11580/Pieces of Mind: Spa Day

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Pieces of Mind: Spa Day
Date of Scene: 13 June 2022
Location: Astral Plane: Sanctuary
Synopsis: Jane meets someone that has seen the Big Bad.... maybe.
Cast of Characters: Charles Xavier, Jane Foster, Loki




Charles Xavier has posed:
For the most part, Xavier has stayed well out of everyone's head -- at least, to where others generally aren't aware if he is there, though some of that may be revealed when he finds a need to directly contact others that are in the Astral.

The sanctuary area, though, is steeped in Xavier's awareness, and it certainly is not unusual to obtain a sense of him there. More rare that he directly contacts anyone, though, as he has enough on his plate.

"Ms. Foster," Xavier sends to her, rather directly. The man is weary, and isn't as able to project complete confidence and strength anymore. It's tired feeling, a little unsteady, maybe. "Would you have time to check an anomaly? In all of the events, I fear we've overlooked something important."

Jane Foster has posed:
The outcomes at the Kimmel Cultural Campus and NYU Skirball rest heavily on Jane's thoughts, devouring the few stretches of peace her overworked schedule allows. When not pacing her apartment in the Dakota, she sorts through materials from W.A.N.D. and SHIELD: medical records, police reports, eyewitness accounts. Video recordings are pored over. It's between these bouts that she finds herself treading other paths, carrying that burden contemplating crimes and misdeeds.

In the sanctuary, she appears exactly as she does in person. Motes float around her astral form, broken filaments trailing from her ankles beneath her jeans. Phoenix and Blindfold have far more interesting signatures to look upon. Her concerned eyes, however, are for him, for the deviations in presence that speak to a burden. Even without being a doctor of osteopathy, she can pick up certain things. "Professor Xavier?" The question lingers; a proper address. Every footstep forward comes rimed in concern, a gentle extension of an offering as if there were any strength to be gained by goodwill alone. "I've intended to walk back through New York University to see whether there's any connection for the location. Just tell me where, it won't be too much."

Time has no fingerprint on her; suspended in ice.

Charles Xavier has posed:
"Yes. Apologies for getting directly to the matter. Were this another day, I would have proposed tea first, perhaps a key lime cheesecake," Xavier says, after lightly checking himself, and switching into a more slowed, kinder mental tone. His exhaustion - he attempts to mask it more, as if aware she picked up on it, and he's diffusing. Clearly he's fine!...

"I appreciate your willingness." A mental sigh. "During the events of the theater, it seems there was a second, more subtle anomaly. Naturally, we had to prioritize the serious influx of the souls from the Skirball, all of our eyes needed to go there. I was only able to catch it since we had adjusted the flow of time at the sanctuary, and check it against the others we've seen ... it is nearly identical to the stress on the plane that the Skirball event created."

There's a pause, and Charles clarifies, "There were two similar events that day. One of them erupted into what we saw... and the other seems to have done nothing. Or whatever happened... has been nearly washed away."

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane lightly waves off the apology gently. "Time is of the essence for these patients." Her explanation comes quick and precise, a succession of tight stitches in thought. The rhythm of his tone, mental or indeed buried in the mental landscape, fails to offend her in any obvious fashion. Rather, all attention falls to listening and interpreting him to reduce the need for repeating himself or other interference.

"A second event occurred. Was it simultaneous with the Skirball event, and at NYU or another location?" Glittering notes played sharp and smooth as Mahler's Symphony No. 5 cascade through her mind. Trust an astrophysicist to leap to time and space first. "Do you suspect the traces were erased, eclipsed by what happened at Skirball? Or simply the passage of time? The latter isn't insurmountable. There are options if we need to look back."

We. Nothing in this is I. Team effort.

Charles Xavier has posed:
"If you are able to look back, I think we may learn the answers to those questions," Xavier answers, with a melancholy to the tone. He wishes he could provide what she'd like to know immediately.

"I think it unwise to assume what this was - other than that it was, indeed, at approximately the same time. From what I can sense, it was around the time when all of us were looking towards the amalgam: when we were entirely focused on that. Did something happen, while we were occupied? I do fear that, yes."

