16992/Ex Umbra: Odyssey of the Mind Continues

Ex Umbra: Odyssey of the Mind Continues
Date of Scene:	23 January 2024
Location:	The Underworld
Synopsis:	Jemma Simmons reaches the House. But at what cost?
Cast of Characters:	Jemma Simmons, Jane Foster
Tinyplot:	Praxidike

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Jemma Simmons has posed:
Hmm. Curious.

Jemma still doesn't speak. After all, this is a library and who is she going to talk to? The surly little librarian? No, Jemma knows better than that.

But this dais. With the quill pen. This is intriguing. Perhaps this is a search engine? Fixated on a surface not unlike her own tablet of information, which is now currently some undead multi-limbed menace's door stop. Well, curiouser and curiouser. But...maybe it can help.

But first, a test. Jemma knows of the events of Thor's return. The AAR written by one Daisy Johnson was detailed in that regard. That was the last time that Jane was alive. Well...not alive in that sense...but her soul on the mortal realm? That is true enough. And Malekith had something to do with Jane's disappearance. So...a test. Jemma picks up the quill, pressing tip to surface. Nothing shows on the surface, so Jemma has to trust to muscle memory and know what she now writes is correct.

"What happened to Malekith on the 24th of March, of the year 2023, when the Asgardian known as Thor, Son of Odin, returned to Midgard?"

Yes....the question is rather pointed. And Jemma knows the answer. Now to see how the Archive responds. Will it be detailed, or just enough to answer? Will it be the age old dilemma of needing to be as detailed as possible to get the specific answer needed? The classic trope when dealing with wish granters and other entities of mischief.

Would the Archive be mischievous now?

Jane Foster has posed:
?

Ink bleeds onto the ethyl spirit tablet in perfectly delightful calligraphy, liquid resolved into a perfunctory response: Lily 1. 224.

A library possesses some manner of organizational system, else it would best be called a heap of books. The Archive boasts a more detailed system than some, and though Dewey hasn't imprinted his fabulous decimal system on the stacks, another kind rather prevails. Each room with its various bookcases and scrollboxes contains a particular set of motifs, and searching through several rooms eventually brings her to a set of freestanding shelves embossed on the corners by lilies and irises, among other springtime flowers. Row upon row of books of all sizes and makes vary from cloth to leather-bound, though they maintain a relatively equal size. On the second shelf, twenty-four books in, she ultimately finds a dense, blocky hardcover book wrapped in thick paper.

Opening it reveals, firstly, a problem. It's not written in English or frankly even in Latin script of any sort. They're runes, and provided without a Rosetta Stone for translation into something readily available. Certain pictures accompany the admittedly dense detail presented a lot like a non-fiction text, including fairly good likenesses of American naval ships that look positively primitive next to the dark elf craft cleaving through the sky. Violence captured in black and white images leaves clinical detail present. Like the aftermath of an elf being struck head-on by Mjolnir.

She has the page, and then, need only seek translation.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Ah. So it is like that, then.

Jemma remains quiet. There is no one here she would talk to anyways, besides herself, and the diminutive librarian is ever vigilant. To utter a sound, however slight, would shatter the perfect stillness of the Archives and derail some decades-old research project and surely earn the lighted individual a swift expulsion from the facility. And that simply cannot be.

Therefore, the researcher does not speak. It does not mean that a discourse is occurring. Just...silently, within her own mind. And that discourse is mostly berating herself for not specifying the preferred language of the report log. Still....she does have the page. From what she can ascertain, looking at the illustrations, she certainly has the record of events of that day....and quite possibly of what else happened that is not covered in SHIELD case logs. She needs to translate. Of this much is certain.

But, how to do so?

