3810/Monsters of the Cosmos: 1 - Raudkarr

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Monsters of the Cosmos: 1 - Raudkarr
Date of Scene: 14 October 2020
Location: Craic
Synopsis: The dark elves come to play!
Cast of Characters: Jane Foster, Mikhail Uriokovitch, Jessica Drew, Bobbi Morse, Dane Whitman, Kendra Saunders




Jane Foster has posed:
On a deceptively cloudy-grey evening, Craic practically glows. Dark, wavy-paned windows shine with an antique golden glow, probably like waystations on the road to New York circa 1769 did. Smoke belches out of the chimney, fed by chopped logs merrily glowing vermillion in a deep, soot-stoned hearth. Cars piled into the small lot and down the street speak to the popularity of the night's event: a full Celtic ceilidh. Music radiates from a pretty wooden stage, and it's a lively, somewhat loud affair. A slim young man beats on a bodhran, keeping the tune while a woman as fair as he keeps up on a flute. Between them is a fiddler on a bench, currently taking a swig of cider and mopping his brow with a folded handkerchief. His skin glows a bit with sweat, his white shirt open at the neck and sleeves rolled back. It won't be long before he launches in again.

Craic's house band participates with guitars, another flautist, and one apparently relegated to playing wooden sticks. He's young, rather than drunk. The current beat is more than sufficient for a pair of young woman with wildly curly hair dancing in a circle around one another, arm-in-arm. Lights gleam on their beaded skirts, and they kick and turn, keeping up with the increasingly rapid tempo almost effortlessly, spinning to the reels. The crowd follows as they can, stomping their feet and clapping their hands as things get a bit hectic. With so much Guinness, MacIvor's and Cockagee Pure Irish poured, no wonder everyone is in a fine mood. Sucks to be underage, which a few are. They suffer with milk and coffee because someone has a sense of humour.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail had received an invitation away from his usual stomping grounds. The Russian usually frequented Yuri's and the Swordfish, but a new place to drink always was something worth investigating. He has donned something outside of his usual SHIELD garb and instead has a t-shirt and jeans.

The agent has taken up a seat with Jane and Dane, a couple of pints close at hand, each different because variety is the spice of life, and also he needed to try /everything/. Mik is in a fairly good mood, trying to get used to the music, but it is still foreign to him.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The joy in the music is so infectious, not three steps into the crowded pub, and Jessica's hand beats a rhythm on her thigh. She looks over at Kendra smiling; the musicians are that good. Wearing flats - good for dancing and fighting, not that she is planning to fight this evening, she is just a girl that likes to keep her balance, a swingy short skirt over tights and a bright green sweater that matches her eyes; she works her way toward the table where Dane and Jane sit.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi's motorcycle engine is still turning over as she sits on its saddle with phone out texting Lance <Are you sure? the music is going off ... okay look after yourself, no beer> There's a small smile that ticks up at the edges of her lips and she puts the phone away.

Helmet off, motorcycle off, dismount. She's wearing Lance's leather jacket either way. blue jeans, sneakers and a black long sleeved top. The stark watch buzzes on her wrist and she checks it, a message back from Lance. She nods and then looks around noting her colleagues. She gives a wave and approaches.

"Hey, this place sounds like it's going off. Good choice," there's a levity to her smile today. She's been getting used to this concept of work and life being separate (sort of) and it's been opening a new kind of peace inside of her. "I'll be right back, getting a pint."

Lance can't have beer, but she sure can! she heads over to the bar and waits her turn for the bartenders attention and orders herself a pint of kilkenny. Weaving her way back through the crowd she joins the growing group. "Lance sends his apologies he's feeling really under the weather. Figures, rejoins SHIELD and immediately is taking sick days. Though, he's not faking it," she adds just in case anyone got the wrong idea.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Huddled in the corner with Jane and Mik, Dane Whitman's gone for a single pint, which is half-full (we'll be optimistic on that score tonight). He's got his arm around Jane's shoulders and is generally looking like he's having a good time, gabbing back and forth between Jane and Mikhail. Mostly going over some of the cultural stuff for Mikhail's benefit. But when Jess and Bobbi arrive, he lifts his mug in salute and greeting all in one. It's a big table, thankfully...still plenty of vacant seats. "Nothing too serious, I hope?" He queries of Lance, given that he's definitely Not Faking.

