12625/The Empire of the Centaurian Suns

The Empire of the Centaurian Suns
Date of Scene:	30 August 2022
Location:	Alpha Centauri System
Synopsis:	More birthday celebrations!
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon

Jane Foster has posed:
When they last left off celebrating Blackagar Boltagon's birthday, he got to blow out a candle on key lime pie and deal with his dessert dabbed on his nose. The presents owed to him by right of sheer delight of bestowing them. If Jane gets dividends like a mental laugh or a smile, so be it.

<<Do you want me to spoil the surprise, or will knowing the destination change nothing of your excitement?>> she asks, her thoughts trailing through his in a whisper rimed in joy, flickers of excitement, and a slight tension. The latter more to meet the high bar she's set for herself. Perched in Blackagar's lap while he dines on the homemade key lime confection, she tilts slightly to share a grin. <<You'll need good boots and a proper coat. You might sunglasses, too. I only need a moment to get ready for us to go.>>

The whole notion of exceeding planetary bounds is a thing.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<> Blackagar sends back, taking turns in the consumption of the pie by sharing segments between them. <<I suspect, however, your own excitement will make it very difficult for you to keep the news in restraint so you may best just tell me. At the least, it will help to prepare for the journey and know what exactly to pack. As opposed to the last time you wanted to take a trip and instead of the Maldives, we ended up in the Andes. If I felt cold it would have been rather tragic...>>

The circle of excitement is one that feeds itself, she is excited, which causes him to feel it and echo those sentiments back.

Jane Foster has posed:
The slender finger pressed over Jane's lips silences her, though her shoulders tremble in laughter and shift upward slightly beneath her shirt. <<You and your accursed immunities. Reminds me never to try prodding you with an icicle and expect a response.>> As if she would actually do such a thing. More than likely it would be an armful of snow dropped on someone from a height. Her brow presses lightly to his when she leans in, weight shifting slightly. <<The Centauri system. Proxima B, actually. I did not think you had a chance to visit there yet. Slightly further than the Andes. It's considerably warmer than its sister planet, though they've created habitable artificial satellites among its ring system." The flash of a smile rises as she admits to their destination, sliding off Blackagar with some reluctance as she reaches the ground.

"Hence I need to upgrade to get us there, at least. While there, I can be me." Her voice rings with a certain wistfulness, the duality of humanity and immortality sitting hard on her shoulders. Squaring up, she releases the stress and a sigh with an apogee of brilliant light blooming around her and blinding probably everything in the room that isn't prepared for Undrjarn to wake up.

Undrjarn has a sense of humour, at any rate, its armour created for her spangled by a few suns in place of the typical squared-off buckles. The cloak clasps on her hips are hard to immediately spot as forks, but forks they are, borrowing at least one of his emblems.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The opportunity for Jane to shift into her alternative attire born of the duality of existence causes Blackagar to lift an eyebrow almost casually, it is not a transition he is unfamiliar with. Rather, he has become minutely accustomed to it; welcoming it in some regards as the leveling of ability between them unfolds. <<You know, that day on the bridge, I had no idea of course. But I consider often the probabilities of like-minded individuals being drawn together, in the same way, strength draws together. The happenstance...>>

It is sentimental, but not as much so as when his blue gaze catches her slight deviations in appearance. A tilt of his head and a small gesture is made towards... forks...? <<My dear, are you... attempting to steal my look?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
The weight of the heavy chestnut braid reaching down her back cranks Jane's head back slightly, forcing a differing in her stance than her mortal echo ever needs. Of course, the height difference and everything else that transcends mortal to Aesir substance means she's always getting her bearings slightly. The transformation never ceases to render her in some kind of awe, even as she gracefully eludes the danger of falling over. Leather fingerless gloves creak as she works her fingers, testing and then holding out her hands. <> Her smile widens a little, even as the timbre of her thoughts shifts to Blackagar making a statement on clothing.