First...transcription. Jemma needs a copy of what she has presently. And, considering her initial inclination to photograph the pages with, say, her tablet is not possible, other methods of replication are to be considered. The Library she finds herself in is most likely devoid of technological mundanity, such as a photo copier, but...there is paper and pen readily available. And, seemingly, Jemma has nothing but time while in the Archives presently. Should she need to, she could transcribe manually at least a portion of the runes she finds. Then, perhaps, locating another resource to allow for the translation from rune to word. It may be possible. Or, maybe, she should treat the runes as a cypher. Find common words, determine the relationship between rune and letter, and solve like some great cryptogram one sometimes finds in the newspaper in the entertainment section. Or, simply, locate a person versed in the Norse language and simply have him or her read it and relay the information.

However, regardless the method, Jemma needs a copy. It is highly unlikely that she would be allowed to take this particularly hefty volume out of the Library. Goodness knows Jemma wouldn't allow it, if she had say. So, transcription is in order. Paper and pen at worst, but she is prepared to do so.

And, for not the first time and certainly not the last time, a stray thought flitters through the Brit's head. A universal translation device would be of so much benefit right about now.

Jane Foster has posed:
Is she alone? Not wholly. The librarian seated at her massive desk certainly counts as someone, and others within the Archives dwell on different floors and other rooms, consumed by research in isolated silence.

Jemma could seek aid from the gaunt Indian man in a Nehru-collared shirt and linen pants; or the gentleman in a tailcoat and fine wool slacks, as though he plans to pop off to his club for a mid-afternoon soiree; or the iron-haired woman dressed in a smart, striped dress and matching steely-hued bolero jacket poring over an assortment of scrolls. All of them, drab and restrained, nonetheless might be approachable. The child librarian ensures her dominion experiences no unwanted interruptions, presumably, beyond crinkled pages and tattered covers, if they would dare.

Her book contains pages. At least several written in runes, complete with the larger-than-life images that provide compelling detail of the battle over the Atlantic. At least the presence of repeating images would imply letters, anyway, as opposed to a Mandarin-style syllabary. If she chooses to copy the lengthy inset on paper, she's bound to assume a few common runes must be vowels, and that nasty little thorn shared by Icelandic and Old Norse pops up enough to hint 'THOR' or 'MALEKITH' enough. But cryptograms aren't particularly speedy to decipher without a common language, and though she very well may spend the watery afternoon taking notes as so often students must, there may just be other options.

If she wants to open her mouth.

The conundrum shared with the Silent King is probably not an accident...

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Well, would Jemma be adverse to trying to translate runes using nothing but context clues and her own wiles?

No. Not really. She could certainly do it. But...would she have the time? And honestly, how long does she have in the Archives? Is there a time limit? Is it one of those situations in which the longer she stays, the more likely she does not return? Curse too much pop culture and a curious mind for Jemma's thoughts to ramble as such. Or, rather, the access to virtually all knowledge is rather exciting...even if the realization that she will forget everything is rather sobering. Still...even in the tumble of questions, Jemma answers one.

There may not be a time limit, but she is not going to wait around for one.

So, assistance is needed. But...who to ask? There are the other researchers, each a possibility. But, would they help? Better yet, would she get in trouble disturbing their research? What would be the most efficient, yet most courteous method to see a translator?

With the paper-bound book in hand, Jemma strides for the librarian's desk. The best way, it would seem, in Jemma's mind is to ask the librarian directly. It is a legitimate research question...and she isn't interrupting anyone else. It, rather simply, is what Jemma would have done in the Lighted Lands.

With a properly pitched level (just above a whisper), Jemma asks. "Would you know of a particular resource that I could use that would be able to translate this?"

Jane Foster has posed:
Heartlands House lacks timepieces or clocks, and many windows to measure the passing of the dim, watery day. Jemma might note the ashen shadows barely creep along dust-free floors as she navigates her way through the handsome stacks to the head librarian's imposing desk. A sea of charcoal, silver, and stone laps up to the prim girl wearing a severe expression and purposefully scratching away in a ledger. Beside her rests an open case of different inks and nibs, waiting for their hour to come at last.

