15018/Ex Umbra: Eyes of Truth

Ex Umbra: Eyes of Truth
Date of Scene:	28 May 2023
Location:	Royal Palace, Attilan
Synopsis:	Blackagar Boltagon encounters a most unexpected message and begins his descent into the Underworld to rectify one of the great wrongs.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon
Tinyplot:	Praxidike

---

Jane Foster has posed:
Attilan the Unchanging. Attilan the Pure. Attilan the Hidden.

Serenity cloaks the city buried in the Blue Area of the Moon. By a lunar time cycle, the hour broaches the earliest morning when monks in the Tower of Wisdom rise to perform their ablutions and the first stirrings in the marketplaces prepare for another day. Students remain abed. Servants in the palace dream of paradise and alpha primitives don't dream at all, probably, because dreams require hope. Few people move in and among the wings of the palace, those who do either on furtive assignments or drill duty.

But there are always guards. Always contrivances and schemes by Genetic Counselors. Always some headache.

The shy knock at the door to the King's quarters - or a pressed button to summon him, whatever they usually have - is totally and utterly the business of embarrassment. As if the person responsible is horribly bothered to have asked at all.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The sound of tentative knocking at the door is ignored initially, until it is followed by a second. It pulls Blackagar from the reading that he was doing, slowly closing the book and setting it aside. The movement was slow, methodical as he pulled himself from the rather comfortable chair and proceeded to step across towards the door.

Hand raising, it stops momentarily at the handle, a pause with a confused expression before it falls the rest of the way to the handle and pulls it open.

Jane Foster has posed:
Night reigns pre-eminent across the artificial atmosphere, the sanctity of the palace untried except for the hushed swish of a robe or the clack of trimmed claws. Neither would this dare to intrude, except sound has.

Framed in the door stands a stocky youth with hair worn in tight ringlets, his eyes glowing a phosphorescent greenish-yellow commonplace enough among the floral kingdom. Filaments of green thread his nape and collar where veins would normally meet the eye. He wears the spare livery of a messenger and practically shakes on the spot. He blinks owl-eyed at Blackagar before hastily sketching a bow, serviceable enough. "The Co..." Words die, caught in his throat like a particularly bitter morsel of food. A stifled cough shakes his shoulders to free it. "The C-Council requests the pleasure of your presence in the p-p-private chamber."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar had learned early on that his silent stature could often be taken by others as intimidating, the expressive communication creating the impression of disdain or anger. It is not uncommon then for fear to be present in those that approach him, thus a small smile is given, intending to be reassuring. If it is, is a toss up. Sometimes even that can be considered belittling.

However, a slow nod is given and a gesture is made towards the door for the youth to lead the way, a furrow of brow beginning to form as he considers the possibilities of such a late night request.

Jane Foster has posed:
The messenger isn't likely settled by a smile, but at least he manages to keep his decorum about him. He bows again and retreats backwards several steps without turning around or looking up. Shuffling steps, small ones, keep him positioned to pace with Blackagar if the king deigns to head to one of the many nicely appointed rooms in his palace or slams the door in the messenger's face.

Glow, he's called; his birth name probably matters a lot less than his luminous eyes and the control over plants that he exerts through sight. His dreamy expression loses a fair bit of fear when Blackagar's will becomes clear.

Little is remarkable on that journey. Guards at their posts nod or stand further at attention. A physician slipping out of a room pauses until they pass. The clean, precise lines and pure architecture glorifying their people fading into a recessed door imprinted by a vista of mountains that doesn't exist in this particular domain, at least not snowcapped. Another home, an older one.

The messenger ducks back, his duty done, to allow the king to pass.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A solemn nod is given towards Glow as he steps aside, the movement of other people in the Palace during the journey causing a small tilt to Blackagar's head in confusion. But it is dismissed, and he steps through the door after swinging them open with a bit more force than intended. Having his reading interrupted, at the very least having his evening disturbed, perhaps putting him in a bit of a mood of late.

Mood of late... something that he has had but why?

Striding in, blue eyes quickly gaze around to see just who has called upon him.

Jane Foster has posed:
The room boasts all the comforts he might expect, albeit lit dimly by teal globes that tinge the shadows in a peculiarly underwater radiance. Three figures sit in low chairs grouped together on a semi-circular platform with a depressed space between them, the better to face a guest.

Conspicuously this space lacks anything to sit on, even so much as a pillow as they themselves enjoy.

Three figures seated there wear similarly stiff, embroidered and metal-shot robes suited for a Genetic Counselor. Though they might seem somewhat young, rather than the eldest members, not quite wrinkled or contemptuous enough for that. One is blue-skinned under a crystalline crest, another scarlet-skinned with glowing eyes, a third with grey, mothlike wings. Though they twig in memory if checked, all working under the wings of the Genetic Council. Or familiar, if more youthful than he might recall. Age can be a funny thing when serums and procedures can waylay the very ticking hands of Time itself.

"Thank you for honouring us with your company so quickly," says the blue-skinned one.

The grey one ruffles his wings slightly, the sound papery and thin. "Your presence is a necessity. Forgive the intrusion," though the sound is slightly lacking in total humility, he is apologetic enough. "We discussed a matter at length that can no longer move forward without your input."

The red being gestures.

The blue woman sighs. "We have concerns regarding recent matters. Would you assent to providing some clarity that we can continue our studies uninterrupted--"

"--by such essential--" the winged man interrupts.

"As I said, such uninterrupted by such unfortunate lapses in data?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The intensity of his scrutiny grows. Sharp mind struggling to connect pieces that simply do not make sense to him as he looks between each of the council members. Something amiss, what he cannot say specifically.

Unable to place his finger on what is bothering him, rote settles in and a slow nod is given towards the councilor who speaks, hands signing slowly.

'What questions might you have.'.

Jane Foster has posed:
Whatever difficulties communication might commonly present, at least the man with the folded moth wings struggles very little to comprehend. He murmurs the inquiry to the red-complected councilor while the blue-skinned woman leans forward, her trailing sleeves curling around her feet. Light glances off the crystalline ridge running from her brow to her nape, a luminous spark under the deep cowl of her stiffly draped attire.

"We have a few," she says. "My elders elected me first to start." Ironic given they all seem roughly of an age. "You hold the power to destroy entire cities with a word, this very moon with a sentence. Do you believe that power makes you inherently dangerous and corruptible? How do you reconcile your ability to cause widespread devastation with the expectations on you as king?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The question pulls a raise of his eyebrow, Blackagar looking at the woman who asks with a steady look. His hands move in response without breaking focus.