The gilded gauntlet on her left wrist twinkles faintly in the light, the sort of behaviour that indicates it's absolutely aware of him. Of both of them, and smug as a cat. <<What are... Oh.>> Her thumb flicks at her arcing crescent, too narrow to be a moon. Contrapposto pose, and then she shifts her weight onto the balls of her feet, reaching to tilt her helm back. A pose of studied glamour and insouciance, for certain, her glowing blue eyes flashing in his direction. <<Who wears it better?>> He has time to reply before she idly curls her fingers to him again. <<A statement we are together. It's only appropriate, where we're going.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Oh now she's just showing off, and it is enough to cause Blackagar to grin at her as he slowly rises, shifting his own weight as he needs to stand up tall to match the normal stature. <<Like a gravity well? Time becomes distorted and stretched into what is or isn't.>> The analogy churns over in his mind, something pulling a string there before he dismisses it away for future use when the current matters in front are not as pressing or desired.

She becomes smug, he grows more humored and steps closer to eliminate the distance and to place a finger over the emblem that she is placing her thumb upon. <<Oh, a nice simple statement? I could think of others as well to let others know we are together; but I suppose discretion is sometimes needed.>> Humor; pleased amusement; happiness. <<And I'm not sure who wears it better, I suppose that remains to be seen, hmm?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<What is time except the passage of dynamic systems and cycles? In stasis, time ceases to be relevant. It requires a medium to move through, a changeable dynamic. Quite a few beliefs would tell you that it's suspended, time has no point, and entropy ceases when you cross that threshold. I existed and did not exist simultaneously, invisible except to those who were in their final moments.>> Jane shakes her head, a calm smile remaining despite the timbre of the events not so far at arm's reach to have lost their sting. Far from it; they remain a vibrant, viable expression of suffering and inspiration writ so many times over, giving her animation in the face of the grey endless wastes of time and space. Her chin lifts, gaze dragged to his. <<What phenomena exist in that state are greatly changed. I can attest to that in strange ways. Ever since the Thunderer hauled me out and broke the laws.>>

She stands on tiptoe, then slips back onto her heels, testing the feel of the boots and full complement of accessories that go with the Valkyrian ensemble. Her wings rustle slightly when his hand drops to hers, tracing a copper melody against the Dakota's interior. Leaning in slighter, she grins up to Blackagar, daring. <<Thou mayst know I care naught for discretion. Let them see and know for a certitude that mine claim be upon thee. And that is quite enough of speaking in Aesir, it's simply too much.>> To speak in literary tones worthy of Elizabethan English takes finagling an awful lot of thought. His fingers might get trapped by hers, caught in a light grip. <<What others are you pondering whilst I'm about to whisk you light years away? Go get your things. We've waited long enough. And if you need no more than boots and coat, make haste about it. >>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The touch lingers for a few moments, contemplation in the moment and expression before the bare hint of a nod follows. Getting his things is often a quickly done task, as there are few possessions in Blackagar's keep. His departure into the bedroom is short, with him returning a short time later wearing a simple black coat and a change of shirt into a simple dark blue piece. Of course, he has not opted to put on boots but rather a pair of comfortable-looking walking shoes. The entire ensemble is in stark contrast to that of Aesir designed wardrobe, passing more for a casual tourist than anything else; a look she would be quite familiar with.

<>

Jane Foster has posed:
A place with seventeen rooms has at least seventeen closets, or close enough to have spaces galore for the Royal Family of Attilan. Jane certainly lacks possessions to fill each one, though sometimes she leaves nothing more than a note for Blackagar hidden in a few of them for him to find one day. As casual as the Midnight King is, the Valkyrie doesn't get a choice exactly. Not for the matter at hand, anyway, where the badge of her office literally warns off anyone stupid enough to truly mess with a psychopomp and the living being in her care. Hey, it's not a /soul/, but nearly as important.

<<You could ride Grani, if you like, but I thought hand in hand would be nicer. It is your birthday, after all.>> Her wings unfold from their tight span, rustled gold-washed plumes loosening into a gentle half-shell that curves around her to entice him a bit nearer. <<The standard warning applies, try not to venture too far from me. The roads I travel rarely draw others.>> Benefits of hanging from Yggdrasil, as it were, paid handsomely and painfully both. <<We can take the scenic path and end up on Proxima b easily enough.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<> Blackagar affirms whilst sliding his hand into hers, folding fingers together. Traveling on his own to a distant planet, while doable, is not something he has ever endeavored to do; rather just to the asteroid belt and the similar. But since it is her trip, he will follow her lead. A soft smile is given and then a glance around the apartment. <>

The indication is given then for her to proverbially lead the way, a small shiver of excitement at traveling to a different world altogether striking.