Whatever she scribes joins a parade of neat letters in orderly rows, unalleviated by a diagram or a googly-eyed emoji. Whatever she copies or sets down carries the air of enormous importance, even if it's a letter to Tante Matilde filled with childish concerns and complaints. Her head comes up, fixing Jemma in a Look. Her mouth cinches up above her small chin and she places a hand to flatten a page as wide as her shoulder-span.

"A dictionary?" The smallest stress carries a Tone, delivered by the devastating tween. She crosses a T, a brief swipe. "Show me then."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
If Jemma seems perturbed by the sardonic response, she doesn't show it. Rather, the biting remark was expected. And...minor. After all, she has endured worse with her lab partner. A simple little verbal jab is not going to deter her.

When prompted, the runic text is presented. "If there is a dictionary, then that would certainly be helpful." Because it would. It isn't a lie. "However, given the volume, it may not be the most efficient solution." Yes....Jemma just countered snarky tween with basic logic and facts. It may not earn her any favors, but Jemma is not necessarily being malicious. Instead, it is simply proper etiquette for her. "Nevertheless, if you feel it the best course of action, then I shall seek a corresponding dictionary."

Is Jemma calling the librarian out on her comment? No. The last thing Jemma wants to do is being expelled from the library. Somehow, for some reason, Jemma feels that she needed to come here. And now that she is here, she is not going to jeopardize the opportunity by purposely getting on the bad side of the keeper of the stacks.

Jane Foster has posed:
The librarian raises her thin eyebrows and strikes another neat line in her looping, swirly script. The pen that seems a bit too large for her hand almost wobbles, clutched tighter to avoid skittering off into the next sentence or blotting a blob of ink on pristine pages. The very possibility will not be countenanced, a matter not even laughed about over tea and scones. If she has bosom buddies to laugh about such things, as improbable as the situation may seem.

When Jemma hands over the book, the librarian sets aside her pen on its velvet-lined case. Her spotless fingers reach to take the volume, pulled closer without her leaning over her perch of authority. Ladies of quality, even half-grown ones, do not debase themselves by leaning, after all, or sitting splay-legged or any such behaviours appropriate for slovenly dockworkers. A quick survey of the text lasts veritable minutes at most, though it probably feels closer to three-quarters of an hour as the living scientist is dismissed totally for the more delightful prospect of losing oneself in a book.

"An analysis for the major incursion by Malekith of Svartalfheim near an archipelago, the self-governing British Overseas Territory called Falkland, by Goll Lodveig, in the style of Martha Gellhorn. Succinct and factual, if overly focused upon individual casualties. Common conceit for a Vanir." Carefully she puts the book on the desk between them, turned to the woman. "Lodveig describes the conflict as a terrestrial observer and obtained primary accounts from sailors to supplement her article. The numbers of lost ships and lives must be taken as estimates from your perspective, but the whole gives an acceptable testimony."

She pulls a small manila index card under a rubber-tipped stamp and punches the wooden handle down. Rather than ink, an embossed image appears. "A spell activated when Malekith met specific preconditions at the end of the battle. Thor Odinson of Asgard broke through his defenses. He seized a mortal woman and unbound her armour by discorporating it. He then pulled her with him through the earth in a similar formless state. The dark elf was decapitated by the Asgardian's great-axe and his body fell to the ground, spouting blood from its many lacerations. Another declared him dead immediately and the survivors mourned their losses with particular attention to the woman and their compatriots. In the way of Svartalfheim, he would be sent in Niflheim and interred in the Hel kingdom. His end was marked by emissions of energy channelled from his followers and loud, sustained laughter present even once his larynx was severed."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
The living scientist listens attentively, her gloved hands upon each other as they rest just above her waist. Patience is a virtue...and Jemma is nothing but patient. She even forgives the slight wait. After all, Jemma knows full well the siren song a good book can produce. In any case, there was no slight felt by the living individual.