'Your question is amusing. A river has the ability to destroy a mountain as well, do you question it regarding its power or corruptibility? Any power can corrupt, any power can destroy, and all things possess power. Some may be more abrupt or direct than others.'

It is impossible to convey tone in the movement of his hands. 'With this, would not anyone be equally dangerous or corruptible? Or do you simply believe because the power I have is a very direct and abrupt it is more noticeable and thus clearly more dangerous?'

Jane Foster has posed:
"A river follows the course defined by the elevation and slope of the landscape that it travels upon and the mechanical principles of water. It cannot choose which path it takes," the woman replies. "Water possesses no sentience. Though the act of erosion transforms the environment it travels through, the river cannot be ascribed volition. You are a man. You are a monarch. External and internal forces act on you, but you do not exist in stasis or simply respond according to cosmic principles encoded in known scientific law. I suppose we could bother asking someone on the moral responsibilities a river faces, but the conversation would be fairly short."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
'How do you know that the river does not possess that?' Blackagar asks with an upturned eyebrow. 'There are many elements of this universe that are beyond our comprehension. In fact, I know of beings that are made of water. So the point still resides. You wish to inquire how power may or may not influence me. The same statement you make exists. I am guided by the slope of moral landscapes and I travel upon the principles that are at my core. And at the root, perhaps I do respond to cosmic principles encoded into me.'

Blackagar's face remains passive, keeping his personal annoyance under the surface for the moment.

'But if you wish to truly answer your question, consider this. You were allowed to ask it, then debate the answer to it.'

Jane Foster has posed:
"How do you know the river does?" The Councillor doesn't hesitate to lob that question right back at the king. Her hands rest in a steepled pitch, the long sleeves undulating as though trapped in the sea. She very well might decide to push the point, but for the slightest curl of a smile imprinted on her blue lips.

The man with the moth wings does not particularly move much. Once seated, he's quite satisfied to stay where he is. "The character of the principles, however, is something to be seen to. After all, there is your brother. He has acted against you, overtly and covertly, on different occasions has he not? He enjoys the freedom of Attilan all the same. Even when his actions cross your own objectives, baffling as it may seem. Why have you spared someone who might betray you? Do you believe he can be trusted?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar's blue eyes snap towards the moth winged man, cold and level. ~The proverb has carried across cultures and civilizations, whether Sun Tzu or Machiavelli, to keep those which you cannot trust close enough to witness their deeds.~ The same chilled temper remains as that attention goes back to the Councilor, one who is clearly attempting to pull the ire of the King; and beginning to succeed at the task.

~If the extent, of your questions, is to simply rephrase my statements and provide no new information or context for the conversation, then you are more than welcome to remain silent.~

Jane Foster has posed:
The moth-winged councillor is arguable old enough to maintain the arch, stiff composure so prized among bureaucrats and mandarins. His eyelids descend to half-mast in a partial blink and then reopen again. "It is paramount to security that we consider the question, all the same. You are our king. The Council serves to provide sober guidance after reflection, is it not?" He doesn't give a beat to much respond to that, the solemn inclination of his stiff neck followed by a patter of grey dust spilling to the floor. "His actions in the past generated instability. The pattern indicates a moderately high probability of recidivism, and as such, it behooves us to inquire and better understand your response. Where that may shift a potential outcome."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Are you aware of how many Inhumans exist and remain on Attilan?~ Blackagar inquires back towards the Councilor, ~Or how many remain on Earth, either struggling through Terragensis or on the precipice of needing to? To imprison, punish, or execute our own is a decision of utmost care. But the simple answer to your simple question is, because despite his faults, my brother has qualities that do help the Inhuman population. Genius to be directed to a purpose, and measured against insanity and risk. But if our people are to continue to survive; yes, survive, there must be a willingness to examine who we are and evolve as necessary. He will continue to be unstable, to disrupt, to sow chaos. The true question you should be asking is, if the potential benefits are worth the guaranteed costs. At this juncture, I believe it is so.~

Jane Foster has posed:
The red-skinned councillor has remained silent, restricted largely to making rare gestures. They loom over their two companions, despite being seated and garbed in the statuesque finery of their role. Glowing, oblong eyes are set into an elongated visage, and they fix Blackagar with a look. What emotion can be read from a face so distinctly unsuited for showing human emotions could make a read difficult, and the posture of something on par with the size of a small baleen whale, though it has a look more in line with a vaquita dressed up as a Byzantine noble. It's a choice.

<How far does your compassion extend?>

Trying to understand that communication is best interpreted as tremors, the rolling frequency settling into the bones and lodging in the skull. The blue-skinned woman puts a hand to her crystalline crest, bracing against the mesmerizing thrill running over the protrusion in flashes of lightning and scurrying auroras, all fiercely red and gold.

"I can interpret if you need," she adds through a slight wince. Bass rumbles roll across the skin and settle into the organs. The red councilor at least manages to steeple its padded fingers and nod for the extremis of its cetaceanesque communication.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~There is no need,~ Blackagar signs towards the other when they offer to translate. Instead, he simply gives a flat gaze to the most recent question.

~It extends to the distance it needs to. As I have stated previously, compassion is a consideration in all decisions, but it is not a single factor when choices must be made. The luxury you afford yourself is to believe that only one element exists in a decision, the task I hold is to consider as many elements in decision making. That is the space that exists between us.~

Jane Foster has posed:
The third councilor somehow manages not to collapse the sturdy seat upon which it reclines, albeit not in the manner of a winged man or the blue woman. Together, they embody a strange macrocosm of the Inhuman race. Races? Their expressions run the moderated gamut, though the cold restraint of the grey varies from the inscrutable regard of the red and the emotive force of the blue. Collectively they present a united front. More united than most, perhaps, but then the Genetic Council is more than the sum of random residents of Attilan or even those attached to the royals.

<A luxury too rich for my blood.> Again the symphonic rumble that sinks so deep the ground threatens to quiver and the body rocks to the presence. These fluctuations taper off, the thrum met with a steady resolve out of the last, largest member of the trio to answer. ~Compassion often suffers before law and necessity.~ The lengthy pause stretches out as it considers, unrushed in this, sulphuric eyes delivering a focused stare.

The central councilor shifts, his wings rubbing together. More dust scatters across the floor. A pillar creaks.

"What my esteemed colleague is getting to, has there been a time when you put compassion before the sword of justice and the rule of law? Would you do it again?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~What you mean to ask, is if nepotism exists,~ Blackagar counters calmly. ~The rule of law and the ideals of compassion can often be perceived as opposite to one another, as compassion for one and not another is in itself a violation of the trust that law brings. But at the same, an absence of empathy within the law provides the tools of tyranny to take an easy root as well.~

The annoyance he feels is still present, and rather obvious, as these pointless debates simply detract Blackagar from where he wishes to put his mind and focus.

