13740/One of Twelve

One of Twelve
Date of Scene:	04 January 2023
Location:	Attilan: Human Quarter
Synopsis:	Ooh, whatever will the present be?
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon

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Jane Foster has posed:
What do you get for a monarch of a hidden people who invented 3D printing centuries ago and relocated an entire small civilization to the Moon before humanity's second great war?

Socks just aren't going to cut it. At least not only socks. Stockings hung by the fireplace with care include Lockjaw, Jane, Mr. Horse, and for Blackagar himself. Though it may not be a fireplace, really. Sneaking in said stockings and gifts under the watchful eyes of said king's many loyal defenders takes coordination with the great pup himself, whispering intentions to Lockjaw if and when he can be caught on the run.

All in good fun. Though don't ask how a happy little Christmas tree found its way up, or several wrapped gifts either.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
To be fair, Attilan has for a long time celebrated a winter solstice styled event, enough to give the people something to look forward to at that time of year, an Earthly tradition that has been adopted even if it holds a few different variations. Despite the temptation to declare it festivus, to get out an aluminum pole and air grievances, it has remained simply a 'Northern Winter Celebration' time. Not everyone celebrates.

Normally Blackagar didn't either.

But now? Well, he finds that some of these gatherings and celebrations are not about the event themselves but rather the time spent with those surrounding them. Although the tree was a bit much, fortunately no one frequents the royal quarters to notice those ins and outs. Even those that would notice do not comment.

His own presents, intended for others have been deposited under said tree, wrapped in great adornment by someone not himself, the amused expression hinting at anticipation of their unveiling.

Jane Foster has posed:
Festivus requires a good deal of dancing. Does anyone want to inspire Maximus to play the Lord of Misrule? Whether Attilan in its highly delineated society even /has/ such traditions begs to be explored, but pushing the envelope in a city that currently holds her body might go too far. Mostly too far.

"What's happening out there?" warrants a murmured question while she lingers at a distance from any window. Her phone survived the perils of teleportation or mundane transportation a la Air Blackagar, and soft jazz music plays on Christmas classics. Absolutely no Mariah Carey enters the repertoire; she's saving that for a defense against any treacherous psychic arts. With that said, she turns back to him, and breaks into a wider smile. "Happy shortest day of the terrestrial year to you. A delightful show of seasonal festivities awaits." Her arms spread to her sides, gesturing.

Besides, the tree isn't /that/ big. Hardly some enormous Norway pine spangled in 3 miles of Christmas lights and a half-ton Swarovski crystal star. It's even potted, given how precious actual plants must be in an otherwise barren environment outside Attilan's walls.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<It is a seasonal event, some celebrate; particularly those that have lived for a period of time on Earth. They have an attachment to the holiday and have brought it back with them. Some find it a bit of an attachment to things that should be let go, but if it brings joy without price, then it is well.>> Which may describe Blackagar's own approach to the holiday himself. A bit more than tolerance now that it involves individuals.

Stepping towards her, when gestured as such, he crosses the distance and sets his glass down which within was simply water having been sipped. A distaste for eggnog repeatedly stated.

<<You know it becomes a struggle finding appropriate gifts for you on such days, don't you?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<The Moon has seasons too, if less marked or pronounced. You're tidally locked to the Earth out there, so the scientific basis for these celebrations is reasonable.>> Another helpful pillar to build a grounding of tolerance upon should matters ever come to that. The lighthearted quality of her thoughts holds a frisson of anticipation, the bronze sparks of mild anxiety ever concealed on that riding wave.

His statement naturally goes right to the heart of the matter, and her smile wobbles brighter for Blackagar. <<You realize I would scour the city top to bottom and not find anything appropriate? It's one thing to gift you with a few good chocolates from the shop we tried in Italy.>>

Jane glides forward and takes his hands in hers, fingers brushing across his knuckles. <<It's perfectly all right to just wrap an empty box in paper you thought was funny.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Hmm, is that a reference to the fortune cookie I had? What did it state? What is hidden inside of an empty box?>> Blackagar asks it with amusement still present, tilting his head some at that memory. His hands in hers, he squeezes back gently the lingering anxiety noticed. The high tensions that have existed with events peculating on Earth have not eased, although the celebrations taking place for the season certainly assist with attempting to prune back the concerns.

<<It is different as well though, to find considerate gifts for you is important to me. Things that reflect importance, intent, and that can be significant to us. What do I get for the woman who asks for little in terms of gifts?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane pauses for a moment, contemplating the riddle. Her eyes brighten, the sepia irises flashing brightly. <<The future.>> Her fingertips curl around Blackagar's hand, steady and ever unchanged, no matter how rigors of living ought to impress themselves. No papercuts, no hangnails.

He presents a more difficult conundrum, one familiar and comfortably worn. <<Did we not go over this at your birthday, and previously mine? The necklace showed the depth of your consideration and reflection.>> And something that managed to evade Malekith's constant meddling, thankfully. <<You set a high bar.>> Her smile warms, heated by the amber bright glow of firelight rather than incendiary matters. <<I don't have twelve gifts for you in the tradition of the holiday, but a few you might find meaningful. And all I really want is your company.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Well, my company you can have in abundance without need of special occasion. Of course, gifts I suppose are much the same way.>> The necklace had been a good gift, it was difficult to top it in many regards; although topping it truly isn't the goal or intent. <<But between our apartment, the villa, here, we have all the spaces in the world to spend together. All the reasons to. The time is what it is, available when duty allows. So while it is the best gift, it is also one that I think I should supplement.>>

His eyes drift then, towards the boxes under the small tree, one of which is clearly for her from the fact he looked at her when placing it there.

Jane Foster has posed:
One can only provide their terrigen crystals so often. <<These spaces are a gift unto themselves. You and I leave a mutual stamp on them, and doesn't that feel wonderful to return to?>> The gentle tracery of her thumb skates across the back of his hand, surmounting the rounded ridges of his knuckles and dipping into the web of his thumb. A ticklish place for some, light and fleeting as the caress is. <<Far be it from me to tell you where you spread your largesse. Only that you know it isn't necessary and it never has been. Exploring islands and watching those cooking shows notwithstanding.>>

Her gaze flickers away and she nods at the tree, disregarding the oblong box spangled in a foiled paper and heading for that indicated smaller box. She fishes about for a rectangular one, soft-sided in the way of cardboard, and holds it out. <<Grani insisted on the larger one. He convinced someone else to wrap it.>> The lack of thumbs makes that a challenge for a car-sized Vanir pegasus, after all.