When the librarian deigns to speak, Jemma listens intently. She doesn't write anything down...mostly so that she does not sully the workspace of the translator. After all, there is still a need to remain on the librarian's good graces. Still, it is painfully obvious that the mortal researcher is very much eager and grateful for the information that is given. Despite the rather dry nature of the journal log, it would appear that Jemma is practically hanging on each word like some long-awaited fantasy novel. Those brown eyes drift down to the book as the keeper of the tomes places it before her, searching the runes as the events are detailed. The attention is enough so that Jemma even misses the index card stamp...normally a question that might have sprung to mind.

"The mortal woman is Doctor Jane Foster. The account here mirrors that which was recorded within SHIELD's records, though the mystical aspect of the exchange was not recorded." That might earn a scoff from the petite archivist but it is simply the truth. Magical aspects are usually WAND's territory and unfortunately that is a small portion of SHIELD proper. "What SHIELD's records do not mention is the spell activation and the manner of Doctor Foster's discorporation. The entry here states that she was pulled with Malekith at the point of apparent death. Logic dictates that if Malekith is to be interred in Helheim, then it would be possible that Doctor Foster would be there, as well." Jemma frowns slightly as she contemplates. "My primary lead is the tracking of Malekith. If records of his interment in the Hel kingdom are not available here, then it would appear that my next course of action would be to attempt to collaborate at the source. Perhaps then I will be able to ascertain Doctor Foster's fate from there."

It is only after Jemma speaks out loud that she realizes she was just speaking mostly to herself, organizing her thoughts out loud. A rush of color darkens Jemma's cheeks as she apologizes to the librarian. "Forgive me. Thank you kindly for your assistance." Jemma doesn't necessarily leave the desk, but instead reaches out to take the book to return it to its spot in the stacks. Perhaps there is still a little more research to be done...but at least now she has a lead. And the makings of a plan.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Lodveig identifies the mortal woman in several instances, including a servant of Mjolnir," explains the librarian. The girl picks up a small baton and snaps it open, tripling its length to a zinging hiss. Its rounded tip proves ideal for pointing at a specific rune and then carrying along for a short distance. She repeats the process several times to illustrate which runes correspond to the specific name or title. Another instance provides an authoritative tap to another spot. "Here is the discorporation of the armour. Eyewitnesses at the site were few and testimonials from a dwarf and an Aesir warrior provided in the point below."

She doesn't need to justify the author's sources. Her dispassionate delivery etches a faint groove through the silence, reaching Jemma lacking any force to speak of.

Another tap and the baton lies on the table. Jemma takes up her book, its weight small and steady. "You have some nerve, asking for an interlibrary loan on a visitor's credentials. Unfortunately the proper filing from that branch fell into disarray some time ago, and the results are most unsatisfactory. The estate left much to be desired, as the countryside often is. At least they took pride in maintenance and organization of their collection, instead of the disreputable state of affairs." Jemma can probably hear the tiniest sniff. "Heartlands House retains its mission all the same. Acquisitions works by request, as the indices you used."

Jemma Simmons has posed:
A nod is given as the librarian highlights points. Including Jane being described as a servant of Mjolnir. "This is immensely helpful. Thank you very much. Yes, the servant tracks. Doctor Foster was able to wield Mjolnir. The discorporation would be when she lost the enchantment. " Those eyes track to the tip of the pointer. Then, when the pointer rests, and only then, does Jemma pick up the volume before her. "My theory, such as it is, is that Doctor Foster was in a state of quantum flux. Her physical form is still under my care, while this iteration," With that, Jemma indicates the log...and in particular the discorporation. "This iteration could be construed her essence....her soul, for lack of a better term. Research was in progress to combine the two to proper alignment. Until the events transcribed within, of course." Not that the librarian may care, but Jemma does seem to feel the need to explain her interest.

