12343/Resonants: Alfheim Side Story pt. 3 'How Does One Solve a Problem Like Jane Foster

Resonants: Alfheim Side Story pt. 3 'How Does One Solve a Problem Like Jane Foster
Date of Scene:	08 August 2022
Location:	Palace - Asgard
Synopsis:	Liam Thorns has two words with Jane Foster about the coming hunt.
Cast of Characters:	Thor, Jane Foster
Tinyplot:	Resonants

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Thor has posed:
    The days in Alfheim have been lovely, the world has that exquisite casual perfection where it is just warm enough when the sun above touches a soul with its rays. When the breeze drifts by carrying on it the scent of flowers and the hint of a distant ocean. The halls are active with so many beings rushing hither and yon tending to their duties. It is almost as picturesque as a storybook and the people lend the feeling with each glance and every smile.
    Then when the sun drifts low things change subtly. There is still the positive feeling of sentiment from the souls that wander by. The shadows draw long but spheres of light float along the corridors and when the castle inhabitants gather for the banquet the atmosphere has changed just enough that it is less open friendliness and more a friendly exultation of life, with the slightest tinge of the wild.
    For drink flows freely, citizens dance, Satyrs cavort, Pixies flutter. And through it all... the Sidhe keep themselves moderately apart, sparing glances while speaking amongst each other their presence serving to temper the behaviour of the other beings.
    That and Queen Aelsa's wishes may well do much in that regard as well. For the visitors there are treated well. Even as the evening winds down and the various cliques have broken up. Mingling is what is called for now and so the court moves to make it so.

Jane Foster has posed:
Alfheim is one of those places storybooks never quite capture in their attempts to paint a magical world of elves, fairies, godmothers and unicorns. The sort of things a little girl grows up on come to life in the pageantry and everyday affairs that would leave Hollywood writers astonished, painters enraptured, and said little girls running around imperiously. Jane never quite had her moment of going gaga over horses or fairies, it should be said. Reality put a wrench in those works.

She can still admire the beautiful place, though, and take in the ocean with wonder. Her particularly unusual schedule, favouring staying up after dark rather longer than most would, is maintained in the light elves' realm same as it would be on Midgard. So too the habits to stare up at foreign skies and map what she sees, a better understanding for the mysteries and familiar laws of their world sought in those matters. She lingers under the balls of light at her back, gaze trained high, a smattering of details picked out in black ink on carefully prepared paper that lies against a board. Small metal lozenges at the corners help keep the paper from curling while she paints the procession of stars. Constellations come later. In fairness, she's hardly unwilling to converse, easily waylaid by a word or an inquiry, happy to demonstrate what she has captured or hear some melody plucked by an ambitious lyricist who needs a new audience with dulled ears to uplift into the inspiring echelons of amazement. Alas, hard to pull that one on her.

The Queen's kindnesses are not forgotten, but neither the warnings. She doesn't each much -- out of direct sight, nothing -- and veritably presents herself as a content, pleased addition to nearly every distraction thrown her way. Thus are a few hours in a lit court easily gained, her mind shielded against unwanted intrusions as a matter of habit. Being silent in there is /rare/, and thus strange, a sense of being alone unto herself almost disturbing.

Thor has posed:
    They are guests, and they are treated with such respect. Politeness is the order of the night as the small groups gathered pass near one or another of the visitors. Some will pause, share a few words, ask a few questions. Politeness again. There's almost a precision to their manner, as if one could witness the beauty of their words and mannerisms, and then reduce these interactions to equations or sequences called for by some unknown puppeteer hidden somewhere behind that night tapestry she draws so carefully.
    And they do at times try to allay the worries of the guests. The visitors want for nothing, are denied nothing. And to set any fears aside there is always a gentle caveat. A polite phrasing. 'The Queen bids me...' And so they provide at the Queen's word. As if the transaction was purely between them and the queen. So no debt is given these kind visitors.
    But not all seem bound to such obligations. And it is one such a soul that approaches.
    Revealed at first in the lengthening of shadow to the side. A dark figure. Armored no longer yet garbed still in black. The Hero of Red River finds a place by the artist's side as she illustrates her inspiration.
    The silence is there. Broken by the low murmur of the crowd around them. The sounds of the night beyond. But between them nothing at first.
    Until,
    "Is she finding her way, guided by star and song? Or perhaps she clings to what she knows awash in the wild?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Concerns for discretion or proper behaviour might hold them at arm's reach. The ljosalfar collectively are on their best behaviour, a familiar situation even for Jane. She hints at a smile when caught in profile, stippling another few drops delicately over the paper to capture where the moving constellations sit at the given hour of the night. Light elves truly have little to worry about the representative of Midgard who might ask directions to a garden, a library, the highest point she can safely reach.

