14539/Ex Umbra: The Eyes of Truth

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Ex Umbra: The Eyes of Truth
Date of Scene: 28 March 2023
Location: Brooklyn Botanical Gardens
Synopsis: Persephone summons two of her petitioners and invokes an old promise from Stephen Strange. Then she warns Zatanna.
Cast of Characters: Jane Foster, Zatanna Zatara, Stephen Strange




Jane Foster has posed:
Brooklyn Botanic Gardens
Despite its reputation as an urban jungle, Brooklyn boasts a lush green oasis behind the traffic-clogged freeways and brick walkups. The Brooklyn Botanic Garden sprawls across 52 acres of unsurpassed natural beauty, encompassing a collection of more than 18,000 plant species. A long, roughly triangular wedge bounded between Flatbush and Washington Avenues encompasses roughly three primary hubs.

The Japanese Hill and Pond Garden, one of the first such gardens in the US, features over 200 cherry trees that explode into dreamy cotton candy clouds in the spring. The stately trees flank the Cherry Esplanade, a long path flanked in comfortable seating and meandering trails to invite guests to lose themselves in the modern stroll-gardens. Three acres unit a stark vermillion torii gate standing proudly over looking-glass ponds sculpted into the Japanese kanji for heart. Artificial creeks and islands sweep past the weeping Japanese maples and peonies, the walking paths offering stunning views of carefully placed footbridges, boulders, and plethora of camellias and azaleas.

The creek weaves out through the conifer collection, a stand of cedars, pines and even a giant sequoia, a favourite of local birds. Its meanders cut through Bluebell Wood, famed for its 45,000 bluebells blooming under shady beech and birch trees in late spring. Further west lie a selection of specialty gardens, like the Children's Garden where young Brooklynites tend fruits, flowers, and vegetables in small plots and the water garden that brims with a kaleidoscope of lily pads, grasses, and koi fish.

The Steinhardt Conservatory provides a glasshouse environment for delicate bonsai and tropical plants under its stately wrought-iron and glass Victorian domes. Like a grand dame, the complex watches over the famed magnolia plaza and the rose garden that alone contains over a thousand kinds of roses. Events take place throughout the year, the lawns frequently hosting birdwatchers, moon-watching parties, tea ceremonies, and concerts, drawing in New Yorkers from far and wide.

Jane Foster has posed:
March tends to be unkind for gardens. Showy roses and wafting fields of wildflowers don't normally make their presence known til May. The Brooklyn Botanic Gardens might well be suffering a bit until the warmer days and larger crowds come to appreciate the exuberant displays that April showers deliver. The great flush of cherry blossoms in a month-long Hanami celebration won't be due for another few weeks yet, the event calendars already marked and tickets sold out well in advance.

A few guests savour the meditative vibe from the other side of the street, wandering along Washington Avenue. Inside the compound, the workers put finishing touches on strings of lights used to highlight the Cherry Esplanade with its two hundred some-odd sakura trees in dozens of different varietals. The wind is soft, the twilight lightly breezy, easing into the bruised violet of a welcome evening. Even there, the testing regimens run by someone in a tent set off spotlight flashes aimed at the trees to maximize the dramatic effect. Their spreading, bare boughs cut pale spectres against the deepening sky. Light Engineer #6, Roberto Lopez, yawns and properly checks his phone to see when his shift is finally up. His companion fiddles with the computer rig that will create a practically magical ambiance when the festival celebrating the Kanzan cherry blossoms takes hold.

That's about the time someone shouts, "Holy shit! Bert, Mark! What did you do?"
"This some Stark holographic crap?" another shouts.

Heads pop out from the tent. The engineer drops his phone, the video chat capturing the visage.

Butterflies swarm at the far end of the cherry walk. Roses, all 5,000 bushes or so, dance with swelling buds like pearls on the necks of Atlantean queens. Lazily spiralling petals float in lazy spirals like so much snow, were snow a soft petal pink of every little girl's dreams, or a white or cream splotched in purple. Peonies, months before their time, turn eager petals to cup the very last of the fading sunlight.