And Jemma also seems to feel the need to apologize. "So, I do hope you forgive me for my brashness, as it were. Doctor Foster is a dear friend. And, it is my estimation that, visitor as I am, I was led here to complete my work and rejoin Jane Foster's mind to her body. Given the toll payment I provided, I only have what time allotted for this visitation to locate Doctor Foster and return her to the Lighted Lands so that she may truly be well and whole once more." With that, Jemma closes the book, and provides the librarian what she is due, respect. Via a nod of the head and a proper curtsey. "Believe me when I say that, would I be able, I would simply adore to remain here and take my time. This is without exaggeration the best library I have had the honor to visit."

Then...with another curtsey, Jemma turns to return her find. Followed shortly to a visit to the dias with slate and pen, to perform one more search....record of Malekith and Jane Foster arriving to Helheim. Perhaps, just perhaps, the disarray that Hel seemingly is in wasn't enough to discourage at least a mention of arrival.

Jane Foster has posed:
What stories have shades and the rare children of the Lighted Lands imparted to the little girl with her ancient eyes? Have they poured out grief and joy to an uncaring audience, or discovered a narrator possessed of uncommon patience?

Jemma speaks, yes, and shares her purpose. The little girl keeps her confidence, picking up her pen and adding notes to her blotter. Whether an inscription of the story or a reminder to pick up eggs and fresh cream after her shift, it proceeds when Jemma finishes and she barely looks up. Dismissal at its finest.

The same process for obtaining the book in a language she can't read procures her a record of Hel. Delivery takes time and when it comes, two volumes await her perusal. One, a much thumbed dictionary of Old Norse to English, translations in the tradition of Snorri Sigurdson, and a rectangle full of seeping spirits that fashion glowing words in a dull spreadsheet. Here, an accounting in the most tedious fashion awaits the researcher. For many did die in battle against the Svartalfjar or a plague in Ostoya, conflicts peppered far and wide under the Aesir banner. Page after page of names await review, along with a date, a bureaucratic tick, a cause, and other detritus.

After a good many hours -- for a broken bureaucracy Helheim is nothing if not thoroughly reviewed by whomever authored this -- Jemma can be sure of a few things.

Malekith isn't in Hel.

Dead, but he never reached it. His location, unknown.

Neither is Jane Foster, or Jane anyone (except for some woman from Georgia) arrived in the two moon period in and around Malekith or Jane's death.

Given the accounting includes goats and an actual rowboat dedicated to Hel, that oversight is absolutely glaring.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Right. Alright then. Do not bother the librarian when she is working. At least she didn't give a snide remark or make a face. Still...best to not bother the librarian except on library business.

Still...research awaits. Jemma's find is returned to its proper place and she requisitions her next subject. And as sensible as Jemma is, this time she does obtain the dictionary needed to decipher the, err, spreadsheet. And Jemma's mind demonstrates how clever it really is. Even with the dry material, she is able to translate reasonably well, without the aid of an aloof pre-teen silently judging her. Ten goats on this day. Chickens on that one. Midgardian, Asgardian, and the like on these days. Whomever wrote this is extremely detailed....a fact that Jemma herself can appreciate. Is it tedious? Of course it is. But Jemma appreciates the detail, from one meticulous note taker to another. And while many hours were spent...it is hardly noticeable to the scientist.

However, what is noticeable is a sizeable hole in her theory. Namely, a Dark Elf slash Midgardian female sized hole. No record of Malekith or Jane arriving in Hel. That...is not exactly good news. There should be a record. A damnable rowboat was recorded, for bloody sake. If that minutia was logged, then there is no possible way an entire person could have been missed. For Jemma, it would mean that she has lost her friend, again. With no record of her arrival, how is Jemma to find her?

