13111/Lo! The Trickster and the Judge

Lo! The Trickster and the Judge
Date of Scene:	18 October 2022
Location:	Palace - Asgard
Synopsis:	There's plenty to be said between the Trickster and the psychopomp, and plenty of dancing around.
Cast of Characters:	Loki, Jane Foster
Tinyplot:	Resonants

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Loki has posed:
The current steward, Aldoranah, of royal affairs at the Embassy of Asgard is very personable and easy to make requests from. She is able to meet with Jane Foster, understand her wish, and send the message upwards with efficiency, and without any blocks in Jane's path.

Jane does need to wait briefly at the Embassy, but the time itself is short, before Aldoranah returns to speak to Jane. "Prince Regent Loki is ready for you now," she supplies - giving Jane a very clear term on how to refer to Loki - and she then is officially whisked up to Asgard itself.

Jane Foster has posed:
Making a show of dressing the part is probably suitable; Jane wears black, the lone relief a thin chain at her throat. For someone who is perpetually in fine health, the extremely wan state of her skin, bruises under her eyes, and occasional bruise visible under her sleeves could be peculiar. Still, she is alert enough to offer Aldoranah her thanks.

The world turns, an experience corrupted by the last forcible shift between dimensions. When it all comes back together, her dark eyes are tight at the corners, their depths too full of shadows. The golden realm rolls out before her and she steps away, glancing discreetly to the side to check for immediate changes or risks. A touch paranoid, as she rides the bleeding edge of wakefulness. Then for the prince regent; a title that settles easier on the tongue than some.

Loki has posed:
Yes, that title being chosen (instead of OTHER options! has kept things from going to an extreme level of tension. Some wisdom fell into place, perhaps -- or something else happened. None of those answers are immediate, though Jane is headed towards the source, should she want to learn more.

Jane is escorted by a palace guard - she is not left to roam on her own, and taken to the palace itself. She is not, though, taken to the throne room, but to a garden off of one side of one of the other wings to the palace. The guard silently expresses that this is the place with a smile and curt hand motion, before moving off to a distance to return to her post.

Shortly afterward, Loki makes his appearance. He's tidy and clean, and dressed more in Asgardian colors than his own specifically, though there is green to the tunic. He looks stretched, like he's pushed sleep off, with a tightness there: but Loki is an actor above many others, so the severity is not fully on show. "I'm hoping you're here with information," Loki says smoothly, on approach. He's too tired to be super aggressive about it.

Jane Foster has posed:
The gardens hold her attention for a brief moment, something differing from the great golden halls and the vast assembly spaces where warriors and the feats of Asgard are laid out, often in illustrious detail. She halts where she is put, scaling a fingertip across one of the green leaves that cares naught that Midgard's season falls to the harvest and the reaping. The guard has nothing to fear from her; she stays very much where put, until given reason not to. At the moment, no reason presents itself. "Thank you."

Her head tilts down, face in shadow, as she traces the lifelines of the plant that convert sunshine into oxygen. A simple matter when she lifts her gaze at Loki's arrival, maybe a moment or two delayed. She dips her head in a nod, not bending much further, but already drawn into the protective cocoon to weather the storm as best she can. "Hello as well, Your Highness." The quality of someone who hasn't spoken in quite some time rests with the soft timbre governing her voice, or it may well be grief closing it up. "May I ask how your lady mother fares? And yourself?"

Her fingers lace together, holding firm against other volition orbiting around her. "I bring a process of elimination. I find it doubtful he is on Earth at all unless hiding or comatose. Delicate inquiries are underway to determine any sightings. If it were merely an issue of the Black Bifrost," a term spat out with contempt, "then I would steer you to Doctor Strange. His experience with it exceeds our own. If there are sightings among the Shi'ar or those they trade with, we'll hear soon enough. Otherwise, I plan to walk where you probably shouldn't."

Loki has posed:
There's a reaction along the edges of Loki's eyes as she calls him 'Your Highness', but there isn't indication of if it's a positive or negative response - just that there IS a reaction. He measures the tone of her voice, but any judgements aren't brought onto the surface. Loki is an indirect actor, the opposite of his brother Thor, in his finesse with situations.