Two hundred trees, among them the famed Kanzan cherries, are in fullest flush. Green grass spreads in a tide to the pitted concrete of Flatbush and Washington Avenues, and even there, dandelions pop up.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
A violet line burns briefly at the end of an alley lined with nascent cherry blossoms. It widens enough for a figure to step out, a shadow in the burning trans-dimensional light that fades, leaving the mistress of enchantment gazing down the row of burgeoning trees in search of the magic welling up from the ground - a veritable fountain of magic, calling to her blood, undeniable in its power, yet its origin unknown. There is darkness in the spell, but she can sense the caster intends no evil.

Zatanna, mouth slightly open in wonder, cranes her head to look up into the marvel of blooms opening on the trees. She has visited Kyoto every year possible for hanami, taking a long walk around the lake reflecting Kenkakuji. But today, her quest is different.

Stephen Strange has posed:
No, Mark, it isn't some Stark holographic crap.

At least, not according to the leylines.

Normally, the sudden greening of a park weeks ahead of time is not something that normally garners Stephen Strange's attention. However, the influx of mystical energy, so close to home? That warrants attention.

Especially because it is in New York. It would have been virtually impossible to ignore.

The sorcerer's arrival is not heralded by trumpets or a vast display. No....simply a shower of sparks in a corner, and a casual step into the Gardens and Strange has made his arrival. Even his attire is casual, at least for sorcerer standards. Grey shirt, jeans, a jacket thrown over top. All terribly casual.

All the better to not scare the muggles.

Jane Foster has posed:
The few employees stand around gaping on the Cherry Esplanade to the immediate right of the garden entrance. Carhartt jackets and sensible coveralls being the height of the fashion, four of them argue quietly with one another until totally convinced to take it inside the white tent erected beside the large triple-domed Victorian conservatory.

Past that, the gates are locked, hardly a challenge for a wizard of even modest repute to overcome. High brick walls and occasionally barred ones of charming design enclose the botanic gardens, strung with a few cameras. Nonetheless, security for plants on the whole is much lower than the neighbouring zoo. No angry Groundskeeper Willy looks likely to round a corner and castigate Zatanna for staring or Strange for littering flammable sparks on the ground.

Cherry blossoms in the height of their maturity, short-lived though it is, add sprays of impossibly fluffy pink. Spotlights directed up into their unlikely crowns impart suffused radiance that simply doesn't belong. Stand too long in any one place and the plants nearby show signs of growth; berries pop, buds open, anthers stirred and petals spreading out in bolts of colour. Fresh green bottle-brush growth tips the conical evergreens. Leaves abound in eye-popping shades further along. The grass really is greener on the other side.

Rings of growth emanate out from somewhere in the garden, not its absolute heart, but certainly close enough to center to encompass the block.

If anyone bothers to check, the neighbouring slice of Prospect Park across the street is littered in trees with leaves. They aren't in leaf much anywhere else in New York. A bough laden in flowers flops down onto that sorcerer in a jacket, almost like a pat of twiggy fingers.

A dragonfly dares to pass Zatanna, zipping maniacally for one of the water features, as if someone rang the dinner bell and personally didn't tell him.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
A smile settles on Zatanna's face, inevitable in the face of iridescent dragonflies zipping about their business. Almost the sorceress can feel her hair growing longer in the maniac growth going on around them.

"Doctor," she calls as she rounds a tree to see him stepping out into the garden in a flurry of sparks, "you've felt it, too? It's like someone has bathed the place in an ent draught!"

Stephen Strange has posed:
"I did. Also, love the Tolkien reference."

Stephen tips a wink to Zatanna as he steps over to join her. "I felt it from the Sanctum. So, perhaps a slightly unfair advantage." Considering the whole reason why the Sanctum is there. Built on the very leyline that signaled the arrival of spring come early. "I was uncertain as to why, though. Hence the visit."