~Empathy in the application of concern for the individual is of a highest ideal; so you would vacate all considerations of empathy towards a situation and rely solely on written law? Because I do not suspect you could write a code of laws to encompass all situations.~

Jane Foster has posed:
The blue-skinned woman tips her head, sending ripples of light dancing across the crystal fin cresting her skull and the richly appointed robes encrusted by a wealth of embroidery. "He has you on that point," she tells the man seated between her and her glowing-eyed counterpart. The flash of her smile bares her teeth, if briefly.

"Our esteemed colleagues may refer to centuries of legal decrees and precedents stored within the Tower. Many prior cases provide invaluable insights and illuminate for us the branching pathways that any action takes." The man in the center, wings folded and expression immobile, rests his heel against the base of the seat he occupies. Another skittering of dust floats on the air, a soft patina of grains shifting and cascading hushed in the background. Yet so terribly clear. "Have you applied empathy and made the law a secondary consideration?"

The third counterpart, in all their grandeur and alien aspect, consigns themselves to a gesture. A shift of improbably bulky shoulders, the spread of a peculiarly flat, blade-shaped appendage proportionally equivalent to a hand or a cetacean flipper used to indicate something.

"That's where your vote lies?" says the woman. "I very much doubt the situation will improve, even if we accommodated unnecessary delays for hopes of a superior outcome. Still..."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Law is not the same as policy. Policy enacted based upon Empathy leads to a misconstruing of practical realities for all. I believe in your ... efforts ...~ He pauses with that word, blue eyes studying the three very steadily, ~with your reasoning you have failed to consider that.~

Blackagar turns slowly, ~Laws are interpreted within the confines of the circumstances which surround them, too numerous to count that requires a judicial mind to interpret. Fair, meaningful, just, but also empathetic to all positions. Policy applies to all citizens. There is no judicial step taken absent of empathy. For example, what does the law say, strictly, about challenging the authority of the King in precedents of the Tower?~

Jane Foster has posed:
"A legal codex predating the institution contains a broad array of decisions to guide the council with practical realities and theoretical purposes. Even those decreed moribund have their worth. Your authority is temporal. We speak of greater and higher powers." The moth-winged councilor's even, toneless delivery mingles with the escalating spill of grains that pour from some place. He shakes his head. A faint crack spiderwebs across the ceiling, suffused in the bronzed light common to Attilan's halls and complexes. Accompanying a low, uneasy groan comes a fragment of plaster decoration, striking the floor a short distance away and rendered to splinters. He barely shifts his chin. "Such brittleness, enflamed by affronted dignity and unsettled emotions, bodes poorly for any hope of success. I am unconvinced it benefits us to proceed, as disappointing as that may be." He extends his arm, hand emerging from the drooping sleeve thick with adornment. His thumb juts out, pointed earthward.

The blue-skinned Councilor frowns, and then raises her bare hands.

<Waiting for an auspicious occasion and the ideal mindset comes at too high a price.> That peculiar sensation of rumbling comes a full octave lower than the ground already trembling, stone juddering in liquid waves that solid materials rarely possess. Another linear crack brings down a mechanism securing the chamber, sending a bar of lights into a crumbling wall. Despite the obvious damage taken to the palace, the Councilors stay largely seated, though the woman seems most ready to jump to her feet. A bland look from those burning sulfur-bright eyes of the large, reclining Inhuman halts her for now. It modulates its frequency a bit, enough to be heard through the low, primal murmurs. They torque from the midsection to peer down at Blackagar. Here is one of the few beings who has to bend to really get eye to eye wth him. <An imperfect candidate presents a viable course within acceptable margins of failure. You are not ready. But when can the sailor prepare when the typhoon is upon them? One is in favour.>

The trio go briefly quiet. Copper glows from their eyes, and the brassy radiance bleeding off their garments and rich accoutrements joins together into ethereal flames. Familiar ones, at that.

"You aren't ready," repeats the blue-skinned woman, "but we are in agreement that you might pass the judgments of death. You cannot delay. You must cross the river."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A small lift of Blackagar's eyebrow when others inform him he is not ready. The full discourse replaying in his mind momentarily before he slowly shakes his head looking at the others, hands moving slowly.

~You may find this difficult to comprehend, but your affirmations upon my readiness -- in anything -- means little to me.~

Eyes steady, he moves his hands slowly once more.

~I will not be judged by you. You are the one that failed her, not me.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"You see?" The moth-winged Councilor rises, the delicate snap of his appendages throwing dust as the ground starts to crumble and more sand pours through the gaping holes in the walls. Light fades into so much cuprous fire running along the margins of the chamber, a conflagration that emits no smoke. Heat, however, is another matter.

The vast red dire wraith continues to recline, fixing Blackagar under a heavy, purposeful stare. <Correct. Others levy judgment and their critical regard carries the heaviest penalties for failure. The cosmos views the mighty as a speck in their eye. They hew the greatest to stand alongside the most modest. An act of equality in a sense.>

The blue-skinned woman raises her palm, making a gesture to swat away a falling column. Crumbled pillars and brick fall in chunks that send the floor cascading into a yawning hole. Below it spirals a mirror of the Tower of Wisdom cast in basalt instead of the lighter lunar surface. Polished interlaid steps whirl lower and further, a piercing spear that lands before a platform complete with some blocky shape under a stylized metal canopy.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Your perception of judgment is skewed behind falsehoods. Justice at it's core requires three components, accountability, corrective action, and restoration to the extent possible.~ Blackagar looks around him then and stands steadily as if the chaos that embroils about is of no concern.

~You wish to only focus upon the aspects of accountability and corrective actions, failing to acknowledge restoration, pillars of true justice. So now you look to me, attempt to judge me on my ideals of restoration; something you clearly know nothing about.~

A sweep of his arm follows, ~Which is why you came to me in the first place. You wish for me to restore that which you failed to do. It is /I/ who should be judging you, and doing so in the strictest of terms. The Cosmos be damned, if it only cares for accountability and punishment.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Three sparks flash into the night, the Councilors burning in that copper-bright halo. The chambers on Attilan around Blackagar continue to collapse, revealing the hole at their heart, one that very well might consume him too. His foothold is uncertain, poised over that spiralling staircase that leads into the underbelly of the palace and the very Sea of Serenity that the great city rests upon.

The Centaurian and the dire wraith hang suspended there, while the third in the triumvirate with his wings kicks up small spirals of dust that occlude any sight of the walls, doors, or concerned responses of guards beyond. They will not reach the three members of the Genetic Council in any timely fashion, not before the damn place caves in or their king himself might act.