Jane Foster has posed:
The Asgardians travel, famously, by way of their rainbow bridge. The mightiest of the svartalfjar, the dark elves, use a corrupted version of the same magic. Valkyrie uses another path entirely.

The walls and windows before Blackagar begin to waver one his hand falls into her gauntleted one. A tendril of copper rises from her bracer, threading ever so lightly against the back of his palm in a knotwork pattern that feels warm and tingles faintly from the imprisoned celestial storm within. Undrjarn's way of saying hello when it prefers to mostly talk to Jane, no one else. Stardust falls at her booted feet as the air wavers, space bending to the whims of a displaced soul willing a path through the leaves of the World Tree. If he calls her a squirrel, like Loki did, he's dead meat.

Ash leaves briefly shimmer into shape, a path winding forward solid and vast. The scale of the silver branch probably hides the fact they actually start out on a road cast in twilight, the light of an unseen moon threaded through foliage wreathing the portal. Any number of numinous routes spread out from the central branch, headed who knows where. Well, she does, her wings beating lazily to bring her aloft and through the gateway into the secret paths known to perilous few.

An enormous whirlpool of stars dances along the horizon, rotating at breakneck speeds and almost at a standstill. Nebulae twinkle and dance, suspended around the huge spiral arms. Mountain peaks rise and fall in delineation against the glimmering darkness that threatens to crest over their stony ridges, a telling that even night falls here too. Puddles strewn in places where dew would collect show places, cities kindled in activity or desolate fields of battle, all beckoning where they would. Look high enough and the column of energy, a tree and simultaneously a flow of matter and energy, stretches almost into infinity. Her fingers stay firmly curled around Blackagar's hand as she gives him moments to take in the reality that is hers on a substantial basis.

"Welcome, my king of Attilan, to the start of your gift." The Valkyrie's voice is hers and different, modulated to the precise Attilan dialect he speaks, and that's really inescapable unless he wants to start thinking in New York English or Mauritian French or a Creole. It always matches expectations; she can't suppress it unconsciously, only by force of will. <<If we find the disir or the missing fallen angel of death who nearly killed me in Paris, I promise, you get first word. Azrael deserves it.>> Wings sing faintly as her shoulders work, hovering mostly, letting him take things in before she starts ahead and they pass stars and dancing cities, some ancient and some incomprehensibly young, some familiar and others so peculiar it's hard to realize that structure of ants /is/ a city. But they believe, so it is.

Alpha Centauri lies ahead, the triple star system rotating around four planets past a waterfall tumbling across the path in a sheet of sweet springtime. A season, headed to somewhere in the southern hemisphere.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Koala. Not Squirell. Might as well choose a far more adorable tree-dwelling animal; certainly not a sloth. As her wings beat to lift, the aura that surrounds Blackagar of electron energy forms into place, invisible to the eye save for the slight shimmer that occasionally appears when a particle intersects another subatomically. The view that is present is inspiring, as are the words of welcome that cause him to smirk ever so slightly. The mimicry of the dialect of words that echo in his own mind represents his 'voice' or thought drawing it out.

<<That is a promise I will hold you to,>> he affirms with a small squeeze of his hand. But it flutters away as the planet she brings them towards within the system begins to unfold. <>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<My promises and the rest of me?>> Fleeting smile on her lips, the Valkyrie tilts her silvery helm down to offer a vestige of anonymity. The sweep of her golden wings clashes soundlessly in a place most unnatural, defying physical laws and universal principles. The stars whirl closer, three of them in a duet around the planets that spin in conjunction. Proxima B is the least blasted or gas gianted of them, though it still stands larger than Earth. Weather patterns become apparent from a distance, the arid gem splotched by fewer seas than Earth, more continental activity painted in the lush deviations of plant life such as an alien world knows it. Other terrestrial features are familiar enough, though a planet being lit by three stars has little by way of nightfall. <<You cannot be faulted for thinking that way.>> Her knuckles rub his, and they plunge, the path to the stars painted in a winding route that spins down until one 'step' breaks into the solar system. Another 'step' jars them straight into a market. <<It would be terribly lonely. I do not want you to ever experience that.>>

The suns are reddish and orange, cooler than the Sun, but still impressive for their ability to throw shadows every which way. The buildings cluttered through the marketplace aren't at all human in design, though many of the people there do resemble mankind to a degree. For good reason; most of them were either situated from other galactic empires that look human enough or engineered to it by the Kree. Plenty are blue-skinned, taller than humans, a couple bearing obvious crests in place of hair. Many are bald and just as many not. Hats and ornate headgear are as plentiful as the overhangs and lean-tos fashioned from metal, elaborately spun to show elaborate designs of mostly geometric qualities.