Kendra Saunders has posed:
Looking at hte others, Kendra is clearly somewhat uncomfortable. She has thousands of years of experience with wings but...not like this. She has been able to take them off in her past lives...and they weren't made of Nth Metal. She already had to work at it to make sure she could fold them against herself safely and learn to control them. All the little twitches, shifts and the like that normal biological creature are emphasized more in large wings. Still, she has worked a lot in the past couple of days to learn to pull them as tight as she can against herself.

With Jessica, she walks over toward the table with the rest and smirks over at Bobbi as she hears that, "Always seems to happen that way." She then sees about getting a seat against a wall. Best not to leave her wings out in the aisle.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane is tucked away with a glass of cider, crisp enough to keep her wits slightly dulled and full enough to embody the autumnal glories of the Emerald Isle. Her toe taps to the beat, though she isn't one to slap her thigh quite yet. Not with the glass at her lips, the bite of the drink threading through her veins. "Easy beat to follow," she murmurs around the rim to Mikhail and grins when Bobbi emerges like a sloop. A wave follows to them; her glass is back in hand moments after touching the tabletop. "Just wait for the fiddler to come around. Some things are universal, like music."

The dancers come to a whirling halt, facing back to back, their skirts bouncing like taut sails bellied with a breeze. To the applause and the break in the reel, the two women formally bow and wheel away to take up spots on the chairs pushed hard to the wall. The guitarist and bodhran-drummer take up the rhythm as people filter in closer, squeezing along the sides since booths are hard to find and the odd spare seats are the best they're going to get. The dim lights focus on the stage. A server weaves expertly by with glasses of stout, dark and rich, to be replaced by empties.

Clearly this marks the end of the fiddler's break, and he adjusts his vest a fraction, taking up that silky instrument and tucking it under his chin. "Guests' choice tonight! Shall we go with a lively tune or a sad one?" The shouts coming back and forth almost immediately seem pretty evenly split.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mik is tapping along with his large fingers, keeping a beat despite being slightly buzzed, giving a nod to Jane. "Da, it is catchy beat. Though much unlike home. But I like it!" He has been getting a crash course on the history and culture. Mik bounces a little in his seat and then looks to the newer arrivals, "Evening!" he calls, his speech unencumbered by his mild intoxication. Though Kenda's wings catch his attention, but he says nothing.

After Mik waves to the others, he then hears the music stop and asks the table, "Any preference? I do not know many of these songs, but perhaps you all do?"

Jessica Drew has posed:
The server uses the break in the music to swing by with a tray. Jessica doesn't hold back having spider metabolism that goes through alcohol like water. It has its good side and bad side, getting tipsy takes work and concentration.

She leans into the group with a smile, glance moving between Jane, Mikhail and Bobbi then gives them a salute with her pint of stout, "The music is great. Wish there was more room for dancing." Her smile is a clear vote for lively though she doesn't join the chorus of shouts. Stout in hand, she joins Kendra, preferring to stand for the moment and look out over the crowd.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi smiles and seats herself down at the table on the crowd-side. She prefers to be able to act and also protecc her colleagues. "Nah. Just a nasty flu of some sort. He's all kinds of sorry looking at the moment. No fun at all. We even have two whole marble races queued up in 'watch later' because he can't concentrate on it," she replies to Dane and takes a long sip of her kilkenny.

"Hey does anyone here have Irish ancestry? Welsh for me. Morse is a derivation of Morris. Still celtic just not as celticly celtic as the Irish," she says with a grin. She's enjoying herself and rolling her shoulders back and forth a little to the beat of the music. "Very easy beat to follow," she says agreeing with Jane.