The scent of water lies strangely heavy in the air, the sort of clean, rushing scent that permeates the air long distances from ever seeing the shore. On the Moon, water is even rarer, locked up ice. Yet there, whether through clever Inhuman design, Kree technology or something much, much stranger, it flows.

In quantity, at that.

The three Councilors link hands, and in that moment, the glossy membrane over the entrance to the spiraling downward staircase in the tower warps and grows briefly translucent before turning clear.

Then he stands alone.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Water. On the moon no less.

But it possessed in it a fever dream quality that Blackagar despite himself was unphased through. Perfected in control, out of necessity, to be surprised and express it could be a disaster, thus even if he were surprised it would not show.

Fleeing? Panic? Neither were true options, only a patience and acceptance to an evolving situation. Blue eyes merely stared passively as if waiting, daring and challenging the unraveling to continue on it's course. As if taunting it to send its very worst.

Jane Foster has posed:
Water, as tangible as the tears running down a child's face or the libations clinked together at meal time. No hint of salt reaches the nose, nothing but for the striking crystalline clarity that remains even at a distance.

No ocean seethes underfoot, then, or beyond the confines of a deeply damaged building. The great cavernous cistern carved below him remains opaque, barely gleaming in what little light remains. The staircase forms a helix down to that landing and possibly beyond. Ornate rails threaded like black cobwebs chase the slippery, glossy steps that trace the downward spiral to its ultimate nadir.

More falls away around him. Ultimately it's a choice of crashing into the abyss or stepping down of his own accord.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The choice in some regards is as simple as it presents but perhaps it holds the meaning of a deeper thought. To stand and let the water rise and swallow him, Blackagar admits to the calm that he works to hold, a term of surrender perhaps, or even the mindset of accepting that which is to come.

But there is a difference between acceptance of what is to come, and a willingness to bend to it's whims. He has never been one to simply be willing to idly wait at the side for what unfolds. So instead of standing, he smirks ever so slightly and as if in an act of defiance, steps forward to cast himself downwards into the water; an act of defiance against the willingness to simply be.

Jane Foster has posed:
The stairway stretches in a downward spiral bracketed in the twisting metal shapes. Smooth walls present the deep, unmarred basalt of the Moon's inert surface that few civilizations shaped, let alone mastered. The man hurls himself into the Abyss, and within the first few meters, slaps right into the glossy meniscus that reveals itself when light plays across the surface.

Something -- some force -- absorbs the impact of his body hitting what ought to be open space above a long, perfectly cylindrical hollow bored down into the lunar lithosphere. He sinks down while a taut barrier slithers across his chest and limbs, rippling against his face in a most unregal effect. Something pushes against him, his own defiance an act proving Newton's Third Law. Tension spikes and builds, shoving him back, his determination to reach the inky river ground back to a draw.

His hands burn. Copper fire bleeds between his fingers, tearing holes into the gateway. Something nameless, fundamental in the depths of his psyche, jolts. Pressure squeezes and tears as he crashes down into the broadening stairs, the unbearable darkness enveloping him in damp cold. Distinguishing the basalt stairs from the void on any side isn't easy, but it's only the water below that defines the darker than Vantablack dock jutting out into the current.

Closer up, after an interminable trudge, the structure holds an uncanny resemblance to a bridge.

A familiar bridge spanning a modest canal in London, a place and a time ago where destinies forked.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Pain is endured. Suffering is merely a passing, no matter how long it may endure. But to accomplish what he believes he must, Blackagar continues on. The press of his own force against the restriction that mounts only doubles the effort; the belief of a quicksand mentality, where the greater the struggle the greater the resistance does not occur. Or if it does, it is ignored. For there is no belief in an immovable object, he will be the unstoppable force.

Breaking through, reaching the other side and disorientation passing, slow recognition begins to envelope him as he gazes over the image he finds himself in. A bridge, a split of destiny or what his good friend Karnak would call, a shatterpoint.

Jane Foster has posed:
Flesh may give way long before the mind fractures to prolonged torments. Hope springs near eternal, though if cut off, life reaches a predetermined end much faster. What hope burns in the dark when fed on a diet of defiance, grief, and dogged determination? One can only hope it shall be sufficient to the ordeal.

The sound of water envelopes him in aqueous white noise after trudging, running or staggering down the inexorable distance to the bridge. No lights burn across the expanse, and the utterly dim lighting provides no real sense how far the other side may be. He may face a volcanic tube with an uncharted underground river only a few dozen meters across or something substantially further. Lightless water humps and slithers, any current nearly indistinguishable, at once placid and resonant with the suggestion of movement.

Locks hang from the ornate railings. The bridge's opposite end stands above the River proper, steps anchored above the water. Some suggestion of a tie-up is there, a coinbox.

Beyond the bridge itself is a covered structure, little better than four corroded metal legs holding up a slanted roof. The sign reads The Last Convenience Store, but someone has scratched 'E' and crossed out 'CE' with a 'T' to make it the Least Convenient Store. The place has the look of a nearly abandoned newsstand, the kind found in cities across the world, selling newspapers, tabloids, and a few sundries on a rack or table. A weathered placard holds a dingy timetable, most of the numbers faded, except +0:05.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar adjusts his shirt almost out of habit to make sure he is settled before beginning his walk to where he can approach the coinbox.

Since the first hints of necessity to delve into death, before even searching for various entry points, he had done research. Legends and myth often are based upon that which have been seen -- or what is seen molds itself to what is legend and myth. Either way, preparation helps to negate surprise. If he were to find a way into Death, what would he find?

So many legends, yet the common one amongst many were similar to this. Payment for access.

Greek, Egyptian, Chinese, Norse -- the legends all held a similar ideal; paying the toll. Leaving something behind. But what had he brought that could be left as tribute?

Jane Foster has posed:
Nearly no culture believes petitioners or the departed truck freely in death. A cost must be paid, whether the elaborate burial rituals conducted over set periods or rich grave goods interred alongside the deceased. Orpheus paid in a song, Heracles in trickery. Find someone to stand in your stead, or a saint to pray the reaper takes someone or something else. Remove clothes or status or dignity. Whatever, however, the cost nonetheless gets paid.

A box at the end of a bridge, and the river. Off in the distance, a speck of light sparkles wanly. A hint of purple there, a speckling of faint blue faerie lights swinging to and fro. Bobbing, perhaps, but a good ways away.