A glance is stolen back towards Zee. "I would ask how you are faring, but I have a feeling I may know." It is still rather recent...the battle that they both have fought and won, but not without hardships. At least Stephen has the common courtesy to not go any further.

Jane Foster has posed:
The same flowery branch bobs in the faintest breeze and smacks Strange on the back again, heavy with blossoms that flicker and wave. Twining vines threaded through the undergrowth slither aside. Maidenhead ferns spring from their delicate jade coils, spreading out feathery fronds to flank a meandering path that cuts under the tidy magnolias to a point that veers in the direction of the Japanese Hill-and-Pond Garden. Other than a few low creepers or spots of stray clover no one's ripped out yet, the path is rather bare.

Alas, trying to see the famed red torii gate or the classically laid out gardens may be difficult with a cherry tree casually shoving the Sorcerer Supreme.

Have no doubt, it thoroughly whisks him if he stands there longer than five minutes. He might even end up with a few flowers on his head.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"And we are two hobbits exploring the woods," she replies, her smile waning at his reference to recent events. A simple nod, acknowledges his words. The magic surging through the ley lines had erased the shadow siphoning the joy from her days, the constant awareness of how her magic had changed that day at the Starport.

A branch had brushed her jacket, as another smacks Strange, she chortles in surprise, "Do you think something wants our attention?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
The wayward branch is not lost to Stephen. The contact draws a quizzical expression, a raised eyebrow at the brushing. Or...more like light swatting. "Curiouser and curiouser. It does appear that perhaps we are in the presence of a rather hasty ent." Well, when in Middle-Earth, might as well lean into the subject material. "Though, I cannot imagine why."

Still, it does warrant attention. After all, it is why the sorcerer is present. On a whim, or a hypothesis, Stephen does remain standing there for the allotted five minutes. And earns himself a garnish of pink petals upon his brow as recompense. But....in the meantime, he does reach out with senses beyond the norm. Who, or what, is playing with the magic users?

Enquiring minds want to know...

Jane Foster has posed:
Zatanna manages to avoid the smack of the flowers, though the path waiting just over the fence is wide enough for her to comfortably stride across the carpet of woodchips, warm earth, and occasional petal knocked off a magnolia tree some distance away. Magic coils through the grounds of the garden, effervescent and mobile, convincing even the stubborn gorse bushes to pop into yellow flag flowers on long woody stems. Some distance on, thousands upon thousands of bluebells poke their indigo heads up above the meadowgrasses. A deep, stirring font of energy guides it all along, nothing so much as the king tide running naturally along the shore rather than a peculiar injection. It has no obvious source, being present and spreading wherever it likes through the botanic garden.

At least the enquiring mind in question possesses a measure of self-defense against staring straight into the sun. He has peered this way in the past, and the dull stains of that incursion rooted somewhere in the natural amphitheatre may stand out to Strange as a minor scar.

If he can even spot that around the enormous beacon of power belonging to a proper Principality, one of those beings that mystics petition and truly hope stays in a good mood. Above and beyond the Octessence, that aura carries a surprising youthfulness coiled around the beckoning plants and content trees.

Familiar. Last seen on a train car in a place most definitely not here. Her husband is known to be eternally patient, judge of his realm.

But what of the Maiden?

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Reaching up to pull down a bough of flowers to feather across her cheek, an idea blossoms in the sorceress. The source of joy, the sudden spring riding a current of magic, vital as life could be no other than the Goddess.

"Kore," she breaths, certain at who has woken the leyline under New York.

"Oh, I hoped. I even prayed and she has come. You know her, too." Her sense of wonder is so intense, that her throat constricts and tears spring to her eyes.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Yes. I do know her."

Strange remains honest and forthright. There really is no sense in denying what is blatantly before the two of them. The arrival of Spring early. Of course Stephen knows a perfectly good reason for it. And Zatanna only echoes what Stephen already suspected...