Still, exhaustion and overuse will dull even a sharp knife. "My mother is tending to the king," Loki answers, "and is showing a resolve and strength all can admire." But she's also out of direct view, to give her time to feel the loss of Thor. Loki hasn't had that reprieve, but did give that to his mother. He doesn't answer her question about how he's doing directly, but does say, "I'm handling the rest."

When Jane goes through her information, he's listening with a clear, direct look: high focus. It's normally not a safe look, but with context of what is happening, probably not as bad as otherwise. "No, I am... required to be here. Asgard's enemies are looking at her now, as much as I might prefer to go hunting."

Jane Foster has posed:
Rank is a matter of painstaking familiarity where Jane is involved, though she's loathe to ever admit having a working summary of ranks, titles, address, in written and verbal summaries. Sometimes none of that matters at all, and her soul-deep weariness -- and wariness -- simply won't accommodate beating about the bushes as delicately as one normally might. They both have their cutting edges diminished.

"My thoughts go to her and may she find respite in such a time. She has ever been a beacon." The words are imperfect but satisfactory enough, gently rendered with an unalloyed honesty. "They might slaver at the bit, but the frayed leash still checks them. You won't have long of a reprieve, I suspect. In the meantime we can make the most of the time. What do you need done?"

High focus is risk enough, but then they are past such niceties and innocent lies shrouding truths that burn, seethe, and cut viciously. "I plan to take the Helheim Road and seek out the Enchantress. Neither have made any secret what a prize they consider him," names not given, names hold power, "and would not profess secrecy. I cannot promise immediate answers, but one owes me a debt I do not hesitate to call in on this matter."

Loki has posed:
"Odin, before entering his coma, opened the vault to my access," Loki says, calmly, smoothly. He lets that one settle in, with all that could entail, before continuing. "Kind of him to think of it before going unconscious, as his clear wish for me to step forward is apparent to all." It helped immensely, in terms of Odin's directive that Loki should pick up the pieces now.

"Should leverage be needed, the threat of my access - and willingness to test things - may be enough, in addition to what potency Asgard still wields right now, to push your crusade for answers. If anything blocks you, do reach out."

"Otherwise, Lady Sif has a ring that may lead to more answers. It has markings of Alfheim - Sif believes it's connected to this. Queen Aesir could give more answers, as might Zatanna Zatara. If all of you speak, the pieces could form more of a picture." Loki doesn't usually give away information - so he's overloaded. This just means he's delegating out of necessity.

Jane Foster has posed:
The slight tilt of her head marks Jane taking in the knowledge. Weary or not, she hasn't lost most of her mental alacrity. Much, but not all. The slightest tightening between her brows is enough to measure that choice morsel Loki provides, but she only nods to Odin's decision. "He did not lack foresight." He lacks many things, but an eye is a tithe to a deeper well of wisdom.

"I will." Her thumb runs over a bruise and a deeper scratch left in its wake, measuring the length of the gouge not fully healed over. "Lady Sif came straightaway. I surmise with purpose that drives her now. I shall seek her out then. Do you have any means you wish to have news conveyed, if such is inefficient?" Her hand falls away, drawing a slight circle. All about her posture is tired, tight, pulled as sharp as a golden wire. Look hard enough and the dimmest of presences marks that dull armband currently anchored above her elbow rather than at her wrist, a most boring presence. Utterly dull. Forgettable. Ancient and furious, under all that.

"I'm going to be dreadfully irresponsible, a mortal foible. I have no doubt this would raise eyebrows and the occasional disparaging comment to the state of my well-being or soundness of mind. I accept such will be levied, but between us, perhaps something else can be understood. You know well the perils in the world. Malekith has weaknesses. If this comes back to him, through that ring, making a proxy of Alfheim, or other perfidity, then doubtless he needs to be cast onto his face. As a start. I'll be altogether happy to see the responsible party brought down a few notches."

Loki has posed:
Loki considers her second request. It takes more than the usual instant it might otherwise have taken. "Yes, I'm going to provide you a memory recorder. I will be able to scry into it - so you may use it to make notes or to leave questions for me. I can review it from afar, though I do not intend to watch it all the time - so it is not for urgent communication." Loki seems to pause, to go internal as he considers the spell he wants to use.