No fear of binding oneself in any obligation to the brunette, for she has mastered the art of inquiring if the Queen permits, or whether it would be acceptable. No promise if they happen to tell her the cultural mores or societal expectations. 'Is it allowable to wear red in that room there?' is far different than bestowing obligation. In some strange way, it's not that confusing to follow.

Until music tumbles. Until word spills at her ear from immortal lips and the stargazer turns her head slightly from the task set before her. An act of immortalizing the fleeting moment of the night sky, and no less.

"Unfamiliar stars follow the patterns woven long before my birth, and certain to reign long after. Is there to be any discomfort looking upward? For in the brief flowering of stelliferous radiance, tales unfold and there can be no uncertain path at all."

Thor has posed:
    For a brief moment she sees him smile.
    Not the jaded edged thing he wears as the court dances and dances. But a warm thing spared as his own shadowy eyes lift to look toward those heavens with their patterns drawn. A slight intake of breath, then returned as his head tilts a little to the side away.
    Then he returns his attention back.
    So often others who have met the one known to some as Liam Thorns, they are left with the impression that he is a being purely defined by the ends of a monochromatic spectrum. That there is the pale of flesh to him, and the black of night. Yet in the depths of his irises. And around his temples. There is gray.
    He answers her, a question of course as he murmurs, "Should I speak to her?"
    The elven lord asks.
    "Or should I speak to it?" His eyes lower slightly, falling upon that jewelry that so has defined her life. Or provided it.
    His words would be considered sharp to some, impolite, yet a curious honesty to them as he says, "Is she but a memory?"
    "Or a mirror's image of what was?"

Jane Foster has posed:
A smile is a slender bond between two people, a powerful way of disarming unease or concealing motive. If she were any other kind of person, Jane might be prone to suspicion from the Lord of Red Rivers, a knight of unknown quality and intent.

Her own gaze follows his into the stars after a brief check. Skies clear enough to display the nocturnal procession that's been similar enough over the last thousand years, surely, have their own enchantment. They tell her a story, much as the whorls on a knight's palm or the calluses on a harpist's fingers lend a tale if someone wants to read. His ink is merely a touch different, but scored in scarlet to some degree in her eyes. Maybe that, and the slight earthen tones of moving water. Rivers are rarely perfectly clear; only the dead or the very young ones. Therein is the knight in his hues of grey, shadows blended in light, scored at the periphery of her vision.

"Only as you would. I do not demand someone fill the silence," she replies, nodding in slight impression of dipping her chin. Motions here hold significant power, deep meaning. For her, it's important not to needlessly flap about in a way that could insult their hosts. Asgard's success -- and Midgard's -- depend on alliances running deeper than most of them know, though Zatanna and Lara are probably in their ways more suited, more accustomed than a scientist flung into deep waters.

The inquiry brings out a slight chuckle, soft, hard to catch when voiced in a gossamer thread. "I suppose that depends on where you stand. You look at memories up there." Her pen-holding hand gestures lightly at the sky. "Images as they were in long ages past. Even the nearest, you see as it was years before, not as it is this moment that you draw breath. The fires your eyes barely perceive originated from the days when the universe congealed from superheated dust, the creations long since expired, reborn, dead and remade anew. My people sometimes hold space as a metaphor for something unchanging and ancient, but it could not be further from the truth."

Her smile softens a hint, for all that she looks Liam's way, in profile largely. "Images of what was cannot change. We only watch what comes moment by moment, the fixed tale that may never be alter. Memories can be something of the same; the truth of them is an unchanging, inviolate matter. /Perception/ of them, though, suggests the possibility of change, interaction, even evolution. I'd hasten to say that memories themselves can do none of those things. Is she the memory of a sun or the far-travelling starlight?"

He's left with his own question, and all the answers.

Thor has posed:
    "Is there not something lovely, however? Not something luxuriant and poetic about imagining one is only privy to those echoes?" Liam of the Thorns looks to the sky, the ghostly images of what was so far beyond and so long ago. "Even when the illusion is so within reach is it not romantic to let the mind wander toward the tragedy that is loss given life?"
    Then he turns, his back upon the universe beyond, his arms resting on the curled metal and wood rail that looks like one of Grandfather Oak's longest branches. He takes his ease, giving it his weight as he pushes his cloak from one shoulder. There is a considering glance given to her, then away to whatever lies behind. The party still surging? The people still wandering? Perhaps even the Queen holding a court of sorts with the suitors who proclaim undying love for the moment.
    "Alas, I am bidden. And there is to be a hunt."
    Those words said softly, no question in them. Spoken with some solemnity.
    Then he brightens abruptly as if putting whatever his thoughts had uncovered behind him and embarking on an entirely new path. "Would she take heed of words given her free without debt?"