"It is a pleasure to see you, too, Lady Persephone."

Is the Sorcerer Supreme addressing the branch? Or perhaps the flowering bushes? Or is he just speaking to the air itself? Regardless, he continues..."I have not forgotten the promise made, to mend that which was rend asunder." This time, he pulls Zatanna into the conversation. "I do have a feeling that I am going to be traversing to the realms of the dead once more. The last time I was in Helheim, it was in a rather sorry state. Old breaks need to be set in order to heal. Maybe this is a reminder."

Far be it to second guess a deity. Although, this is Stephen. He tends to do so on a regular basis.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Would you prefer a quadriga pulled by a team of four?" The reply earned thus carries an element of girlish amusement that ripples through the voice of a laughing brook. Clearly she suffers no issues with projecting herself at a distance, though the speaker isn't in sight. She resides somewhere in that garden, luring dragonflies, one eager rabbit bounding across the lawn, and a confused mouse drowsily shuffling across the bare path and back into the undergrowth.

"You may have your pride. Shall we skip to the point where you come to me in the end? It's much faster, unless you both feel the need to admire from afar." The branch once again pat-swats Strange to get with the agenda. The statement is given in matter-of-fact expressivity rather than overweening demand, bolstered further by another ripple of momentum that sends wildflowers nodding in a heap of green grass at the foot of the Shakespearean Garden to the north.

The Destroyer of Light and the Maiden of Flowering Things may be espied only after bypassing the gate, busily running her fingers across the trunk of a gnarled old cherry going on its first century and some. Cracks in the silvery bark thicken, and blossoms swab her pinned hair as it decides to ornament her to its liking. Any random person walking by might catch a woman no more than twenty-three or four, wearing a white shirt and a high-waisted skirt, totally unconcerned about the dirt on her bare feet. Her manner is still composed, if not precisely stately, and never mind the emerald buttons on her skirt alone are worth more than the Smithsonian's gem collection.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
They both had voyaged to the Underworld. On the notes of a pipe played in a New York alley, Persephone lured Zatanna to the kingdom she rules by her husband's side for half the year. The homo magi had gone willingly, the Goddess often playful, seldom demanding, but her expectations were high. One can do nothing but their utmost.

Zatanna sees the Goddess bent lovingly over a tree needing care and goes to her. After performing a curtsey, none too elaborate, after all, the Goddess isn't wearing her most majestic aspect and frowns on solemn ceremony, especially in the spring.

"Thank you for your invitation. We have a boon to ask of you, Lady, and speaking for myself, offer you my service for it."

Stephen Strange has posed:
Indeed, both Zatanna and Stephen had voyaged to the Underworld. Stephen's journey might have been a little less willing, a little more round-about, but he too had sought the favor of the Queen of the Underworld and won it. Though his payment for that favor is still pending...and both he and the goddess know it.

Yet, it does not pay to keep Spring waiting, and Stephen gets the hint. Even with tree branches urging the sorcerer on with a bit of good-natured swatting and the flowers literally pointing the way.

The path is short, with the two joining the goddess rather shortly. There is no complaint, though Stephen is certainly cautious. There *is* a goddess in the middle of the botanical gardens. This isn't just some minor incursion. And she is there *expecting* both Zatanna and Strange. Mama Strange didn't raise a fool. Persephone wants them to do something.

Stephen does offer a bow to the seemingly young woman by the cherry tree. Just a simple nod. Nothing too extravagant. And, when Zatanna speaks, Strange remains silent. He most certainly does not say anything about a boon. Still, he remains cordial and speaks after Zee finishes.

"I did enjoy the touch with the tree branch. Though, really, you could have just said to come over." Ah, yes, there is that sharp tongue of Stephen's. Though he does follow it up with an appropriate address for one of Persephone's station. "It is truly an honour to be in your presence, my Lady."

