19174/Initiate Recovery Mode

Initiate Recovery Mode
Date of Scene:	29 September 2024
Location:	Dakota Apartment 1
Synopsis:	Discussions are had.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon

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Jane Foster has posed:
The days take a different course in a royal city on the Moon than Jane has ever known for routine. Pleasant though Attilan is, the small orbit of garden to private quarters to shared chambers where one might take a meal or read presses at the unfamiliar sense of urgency that doesn't belong. Urgency for what she cannot name, save it shares in common the energy of the seed pushing up through the soil or the planets dancing around a brilliant sun.

For that reason, she strongly contemplates trying to jump onto the nearest roof and assess if she can climb up there at all.

Bit of a push, really.

In the privacy of said rooms, away from plenty of prying eyes, the ignoble idea remains present while she undertakes another test, a bit of an awkward one at that.

Hand extended, she points at a space on the wall between two innocuous corners. Wearing her typical Attilan robes, since terrestrial clothes aren't in abundance and hers have long-since been freezer-burnt past use, she half-closes her eyes and pushes mentally at something. Something that wants to open but she perhaps would rather keep closed, fighting her own intentions. Fighting past the black veil over her.

For a few moments, light fills in an oval space on that wall that has no overt source. Subtle prismatic rays play over the floor, and the tenuous gateway creates a visible outlet, a waver.

A door. He asked at some point, in memory, if she could truly open the ways. Jane doesn't crack her eyes open to see if the answer is manifest. Either one is almost too frightening to bear. But she has never been given to falling into fear.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Pushing in to the idea of trying to recover, rather than to simply exist, Blackagar had been in an adjacent space working on tasks that would free his time. It was obligations that came in to a head and he had put off, but no longer. However, even those were not enough to keep his focus completely.

Something felt off. Not in a negative way but in a manner that he could not put a finger on.

Pushing up from his desk, he began to move to the adjacent hallway, then down it towards the location where Jane was, brow furrowing with an uncertain expression.

Jane Foster has posed:
Obligations cannot be ignored; Jane might be the first to admit that, even encourage Blackagar to take up what he can. She understands something of the requirements, even if the political, socio-economic or functionary roles he fills could well be something of a mystery. How much does he share? How much can be gleaned as a bystander?

Worries about the balance of power shifting with the Council or prolonged demands aren't on her mind at the moment. No, the only thing filling her mind other than perturbations about the wisdom of this act are vast branches and green leaves sprouting from silver-grey boughs. Foliage impossibly lush by lunar standards that quivers to a cosmic wind, the stream of interstellar matter gathered like dew on the branch beyond.

Splendour just beyond that door that hasn't filled in with all the details, green and jade and verdant energies swirling in delicate undulations like an abstract oil painting of a tree, a forest, the idea of nature that Blackagar can see if he walks inside.

The wavering edges contract in as her focus falters, maybe a deliberate flick of the switch. Her arm lowers, a slow arc, and her eyes reluctantly open. <<Still got it.>> A thought aimed at none rings in her head. Maybe it is aimed at all. The sisterhood beyond the original nine raised by Bor, the friends scattered to the winds, to the King of Midnight, to herself. She blows out through rounded lips. That's never happened in civilian dress. But there they are.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
His arrival is at that point, eyebrow lifting at the conclusion of the moment in particular casting his gaze at the wall during the trail of the moment. Looking from the wall towards Jane, back to the wall, Blackagar's eyes eventually return to the woman.

<<If you put a hole in the wall, you know I must fix it.>>

The words are given dryly, and with the buried humor to them that he's shown more and more often of late.

Jane Foster has posed:
The wall is perfectly stable if viewed from the other side, though sticking a head out the window might be beyond Blackagar's regal dignity. Jane might not be sure of that, but she smiles in response to his mirth. Who wouldn't?

<<Do you have a home repair shop up here or will you be forced to act on your own ingenuity to patch any hole?>> An innocent enough question comes alongside visuals of him polishing marble and planing some kind of plaster-like substance forged from the lunar regolith. Igneous rocks make ingenious building supplies when not constrained by human experience. <<I will avoid permanent architectural renovations.>>

The energy folds in on itself, and dissipates without an audible sound. A solid wall remains untouched, though one completely unimpressive ash leaf flutters to the ground, at least the tip of said leaf. It lies there, innocent and untroubled. She looks up at him, considering, and then moves to reclaim that small prize to tuck into his sleeve or against his silvered temple.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<I'll have you know that I come from a long line of masonry workers>> Blackagar responds tilting his head at the wall thoughtfully before finally letting it go and diverting his attention more fully to the woman.

<<I do not mind if you need to work and stretch of course. But anything that brings questions, I will need to know how to answer.>> Rough translation, the actual workers may wonder about the holes in walls.

As the leaf is tucked by his ear, his eyes follow the movement before drifting back down. <<Do you need to stretch your legs?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Is the 'Bolt' indicative of that?>> Jane's banter mentally matches the breathless laugh on her lips that speeds any dissipating unease away for a moment. Chocolate brown hair falls around her face, loosened from the braid that holds much of its weight down her back. <<By that token, my own people were foresters.>>

The slow roll of her shoulder blades moves her robe smoothly, and she reaches up to adjust the collar just so. All those hidden fancy elements that haunting malls or fashion magazines never prepared her for, she tolerates. Jane smooths her hands down her sides, and then contemplates her toes for a second. Hopefully it doesn't look like she's playing dress-up.

"No holes, I promise. I rented an apartment too long to ever risk it." Blackagar won't even have to contend with tacks or push-pins littering the walls like a journalist poring over a crime scene. Only Murders in Attilan will not be a thing.

He deserves the smile, the guarded glint showing through her gaze tilted up at him. <<More importantly, do you?>> Her shoulders hold a smidgen of tension. <<I experimented on opening a path. Ever since we returned, I haven't tried.>> Translated, she hasn't left him to prowl about the Ten Realms overtly, only sending her astral echoes to complete the journey as soul-farers. <<No reason to think it would work differently now, but here we are and it has. Are you saying you wish to get noodles somewhere?>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Noodles somewhere.

Blackagar considers that offer in a clear expression on his face before his shoulders lift in what would be considered a sigh to others.

<<It may be surprising, but I think the council is so concerned about me up and 'venturing forth into Death' again that they may have a small aneurism if I did.>> He has hinted about the state of things, not quite a prisoner but under the 'concerned watch for health reasons' of the Council.

<<I do not wish to make them think you are any more of a corrupting presence.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Noodles somewhere could very well be in the city they dwell in. Enough sorts like Daisy took refuge here, familiar with their hideaways deep in Asia where noodle culture very well exists. <<You mean to say I may have a future as a chef or restauranteur if other options do not pan out?>> An astrophysicist on the Moon turned pasta mistress or pho expert could be stretching the joke a little, knotting it into pliable strings. But she absolutely cannot help laughing softly behind a raised hand to her lips, even if the conversation is one-sided audibly.

Blackagar Boltagon, King of Attilan, need only fear only her coming near and offering her palm. <<Corrupting? I hope to give no impression as such. I haven't strayed from your side or these appointed rooms except by your leave. Though if official testimony is required to ease their concerns, they can have mine regarding where you went. Or hers, if she's willing.>>

Because that's bound to sit well, a perfectly ancient sentient entity bound magically to a bracelet providing scathingly clear evidence-based rationale for exactly where and what he was up to all that time. And why fettering people is nonsense.

<<It's enough just to be here with you. But more importantly to me, by far, is if you are all right with the state of affairs or if you intend to change anything?>> Are you happy, in other words.