jane's knowledge and skill to calculate that he'd easily be keeping up with jetliners at this pace, and there's no sign that Strider is straining at all. He seems happy as a clam, big feathery wings pounding away at the air. Higher and faster.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Apples and basking in the soft light of the summerlands? I suspect I read that somewhere once, and it infused my ideas about Avalon as a place of paradise in the British view of things. Though given where they holiday, I ought to think it looks like southern Spain or eastern Australia." Riveted spin of dreams and thoughts turning on its axis, Jane shakes off the daydreams of Avalonian ladies of the lake and sunbathing on Bondi for something more. "Staten Island, the little sister of the boroughs, is quite the adventure. Trying to get there by ferry takes much longer than anyone ever warned me, and I grew up with ferries." Or fairies. One could easily mistake it.

The wind in her face steals her words and she has to speak louder, adjusting for the shifts in wind and mood. Curling spirals of air snatch away the remnants of a pause, and her gaze turns to take in the full depths of the city at a viewpoint usually restricted to drones, helicopters, and the odd suit of Iron Man armour annoying the Port Authority. Admiration crashes down on those flowing channels of living light, something earning a startled sound of delight. "He is a tremendously good friend to take you up there." There, here, anywhere.

Forward, the sea, and on the broad curve of time, she is absolutely making calculations to determine everything from the windspeed to the trajectories of descent and ascent. "What's the average wind speed velocity of a laden Avalonian winged horse?" she asks innocently.

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Well, he's the European variety, so...depends on where I'm going and how fast I want to get there." Dane replies with a chuckle, "I once pushed him to about Mach 1.5. Usually we stay subsonic, though, if only barely." Higher and higher they climb, passing through a small bank of clouds, moving further out to sea to leave the light pollution of Manhattan and Long Island and the Eastern Seaboard in general behind them.

The air does not seem to be thinning...no shortness of breath or other signs of hypoxia, and conversation seems to proceed normally, as though the riders are shielded from the effects of the flight.

"And as for how high? Well...we've still got a good ways to go before we hit the point I've never felt the need to try to push past. Though kind of like with the Ebony Blade and Mjolnir: I've never -tried- to go into space, but I wouldn't be surprised if he could. He's taken me undersea before without any difficulties."

"And you're right, the ferries are awful." Dane notes with a well-humored grin.

Jane Foster has posed:
"European and no coconuts," Jane agrees, having applied her necessary additive of Monty Python to the holy state of affairs. She leans forward as much as the saddle and Dane allow, getting a proper glimpse of the world through crystalline feathers and streaming clouds that might be fraught with wispy purpose to blot out her view. Rarely is a sky so clear but moving up into the higher reaches, without freezing, is an experience to speak of. "I don't know that you would ever want to come back to shore after enjoying this a few times. Look at how majestic the view is."

An unnecessary statement even as she gestures, her hand bravely framing the imagery before her. Scintillating pinpricks mark out New York, the boroughs, a fading line of radiant jewels strung on the breast of night to best appreciate the contrast. Decadence between night and somewhat diurnal pursuits is sketched in detail that silences her for a time.

"Undersea. He flies under... no, that would make sense. Violating the norms is what someone as fine as an Avalonian horse should do. Imagine going to Atlantis. They might impound him just to appreciate the feathers." The image of a number of blue-skinned seadwellers goggling over this mysterious four-legged creature brings forth a well-meaning laugh.

Dane Whitman has posed:
"The temptation to just keep flying forever does rear its' head from time-to-time." Dane replies, as they cilmb higher still, while still speeding out over the ocean, leaving those pinpricks of light on the shore behind, soaring into the space where inky black sky becomes a veritable sea of stars, the cloudy band of the Milky Way quite apparent now, lacing through a sky fraught with the occasional streak of material fizzling away in the upper atmosphere. And it is here that Strider slows, coming to a gentle, leisurely pace, no faster than a light trot. The deceleration -should- send both of them tumbling over the front of the steed, but like so much else on this particularly unique airline experience, that particular effect seems dampened within whatever protective magics are attached to Strider, and when coupled with the "sticky" nature of the saddle, results in a sensation no more abrupt than a gentle braking in an automobile.