Jane Foster has posed:
The faintest arc of a smile touches Jane's lips, drawn out. Wide sepia eyes glitter warmly; they won't ever sparkle like a blue-eyed or green-eyed sort, but they have a different quality. "Rest your mind knowing this is off your plate. The least I can do, given that you do the things I can't." Flickering motes swirl around her as she lifts her hand, dancing will-o-wisps that wink out and reform in a vague ozone haze.

Her compassion for the displaced souls is boundless, but quite a bit remains for Charles and the monumental task of holding them together. "Supposing that you can direct me to the scar, even its relative whereabouts, I will be upon my way."

There's no preamble about that.

Charles Xavier has posed:
"Of course," Charles adds. "Best luck to you... and I'll be with you, should you need to reach out." He won't directly stay focused on her, he'll give her as much space to work as she needs. There's a trust that Charles gives to others, that tends to make it very difficult to even think of letting the man down. That faith piece.

He does, however, send her an imprint of the area in the astral, where he sensed the anomaly. Space is a construct in the Astral, but it can be thought of as being opposite in area from where the amalgam occurred. On that site, there is a memory of magic cutting into the reality of the astral, of a healed breach.

Jane Foster has posed:
Did treachery lie in her heart, reflected in her acts, a certain storm would undoubtedly turn upon her in all its cosmic wrath. Perhaps in that, Charles can find comfort that Jane's intentions remain wholly fixed on exactly what she says. Ahead lies the vagaries of the ever-shifting, mysterious Astral Plane, a place as unknown and uncharted as the bottom of the sea or the Moon. Scratch the latter, perhaps, given Doctor Foster has been an unofficial resident for some time.

She departs in search of the scarred, foggy lens overlaying the mortal world that Charles sets her forth to find. Her means remains on foot until his mental presence retreats and the sanctuary vanishes, hiking at a good pace through the shifting sands of intent and dreamstuff.

Shedding mortal skin comes in an unerring crash of light when the motes collide into a golden bracer. Jane is no more. Luminous wings unfold from her back, stretching out to send her aloft at speed. A helm drawn over her face that shatters connections of mortal to immortal, though when she tilts it back, the Valkyrie's eyes come aglow. <<You chide me about being slow to become this,>> she reminds the sentient relic on her wrist. <<Now let's prove the sacrifice is worth it.>> Only reasonable to squint a little, shading her gaze from seeing everything.

Odin hung for nine nights to gain his kenning. She hung ten times that long from Yggdrasil.

Charles Xavier has posed:
The spa is closed; it's late evening on a Sunday. The place is clean, nicely kept -- it is a very affluent establishment that the Valkyrie finds herself in! The trail itself leads to one of the beautiful aromatherapy rooms. This particular one is for a group treatment: there are four individual beds to recline on. The decoration is on point, in candles (which are currently extinguished), beautiful pale wood and mirrors, plush carpet.

At first, there seems to simply be nothing there, as if the aromatherapy cleaned away whatever may have happened.... but then... there is something.

A flicker from a candle, a little bit of gold. A tiny 'something.'

Jane Foster has posed:
No doubt some poor esthetician might panic at finding an after-hours client if they slipped inside. Then again, this is New York. Valkyrie reaches out to feel the pattern of the Astral Realm, tracing the scars and any ripples left by subtle magic by tactile impression on the mindscape as much as visual.

The trouble with attuning herself to the Truesight shared by few is that she Sees everything. Hidden mysteries and fundamental knowledge streaming into her head doesn't make it any easier to process.

When she steps into the actual aromatherapy room itself -- a mental note treacherously made to see how much those services cost -- she takes in the position of the beds, notably whether the formation makes a difference. Head to head, or all side by side like a line of eclairs on a pastry tray? Next come the candles, they and any bottles surveyed for marks, inscribed sigils or labels. That spark of gold isn't lost on her, but she approaches it last, circling to check whether the flame throws anything odd as a shadow on the mirrors or ground. Seeking odd behaviour for engaging what is, for all intents, a burning blob of wax. Her own caution is worth chiding herself over, normally.

Still, she isn't going to just pick it up without looking at it and seeing whether any marks form a circle at equidistant points or other locations might be had.

Charles Xavier has posed:
There are traces: there's a circle of something, under that carpet. Perhaps the beds were moved, but they are now back in place. Everything is cleaned up, but there are still echoes: echoes of a ritual here, that struck the Astral. In fact, it feels the same as the Skirball, in some ways.