But it's a market, and as such, every sort of thing is for sale. Several ships meant to ply the stars or longer distances fill an empty space like an amphitheatre, while the many byways lead into shops and tall structures comparable to at least apartment buildings. And everywhere is the hiss of ozone, the crackle of light.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<> Blackagar responds with a thoughtful glance, <> But before further thoughts can carry on, they shift into a market abruptly. The presence of more than one star casting skewed shadows should have a larger impact but it does not. The fact of knowing that other worlds not only exist but are experienced, and have been seen in regard to records makes the transition less imposing than it potentially could be.

What stir most in that immediate moment is the sense of wariness. The first vision of the inhabitants immediately struck a thought in Blackagar; did they arrive on a Kree world? It is something that perhaps was not considered for the journey, that he would not only be wary but perhaps agitated by the beings that were created with the intent to enslave his own. The emotion of such filters through uninhibited, that lingering thought of preparation. What if he is ambushed? What if they were to capture him? He must be ready...

Jane Foster has posed:
<<You have. But to be completely cut off is something most do not contend well with. We are not made for singularity when formed of multitudes, as the thought goes.>> Jane holds firm to that notion as her thoughts wheel around Blackagar, his mind a safehaven for her own thoughts to linger within. The crystallized byways are familiar, safe, even to the immortal aspect of herself. The worlds of the Centaurian system are vastly different from one another, though the Earth-like planet sits somewhere midway through its autumn. The cloud-peppered skies support a ruffling breeze, the temperature such that most people in the vicinity wear looser garments in layers rather than worry about the cold.

<<Most of the people here are from the Kentauri tribes. If you see any aquatic peoples, the green-skinned ones, they're Arimani and came here as refugees from a water world. The Kentauri identify themselves by kinship ties to their tribes, and have a queen who rules over them.>> The Centaurian whistle language is complex enough to stand out from the pidgin of other articulations, none of which are English. Though probably a good many sound vaguely close enough to be understood. Not like humans are unknown in space, either, so someone in a regular outfit as Blackagar wears doesn't particularly snap heads. The blue Centaurians with their scarlet tahlei crests are pretty darned obvious by their height, differing considerably from the Kree in how they pattern their skin, their clothes, right down to the clicking whistles that they communicate with.

Reason then to pause near a dramatic sunshade painted in greens and yellows, a swirl of grasslands and swooping bird-like creatures. The Valkyrie waits; patient. Always patient. Her hands remain in his, though anyone brushing too close might get a gauntlet to bar their path. "Proxima b is a far off trade world." Words, where it's safer to be heard. "Not exactly the epicenter of travellers' interest. We are far off the beaten path."

<<I'd never take you somewhere knowingly where you would be targeted and harmed. On my honour.>> Concern shimmers through, though her even gaze never wavers from his face. <<The Centaurians are peaceful; their faith eschews violence. Even those who do not follow it have no care for conquest.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<It is not your intent that has me worried,>> he affirms softly with his own patient smile. <<But look around you. How many would readily turn over the presence of a stranger for riches of the stars? I have no doubt many would.>> Blackagar looks at Jane, a lift of his eyebrow, <<Perhaps I did not express that; the distinct possibility the Kree have a bounty upon me. After all, capturing the leader of the abominations would serve their purposes greatly. But, I do not truly believe they have outstanding bounties as such. Only consider the possibility. Even a Kree Agent. I simply am wary is all, my love.>>

With it expressed, he does seem to settle and relax a bit in their soon walking, observing the people and overhearing the language. <<Peace does not always equate to an absence of violence. In a vast galaxy, the permenance of pacifism seems a dream that cannot quite be attained.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Perhaps, but they contend with a talking to.>> No need to share the visual image of an annoyed Valkyrie wandering about the market, laying waste to the deserving. <<That may be true anywhere. A life circumscribed by preparing for the worst merits its own hazards. Under normal circumstances that would apply. However, if the Kree touch you, I'm obligated to take you back. They can deal without their prophesied king.>> The human woman might have her opinions on aliens stealing her partner, but the Aesir side sharpens those sentiments to a hammer-blow, girded by the inherent nature that tips more belligerent. When you're not broken by a strong wind, daring to consider whether a ship can be taken down by a magic weapon becomes a reality more often than not. Subtle variations in thinking, but still significant one.