"Believe me, I had the same reaction when he did it. "I'm now riding a horse underwater."" Dane deadpans. Then smiles more warmly, "Though for every brain-twisting moment like that, and for all the dark and dangerous stuff I've encountered that's attached to magic, sometimes you get this..." He gestures, indicating the dazzling panoply of the night sky, unfettered by the meager lights of mortals. "And right about now is the point where I feel like Magic is totally awesome."

Jane Foster has posed:
How hard it is not to goggle up there, not to swivel and look at every last thing with awe in her wide eyes. The lack of wind is a blessing considering her hair has fallen to its natural shape, the last attempts of the bobbypins to hold anything back mostly serving to keep chestnut locks tucked behind her ears. Jane puts both her hands atop the saddle and simply drinks all of it in, slowly lifting her gaze to see the pale lucid dapplings spattered across the blue velvet dome of the heavens. Channeled dust lies littered upon the immense halo, blotting the ancient heart of a greater neighbourhood than their little corner of the Orion Arm.

"That's why," she says, letting the mechanics settle on some functional corner of her psyche. "All of that laid up there provides the reminder about why we do what we do. Magical as much as being midair on a horse, and realizing that when I wake up, I still will have been on that horse."

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane falls silent for now, mentally as much as physically guiding Strider in lazy S-paths through the sky. One can practically imagine lifting their hand into the stars and leaving a wake behind in passing. Or though the clouds are scattered and thin at present, diving in and out and leaving puffs and swirls in their shapes, ala some Disney musical. Sadly though likely not disappointingly, Strider's magic doesn't quite go THAT far.

"Well, it's a little bit better view than you'd get from a rooftop in the Upper West Side, probably." He can't even remotely make that sound sincerely blase, barely stifling a snicker. Strider snorts again, giving his mane another shake, seeming to mirror Dane's mood. "But all things considered, I still would've taken it, if just for the company."

Jane Foster has posed:
Mayhap one day, the clouds may be scored by vortices in their passing and jewels distracting Jane from the shoreline below might dance on wrists and throat and shoulders as some kind of dreaming bright mantle. Maybe. The world is full of maybes, less of the Disney variety, but those of the Eddas and the ancient sagas.

"The Triskelion's virtues are many. Not a telescope perch. For that, I have to go to the tip of Long Island." The words linger on parted lips, shaping their passing like a brushstroke of the fingertips against her chin and painted low as she cants her chin higher. "Ever been to the Montauk Lighthouse? It marks the very uttermost end of land there, next stop Portugal. I like to take my binoculars out there and look, though sometimes the better choices are closer to Maine. Long drive, but watching the stars from Bar Harbour is something else." She pats Strider. "You do a fine job, never doubt. Moon-watching parties are very difficult to arrange here, at least outside my colleagues. Put it on your calendar. Watching from the lighthouse."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Just tell me when." Dane replies, smiling over Jane's shoulder as their flight pattern banks northward, almost as though Dane's thoughts shifting towards the edges of islands and the lands of prolific horror novelists (or at least one in particular) turn Strider in that direction as well, but the relaxed, meandering pace does not grow more hurried. "I've always heard the Southwest was one of the best places for stargazing, whether optically or electronically. Never really got a chance to go out there yet, though."

Jane Foster has posed:
"Now?" A playful hint of a tease lies there. At however-many-miles per hour, Long Island is a long way away from driving standards, but very close on the wing. Probably twenty minutes, give or take, maybe a bit further. "Look for the solitary beam out to sea. It's automated now, no keeper there. More's the loss for us, considering all things. I would delight in landing with you and strolling through the rocky promontory that greeted so many ships in a sign of hope, back in the day. That's us, beacons tonight."

She pulls her hair around her neck, tucking the thick welter of chestnut strands into the protective swathe of her ivory collar. "The Southwest is excellent, but anywhere dry and high tends to be so. Palomar was built with such an idea in mind. Hawai'i, too, though I have reservations about putting something atop a site sacred to the natives." She looks back over her shoulder to Dane, and wordlessly tips that wink.

