13946/Talking to the Moon

Talking to the Moon
Date of Scene:	23 January 2023
Location:	Attilan: Human Quarter
Synopsis:	Shopping on the Moon?
Cast of Characters:	Blackagar Boltagon, Jane Foster

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Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Venturing out into the market area for shopping had become a much more common occurance, even for the humans (or non-inhumans) which came to Attilan. In the months since introducing the human quarter, there had been the more frequent visitor which after the initial push back was beginning to become a bit more accepted, even with tensions simmering underneath. Now, today was another example of forward progress with a visit to the market area to look over some wares and to acquire a few items as gifts for those back on Earth.

The walking was done casually, Blackagar with his normal stoic presence and small smile perking the corner of his lip as he gestured with his hands to conceal the full telepathic communication; best to let those who were watching believe it was not present. ~Many of the goods here are of course hand made, traditional items that have been constructed for thousands of years.~

Jane Foster has posed:
How often do humans walk the lofty streets of the Inhuman citadel? Jane has no idea, though the actual number of unempowered homo sapiens treading the Moon cannot be substantial. That number might bump up by two or three when the Justice League's Watchtower passes by in orbit, a metallic speck against the infinite void.

An unmodified Inhuman doesn't look much different from the brunette, who dismisses her usual jeans or sweaters of winter for something more comfortable and easily laundered. A more traditional Attilanese slitted robe and tunic ensemble could be a bit Morticia Adams except for the shimmery material, watered aquamarine and black. Hidden under her sleeve is a vial of seawater, a scarcity on the Moon, sealed and completely unremarkable. Something to be slipped to the scientific institute to examine for unusual abilities; something about 'free-floating biological or mineral compounds that transform cells.' Its origins from a South Pacific cave held sacred to Tahitians are Blackagar's to share with his subjects or not. But a good deed done is still a good deed!

~I fully appreciate the skill that professional-level craftsmanship takes, much less mastery.~ Her hands move too smoothly to deny fluency, the faint psychic alertness around her prickled for trouble. Trouble with a malevolent grin, since /his/ influence could just about be fatal if he wanted it to be. How hard it is not to keep sneaking looks at Blackagar smiling. It's an intoxicating lure to her, like corgis are to British royals. ~How do they produce the raw organic textiles? Can they grow them here in greenhouses, or is there a secret trade no one's talking about?~

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~A combination of both. Some are grown here in the agridomes, others are brought back from Earth during travels there. Excursions to Earth are not as uncommon as sometimes we let outsiders believe, I'm sure you've figured that out. But we do not broadcast our presence. It used to be, that people would bring goods to Afterlife and then we would transport them here from there. But since it's fall, we have taken to having a few trading outposts around the world to help facilitate.~

The brown haired woman is given a brief glance, humor in his expression as he continues to sign, ~And then you have things like that.~ He nods towards a nearby clothing stall, upon which is a lot of customary Attilan attire and then a singular t-shirt with 'GAP' on the front of it. ~The older among us worry about the influence of Earth on the youth, but I believe that is a quite normal struggle. The xenophobia does go both ways.~

Jane Foster has posed:
~Would you restore Afterlife? Now that Daisy and her sister are present.~ Smooth gestures need a little work to find the proper phrasing for Daisy, given the flower's distinctions aren't immediate, but the telepathic imagery remains hazy if clear. Jane's alert state may be a byproduct of hunting monsters. Ten-headed ones or Lovecraftian ones banished to exile, and then returned. Exciting times! ~Discreet trade or sharing the spoils of ships cast on your shore is a timely tradition. No one has a leg to stand on if they disagree.~

The GAP t-shirt earns a mild reproving chuckle. She makes very little sound up here, probably out of deference to expectations, and because presumably practicing Royal Attilan Sign is more important. ~Better than the most expensive labels. Though a good deal on a McQueen, all bets are off.~ McQueen comes out 'Son of Queen.' Someone could -really- take that wrong way and stare, gawping, at the Midnight King. Her smile lifts. ~Could you fault me? And yes, xenophobia does. The young resist or resent tradition. The old try to pass down the hard-earned wisdom for why it's done a given way. Struggles we will face often and adapt to. We've got centuries.~

How ironic, to be heard from the Reaper.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~I do not know,~ Blackagar considers as they stroll through, ~I believe reestablishing Afterlife is more of a decision of those who exist on Earth. If they wish some form of settlement, of home. They will always be a target there, much as even here, we are a target in a different way. But that being said, something will need to be done as other inhumans are there to be found.~

Not to mention the galactic ones, which will be a different issue all together.