<<Pacifism may not be possible, but they certainly revere the concept and seek to attain it. Their holy book, the Book of Chants, provides a rather surprising number of techniques to not resort to physical violence. Conflict mitigation through various means including some kind of whistle duel. That said, they have weapons here that respond to pitch and key of a vocalization because the metal itself is attuned to soundwaves. I haven't quite figured it out and at most, I could probably roll a ball along.>> The shops doing a healthy trade in said metal are pretty abundant, given it's a significant good in the everyday lives of the Centaurians. <<It's your birthday. What do you wish to see or do? Direct me and the world is your oyster, you its finest pearl.>> Mildly irritating to the Kree, and lustrously polished as they try to pretend he isn't there.

As an afterthought, she shifts her armour into a simple blue dress.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Destroyer dear, prophecy is unclear, I prefer to lean towards our interpretation of destroyer.>> Blackagar's correction is made with amusement and a soft glance to the side, watching as she shifts her wardrobe into the simple blue that draws less attention that the armor. Of course, his own garb is simplistic in its approach, nothing to truly draw attention to him; depending on the world of course. On Earth it would be fine, perhaps other realms he would certainly stick out.

<<Can we take just a moment to consider the irony of bringing /me/ here, to a world where their disagreements are settled over whistling?>> Oh yes, the look he casts in blue gaze is extremely amused as his hand tightens about hers, noticing it's stronger grip than that of her usual form. <<As usual though, my contentment is in the company I keep rather than the destination that takes. What is the one thing of this world one must see, if never to visit it again?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
A destroyer king is made of one or the other, and Jane won't argue the point established over a thousand years of Inhuman society. Under three separate suns -- one warm yellow, another cooler orange, and the smallest a sullen red -- anything in a blue spectrum looks rather good. Strange shadows linger when the day will not lengthen into true night, only ever approaching a luminal twilight. <<What a conundrum and a surprise,>> she bats back the thought to Blackagar. Tall spires constructed of metal and teased into fabulous designs peer past their little corridor carved into the city, a melodious sprawl agog with blue-skinned Centaurians, warbling speech, and the usual commotions that come with urban affairs.

<<One thing to see above all others? It's right here.>> The Valkyrie lavishes a kiss upon his brow, lips passing a silken benediction. Blot out other views as she will, the double-sided nature of the statement ought to be cast aside for a moment. <<The Centaurians came from their forests. We saw enough green spaces coming down, it may be worth finding a secluded spot in a park. Or try that whistle-arrow game for fun, though they kill with those self-same darts. Why not indulge the irony? Is it safe to do if you're not actually speaking?>>

That smirk is dangerous enough.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Safe to do.

The thought pulls a small smirk and a shake of his head, having leaned into the kiss on his forehead, he straightens some to look into her eyes, <<Any sound.>> The reminder is soft, but pointed. <> Whatever other trails of thoughts that Blackbolt has immediately seems to evaporate as his head turns, following the movements of one of the Centaurians through the marketplace.

Does she feel it? The tightening of his hand? The catch of his breath?

The completely silence in his mind is almost deafening, a flurry of thoughts whipping through it as he shakes his head slowly then glances at Jane, by time he looks up, to relocate the figure he had seen it is gone. <>

Jane Foster has posed:
Danger to danger, then. The valkyrja riding the edge of reality lacks some of her mortal guise's habitual considerations. Coexistence as two facets of the same whole doesn't mean perceiving the world quite the same, and the slight shift in perception sometimes bleeds the wrong way. <<No, it would not. We shall find some other point to entertain ourselves with. The Fountains maybe; geysers emitting jets regularly enough to float on.>>

The thought needs a pin put in it. Her sharpened sky-blue eyes search the marketplace with a far deeper acuity than usual. His hand can crush hers with near impunity; whatever words descend like snow to a silent floor go undisturbed.

<> Her palm presses to his, then pulls slightly into the street. One person isn't another here, despite their crests, their odd skin, a uniformity in clothing tastes. A spectrum and a mosaic both. <<Shall we?>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The distracted nature that has settled over Blackagar is noticeable, his eyes struggling to reclaim the presence of here, with her for some long moments before he finally shakes free of the fog in his mind. Whatever it is that he has 'felt' is enough to cause him to be disturbed, to be in confused wonderment that it does take the pull of her hand to bring him fully back.