What goes unspoken is the question that is still upon his mind. The question that he does not need to ask, for anyone would be able to guess it, being the most logical follow-up when speaking to a goddess. The question of 'what is it that brings you here?' Followed shortly by 'How may I be of service?'

For the Queen of the Underworld just doesn't make impromptu visits without a reason....or so thinks Strange.

Jane Foster has posed:
Blowsy daffodils droop among the rows of variegated tulips, blooms pointed and painted streaked, others ruffled in shades of violet, vermilion, and cream. The bulbs thrusting their stalks heavenward form an honour guard of sorts for Persephone, who promptly reclines against the tree that dutifully awaited her healing touch. She slides down the broad trunk, her skirt tucked to her calves, less kneeling and more asserting a comfortable position in the grass.

"I shall be glad for the company. Otherwise, how peculiar to be dressed up with nowhere to go." The loose curls dusting her neck slip to the side as she angles her head slightly. Those kohl-rimmed green eyes, more vibrant than any leaves, settle briefly upon Zatanna. "What would you ask of me?"

Stephen's observations may be determined as very clearly real as soon as he and Zatanna take the path.

A ring of peculiar grey flowers springs up not altogether long after that, though identifying them takes more than a herbalist's eye. Silvery blooms strung like stars spangle the stalks at roughly eight paces from the olive-complected woman heralding the spring. She lounges, every bit attentive and patient, weaving a few stray stems and plucking petals from the sinewy stalk that happens to cross her lap. Small clusters of petals deepen to arterial blood, nimbly gathered and reshaped as suits her mood. It's no flower known anywhere else, now or future or past.

The very air warms to a balmy spring evening. Dew anoints their shoes. She is in the flesh, no manifestation or idle projection. "Demanding would offer insult. Am I correct to assume you would take that poorly, Stephen?" Memory from another time of preferred modes of address rises anew, or she's just impudent as the young often are. She continues to shape that flower without looking at it, reassembling the trumpeting petals to crest like waves. Once Stephen is settled, what's close to it, she answers the unspoken inquiry with an ease not reliant on telepathic prying.

"Particular complications prevent you from executing certain actions. That seed already bore fruit." Is that meant to be ominous? Her tone is still thoughtful and brought. "A different prospect may take its place, however."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Persephone in her spring aspect is pure glory, adorning the world with color and variety despite every wrong committed against the earth. At her side, truly, Zatanna forgets her self-inflicted wounds and smiles at the flowers nodding their head to the Queen.

She folds to the earth in front of the Goddess, barefoot now, her tailored suit traded for a simple linen dress in tender green, loosely draped against her slender figure. A pale pink peony tucked behind an ear adorns her dark hair.

"It is an honor to be in your company, Lady." Though, Zatanna hesitates though she knows exactly what she wishes for. Sitting crossed legged in front of the Goddess, she straightens and takes a deep breath, "Lady, our colleague, and friend, once Thor's great love,Jane Foster was spellbound by Malekith and taken to Hel. My wish," she glances at Strange, before adding, "our wish, is to find her and bring her back to Earth to live out the rest of her life."

Stephen Strange has posed:
Would Stephen take it poorly? Maybe. Maybe not. However, this is a goddess before the two magic users. And not just some avatar or mirage, but the actual physical form. And, honestly, if a deity decides to show up, unannounced, in her physical form and asks to speak to you? You might want to listen.

And so Stephen has the common sense to say "No, I would not" to Persephone directly. And actually mean it. It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to make demands of him. And yes, Stephen does appreciate the foresight.

There is respect there, most assuredly.

Still...some things do not change. "Speaking in riddles. How I have missed our conversations." There might be a sarcastic tone in there, but only slight. It was certainly meant as a playful retort.

Jane Foster has posed:
Zatanna has the solemn audience of the flower-weaving goddess.