Bobbi calls out not expecting her request to be honoured, "Saddle the Pony! with Rory O'Moore!," .. a set of rather lively tunes indeed. But she's probably not the only one shouting out dance requests. She throws in a wolf whistle for added fun and then looks back to her compatriots, "Kendra, you're looking a million times better than how we found you." She lifts her drink and says, "To Kendra."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"A bad flu is no joke." Dane replies, lifting his mug alongside Bobbi. He may barely know Kendra at all, but hey, that's no excuse to bow out of a toast. "Welsh and English for me, mostly. Wouldn't be surprised if there's some Scot or Irish mixed in here and there, but it's pretty well-buried in the family tree if it is." He nods to Kendra, not at the moment aware that she might know a heck of a lot more about him than he does her. Or at least about some of his ancestors. As far as musical selections go, though, he seems in favor of the livelier groove as well.

Kendra Saunders has posed:
The woman smiles at the others as she settles at the table and then calls out for a stout. She has never been one to shy away from a drink and then she looks to Mikhail, "Some of this music is quite old but I do like some of the newer as well. Not something I follow much, though." She just has happened to, lived in a lot of places. She then laughs at Jessica and shakes her haed.

"I do like to dance but I think dancing in public isn't something I'm built for anymore. At least not on a floor with others." She then looks to Bobbi and hears her first words, "My background is rather, complicated." She clears her throat and then blinks at Bobbi's further words and she blushes a little, letting out a sigh.

"Not all that necessary, Bobbi." She smiles warmly enough, "I'm just happy to be here." She does look a lot better, overall. She has healed with much greater speed than any normal person should. Then again, she has always healed a bit faster than others. Of course, now it's accelerated.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Irish and English here, all European mutt," Jane acknowledges with another lift of her glass to clink lightly against Dane's for good measure. "Possibly Scottish, but not too sure on that score. We've got a Morris for the dancing, and me in the woods. Foster being Forester, and it's Australian for crap beer." This old rhyme earns a smile all the same, and she swirls around the cider as though to measure how much might hold out. All is well enough as she grins at Jessica and Kendra. "I don't know if slainte is appropriate here, but it seems so." A wiggle of the drink encourages a sip and that is that. Though not quite.

Jane Foster has posed:
More called votes, this way and that. Lively it's going to be! The fiddler tilts his head, listening keenly. Pale hair flops across his brow and he salutes with his bow. Tucking his chin, he nods to the musicians around him. There mustn't be much exchanged except a look and practice because they start weaving a slow, luminous melody from the crack of the sticks on a metal chair leg. Strings sing beneath the bow, picking up a repetitive scrap of melody, weaving around the guitarist's harmony until they braid together in the stamping of feet. The melody from the vocalist with the sticks becomes the special spice that makes the dish really resonate with a rising breath of a storm.

     "I feel a change is coming,
     People listen all a-round,
     I feel a change is coming,
     Keep an ear 'pon the ground."

The flautists echo his voice, the chorus being built in a seesaw battle between them and the fiddler, spinning around and around.

     "The footsteps plainly marching,
     The young men gathered ahead;
     I feel a change is coming,
     People coming all a-round."

The young man singing reaches the second movement before Craic's door bangs open loud as a gunshot. Some smart aleck hurls a thick pint glass at the stage hard enough for it to shatter to a spray of glassy shards on the wooden boards. A bottle follows in short order, but not a short cider or Guinness pour. No, it's rather like 750 mL of midtier liquor being wasted as a missile flung by a Highland Games champion. Being hit by that's bound to be catastrophic, and somehow the bodhran drummer jolts aside faster than a cobra striking. Doesn't help the SHIELD guests at the big table a bit beyond him though.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
"I should probably not dance," Mik says, knowing full well of dancing bear jokes, "Though I am not bad dancer!" He laughs, but shakes his head when Bobbi asks and responds with, "All Russian," Mik points to himself. "Though it is good bar." Mik raises his pints in the toast, draining his mostly full pint in one go. Mik looks to Kendra after, "Do not believe we have met, I am Mikhail." He has not been with SHIELD very long so is not likely aware of all its members.

When the music changes, the large Russian taps on the table to the beat, and stomps along with a foot. Then the pint glass is thrown. Fortunately it is empty. The problem is when the bottle is thrown and it careens towards the table. At this point, Mik's reflexes kick in and he makes the biggest sacrifice of his life, forfeiting his drink as he flips the table up to catch the bottle. The Russian raises a brow, "First is broken glass, not bad, but now they waste liquor. That is most serious crime." His tone is dry, but the seasoned veteran furrows his brows and snaps out of his mild buzz into a serious expression.