Instead of making a new one, though, he draws one he'd made a long time ago through into his hand, a splash of easier magic in a magenta and blue spiral that turns into a flat, golden carved half-disc, a blue crystal-like form in the upper part of the disc's crest. "I don't have time to craft a new one. Overwrite the visuals of crystal cultivation on it as you like," Loki says, offering it over, then, in two fingers.

Jane Foster has posed:
She takes the device carefully, gingerly even. Her hands are a touch stiff but functional, most of the damage encountered from their little foray into Malekith's realm less to her extremities. Jane nods quietly and folds her hands over the recorder, rather than immediately consigning it to a pocket.

"Thank you. I will use it accordingly." The weight remains pressed into her palms, sketching a lifeline that wouldn't tell truth by palmistry or to a surgeon. "I don't believe he is deceased, if it matters any. I did not see the signs of it. The magic may have foiled me, but I'm not sure why it would be specifically attuned to veil that in particular. If that is any consolation, that much I can give you."

Loki has posed:
Loki observes Jane's struggle with her hand, takes in a little more of her appearance in a more aware way. He was just ignoring a lot of it just in 'eh, damaged human, whatever'. But he makes a quick choice.

Maybe it's a weird empathy finally waking up, from someone exhausted. OR -- She may as well not be entirely miserable doing errands that Loki wants answers to... With that, Loki frowns slightly, then casts again. A rippling golden magic this time, strange flutters, organic roots in shapes of shimmering mist. He steps towards her some, and flicks the roots across. They fade in, a somewhat uncomfortable but very effective healing spell, a tonic to bruise and rebuild.

"Don't tell anyone I know healing magic, please," Loki snickers: some of that more usual personality back up in front that Jane's used to seeing. That surly prince. As if it could offbalance the healing to be less important....

Loki //never// heals anyone. That he knows healing at all is odd!

But then the meeting is ending. A guard is signalling. So, to Jane: "Use the disc. I'll summon you if I have questions," Loki says, in a tone of clear goodbye.

Jane Foster has posed:
Laws of reality start to bleed on the outer fringe where magic and high science collide. A woman hauled out from the Underworld would normally be a ghost. What mortal weapon, even wielded by a wild-eyed elf or grumpy giant, could feasibly inflict damage if just run of the mill metal? Even in Asgard, she's an outlier to the norm. Einherjar live embodied and die by the day, but they're not outside the mortal coil. Ah, rule-breakers, always causing trouble.

Healing her, then, is no exercise in patching cuts or siphoning away blood from bruised flesh because her blood isn't blood and the flesh is the essence of the self. Everything that personifies Jane Foster he's looking at, and thus the source for the injuries is equally their resolution; sustai nthe torn memories, the battered emotions, and fill in the cracks of an immense psychic dislocation. Look close enough and that Astral tether is shattered and patched over by filaments of blue-white lightning and now gold threads of a sort.

"And have them all breaking down your door for reasons other than wicked diversions? Perish the thought. I wouldn't dare that line growing any longer." His snicker is met by her lift of a smirk, almost that, as she takes her step away. The goodbye, then.

A thread of silver widens into a leaf shaped portal large enough to drive a small tank through. Lest there be any doubt of its origins, the faintest pathway of starlight emanates from a lot of books. A lot, and a rather suspiciously large bowl of whiskey. It's the good stuff, expensive.

A large white horse wanders through without a by your leave, Sleipnir's son sighing. "Goodness me, did you get lost again? Dangerous things happen in Asgardian gardens. Frolicking. Come!" He could be calling to Loki, but it's not quite so as he nods, an eye fixed on the prince regent. How very telling that he opts to ruffle a wing to corral Jane towards his side and a ride on the alternate rainbow express back to Midgard. "One of those ponies would /encourage/ reckless behaviour and 'tis a licentious bunch, them. Mustn't let you end up sleeping it off in a field or under a trestle. Nay, I shall be the responsible one..."

And so it goes as she touches her fingers to her lips and off to the air, a farewell without farewell.