But...didn't Jemma find proof of Jane? Several instances, even. She flips through the notation that she kept, by means of 'borrowing' paper and pen through her journey through Heartlands House. It is here somewhere....yes! Here! The record of the medical doctor, developing nano technology to cure breast cancer. And again, here...the Stormchaser. A traveler through the stars. Every instance in which Jemma found mention of a Jane Foster that resembled the one she knew, Jemma recorded. But...did she get all of the detail she wanted? The books on loan are returned, back to the receptible that Jemma obtained them from...and then back to the records she found of Jane. The various research papers, the news articles, everything that Jemma could confidently attribute as being part of Jane. The information is cross-referenced, indexed, and sorted. That portfolio of Jane-ness grows bigger. All written in Jemma's clean, neat script.

How long did it take? Irrelevant.

But, for now, Jemma has a roadmap. Forget Malekith. Jane is the target.

And within Jemma's hands is every possible Jane Foster that she could possibly find. To put Jane together just became more difficult, if Jemma is correct. No longer two halves of a whole, but many parts.

With that, Jemma starts for the exit, pausing long enough to thank the librarian for her duty and for her assistance. The petite mistress may not care for it, but Jemma does so, all the same. After all, she would not have been able to find anything without her help.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane Foster lives a life of obscurity. Sometimes of grandeur. Of fame, of quiet regard. Cut short, tooling right along.

Isn't that the nature of what if?

What person hasn't imagined other possible paths for themselves, Frost's roads not taken? Jemma the professor, Jemma the author, Jemma the pilot. At least fifteen instances of note appear in the books and records that the plucky English scientist can locate, occasionally even finding her own name buried in there, proof that paths may cross once or twice. Her memories won't contain who she might have been after she leaves this place.

The Underworld demands its sacrifices. Certainly the river of the Garden of Paradise demands so much, but offers fruit for those willing to pay the price.

Jane Foster has posed:
Day remains in a weary hour, the light too tired to gleam much. Jemma has her travels ahead of her, such as those travels might be.

She might freshen up in a ladies' room at a cafe, or visit a gentlewomen's club -- a garden-facing conservatory, bit stuffy -- or promenade again through the dull, drab wood. Eventually she must return to the station, where a single ticket etched in copper flames waits for her.

She might remember a train, stepping into a little occupied car. Wooden benches intermingle with Acela-like upholstered chairs, two eras welded in one. She might even remember landscapes slipping by, a dreamer's trance. Hazy images dancing on windows behind the sashes pulled down.

The journey matters less than the destination. Hers is a destination, shrouded in night, a blur of colour and shape. Doors wait to open until she steps out onto a platform facing a black wall -- basalt -- and a crooked path buttressed by a neat railing that curves around a corner. As far as stations go, the small size is almost claustrophobic. Pale light cast by a single frosted globe casts on the only way forward, and the train won't wait for her depart if she resists or simply refuses.

It vanishes from behind (or around) her, leaving her a guest on the small vestibule. Its small size may be due to the floating island she stands on being the size of a parking lot. Other smaller and larger chunks shine in the interstellar void, blobs large enough to accommodate a twisty path or a few stairs cut into their gleaming metal or carbon bodies.

A veritable archipelago dances in visible motion, if slow, around a central isle whose mass exceeds their combined own. Perhaps she spies the elegant dome first, rising over a building with clean lines and gorgeous embellishment that weds Gothic and Romanesque in a way immediately recalling Oxford's sleeping spires. Glimmering stained glass windows on two storeys decorate the four wings stretching out from a central atrium. Embossed doors open to the courtyard where the descending path ultimately seems to lead.

Oh, and space. Nebulous filaments create radiant superstructures cast across the immensity of ultraviolet space. Stars sprinkled through the heavens act as distant lamps. All should be silent here, but not quite. Faint illumination lends a steady glow, and weak gravity holds her to the rock she's on. Though jumping between them requires some measure of sailing.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Was it really only one day? Could it have been months? It didn't really seem to matter to Jemma. She was both tired and refreshed, exhausted yet optimistic. She could have spent years in the Archive and not notice. Still...it seems the same day as when she went in. So yes. Time to move on.