So many choices. The slot isn't large, certainly enough for a coin, a finger, a key to the kingdom. In the Least Convenient Store, the various mismatched tabloids, magazines, and crisp packets probably contain very little of actual value. Just the barebones basics -- snacks, a crappy pen or a cheap notepad, flimsy scissors.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Approaching the lockbox, a small smirk appears on Blackagar's lips. It is mildly poetic as he reaches into his pocket and pulls free a small chain upon which at the bottom is a miniature terrigen crystal. A gift at one point, but a meaningful trinket regardless. Looking at it momentarily as it swings back and forth on the chain, he drops it into the box and waits expectantly for the gates to open.

There is nothing more important to an Inhuman in many regards than the Terrigen, the essence of what makes them. It has a symbolic meaning on a grand scale, a personal meaning for all, and this one having been a gift holds import. But all of those meanings pale compared to the task at hand.

Jane Foster has posed:
For so innocuous an object, the lockbox embodies the act of sacrifice. Dropping the weighted crystal pendant on the chain takes a moment, landing with a resounding clink into the graffiti-smeared, dented metal coffer. The slot's rough edges bite against the flesh in passing. Then, silence as the river defies logic, wending a course much as the subterranean waterways speculated on Europa, Mars, and other distant worlds might. It spits out a small ivory tablet marked in sharp, curling script that ultimately aligns itself to N7: Tower.

The dim lights on the horizon brighten, cutting through the stygian atmosphere and reflecting off the wet stone bridge. Engines bark and gurgle in the distance, a drowned note slapping against the relentless flow that cuts him off from anywhere familiar, anywhere civilized. Slowly a low, squat shape emerges, a bit like a cigar with the ends chopped off at frantic diagonals, windows clogged up by kitsch, strings of beads slapping the smoked windows. An affair painted unwieldy purple, the clipper plies its path, bellying up to the bridge. A door on the side swings open. No such fanciness here as rails and exposed deck, the typical life preservers festooned by gaudy faerie lights, mostly blinking blue and deep ultraviolet purple.

The double-decker advertises itself as capable of carrying 50 passengers below, 48 above, 20 standing, all required to pay. No telling if there might be drinks anywhere or a party on the dance floor. Several prayer flags flap amidst a delirium of empty beer cans and takeaway cartons, the rain-obscured blur drowning any hint of patrons within, reducing them to mere shadows. There's no one to take a ticket, and the fellow in the pilothouse is a black man with impressive dreds, his finery of a uniform blending a proper black suit and West African textiles in fascinating ways. He swigs from a bottle, set among many. "Ey, you'll be coming along then. Ticket must be valid for all the zones you travel through." He jerks a thumb at the near incomprehensible span of rainbow lines, marked off by stops where they converge, parallel, or depart, some kind of transit map wherein the legend is missing, colours mean something, and the symbols marked for each stop are as jarring and indecipherable as the rest. He is at Eye. Other spots include Angel, Barbican, Harrow, Temple, the Fall, War|Arsenal, and ominously named Tower.

A lurch of power slithers out of Blackagar the moment he steps foot onto the boat, and therein lies the journey on the river.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The token, Tower N7 is presented as proof of his admission. The outward calm that he displays presently conceals the quick scanning of his mind for references, both large and small, to the various destinations and the components of the journey that might be lurking there. There is recognition among the unknown, but not enough to solidify a persistent belief of confidence in where he is going. It is in those moments that he relies on what has carried him most of his life, inner-belief and strength. So confidently, he steps up onto the boat, grabbing the nearest railing for the intended standing he will do during the journey. No comfort, he is here for a task which will certainly require his wits.

Jane Foster has posed:
Figures lurk among the brightly patterned, upholstered seats. Certain details may stand out; the tattoos on a woman's bicep, the tacky soccer kit splashed in red and white, a pair of sunglasses tinted distinctly green. If they stare at him, it's with shadowy eyes quickly averted, but malice painted in their glares or the invisible auras directed his way. They all seem cast in greyscale, a function of the pitiless fluorescent lighting that brings out everyone's worst qualities. Even Blackagar isn't immune, his flesh pallid, his clothes leached of colour the further he gets from the faerie lights strung around the driver's box. Unlike a bus, their driver -- captain? -- manages the lumbering vessel with a light hand, shifting the steering wheel around and propelling them away from the last convenient store for a man from above.

Then, he is the river's.

The distinctions of grey and black become surprisingly deep, strata laid over one another the way landscapes build or city skylines form.

The token in hand holds weighty substance and precious little warmth. It cleaves to his palm and sticks there, a clammy thing that adheres in a bolus of pressure. He can choose a seat on the waterline or in the second floor saloon, with gaps enough. No one wants to talk to him. They glare daggers into his back or slouch by, pushing in without coming close. The seats aren't comfortable either, even if padded, and no amount of shifting around can make the backrests supple or the lopsided cushions fit. Most of the fellow passengers stare straight out the windows at interminable darkness peppered by will-o-wisps that blur and fade into nothing. Occasionally a leering grin pierces the depths, held at bay by an unusually cheerful burst from a radio that cuts through the static. Sometimes jolts of Bangla music or Nigerian funk, Northern Soul by way of Birmingham as common as the BBC's Top of the Pops.

The road to Hell isn't paved with good intentions, not in the least. As he looks, he might make out the odd isle, a trace of a futuristic tower, strange edifices spun of carbon plates and metal that should be in orbit somewhere. A helpful ding: N3. Barbican. No door opens. Shadowy bodies plunge into the river. They carry on.

N4... The same.

N5...

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A plunge into death itself should ravage the soul and shake the foundations of stability in him, right? There should be concern, the ghastly stares and cold hatred sent his way, a malice filled presence no matter where he turns his gaze, it should unsettle him, right? But it does not. No, Blackagar returns cold gazes with his own, even faded and dimmed out. But to show his resilience against the environment, energy from within fuels the remnant of himself he will not allow to fade.

Piercing blue eyes.

Let them know and see, he is here, but is not accepting the conditions as others may. Death is for those who have done their time in life, that is not the case for him. Even as Blackagar ascends to the second deck to settle in and observe, there is a small smirk that sits on his lips. Not confidence, but a knowing smile. He has made it this far and has not even spoken a word.

Jane Foster has posed:
The shades have their own concerns, debts that haul them downward to a fitting end. The sputtering engines groan and ply their way through the water, hauled by a current so strong and deep that it acts as a conveyer belt for him and everything around Blackagar. Even his puissance, such as it is, cannot fight the immense drag from going where it will. The seat beneath him stays rough and sticky, views outside flashing between hypermodern and medieval. A brief slowing brings them to a dock cutting out, strewn in faded cloth that weakly flutters in the lack of a breeze. A broad dome floats behind a gauntlet of flying buttresses and pointed ribs, opulence painted in stained glass windows that hold a weird glow. White light from within the structure illuminates the panels, and he might have long enough to get a glimpse of their content as more shades trudge aboard and somehow find places to sit. No one actually moves aside to make room.