A moment or two later, she's leaning back against him to see the stars, words so soft they're inaudible.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane cants his head curiously, seeming to weigh the options, then back in the other direction when Jane speaks so softly. A warm smile spreads across his face, and he shakes his head, murmuring something back.

Strider starts to dip now, once again picking up speed, banking back towards Long Island, aiming for it's northern point. Twenty minutes? Probably not that long, when you don't have to worry about airport approaches and have, effectively, VTOL capability. Suffice to say it's not long before at least the light is in view, growing closer as the moments tick away.

Jane Foster has posed:
No sort of headphones or speaker offer any sort of minimalistic track for the pegasus stretching out his hooves and wings, crashing through the headwinds following the enormous track of a warm current swept up from the horse latitudes to find Arctic outflows on the precipice of Icelandic guardianship. The Gulfstream moves below them in vast quantities while the skies open to the trio, every steady wingbeat framing stars beyond twinkling plumage. Her hand on the enormous sweep of powerful sinews and muscles keeping them aloft, she can barely resist toying with the plumage, feeling the downiest feathers fluttering in a perfect spread.

Far from her to want to sleep, but Jane closes her eyes for a moment with the shelter of leaning back. "Not exactly my Titanic moment, considering how that ended. Though were I to stretch my arms wide, I could sing a terrible high note while you tell me we both fit on that damn door." The crooning spill of laughter teases down her lips even as she braves another whisper at an even lower volume. Strider's probably got excellent hearing -and- he understands English.

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Thankfully no icebergs in sight." Dane replies, grinning impishly, "And Strider's a little more maneuverable so we'd prooooobably be OK. Probably...if we spot any." Strider snicker-snorts again adding a whinny that does indeed sound like equine laughter. Wait, has the horse seen the movie? Does Avalon have DVD players? Or maybe VHS? Or maybe it's just reflecting Dane's own amusement back.

Whatever that whisper is, Dane throws his head back and laughs a moment or two, shifting to a one-handed grip on the reins, and his now-free arm slips around Jane's waist. Of course, while there is some small degree of discretion granted by the whispering...Strider hears well but not THAT well, that semi-empathic link may carry a fair bit of the gist of things.

Is "Wingman" too on-the-nose? Maybe, but it's a role the Avalonian Pegasus seems quite happy to play.

Jane Foster has posed:
Avalonian Wingman indeed. A title that comes with his own special set of stripes to be pinned to his bridle and reins, the better to earn the approval of certain dimensional monster-cats who have no business whatsoever being anything of the sort. Rewarded by the benevolent Lady of the Lake in the Citadel of Stardust, he can prance around excitedly among his equine peers for being a constant friend and aide.

"Black ice and being asked to rush headlong for New York, showing off on his maiden flight," Jane murmurs, laughing in spite of herself. She raises her arms around her head in a halo of sorts, drawing in motion the ankh of Isis without knocking Dane or herself. "Alas! The wreckage of their dignity was terrible, for the winsome steed dumped them in the forest and galloped up to the White Star pier to report on how ignominous their end became. Then we should be required to discover how good we are at camping."

Probably quite good, given their relative upbringings. She tilts her head thoughtful, and then cracks her gaze open to see how the flowing memories of Nassau County disappear behind them. "There, off to the right. See where the one light stands alone? Beautiful place, especially when it's not terribly cold."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Got it." Dane fixes the point in his sight, and Strider adjusts course accordingly. Indeed, he picks up speed, with a definite destination in mind, and in the matter of several more moments, they alight upon the ground of the promontory. Once fully settled, Dane hauls himself off of the saddle, stepping down to the ground, before reaching to help Jane make her own descent.

"Thanks, Pal." Dane pats the neck of the winged stallion once Jane is safely on her feet, "You want to stick around or head home for a bit?" He offers the choice, but Strider paws at the ground a bit and shakes his head, the whinny that comes carrying perhaps, a tone that implies a negative. "All right, Sentry duty it is." Dane chuckles, giving one more pat before stepping back, and looking to Jane, "Looks like you're the guide again. By all means, lead on."

Camping is an amusing and perhaps intriguing notion, but alas, he's not quite that prescient so as to have brought the semi-necessary gear. Perhaps another day, when tomorrow's obligations aren't quite so numerous and pre-scheduled.