Instead of choosing a club, a small cafe is the chosen spot for Jemma to tidy herself up. It does not take long at all to do so. With a quick adjustment of her pilfered sensible shoes and replacing of her lace gloves, also obtained most egregiously, Jemma makes her way back towards the station. And...finds the flaming ticket awaiting her. Most curious, indeed. Questions abound within her mind, but she does not speak them. A most trying experience for her, but Jemma suspects that she will find her answers at the destination and no sooner.

And...the train ride once again swirls on the edges of memory. How long was the ride? What sights did the window show Jemma? It doesn't really matter...an aspect that Jemma is slowly learning to accept in these grey lands. Time has little meaning to the dead, after all.

And...where did the train take her? That itself is a mystery. A lowly station, barely bigger than a broom closet, allows her through to...what? A piece of land floating in the void. If she didn't know any better, it would seem like some great video game level, quite like some that she has seen before. The levitating pieces of a broken kingdom, at the edge of known existence. And, a path of sorts, leading downward to a great and glorious structure. Surely that is where Jemma needs to go next.

Descending down the path may prove difficult. Platformers were never Jemma's strong suit and this...this isn't as forgiving as having a respawn point with as many attempts desired as patience allows. Still. There is a reason the train brought her here. And...if downward she is go, then that is where Jemma will go.

Jane Foster has posed:
Another comparison could be the skerries off Skye, or others in the Hebrides, where those petite salt-licked rocks gather like maids of honour around the grander court. Perhaps the hexagonal stepping stones of the Giant's Causeway or the mysterious Hebridean caves that so enamoured Mendelssohn. Ancient basalt formations reveal their startling colours under unexpected conditions, sea-slick and darkly jewelled. Or possibly floating islands of the Zelda series.

The realm is hardly a place of 19th-century contrivances alone. Tears of the Kingdom probably has a scrapped DLC somewhere in the Archive.

Jemma's feet touch the ground with only a little difficulty. Her greater leaps of faith carry her across gaps to alight on the next slowly spinning celestial body. The path taken with greater care has an advantage -- beyond floating forever in cold, uncaring interstellar space. She obtains an excellent vantage over the large domed building, finding no other instances of confounded travellers or reflective scholars scattered about outside. A copse of a few stately Douglas firs features an empty bench. Another balcony is empty except for the celestial orrery turning there in endless revolutions.

Illuminated stained glass windows that run the length of each wing glow softly with the same illumination as the sconce outside those double doors, both of which bow ever so slightly inward as to suggest they might open readily for their guest. She cannot hear anything even with an ear to the star-dotted constellations rendered in elegant detail.

Jemma Simmons has posed:
Jemma should feel winded. After all, she has to leap from floating island to island. Again, very much like a digital escape. Though, she is hardly the Hero of Time. She should be tired.

And yet, she is not. Suspension of disbelief aside, this feels very much like a roleplaying game. Perhaps this is still all a dream.

The solid ground beneath her feet. The lace upon her fingertips. And the heft of the double doors as she approaches. These are all indications that no, this is not a dream. All undoubtedly very real, at least for the moment. And, once she leaves, it will all be forgotten. Completely and utterly.

Gloved hand pushes inward door, one hand for each side, and the doors swing soundlessly to allow passage. Within, a grand and glorious hallway, with no appearance of doors to the left or to the right. No deviations to the left or to the right....the only way forward is straight ahead. Yet, the hallway itself is certainly a sight. Where the train ride was vague at best, the arched ceiling and detailed walls are quite detailed, sparing nothing to the imagination. Still, the hallway leads onward...and even now, in the distance, Jemma can see a great central chamber. And....shadows? Moving shadows? What on earth (or the underworld, in this case) would be causing that?

A question to be answered. Jemma's curiousity abounds. She needs to know.

And so, Jemma walks. Onward, into possible danger. Onward, to seek answers.

Jane Foster has posed:
As for what comes next...

That remains to be seen by one Jemma Foster, so very far from home.