One large, bearded gent about 30ish ends up next to Blackagar, slouching down with all the weight of the world upon his shoulders. He mutters, "Only human, after all," while clutching his token in hand.

The stained glass images, even at a distance, are peculiar, hard to make out. A child in black kneels in a sterile room. Beside it, the boy with his head hung, hair banded by a steely coronet, while two adults and a younger dark-haired child look on, the younger boy's expression a twisted smirk. The central panel, the collapse of a building while some procession storms through jagged structures that resolve as disturbingly familiar. A woman falls in the foreground. In the back, a man lies slumped. The image revolves around a young man, in black, lightning scored across his chest and waves erupting away from him in an eternal moment of a shriek. The others follow similar sequences, ending in two smaller images: the winged woman sinking through the ground, reaching up imploring. And then a black window with only two elements to relieve the black: the man in the middle of it, a blot for grey. The circle at the bottom is nothing more than a disk made of shattered glass.

N6: The Fall.

His life's miseries slowly move away as the boat goes on to the next stop.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Only Human.

The words draw Blackagar's look, luminescent blue eyes against the shadowed veil of the world around them providing a contrast. The weight of everything pulls, drags, but is resisted. Not exactly a nice place to visit, certainly not intending to live here.

Watching the various passing structures, the illuminated stained glass brings thoughts, a few of a morbid nature but they are dispatched as the coin in hand is turned over slowly, considering countenance on his face. Getting in was the easy part, now he is working on the escape plan. Few options truly present themselves at present, however, there is always a last resort.

The Fall, he looks at it, then turns his gaze upriver towards his destination, as there is nothing to be done in this space.

Jane Foster has posed:
Blackagar has autonomy to some degree. He could choose another seat or stand out on the cramped deck, small and treacherous though it is. He stands the risk of falling in to the River. He very well might opt to leap off and trust his own swimming skills, mastered in Tibetan plateau or a South Pacific island or the legendarily watery Moon.

"Don't put the blame on me," mutters the shade, turning over his coin. "They got the real problems. Not me. Not me."

Another blast of music comes from the pilot's roost, a loud spill of grime buckling the speakers and thrumming through the shades. They have substance, not merely as filmy things, at least they seem to. Bleats scratch and weave together:

I'll be back in a sec, I need to reflect
But you swear it's been longer than that,
Time is golden, time is thin,
But time is rare, and so we squander and that
I feel your pain when I hear your voice

A chime resonates through the boat. The pistons slapping and grinding slows, fighting the downstream rush, an irresistible pull on him.

Another bleat, the music shifting, cutting into New Wave synth. Glossy, plaintive melodies join the chorus amplified on a growl.

"N7," chimes a mechanical voice common to the Tube and subways across the English-speaking world, errant, charming, at a reserve.

There suddenly is no boat, no veneer of protection from a naked soul hitting the black waters of the Styx. Air is a relic of a memory, the unequivocal submersion a towering font of darkness. Water is, by its nature, clear. But a column of water, a moving one, devours the light and absorbs whatever colours are into themselves. The waters are clammy, though not freezing, claiming all the shades that reach this point of no point. Reckoned by the ancients as the source of an inviolate oath, dreaded by turns and honoured by others, this is the greatest barrier. Stories may exist of it, legends worldwide murmur of it, cultures diverse and widely spread through stars defining their underworlds however they will. It's no story.

The Styx takes him and hauls within. There is silence only as water has silence, the thrashing shades and deeper, more fraught things shifting at some level of perception. Some descend. Some move away. None rise. There is no rising, here.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Water may have silence as it reaches up and engulfs him, the river itself pulling him into it and the thrashing that takes place around, chaotic as the boat vanishes where the dispersing of souls may be taking place; he does not know, this is not his realm.

But he is the King of a realm, not to be considered lighting. Legends flash through his mind, and while others may fight back against the waters, Blackagar calmly exists in them. His silence this long has been pointed, while his mind has worked possibilities.

He is not foolish enough to believe his arrival and presence has gone unnoticed. How could it? The King of the Inhumans and the strength he can bring to bear to be ignored by the powers of this realm? That would be far to foolish. The suspicion of observation has been with him, hence his demeanor during the voyage. Now however?

<<Charon, you wish to extract a price? So be it. Something none have ever had or experienced before. I offer you, a song.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
--Cannot forgive from falling apart at the seams,
Cannot believe you're taking my heart to pieces,
Lost -- in a dark-filled sky,
Can you make it all right
To come undone--

Away moves the river taxi on its endless quest, plying the Styx. No longer does the King fall beneath the Ferryman's watchful eye and garish strings of beads. Last scraps of music fade away, taking the comfort of the ceaselessly churning engine -- or a deft oar.

The king dwells in darkness. Not for nothing is he the Midnight King.

The king is wordless. Not for nothing is he the Silent King.

But in this place, he is not the first.

Many have been silent and many gather under darkness. The very epithet of darkness, stygian, comes from the cool water stealing away the heat of his blood and settling in deeper, robbing vitality as he does not struggle. In that, the river drags him down in a slow-motion ballet that inexorably pulls him further from the surface. Where water presses at his mouth, and oxygen becomes a fiercely-sought commodity, that basal need to breathe perhaps an agony when deprived so long.

Where has gone Charon, if not beyond? His question vibrates through the muffling fluvial depths that would invade his nostrils, his mouth, exerting a terrible pressure known to deep-sea divers and dreaded by explorers or Atlanteans alike. A reply comes, not from without, but the dark within.

Because the Styx is not merely a river.

Then sing.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The small smirk on Blackagar's lips appears when the confirmation comes; the trap was laid, it was taken. Whatever happens now to Charon, to the river, to the space was invited. The invitation of him to sing accepted rather than him insisting upon it. For now, he is not attacking this place but merely providing that which was requested.

"Through the storms and the silence, we tread on.
Each step a story, each breath a song.
For the home we've lost, and the love we've found,
The weight of a crown, the echo of sound."

Jane Foster has posed:
What damage can be done to a realm made before time struck its first note?

What ruin can be inflicted upon the primordial darkness that recalls the protogenoi emerging from original chaos when the multiverse began again?

When the Midnight King opens his mouth, he joins with something almost as old as the hour bestowed upon his epithet. A vibration that roils out from his larynx carries promise of destruction, reaching the endless rush that embodies Styx herself. The river, the being.

She doesn't speak in interruption. Reverberations ripple through the substance of the oldest River, boundary of death and deeper kingdoms still. Shades caught in the vastness recoil, some reduced to blacker-than-black or evaporated into the endless night.