But then, the candle flame grows more vibrant, into a large tuft of flame, though it isn't necessarily an aggressive aspect. It grew more prominent when she approached: it's reacting to her, though it just gently grew.

...And then, there are little eyes that appear, out of the flame, that turn and draw focus on Jane. It's ...cute.

The little fire on the candlestick looks at her, curious, for a time, and then suddenly says, "Oh!" The voice is a softened pitch of elemental flame. It sounds like it's mostly just taking her in, that the whole thing is a curious enough item. "It's you. Huh." The little flame does seem intrigued.

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Good evening.>> It never hurts to be polite, especially when someone has seen and read Howl's Moving Castle. Calcifer would be a friend. The petite, polite version thereof receives Valkyrie's courtesy and a polite turn of a smile. Proof that humans (and Asgardians) will bond with absolutely anything, isn't it? <<Pardon. Were you expecting someone else?>>

She doesn't aim to take the candle then, though seeking to stay at eye-level, for the most part. <<I hope someone has not forgotten you. Do you have enough to sustain yourself right now?>>

Charles Xavier has posed:
With the flame more obviously present, it can be scrutinized fairly easily. It is some sort of sentry or watchdog item. She may well be speaking to an elemental, or perhaps it is relaying everything to a master of some type. The tone is quiet, though mostly genderless - it has the sense of being a way to keep an eye on things.

It is able to respond, though it does so verbally in the room. The magic of the thing can sense her, process, but maybe not reply astrally. "Expecting? Perhaps not. Everything here is over. But it's best to keep an eye out. ...Just in case."

Jane Foster has posed:
The magic can detect her, and that in itself is a danger. Albeit the enchantments on her give Valkyrie some protection against the obvious. All the same, it hardly hurts to be cautious and mindful.

"In case?" The curling lift of a question remains drawn out, quite casual. The brunette has no reason to shift once comfortable. She truly could do that all day, at least long enough to maintain a conversation. Her initial curiosity remains, showing no signs of wariness. "What happened?" Speaking aloud is easy enough, registering quite gently all in all.

Charles Xavier has posed:
"You must know, if you're here. Unless you are here for a spa day, which...." the sassy little flame pauses, as if considering it or milking time just for the verbal joke it was making. "May not work for someone projected thus. I think a spiritual cleansing is something that doesn't need a bed and a fluffy white robe."

Is the little watcher dodging? Maybe.

"I can tell you are here to look for a mess, or expecting something. What did you expect? Let's see if it matches with the story," encourages the little flame. It flutters and goes slightly 'squat', as if sitting down for storytime.

Jane Foster has posed:
Storytime from a psychopomp, won't this be fun?

Valkyrie curls her fingers together and rocks back on her heels, the arc of her wings fitting tighter to her shoulder blades to avoid disrupting any of the decor. Someone has to clean the building, she isn't going to make their job worse. Old habits and all.

"But do I?" Two can play at that game, if it is a game to be played. Though hers is wreathed in truth, such as it is. "I was on the road when I felt a ripple that disrupted my path. Not large, not loud. But disruptions like these are not common, are they? It could prevent me or others from travelling safely in the future, and there have been all manner of hazards lately where there never were before. Hazards that cause real harm to travellers caught up in them, scratched and torn. The kind that leave someone adrift and lost until they are shown their way back home. Not all threats are obvious, so I have learned. You surely know the dangers of not paying attention to a draft or a vibration, yes?" Her voice falls into a rhythmic path, slightly tilted to the modicum of a story. The flame elemental expects her to fulfill a part, and so she shall.

She spreads her fingers. "Would I go on without looking to see where it came from? There could be a need for my help or a problem to be careful for. What shall it be? No, I would not ignore the need, and turned my attention to follow the fading path like you chase sunset into the night. Thus I traced the disruption this way and that, roundabout until reaching this place. My work would have to wait. But as you can see, there is a gentle flame here. No raging fire, nothing like that. I've found no trio having tea or arguing over something. You have been left behind, where the ripples led. So here we are, speaking, and I wonder what came before me."

Her smile lifts lightly enough.

Charles Xavier has posed:
"Well, then I should help you note the heroism that /did/ occur here," decides the flame, seeming to have been relatively appeased by Jane's conversation and vocal poetry. Or maybe it really just wanted to brag some.

"Should you examine the remains, you will find there was a trio of practitioners of dark magics here, forced to rend a rift open into the realm of thought."