Jane Foster has posed:
Montauk Lighthouse is a national historic site, the oldest lighthouse in commission in the country and ordered by no less than President Washington himself. Flat scrub swirls around the promontory marking the edge of Long Island where it gently falls away into the Atlantic Ocean, the nearest landfall in Portugal across the raging deeps. The flat terrain offers an unsurpassed view over the ragged golden shore and surging waves turned to broken whitecaps against hazardous submerged rocks fringing the isle's north end. Rising tall into the air, the octagonal brick tower forms an unbroken white pillar banded widely in red brick at its base. Cold iron wraps around the lantern in a cold black dome, crowned by a full shell of narrow windows. 360 degree panoramas of Block Island Sound into the moody Atlantic provide a sense of just how remote this lonely spit of land is.

By night, its beam strobes the darkness coalesced beneath Connecticut, for nothing good comes out of Connecticut except dreary writers not quite terrorized as much as their deranged Massachusettian counterparts. Still, the ground offers a massive flat for the horse to land on without trouble. They could probably drop most small to mid-sized planes without much trouble, albeit scrub ends abruptly in a dropoff marked by perilous rocks. Even some roughage over the winter if Strider cares to go abuse the notions of hospitality by chowing on admittedly harsh pickings.

Jane in part is almost wobbly with the notion of having to leave her newest best friend behind. "Thank you, Strider," she says, good manners all the same. Nothing quite suggests occupation; the site's automated, for the most part, or a museum with functional gear inside if necessary. With a slow laugh, she drops down next to Dane. Assistance is necessary to not go stumbling forward given her head is still in the clouds. "Very well. Avoid that side," she points to the left, "because there isn't a beach to speak of. If you fall in, it means swimming around to the east here, where the shingle is better graded."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Definitely not looking for an impromptu polar bear dash." Dane affirms as the treacherous side of the spit of land is pointed out. The surroundings do truly make for a feeling of remoteness, and even the not-too-distant parking lot with a few scant lights illuminating that it currently lay devoid of any traffic only seems to enhance that somehow. Were the temperature a few degrees warmer, there might be an errant patrol car here to stave off teenage mischief, but for now the weather, more mild than winter but with the ever-present unpredictability of spring. Nary a cloud in the sky tonight, though, and those scattered, broken ones that they were recently flying amidst have drifted out of sight of land, carried along by the currents of the jetstream.

Dane looks up, surveying the sky with a smile, "Lot better view than the city, that's for sure." The rush of the ocean waves and the salt air certainly make for a far more evocative atmosphere, as well.

Strider wanders a bit afield, narrowly in sight but not overmuch paying attention to the pair beyond a soft, acknowledging neigh in response to Jane's thanks, and another brief "bow" before leaving them to their devices. Wingman indeed.

Jane Foster has posed:
"No, it's not the best way to approach this, I suspect. Especially given the reefs and wrecks supposedly offshore. With my luck, we might just meet the ghosts of a freighter or something from the time of the Revolution." Jane is teasing, the suggestion wreckage might linger a few hundred feet out waiting for unsuspecting visitors being met with a grimace. Nothing much by way of lights show the path, the attention wholly on the beam projected by computerized programming on the great, tall tower. Not a chance for a boat to run afoul of the shore, nor a ship to misread the charts and smash into Block Island. "About the closest thing we get to dark skies in this neck of the woods, without driving up as far as the Vermont border," she muses. "Though take a look around, wander where you like. I find the whole place inspires me, but that could be because the wind tries to flatten me every time."

She holds her hands close to her body, tucked into her pockets, short of being dragged free to gesture. "The majority of this is quite old; nineteenth century with some restoration here and there. The graffiti on the bricks under paint goes back further, though. 1820, 1805. Someone tried to claim Hamilton left a scratched note inside, completely spurious."