His audience awaits.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
"The world above may crumble and fade,
But our spirits remain, unbroken and unswayed.
Through the void, throug the fray, I will find my way
With this song I give, my price to pay.

The last words filter off, the reverberations joining the chorus of this place and the King stands calmly as ever, cold blue eyes almost daring commentary of either acceptance or rejection.

Jane Foster has posed:
Waters wash against him, embracing him in the depthless void. Far above, the Boatman continues on his endless journey, plowing a path from one end to the other. Whatever safety he had as gone as those great eyes turn his way, the immense presence compacted into something that a human mind might recognize beyond the mortal ken.

Whatever compelled Blackagar to pursue this course leaves him, in a sense, naked to the dangers and perils. The piqued interest from black-eyed Styx, her grey-rimmed pupils whirlpools, her thoughts imbued by heayy gravity.

Nothing to interrupt him, but waiting, as matter is destroyed and matter reforms to his chorus. Every stanza obliterates the foundlings hiding in the darkness. When he ceases to hear himself, the response is silent.

Then the River in that form of humanoid nymph instead reaches out to touch the third eye on his brow.

<<Your doom is your own to say.>>

The water beneath him is suddenly no water at all, and the fall of a suspended man will land ultimately on polished tessera tiles, a mosaic of the night sky.

Littered in broken stars.

Littered in the cracked gems of a terrigen crystal.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A last parting smirk, almost a sneer, passes Blackagar's face as he tumbles from the water through nothingness. The descent is slowed, paced and with the grace that he has mastered, the King throws his hands out to bring himself slowly into a settled thump as both feet hit the ground.

Under his feet, the crunch of the sound of crystals and of broken shards of star fall to his boots as he straightens. A look is cast about, measured, is own doom? There is still much to be played out. But he cannot escape yet. He must wait.

Jane Foster has posed:
Alone.

Overhead is a vaulted roof, a circular room opening to five wings. Each archway leads to a different direction. Two storeys apply to all directions except the north point of the star, which boasts only a single floor.

No one emerges to greet him. No ghosts or shades scowl at him, only his own shadow in the ambient light. Glowing globe lamps emit a pale star shine over him, some occluded, one turned utterly black with a faint blue shimmer remaining. Nine globes. Nine arches. Nine points on the compass below. Nine images in the mosaic floor.

It is silent here, except for him, so often the source of no sound. Crystals crunch. Shards glimmer with iridescence... with movement. Not his own reflection, but glimmers of places, things, people separate from the chamber altogether. Leaning over to look or to touch show what lies within, playing out like tiny screens in the broken stars.

He surely might spot the Dakota. Attilan's human quarter gardens. Daisy's face.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar examines one of the nearer shards with a careful study, then a second one following shortly after to another nearby. The glimpses of those that offer a subtle reflection are given less focus than the elements of the pieces that seem to draw to him, to carry weight and beckon. It is interesting, to find such a space in the realm of Death. A mystery certainly, and one that has him crouching in apparently observation of a shard.

In reality though, the King is listening and glancing at more than what is directly in front of him, rather observing the surroundings. An unknown space with elements that do not make much sense to him send of warnings of caution.

Jane Foster has posed:
The sensation of a rush blooms in faded detail, glee and a trace of fear. Wind passes over his (no, her...) face and rushes through his (her) hair. Hard, rounded chainlink bites into the palms, vinyl flexing as the blue sky tilts up. He (she) swings his (still her) feet, knees straight, to reach further. Someone shouts, "Jaaaane!" and (s)he keeps going, pushing.

The sea of faces in a lecture hall hide behind intensely glowing lights. "A wormhole is Alice's looking glass. Alice stuck her hand through the looking glass and her hand wound up on the other end of forever in Wonderland. Her looking glass is the black hole." A moment of trepidation, then come the laughs. "A spinning black hole collapses to a ring, our looking glass. If you stick your hand through the looking glass, you wind up in another parallel universe. And this gives us therefore, a new way of looking at the Big Bang."

It's too hard to keep his (her) eyes open, icy wind as sharp as knives slicing across the exposed line of his (her) cheek. Fear builds, the mortal heart rebelling at knowledge he (she) will jump into the abyss moments from now. All heat in the flesh evaporates away, robbed by the thieving cold. Below the precipice of black boots lies the furious ocean, the Screaming Sixties, and a speck of glacier-covered land. Time to leap. Fear, resolve, and the sick lurch grip him in freefall. (Her) In that island is a stolen spaceship. He's taking it back. (She's sure of it.) Regret, then, for the necessity of omission.

A glimpse of an entangled embrace, his name in her thoughts--

Jane Foster has posed:
-----

None leap out to bite him. The splay of broken crystals that no longer hold the mist, hold this. The sum of a life. Bits of it.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The blending of presences coalescing into uncertainty brings a recoil after the imagery passes through, the crossing of awareness leading to a soft shake and shudder as Blackagar considers the surroundings once more. The next fragment is looked at; the first time a creeping ideal of uncertainty appears in his mind. This is not what was expected, a shattering in death itself. Where is the whole? Where is the presence he seeks?

Jane Foster has posed:
Blackagar stands amidst the shards scattered across the compass rose floor. From placing ornaments with small hands on a Christmas tree to the tireless study of astrophysics to brushes with boredom, excitement, or terror, the sum and span can be found in astonishing detail.

The quantity alone is considerable, spilled in a heap almost two meters from end to end. Sparkling pieces thin out in spaces, but only from above can the crescent shape be resolved into more of a fetal curve. Abnormalities exist, vacant spaces in the shape.

A gap where a hand might be. A hole in the chest. Another in the stomach. Along the curved impression of a wing, folded or protectively curved or broken.

Faded impressions hold blurry qualities compared to the crisp, Technicolor details.

Or the solid black shine that greets the Midnight King in his perturbed state, spotted among the plethora. One or two not speckled by stars or the gaseous immensity of a planet hurtling through the cosmos -- these are black, lightless shards radiating cold and seductive murmurs. To touch them physically stings. To touch them psychically is akin to falling into the abyss and it smiling back.

The air ripples, a rattling not so far off coming down one of the wings.

<<Something went awry in the descent and interrupted the process...?>> Disquiet disturbs his thoughts, an echo awash in cuprous fire. <<Irregularities are without precedent. Missing structures. Excisions.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<The protector, attempted to save what it could of her. Disjointed. Stuck between two spaces both here and in the world of the living.>> Blackagar explains into the fire echo in this place. A slow smile started to appear on his face. <<A shame really if you consider it. She will never be whole in the world of the living, because these pieces are trapped here. Nor will she ever indeed be here, because of the pieces trapped in the living.