There's a pause, as if the flame were waiting for her to see the proof all around her, as if the walls were steeped in it. "I did look upon this ritual and think, it would be a SHAME were it to be interrupted." 'Shame' is thick with playful sarcasm. "But yes, that did attact the eye of the thing behind this. It was here."

Jane Foster has posed:
Maybe that flame needed some buttering up, but it has an audience of one willing to listen most aptly. "I would like that," Valkyrie agrees, nodding to encourage the story from the plucky spirit.

Only when it ends does she offer a grave nod. "This thing. What did you see? I shall check to the other side, in case."

As if the walls and floor are steeped in death. There's very little hidden from her eyes in that province. So she rises, wings tight to the curve of her back, brilliant copper on the dark navy and black of her clothes. Stepping sideways into the physical realm takes a moment of concentration, manifesting inside the spa itself.

She can still project her words across into the spirit world, perceiving the flame with the ease most people see the colour orange. Just an odd talent, her Truesight seething with it. Here, forensic evidence, kitty, kitty, kitty.

Charles Xavier has posed:
"It came, and killed the minions that failed it," says the flame, finally. It had been trying to sugar coat, but there it is. And into the spirit world... yes, the truth is there.

Three magic users died in this room. After the ritual was prematurely stopped, there was death. Something awful came for them, and tore their souls out... but they did not go to the astral. They nearly did ... but instead were devoured. Gone.

"Isn't that what you are here about?" the flame questions, as if actually a little confused. Perhaps it has different information than what Jane has, and assumptions were made.

Jane Foster has posed:
The wreckage paints an ugly picture. Not ugly enough to make the Asgardian goddess flinch, or even suffer a sinking stomach. Too much on that score to truly make her ill. She halts where the evidence of soul destruction overturns the natural order, and squints, eyes flashing a peculiar garnet shade that brightens some.

<<Yes. I did not know what caused the ripples at the first,>> she tells the little flaming candle. <<I was too far to see the source, which is why I came. Your help fills in what I have missed.>>

She narrows her eyes and nods at the spot. <<It consumed them utterly, leaving nothing to be carried on. Between the wrongness of their ritual and the one that ate them, this place must be purified.>> Another mental note; she knows a person. He lives around the corner, as it happens. So follows the more uncomfortable part, searching for the traces of the ritual, to define at least what the signatures are. It probably wasn't for healing. Necromancy is uncomfortably familiar, but she knows other strands. <<You wanted to see it interrupted. What did you think they were doing?>>

Charles Xavier has posed:
"Trying to split the Astral into parts, or do some other serious attack on part of it," says the flame, then, without preamble. It's just flat, stated. "I can't speak to /why/. Not for certain, but...."

The little flame seems to appreciate being asked its expert opinion. So there's some willingness to share, due to that. "It feels like personal vendetta. If you care, you use a dagger. It's close. If you don't care, a gun. This... it's all knives."

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Ugly business, when it's revenge or a vendetta. There are few paths that lead to self-destruction so quickly as that.>> The Valkyrie closes her hand around her hip, balanced lightly on her feet while she moves around the aromatherapy room. <<Did you see -it-? What the miscreant looked like?>>

Thor would probably approve of using miscreant. Asgard's changed her language patterns, or perhaps that comes with the new outlook on life. Her smile for the flame is brief. <<You have been greatly helpful. I want no more to suffer as have others by the acts of this foul magic. What caused this has no care for what or whom are hurt.>>

Charles Xavier has posed:
The use of 'miscreant' makes the little flame snort a little; it's a funny word! /Miscreant/.

"I am /extremely/ helpful. I don't want to be thought of as the /cause/ of this, when I have only acted with benificial intention," says the little flame. It fluffs out like a disturbed little cat; the flame on its head floofing like a tail. POOOOF!

"I did see, but I'm not ruling out an attempt of deception. Still, I do think I'm right, based on the lengths of concealment I dug through. But I want to understand the rest of what's happening, before I give up what I know, and promptly get shut out of this," chuckles the flame, still a little fluffed up.

Jane Foster has posed:
The Valkyrie shakes her head. <<No.>> If she can soothe the flame elemental, she will. <<You spoke of the dangerous activities and what came.>> She considers the fiery creature for a moment and then kneels back down, the better to be on its level and not otherwise. <<I won't deny you a chance to help if you wish to. It took no little bravery to stay here when everything happened and remain afterward. Barring you from going any further would be wrong. May I ask what to call you?>>

Politeness, then, and a strong sense of right and wrong keep her to the central path of that thought. Poor flame. She resists petting it, to try to soothe it, but that would be unbearably rude.