"Truly? Not many would agree with your sentiment in their hearts. They make a good show, though. Fear not that decorous manners alone stay my judgment." Even though her modern garments and mannerisms fit seamlessly in among Gen Z, the same young woman wove herself a flower garland and laughed with two young Olympian goddesses long ago in the nascent Grove of Nysa, before mankind truly spread their reach across the globe.

Then, the Sorcerer Supreme may assume his place upon the stage once the magician exits, the restraint of his part brings her to lift her eyebrows slightly. The open oval of Persephone's face carries certain charms, unblemished by the knowledge pulled from a later age. "You surprise me!" A girlish laugh simmers on her parted coral lips. "How you disabuse me of my fanciful notions of being direct and lacking the artifice or guile so treasured by my companions. These accusations must be met by the proper Court in their due time. How awful to report to your lords and lady fine that your reception proved lacking."

She places her palm briefly to the cherry tree's silvery trunk, and a few more pointed petals dislodged from the flossy spread cascade to land in her lap and her piled up hair caught in finely-spun green ribbons. A finger pressed thoughtfully to the centre of her lips leaves an indentation dusted in the lightest nectar.

"Sit, then, and let's have a proper chat. Do you agree with the daughter of Sindella, this is your wish?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna's eyes drift to Dr. Strange, a faint question in their blue depths at his mild sarcasm,then fix on Persephone. "It would be great folly to dissemble or lie in your presence, Lady. I believe you can read my heart and soul." Her gaze drops, she is all too aware of her recent actions and wonders if the Black Elves that died at her hand passed through her portals.

At Persephone's question to Strange she shifts in place, folding her fingers together at the mention of her mother.

Stephen Strange has posed:
A glance of grey eyes over to Zatanna. She earns a shoulder shrug and slight smile, as if to say that it is okay. Or...maybe not. But Persephone seems to be amused, so there is that.

Although, Zatanna is certainly correct. It is not a good idea to lie in front of a goddess. And so, Strange responds to the Maiden's question truthfully. Which is to say, somewhat round-about. "I would not presume to ask you for anything that I was not willing to obtain myself. It is true that Dr Jane Foster's spirit has been taken to Hel and that, in her final moments...instead of helping herself, she saved this mortal realm by taking Malekith with her. I do believe that, should it be possible, to restore Dr Foster would be a noble quest."

There is a pause. "However, if you ask if it is my wish of you...I cannot claim that to be so. For I remember our last meeting, Maiden fair. And...I know that there is a balance to maintain. And, as Dr Foster is rather firmly within the influences of the All-Father, from what I have witnessed, I fear that it is not up to you to grant said boon." With that, Strange offers a bow. A true bow, low and sweeping, showing true respect with none of his bravado.

When he returns upright, he continues. "Not that I do not doubt that you have the ability, my Lady. It is more that if we...if I wish to fulfill my vow to restore order to the realms of the dead, we must respect the different aspects of those realms. As much as it pains me to say it, I fear that Jane Foster is an Asgardian matter."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Troubled, Zatanna, looks down at her hands, twisting her fingers together. Then, she echoes Strange's sigh, nodding her head minutely while considering his words.

"Are the Realms so strict?" the question reflecting a wish more than reality. Zatanna knows that for the stability of the Underworld, each Realm rules its own. "I respect your vow and share its goals though I am sworn to no one."

She returns her gaze to Persephone, "Though I have served the Lady and will continue to do so if she wishes it of me." With a look to Strange, "So then, you are saying that it is in the hands of Asgard and the Valkyries?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Persephone resumes the careful alterations to the deep heartsblood clusters of blossoms that she wove before, granting them small rounded leaves instead of long blades that whorl around the stalk. "I do see why the stuffy one likes you better than some of your peers. He couldn't stand the Trismegistus. Much too gregarious. After the Sabaiani expanded his mysteries in their megalon, everyone with a censer and a workshop started practicing the ars alchimia."