Slowly, Blackagar moves about the pieces, stepping around them so as to not disturb them and doing so thoughtfully, hands behind his back. A posture he takes often when negotiating. <<I am curious what you will do with that. Death, it would appear, has been defeated to some degree.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
For quite a long time, he negotiates with only the silence in the vaulted chamber and the dull, arrhythmic thrum in a corridor. Blackagar receives no interruption to his thoughts, the presence with him either loathe to respond or pondering his sentiments at a pace far removed from the mercurial speed favoured by the average Joe. Lassitude coils around the faintest undulations in colour where his vision blurs into emptiness, giving suggestions of movement where no flame actually burns.

The humming pauses, then swells after a short delay into a staccato pulse of an angry air conditioner.

<<We act. The die is cast. What you do with that remains a great question.>> The feminine thoughts condense, weary certainty unalloyed by artifice. <<Your riddle defies the laws of the dead that neither we nor she or he possess the power to defy. Old Fjolnir, canny and cantankerous bastard he is, doubtful has the kenning to manage it. The absent pieces could be here, but this would not. The dead descend intact or not. If the pieces are trapped, they cannot be here.>>

A tired pause swirls with effort. <<Do you understand?>>

Crystal pieces shimmer against the compass points, lying discarded across the mosaic shaded in blue, copper, and silver. But for the images and sensations contained therein, the pieces are transparent. Their stillness in the suffused lamplight contradicts the louder bang originating down some corridor.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
If it is an attempt to try patience, it would be a long struggle against Blackagar. His ability to sit in solitude and silence, to wait out the currents that swirl around has carried him far in life. So why would it not carry him equally far in death? There is no rush, nor sense of inevitable or desperation of acceleration, just the calming presence of being in the here and now. Let the other stress, it is the goal. To bring uncertainty to a place where the laws are certain. It is what causes him to smile.

<<There is but one law, is there not? That all will die?>> He leaves out the part about paying taxes, he certainly doesn't. <<But it would appear, that this law, as all others, have loopholes.>> He casts calm blue eyes around him, <<What I understand, is you cannot make admission to the situation, else it would pave the road for a cataclysm of the realities. The law must be preserved at all costs, I know this. You know that I know this.>> He is a King, after all, he knows the importance of the law. <<But the law, without understanding, leads to this. So let us be clear in the understanding.>>

His hand gestures to the fragments, <<The Dark magic violated the rules first. Thus, the law was broken well before this point was reached. The shattering of these fragments is a testament to that. Had the Dark Prince not broken the laws you put in place, this psuedo-death would not have occurred, and this shattering would not have occurred. Therefore, the law where it regards her is still intact.>> Blackagar smiles into the emptiness, <<She never died you see, for you cannot die if the law is not being followed.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Blackagar is a predator swimming through the silence and eternally submerged beneath it. Any essence of rushing means nothing in a place that time holds no reign over, a purely mortal conceit and a purely artificial construct from this byward perspective.

A silent response comes from the presence alongside him, beyond him. Another rumble rushes through the distance, closer now, enough to faintly rattle the stained glass windows. Rumbles travel across the mosaic, chattering up his feet and through his knees to the crown of his head. Successive and irregular tempo, not something steady at all. If it were music, it would be the insufferable sort preferred by EDM technophiles that produce sonic nuisances.

Fragments of what was -- is -- Jane do not move much, but they produce an odd, hardly audible keening as the ripples pass through them.

<<She cannot live, either, missing pieces of self.>> Clouded impressions hold muddled dismay, a gathering of dark clouds on a mental horizon. <<You must be whole before you can transit from this realm. He likely knew how his attack would diminish his target.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<So then it would appear we have a form of impasse.>> Blackagar points out after leaving a period of time of silence to linger. <<You cannot have an incomplete presence in your realm, but nor can she leave this realm not being complete. This paradox is quite troubling for you I would believe, because if the Laws are broken then how long until the foundations begin to become undone?>>

A slow folding of his arms takes place, <<I do know however, where the remaining fragments are. It is feasible I could retrieve them, but doing so to just sentence her to this space unjustly?>> He slowly shakes his head. <<I believe it would be better to be in neither than to be sentenced here. Unless you were willing to offer a compromise of other considerations.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
A flicker-flash of copper fire dances around the edges of his vision. Luminous filaments thrash in slow undulations, leaving gossamer afterimages if Blackagar shuts his eyes.

<<We know you house the mortal shell. That justified bringing you to the House of Wisdom in the first place.>> The feminine voice pauses a moment, then regathers focus.

Another sequence of tremors rattle the windows, just softly enough the stained glass releases a faint sound. Then, roughly a minute later, a far more physical thwack of a collision muffled through the stone walls. Whatever landed does not remain still given the soft noises that follow.

A blazing thread forks between the shards in jealous cuprous flame, recoiling as though stung. <<Retrieve what the dark elf stole, and you meet the conditions for departure. We know not where he scattered them, only that he has. He must be confined here still, whether hiding among them or lurking elsewhere.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar grunts.

Even that much of an emission, even in a place such as this is a reflection of his annoyance at present, something he's keeping close at hand with the passive demeanor despite it all. <<Retrieve what was stolen? Then we will depart. If you know not where he scattered them, then at the least where was he last at?>>

A slow smile appears, <<There may be some unfinished discussions to be had.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
His irritation leaves a mark on the placid environment of a timeless, serene place holding much in common with libraries, universities, meditation halls. Places where intellectual and spiritual pursuits invite a certain asceticism, rather than the roughhousing of a sports arena or a bar. Yet that veneer conceals the chaos within, creation and possibility as acts of upheaval rather than placid stillness.

Proof enough as the ground shakes again. A noise reverberates through the nearer chambers, pressure changing inside the mosaic room where Blackagar stands. He might feel the resistance that gives way without a pop, something fundamentally altered. Awareness spreads, a sense of duality.

<<He conceals himself within the mind palace. A fallen citadel that holds still. He can be nowhere else or we would know.>> Glacial emotions rumble at the back of his mind -- projected from the unseen presence on the margins of his vision -- and it's less anger checked than towering so high into the stratosphere that immense quantities of emotive mass have to move to generate a change. Once in motion, however, the resulting eruption might bury the countryside. <<His deceits remain a mystery to shake out of his skull when you acquire him. But for the fragments, this much we know. Be wary. The House of Wisdom contains all paths once taken, all ideas never realized, all masterpieces lost after they were made. The collective weight of all that was not, and all that has been. Here you are welcome as a guest, and here you are a thief for what you must do. The lost to be recovered.>>