That's going to be odd to explain later. 'Yes, I wanted to give the poor flame a little pat to make sure it knew I appreciated it.'

<<Concealments that you dug through. That's quite an accomplishment. I can feel the magical impressions, and how dark they are.>> She inclines her head. <<Valkyrie, by the way.>> She has a name and a title.

Loki has posed:
The elemental seems to stop moving, and there's the sense of some magic being moved around. The elemental itself isn't casting: it is an anchor point, a seeing eye: a projection used to have presence. It glows more, just in a subtle little flux, before the elemental present is used as a conduit to allow a minor spell to come into existence.

It's illusion, and it isn't particularly fooling anyone. That's not the point, though. The illusion uncoils in dark blue and green, and settles on one of the spa tables into a figure reclined on his side.

"'Loki' is fine," Loki illusion declares, with a certain self-satisfied front and amusement... that conceals some watchfulness for that he does, in fact, NOT want to be blamed - and awareness that he may still be.

Jane Foster has posed:
For an instant, there is silence. The Valkyrior are a fairly diverse lot, and the All-Father makes odd enough choices in them. How well they take humour... well, that depends. Brunnhilde is different from Runa, and Vintridr a world apart from whomever that is.

One with /some/ sense of it, anyway. No hysterical shriek or an arrow shot through the self-pleased flame, anyway.

The smirk shows. Just a tilt of the lips, and that is that.

Inside, oh, another matter altogether as the pieces stand together. <<Clever, for the fire. What was said stands true. Being cut out for helping and uncovering pieces is an unkindness I am unwilling to inflict.>> An oddity among Odin's passel of death-stalking creatures, but not so strange. <<Then, 'Loki', the problem remains. Dark magic, a soul-eater, and fragments. There is no stories among the sisterhood that you would stoop so low. We have no quarrel.>>

Pity. She's going to miss the cat-like flame. Such a cute thing. And she was warned.

Loki has posed:
The flame is still there -- it is, perhaps, more accurately a facet of the caster. That all of what was said came from Loki, though? That is a truth to accept. It is both obnoxious, in the game-playing and cloaking, but also ... entirely helpful. That duality is perhaps the most off-putting... and a part of how Loki consistently sabotages himself without meaning to.

"I've been hunting a ...Miscreant on my own," Loki informs, with the same slight huffiness that the flame was exhibiting. Because, of course, their mood is twinned, here. As Jane appealed to the pride of the flame, it did hit well on Loki. Better, really, than if she had known who he was. Oh, the tangled mess, when everything could be a trick.

"Well, technically I had little sorceresses. He stole and has now killed most of them." That hits as probably very honest, and Loki really wanted to vent about it. It's been upsetting him for weeks. "But yes, I can tell you more of what I know. You know where you can find me, mmm?"

Jane Foster has posed:
It would be irritating, this trickery, if the Valkyrie actually found it entirely irksome. With her vision saturated by the truth of creation, she tolerates the nature of what is far better than perhaps an irritated elder brother with a hammer might. No need to shout 'Speak plainly!' at the other prince. She is not the type. His stories are part of him, the weaving of half-truths and spun fantasies accepted for what they are.

What good would it do to complain? None.

<<Best that miscreant trouble be settled soon, then.>> The helm catches the firelight, alloyed gold instead of its natural silver sheen. <<Expect me soon, then. Your hospitality shall be a pleasure.>>

There is no more reason to linger deeply when the information is mostly, largely gathered. Sorcery or not, she stands up and back. Crossing back into the other plane is no trouble at all, best suited for a swift retreat.

As such, there is no goodbye for Loki Odinson. Only the ruffled copper clash of her wingbeats and then his own thoughts to keep him company. That, and the fire.

Someone should pet the fire. It's a nice flame!

Loki has posed:
The little flame orients a little bit towards Loki after the Valkyrie is gone. Judgingly? Or is Loki doubting himself?

...Nah.

"Don't look at me like that," Loki admonishes the elemental, which settles on the candle innocently. "I /did/ act heroically."

The illusion fades out, with a slight frown from the prince.