Poking a little fun at Agamotto may not be something any Sorcerer Supreme does with impunity and still she pursues this course, heedless for its consequences. Her legs tucked beneath her shift to the side, supporting her comfortably as she drops the plant. Several flowers take form in a garden overflowing with peonies in cream, incarnadine, and dusty lilac. "We do not release those who come to us readily. You both have the education to understand how even one use of a loophole changes the status quo. The dead could not die and the displaced departed knew no peace when grasping and ambitious powers forgot their duties. Men will exploit that reference for their own cases. Every exception weakens the boundaries only momentarily cemented back into place, to our peril and yours."

She makes a face, wetting her lips with her tongue in a deliberate swipe. "Surrendering the dead back to the living invariably violates the decrees of the Moirai. Though in these young days, some exceptional men -- and women -- seem to recover with disturbing regularity." Without a command of Sicanian, the words she mutters under her breath simply sound girlish and mildly put-out, like learning a rotten nymph has designs on your regal boyfriend.

"Your vow cannot be fulfilled by the terms you accepted. You waited too long," she tells Stephen. Her finger lifts, adjusting a fine spray of astilbe that's grown over her shoulder like a friendly puppy. "You yet owe me and the Star of the Sea your service. I call in your obligation to me. Your task strengthens my realm and satisfies something of your plea, daughter of Sindella. Though I will disappoint you, I simply will not snap my fingers and release a shade from their just rest unless they join the cycle of reincarnation."

She pauses, letting them take that in. Then, almost insistent, she taps her knee. The asphodel circle shimmers. "My lord husband and I pride ourselves on not being heartless. We are just. I told you that not many agree with us."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The mistress of enchantment witnessed some of the moves in that game played in the Underworld. She regards Strange for a moment, a faint look of pity, tightening her mouth at the Queen's words. Surely, she spoke in her aspect of Queen when she was reminding him of his debt.

"Lady, it is not as simple as returning a package from Amazon. If it were, the world and all the Realms would be cockeyed." She unlaces her fingers and raises her slim fingers protesting her jest, "I joke about serious things, but wish to say, I offered myself knowing that I, we, do not make the request lightly. Your justness is renown. Could you guide me?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
The sorcerer does have the decency to look properly chastised. "Yes, my Lady. I have been lax in my obligation. And, for that, I apologize."

Not that an apology is going to matter much. But...it is a start. "I remain your servant, my Lady. What is the task that you have in mind?"

Yes...direct questioning. Sometimes wizards are not all mysterious. Sometimes they get to the point. Like now.

Stephen turns to Zatanna. "I fully intend on going to Hel to see about retrieving our wayward astronomer, who is more than she appears to be. However, if Lady Persephone states that the task that she has for me will invariably assist us in reclaiming Dr. Foster, then my priority would be to the Maiden first. I do hope you understand."

Translation? Strange doesn't like owing deities favors. The sooner he can fulfill his duty, the better. And, with that, he turns back to Persephone, to await what she wishes of him.

Jane Foster has posed:
The maiden smiles sweetly, the faint aroma of honey and warm earth rising from her skin. Asphodel prove impervious to the occasional breeze disrupting the lavish display of foliage and flowers throughout the botanic gardens.

Hypoxic green eyes round. "Is it so complicated?" She brushes her sternum in a light gesture, swaying back until the old cherry tree checks her shoulder. Emeralds twinkle at her waist, rivals to the lush grass shivering in a wide pool around them. "Another needle to pierce my childish fancies! Oh no, you do not want me. I would never risk anyone stumbling around in the dark! One less than a half-celestial Spartan princess would probably fall into the Lethe or be torn apart by daimones after I got them lost in a cave."

Twilight fading into nightfall takes on an uncanny quality at such a slow pace that it may go without notice. Night insects continue exploring the prodigious bounty stoked from the soil in an hour's work. Water threading in the rock creek splashes as koi breach the rippled surface to nibble at a fly or petal with inquiring, perpetually-surprised lips. Darkness pulls close as a velvet cloak, pinned by a ponderous hush for clandestine matters under auspices of chthonic entities.