Jane Foster has posed:
"Life is a mystery and its secret passages inspire the heart," says the astrophysicist with a turn of a smile. "What privilege to read the inscription and commit to memory the hidden revelations, a gift that can be shared with others so they, too, may experience a case of exultation and excitement." She pauses on that note, setting the pen down. "A beautiful thought, that in every loss comes a kernel of hope, in every opportunity a scintilla of fresh growth and wonder."

The man's shifting position draws her attention, in a discreet manner of looking. SHIELD membership will give any agent worth their salt the ability to notice things without giving away they look at things. People come and go, and she only marks their presence in terms of living or perilous tilt towards death. A reaper doesn't stop being a reaper simply for a party, and the heralding of need sends the All-Father's servants forth as necessity requires. Liam's heavy statements, solemn and girdled in faultless curiosity, will wait a moment and another. Only that.

"A hunt? Would Her Majesty divulge the nature of the quarry or is it meet to know only on the appointed hour?" The question alights with dragonfly wings, a thing that zips off beyond the reach of hearing.

Those bright moments of silence corral moonlight. She registers the weight, and nods. "I would."

Thor has posed:
    "The Green provides," Liam Thorns says, eyes distanced as he lifts his head slightly as he seems to let those words hang upon his lips.
    Then all solemnity is lost as he smiles, eyes widening with his gaze turning fully to her. "A hunt she asks? Is it not the Knight's path to horse through wood and dale?"
    Distantly there is a round of laughter coming from several Sidhe standing around some of her party, likely some quip offered or some insight given that amused the Fae with its perspective or quaintness. There are still smaller creatures flittering about, but now with the hours long the shadows have eyes and beyond toward the night it seems some stars have wings.
    "Yet now is it counsel he will give? What goal must Liam have to speak so?" He says this with a small breath at the end, as if exasperated. Though perhaps less so with her and somehow seeming... more with himself.
    Then his brow furrows and he rests his hand upon the hilt of the sword at his side, the fingers of his glove curling around the pommel as his features tighten. He exhales another soft sound of breath before he murmurs, "When we ride will she hear the horn? Will she notice the call given by those who follow Aelsa? Will she focus and know should that call change? For on these long nights is it so known in her world when the true hunt rides?"
    Shaking his head slightly he then says as he meets her gaze. "If the horn sounds thrice, then find me. Distant memory or no, faded echo so, I would not see it fade."
    And as he says that he touches a hand to his chest, lowers his eyes, then starts to step past and away, that black cloak returning to fall over his arms once again.

Jane Foster has posed:
The shadows hold some measure of danger and fear for those unused to them. Globes in their radiant glow make the darkness take on a quality of velvet, a floating warmth evocative of summer nights rather than the black fur and sharp claws of a jaguar-bound dusk that would bite if given the chance. Jane patently makes no sign of the prickle at the back of her neck.

"A knight guards their charges and represents the realm's honour, as oft as pens thrilling poetry or demonstrates a plethora of skills equal to their sword. Who is this humble scholar to presume to know every turn in such a path?" Her shoulders lift back, and the selective quips that filter through on a delectable wave of laughter bring a familiarity that's found in nearly every social gathering. It's good to hear the convivial atmosphere, and not lean too heavily into concerns that might be barbed under the surface. With any luck.

Such questions come one after another, and if he expects any hint of response, it isn't so clear. Liam won't have interruption, though the arch manner of speak holds a receding glamour enough to show the heart. "Three sounds of a horn, find you. For harm would come to me otherwise." This repetition is somewhat plain, but then aren't humans disarmingly, discombobulating in their blunt approach? Isn't she terribly young and unwise to the ways of the world? "Were one a wise bystander to hear such a tale, is that a correct interpretation?"

Thor has posed:
    Stopped, silhouetted, alone, limned by the light of the festive. Behind he leaves the so mortal mortal and the puppeteer's tapestry with its glimmers from the past depicted above as well as upon paper below. Head turning just so he says to her... yet without looking upon her.
    "Is she wise to do so? If Liam of the Thorns, Hero of the Red River, were as noble as he imagined himself would she be wise to heed his words?"
    Then the tendons in his jaw tighten and he says with some hint of strain. "If she hears the three horns. Hears their call. It is not our hunt. And they know. They know they know. When souls are bereft and in flux. Beware."
    Then that abrupt /cheer/ returns as his voice sounds out as he sweeps back with an exaggerated bow as he announces, "For was not so /noble/ Liam a rider for them as well? Is he not the most honorable of souls?"
    And abruptly he turns then starts to walk away toward the crowd, slipping out of view even as two dancers pass behind him. Oblivious and uncaring to whatever roles they each had played.