<<Yes, sorry. It was... It was unusual is all. There was a familiarity of presence. I do ...>> He stops, it is for another time. This moment is for their vacation as it is together, not for his curiosities and concerns over matters he can't explain.

<<Fountains you said? That could certainly be worth seeing, something we cannot visit at home?>> He falls in, letting her lead him and although his focus is back with her, she can feel in his mind the small pocket that is puzzling over the moment. <>

Jane Foster has posed:
Let him search, riding the currents as a gull. She can shield herself against it, dampening her presence in the back of his thoughts in a somewhat coarse fashion compared to Blackagar's own finessed methods, a talent of years compared to her months. Especially as the Valkyrie, that silence is hard won unless directed to her sisters.

She raises her eyebrows beneath the heavy bangs, an incisive twinkle answering the halt. <<Yes?>> The mildest of invitation remains, at heart, a prompt but not an overtly demanding one. Merely the option, a gift boxed up in silence and transferred to him. Psychopomps are guardians of the dead, but above that, choosers, and to choose, one must hunt. Something itches in the blood, suppressed at arm's reach. <<Skin dries plenty fast, doesn't it? We can veer astray if you do not find a walk to your liking.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<The who, my dear. Not the what. The who.>> Blackagar intones back with the soft smile returning to what it was before, the lingering thoughts finally passing away enough to get him fully back to the moment. <> His hand reaches, brushes over her cheek; it is different, it is the same. <<I think we should walk, through a forest, to these geysers you mentioned. And if anything catches our attention along the way, we can step off and see where it leads us. Perhaps... well, perhaps we just let fate as it were guide our steps a bit today, yes?>>

The small step closer is followed with a small press of his forehead to hers, <<A plan is all well and good, but sometimes I think just letting the twists of things carry us might be in order. After all, were it not those same twists that had us walk on a bridge one day?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Paint his fingers across her skin and the trails spark smoke in the mind, and she presses her cheek to Blackagar's hand. Different facial features, subtly tapered and carved on a grander scale, whittling the flesh back slightly, might be felt as much as scene. <<Do you believe in fate for the day? That should not be surprising. Different worlds betoken different rules.>> Scuffing the smooth ground underfoot, she folds her arm into his. <<Though do we fly, we'll stand out not a little. Careful not to bump your head on the underbelly of a spaceship.>> For theirs is an active spaceport outside the main central market, but clear as day. Slim craft, wider ones, things peculiarly shaped as darts orbited by energy rings all prevail.

Leaving the cover of the smallest avenues to find a larger road means joining the action, diverging around vehicles or picking out a path. Centaurians aren't so obscure a race they don't have some kind of map or system to their streets, designed on form than function. Following the wavy streets or getting aloft onto sky bridges that hang above the shops on slender beams is one thing, but it rather makes for an intriguing ramble headed for the greenbelts that straddle the avenues. Jane, on her part, quite contentedly roams as they like, stopping to buy a leaf wrapped around a gelatinous solution that tastes of rice with a spike of savory starch or halting to steal a fleeting brush of her cheek to his. Signs make rather apparent where the fountains are; a conical shape, a plume of water. The scent of that mineral-rich solution hangs in the air on the southern rim of the Proximan city. Look for the multicoloured rifts in the ground that spout water sprays into the air. Playtime for Centaurians? On par with that.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Do you not?>> Blackagar asks back almost amused. It is a conversation piece they've held before and the walk here on this world somehow has given levity to his mind to pursue it even if it is in an amused manner. <<Prophecies and Fates all could be intertwined. Stars and their alignments, all those small hints of something greater than. You know I am not fanciful about such things but sometimes, /sometimes/, I do wonder if it is not possible.>> He glances to his side, considering, <>