She plucks at her sleeve, giving the filmy fabric a good shake. "We remember the risk performed on the steps of Chichen Itza. The great devourer reworked broken bodies and sundered boundaries of our realms. Most. Hel did not return to the barren order decreed by a young Odin One-Eye. Your surest wings could carry you to Hel's heart. You could take your cherished one by the hand. They will not cross the River Gjoll. The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead. No monarch awaits to laugh in your face or take pity on your mortal pains."

Slowly the asphodel droop. Their starry blossoms bow low to the earth. Her white blouse becomes amethyst, her skirt bedimmed damask strewn in vines. Fire limns her pupils, eternal carnelian rimmed in blue, swallowing all that remains of the green. "My task to you is thus, Stephen Strange. On the River Styx, I will have your oath threefold. To take vengeance on the traitorous Jotun queen who upset the balance of my realm." One finger.

"By seeing her restored to her throne." Two fingers.

"And delivering her undoing to me and the Lady of Stars." Three fingers raised.

Mildly chastened, she smiles under veil of soft shadow couching her countenance, leaving only the awful blaze of the Phlegethon visible in her eyes. "You undertake your purpose not without consequence. Your peril or salvation, Zatanna of the line of Sindella. The Rivers may condemn or affirm the balance of your soul, and where those Laws reign, your Word does not."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
At the Queen of the Underworld's last prophecy, Zatanna draws a sharp breath, then nods, accepting the fate laid on her. She has earned it and does not feel it is within her right to protest, saying the deaths were for a good cause. Would the world have ended if she had not transgressed on her magic?

What's done is done. "Doctor, I will be dealing with some personal issues but will do all I can to aid you in deposing the one sitting on the Throne." Personal issues, indeed. Murder has another weight to it now, something close and personal.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Stephen's expression remains neutral. He could be a fabulous poker player should he want to scratch that itch. He doesn't betray the fact that he sees more than what is on the surface. The surface being an amused Goddess of Spring....but Stephen knows better. Goddess of Spring. Queen of the Underworld, with all the rights and privileges that brings. Not to mention the ear of Hades himself. Stephen has duty enough to the Three-Who-Are-One, with debts to at least Persephone and Isis. He certainly does not want to get on the bad side of the King of the Underworld. It is a treacherous path that he and Zatanna walk now. The next few steps must be taken very carefully.

Direct was the word of the day. And, despite the Maiden's somewhat loose interpretation of the word, the Sorcerer Supreme knows what she wants. Her threefold task for Strange. And....he translates. One, to ensure he has it correct...and two, to relay to Zatanna the intentions of her Lady.

"You wish to have me locate Hela. Restore her to her throne in Helheim. And provide proof of such." There is no smile...but there is acknowledgement. "It falls back to the sake of restoration. Remember, Zatanna, when we took the bridge and paid our toll to Modgud? Helheim was in disarray...a state of unrest caused by the power vacuum left by Hela and the infighting amongst those that sought to replace her. What Her Majesty Queen Persephone is stating, not asking, is to see to Hela's punishment in her part of attempting to upset the balance. By restoring Hela to her original state, as set forth by Odin himself."

"We must place Hela back on the throne in Helheim. I do hope you have your toll ready for Modgud once more. Though, I fear we may need to find another path within."

Jane Foster has posed:
"So done. Sworn on the Styx, as you have said," Persephone repeats the statement thus, her unblinking gaze not precisely malevolent.

She breezily examines her fingernails and then rises, the shadows lofted up with her, enveloping the circle of her own enchantment affixed by the asphodel. "Students of history learn not to repeat the same mistakes. No one ever speaks of how they repeat the same successes. Captain Rogers and the Atlantean king may be of some help, if their memories are long enough. Otherwise you have been where all things forgotten find their end. When you have the means to punish her, invoke my name. The passage across the Styx shall be free, long as you see the Boatman. Or there's always the Barbican."

And with a gesture, she bids them adieu.