~Son of Queen~? he asks back with his hands, looking slightly surprised at the gesture, having misinterpreted the hand movements but picking them up in the mind instead.

Jane Foster has posed:
~Yes. The designer. Unless /you/ make dresses.~ God help them if anyone is spying on this. ~The dress in question looks like something out of an Indian fairy tale, the elaborate ruby crystal embellishments radiating along the bodice forming a series of dagger-points over the full white skirt, capped in a rather dazzling red shrug that probably looks more like savage rose blossoms. A hint of longing, underpinned by the unspoken thread of amusement: <<I've wanted that since it came out in 2008. One of the prettiest dresses ever made. If you think I could afford to buy that in 2008, or frankly now, I admire your faith in me.>>

They've already crossed paths if briefly with the other Inhumans on a certain planet in the Centaurian system, and far be it from him to deprived of his kith and kin. She pauses for a moment, nodding solemnly. ~The decision is not undertaken lightly. A just proposition to allow them to choose.~

Her gaze lifts away from his surprised face, not deliberately forcing Blackagar to wait. She's searching for a particular stall or shop, not finding it immediately. ~Do you know someone who can set a metallic liquid?~ The flick of her fingers pauses, and if she could laugh with a twitch of her wrist, she would.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<If you think I can't afford it, then you should have more faith in me.>> his thought counters towards her, a bit of playful gleam in his eyes. <<I still believe you sometimes forget that you have but ask, or even hint, at such things and it will be so.>> They have an island villa after all, a dress for it would be appropriate.

~Yes, letting them choose is the key. I struggle. I wish to provide them guidance, but do not wish to impose it upon them either. Much like a father, waiting for the prodigal child to ask for some advice.~

He blinks, uncertain for a moment, ~A metallic liquid?~

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Blackagar, if you take this as a veiled request...>> Serious in tone, her dark eyes mirror the concern for a moment as a line appears between her brow. <<It's not. Even if for some reason Anna Wintour wants me on the committee for the Met Gala again. Should I convince them to set the theme to 'Mysterious Space Monarchs?'>> That sharp change of subject is her measure of a riposte to pick up on the Inhuman's humour, affection blossoming faster than wildflowers after a soft rainfall. <<You must have some tailor here who can take inspiration? Is it appropriate to pay them for their custom?>>

If she can't have an authentic McQueen, she can provide a compromise and salivate over the dress in the Metropolitan Museum of Art later.

The words fade softly as he expresses his concerns, and she brushes her sleeve to his. Holding hands or wrapping an arm around his in public, that's an unclear privilege, one left with an open question. ~That mindset makes you well-suited to be one. Both leader and parent. Save the times to impose yourself when it matters most, and they could be harmed otherwise. Right?~

The softest of pauses lingers, and she constructs the reply to his confusion carefully. ~Yes. Part of a belated present. It took me a few tries to transport the raw materials effectively, considering I had to simulate the planetary or atmospheric conditions. Maintaining a liquid metallic form was the safest option with the least radioactivity.~ Her smile lifts up a tick. ~A certain planet you bestowed with your presence. Remember? I brought back a bit.~

As much as what was left, anyway.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The confusion grows a bit, a planet with his presence? Liquid metal? She knows how to play the mystery and surprise him so well and it shows on his expression. Curiousity and appreciation intermixed. ~Now you're going to have to give me all the details so that I can make sure your outcome is what you wish. But yes, I'm fairly certain there are metallurgists here that could complete some form of task with liquid metal.~

He turns to glance around them then shake his head once more, ~As for the other request, well. We shall have to see what I can imagine.~ Tantalizing images flash through his mind, various dresses of glamour and degrees of reveal that poof as soon as they appear.