He let's that thought linger as they walk, following along himself in a rather contemplative but peaceful demeanor. The touches, the stops to look and to consider, even the time he pauses to tie his shoe, leading him to look up at her from the knelt position he does it from. Everything has the hue of the planet to it in his mind, almost dreamlike. <<Had we not just gotten the villa, I would consider claiming a small spot of land here for a cabin.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
How many times? <> A bit strange having passed the Norns and contemplated their stories in the past. Her amusement remains tempered by a jot of truth in there. <<Far be it from me to question prophecy when my beloved carries one upon his brow. I do not labour under such conditions. No matter if a bracelet casts doubt on my own part.>> Her smile answers his all the same, the quality of brightening her eyes unfettered and encompassing entirely. The smiling chooser-of-death may be at odds with the role, but Odin can't make her other than what she is. <<Remember my conceit, that we would be perfectly happy toiling away in obscurity on that island you treasure so much doing little more than teaching or writing or whatever took your fancy. Carpentry? Olive pressing?>>

Where does the familiar become the extreme? Do the changing shadows but never a certain nightfall tweak the mind so much as a ghost slipping through awareness? As pale-skinned folk, they earn a lot of looks. Coinage and currency are a problem; try to pay in paper and it gets a weird look, but thanks to experience and a certain Shi'ar bird, units mean something. Haggling is a no, offering some precise insight on a coworker's ailment will actually net at least a bottle of water, a chit card to use somewhere or another. <<We probably wouldn't overextend our credit looking into property here. A place to sneak off to, far, /far/ away from your court?>> Let him think of that under the widely-spaced trees with huge leaves to catch the cooler, harder to gather light. Long, lumpy strings of silicate help them absorb energy through sleepier processes; here they aren't quite as hardy as evergreens, but interlaced boughs form a cultivated net for the Centaurians to truly evolve. <<We're going to drive upstate this autumn. Get a cabin, enjoy the leaves, wear sweaters. Your greatest concern will be when to dine and when to nap. I positively insist.>> There are whole buildings up in their long arms. The mottled colours and deposits of the Fountains of Gylash resemble a sunset, spilling in tongues that lap against the trees. Water splashes around freely, hissing and steaming, not much of it scalding hot. And there, blue-skinned people held aloft on the minutes-long bursts are all arms akimbo, whistling and trilling, caught in the fun. Younger aliens remain around the paint-pot pools, carefully managed on a boardwalk of sorts, but the sundae-like spots tumble over a wide distance.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Did we not once attempt to visit a cabin in the woods?>> Blackagar reminds her gently, the incident a cross of issues. The flash in his mind, raw and powerful but then followed with the onset of the disease which struck him wild and lost. The fever that had taken him to an asteroid for safety. <> How likely is it that he would become reinfected?

<<The truth, is I think we would, perhaps, both grow bored were we to live lives such as that. You need to explore and discover dearest, and as much as I lament the fact... I fear so do I. Even now, walking here? I look at people and wonder about them, but more wonder how they are kept after. Are they fed? Are they safe? Do they have what they need?>> He would sigh if he could, his eyes falling on some of the children playing happily, <<A happy child is a good sign for any society. It is actually one of the things I look for. Are the children cared for, do they seem happy.>> That brings his gaze back to her, that hand tightening. Nothing said directly but somehow there is an impression placed into the touch. <<At least they do not look at us as if we are truly strange.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
The Valkyrie pauses for a moment on that front, hand to the trunk of a swaying giant rooted deep in weird soils. The whole tree shakes, uttering lonely murmurs and slow, stiff cracks from rough boughs that rub against one another in weblike refrains. <<You can pitch a tent. For certes, that would avoid tangling your lines of fate.>> A grin flashes bright for an instant before trailing back into security as Blackagar goes on.

Too familiar; that, in some fraction. The truth drilled into her gaze warrants looking over the winding queues waiting for their turn to play in the warm water. Rainbows score the floating minerals as the ground shivers, and another upwelling blasts the blue-skinned aliens again airborne. Violet light drowns her eyes, an infinitely vast awareness settling in for a brief glimpse between the veils. <<The children of their society prosper. None of them as I perceive fear the call of their gods soon. Some, of course, the hallmarks of illness and creeping ailments lie on them. Such concerns are harboured in the heart of a good man.>> Blinking away the overglow takes moments, diminishing her a fraction. Such she puts her palm to his chest again and her brow to Blackagar's. <<That's true almost anywhere I walk. What sort of lives do they lead, how do they think? Are they content or are they driven to concern by external and internal sources? Wherever goes your ship, and your thoughts turned to those cares, I will follow you.>> Her thumb strokes his knuckles. <<Oh yes, we're not one bit odd to them other than looking bleached. Come, let's go get tossed to the horizon.>>

12625/The Empire of the Centaurian Suns

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