Down here, the wind steals words and forces projection into action. Brisk, briny, it stands at the edge of the world. Maybe why she likes it so. "No harm done if we want to run to the buildings and hide in their lee."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Well, if nothing else it'll probably be a little more quiet there." Dane notes, not wandering far, but certainly taking in the night-dimmed landscape, almost imagining those evoked shipwrecks not far offshore, a mildly wistful smile at the hint of mystery. He COULD take Strider for a look but his own vision bears no particular enhancement for those now inky-black depths, so it'd be an exercise in misadventure at best, and not seriously considered in any case. He moves closer to Jane then, reaching out a hand to take hers yet agin, should it be withdrawn from it's pocket. The wind's chill doesn't seem to bother him -too- much, but he does feel it. He might be well inured towards ignoring such elemental discomforts, all told, but a bit of refuge is not unwelcome. The little things one tries not to take for granted.

Jane Foster has posed:
What misadventure could a horse and rider get into a couple dozen fathoms below, scooting around broken ships? Maybe they have a future ahead of cleaning up Spanish wrecks, the gold trade run full of promise for missing craft never found by treasure hunters. Might fund that castle, anyway, and the restoration could be set after locating a crate of Spanish doubloons or gems intended for the Main.

Better then to consider more terrestrial hazards. Like bushes smacking legs or uneven terrain along the pitted switchback path that was under snow not so long ago. Instead, she wraps her hand around Dane's when he reaches for hers. Her hair is trying to get away again, succeeding far more than on horseback.

"On three?" she calls. "Three, two--"

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane quirks a brow at the countdown, grinning a bit, and when the countdown reaches one, he breaks into a trot towards the relative shelter of those buildings. Though not exactly dressed for a nighttime cross-country run, that really just kind of seems to add to his amusement. He maneuvers well enough in the dark, both with better-than-decent reflexes and bluntly, some experience in such things. He's not making a race of it though, trying to keep ahold of Jane's hand as they jog towards what effectively amounts to the far side of one of the buildings.

It's a not altogether graceful journey. Nobody is injured, nobody actually falls, but there's a stumble and a bobble or two from the uneven terrain, a fair bit of laughter at the sheer silliness of it all, but they reach their destination in relatively good time, all told, and only a trifle breathless, if only for the twin-threat of bursting gales and just enough chill to make things interesting.

And once they reach that spot of refuge, mostly-sheltered from wind and hidden from sight of even loyal Wingmen, Dane seizes more than a bit of initiative. A step, a bit of a pivot, and a relatively gentle tug pulls Jane into his arms, one half-encircling her waist, and the other letting fingers get captured by those now windblown chestnut locks. There's a pause, a meeting of eyes, an almost-but-not-quite-tentative smile with the hint of a question in it, a half-moment for her to weigh and consider, and then he moves in for the big damn kiss....

Jane Foster has posed:
Being relatively fit and certainly capable on her feet when not dancing into walls or dismounting horses counts for something. Not enough against the empowered, but Jane has good reason to maintain a reasonable level of physical activity and fitness. Trudging around hostile environments carrying her gear with limited help, at best, requires being tough. The doctor reminds her of the benefits of physical activity! And besides, she needs reason to bury her thoughts in the profound work of the mind. This means she makes a reasonable companion for a night-time dash through windy Montauk Point and hopefully not tripping any security measures installed since she was last here a fortnight ago.

"Please tell me that wasn't a bird nest!" she cries out when one helpful run sends her crunching through something suspect. Let's hope it was a twig. Mercifully her pants catch on few bushes, though she has leaves to show for her work sticking to her sleeve, something to be cast away with the appropriate amount of cuff shaking. "This is almost as bad as sneaking into--"

Where? Dane will have to wait later because they slip against the cream-silvered building that by midnight looks like a house of shadows, where foxes and spectres of long-ago lighthouse keepers huddled by the fire and dreamt of better postings actually *in* New York Harbour and not the back end of mostly nowhere. One pivoted turn finds them hiding under the eaves, laughter still peppering the air like children up to no good, but not children at all. Her chin turns up, the wisdom of knowing there in a banked fire of cinnabar and cherrywood. That answer needs none at all to be known.

Strider is the best Wingman, because maybe being an actual winged horse is a great way to steal back any attention of passing owls or boats or something. Look at the pretty white steed while the softest of rose-petal brushes is the spark to ignite a fire.

Do they or don't they? Sorry, reader. Wait until next time on the Epic of Strider, Horse-King of Avalon, and the Black Knight.