Jane Foster has posed:
~I shall. The schema are all clearly outlined though it requires pressurized containment to stay in its general form. Much easier to have a magic sack to throw these things in, but then you couldn't wear it.~ She breaks into a smile, and then nods to the marketplace, still getting used to the longer, flowing sleeves covering her hands. Rather swishy, at that.

<<What ever have I done to you? Transformed the dreamer king into a poet in silks and organzas.>> Approval dances around the mental laugh, and she bites her lip to stop a soft smile from deepening into something too warm for the marketplace. Eyes everywhere; one must be on their best behaviour.

If she wasn't blushing. Which she is.

~You know you're hard to spoil.~

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~I am hard to spoil?~ Blackagar asks back, tilting his head. ~I disagree, I am very easy to spoil.~ Humored glint in his eyes remains before he nods towards the street. ~Come, I can show you to a few of the metallurgists who do work in the area. It is a short walk.~

Best behavior is always maintained, especially in public venues and while pushing the acceptable norms of those around and the 'old guard'. Those eyes that follow and watch, weigh, consider. Many are accepting, a few are curious, others still though seem to be malevolent.

Jane Foster has posed:
~Utterly. Completely. The most intractable and difficult of cases, a perplexing mystery that even the wisest advisors with the lengthiest experience anticipating and interpreting the needs of their leaders quake at.~ Jane's gestures articulate a lively bounce to her thoughts, the enthusiasm brimming in the expressive emphasis not requiring a sound to be made to convey. Of course, he's got her laughter in his mind across the bond they share, so it's not as if Blackagar has to guess. ~I am reduced to inquiring of your faithful hound what spots you linger upon, staring longingly upon something that you would never buy for yourself for whatever reasons. That it's a frippery and beneath you. And that is how you shall end up with a fondue set or a full set of crystal decanter and whiskey glasses.~ Or whatever passes for whiskey up here. ~Moonshine to the fullest? Only the best for you, my love.~

Her inability to laugh aloud is not limited by the warmth in her eyes or the occasional smile to be interpreted as delighted by beautiful things. Like a pillar used to tell time in scintillating shades of colour coursing along its length or the wafting scent of something delicious. Never mind she's currently carrying a vial impregnated possibly by some very interesting biochemical compound; and a bit of a distant planet's surface and atmosphere. Because one does as they can. Malevolent thoughts wend to her sharp guard, though not enough to stifle her enjoyment of being out and about.

Besides, anyone fool enough to try and upbraid a member of the House of Boltagon has to deal with an unrelenting watcher with floppy ears, right?

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
It's wine, cultivated from space grapes. Why not, might as well make that a thing. ~The zero gravity of the vineyards beyond the dome really creates an interesting flavor. Then it is fermented to a high degree, after all Inhuman physiology.~ Inhuman Wine, Space Grapes, the potency of Vodka. Why not.

Even his own awareness of the gazes is present, but does not keep him from focusing primarily on the walk and the stalls they pass along the way. A pause is taken to give offer to examine some fabrics and clothing choices that are visible while a quick glance is spared for someone nearby, wary. Then dismissed. None would be so foolish; although it would not be the first time.

His hands move, humored as he does so, ~I will have to speak with Lockjaw about doing better regarding secrets I take it.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Space wine, of course. ~Fortunate that you're so fortified. I ought to challenge you at least once to drinking you under the table.~ Perfectly innocent and mildly delighted, the brunette tilts her head to Blackagar in an open invitation.

Jane bears the scrutiny less perfectly than he, but it's been a long dance between them spanning more than a year, and before that, she already dealt with Aesir expectations of 'that mortal.' Breaking glass ceilings carries an expectation of raising her chin and carrying on in perfect decorum. Women don't get to be cold or effusive without penalty. Hardly an issue to offer an admiring look, an approving nod, a curious inquiry as they move between the stalls. To glance at a selection of jewelry, to admire various devices for sale. Not that Earth currencies mean much here other than for their metal content. ~Imagine what might happen if somehow a large quantity of driftwood ended up transported here.~ An idle consideration; trees for distant shores. Or mischief at hand. ~Lockjaw is good about his secrets. I'm a quick study, though.~