Jane Foster has posed:
The bottle that hits the flung table doesn't just careen off of the solid wooden slab. It smashes into the wood and leaves a staggeringly deep crater, the exploding wave of liquid spraying out in every direction. Mass and velocity balance the equation; more broken glass all over the place. It embeds in the wall and floor as happily as flesh.

Jessica Drew has posed:
Jessica never gets to share her Irish heritage. Drew being Ó Draoi, literally meaning "Descendant of the Druid". The music strikes lively making talking difficult.

Gaze rapt on the stage, foot tapping with the music, the door banging behind her receives a frown over her shoulder. The first missile she chalks up to a rowdy even though the evening is young.

At the second strike, she turns fully to the door, the stout now on the floor and her mug held in her fist like a weapon. Her first instinct is to move between whoever threw the bottle and the table. Mikhail's comment produces a wry grin. She jumps back when the table is upended, "My Russian friend, now there is more alcohol wasted! Is everyone alright?"

Into the chaos of alcoholic missiles and an overturned table, an ugly odor wafts through the tavern, it beats down the aroma of good beer and corned beef that emanates from the kitchen. Spider senses give her fine sense of smell, she holds her head up like a hound scenting the air, perplexed, she turns to the table, "Do you smell that?" She parses the odor like a sommelier, "Blood and the moors on an autumn night...what is that? Peat! And meat. Raw." In short, the odor is alarming.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi was expecting Russian from the bear. She grins back at him and shrugs her shoulders. "New code name for Jess - Druid," she says flatly. Sometimes they stick. Sometimes they don't. She smirks though and is about to lift up her beer again for another drink when it is ignobly sacrificed by Mikhael to save a bottle of liquor.

"Medved'!," she says in Russian to Mikhael (ahem, 'bear') in complaint as the kilkenny ends up all over her. The smashed bottle, the bang of the door, the other thrown bottle. This crowd is getting a wee bit too rowdy. She stands up and wipes her front down.

"Where is it coming from?," she asks not having smelt anything - especially now she smells like beer. She checks her equipment. Slim line stun gun behind the belt, super hot wire cutter clipped to the belt, phone in her pocket. It's not much, but it's more than enough. There's a small click as she turns the stun gun on but leaves it where it is, ready for the quickdraw.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Thank many years of learning to duck behind a shield for both Dane and Jane's lack of broken glass cuts and a minimum of liquor splatter, because when he instinctively ducks behind the table he pulls her with him, half-shielding her with his body along the way.

"Careful, nothing within human bounds is throwing a bottle that big that fast." He warns the others, giving Jane a brief once-over to make sure she's all right before moving to peek his head over the top of the table to see what they're dealing with.

Kendra Saunders has posed:
A look over to Mikhail and Kendra nods to him, "Kendra Saunders." She states simply enough and gestures, "I didn't always have constant metal wings." She states and then she blinks as her senses go high at the first glass thrown. Then Mikhail is acting and so is she. She loses her stout but that's not important now. Instead she pulls from her hip a small stick that she flips out into a baton even as the next glass smashes the table.

Like Jessica, she moves quickly to the front and her wings flex around her rather naturally. Now this. This is where she's a natural. In battle, with wings. Not day to day life with wings. SHe looks around carefully at the people here and looks briefly to Jessica and then around again, "Who or what threw that glass?" She then looks to the others, "If you can't take a hit like that, stay behind me. These wings can take far more than a thrown glass."

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane doesn't question the world flipping over, or her cider being flung over her shoulder to break against the wall lightly. A splashing wave mostly avoids her sweater, but she sinks down. "Fine, I'm fine," she murmurs, not even looking up at Dane. Rather she is squashed up against the shadows, trying to see past. Scrubbing the heel of her palm to her temple, she mutters, "Bloody dark in here. Like it was with Peggy." That's signal enough for Dane, hopefully. She, unlike everyone else brave, stays down. Nope. Down.

Jane Foster has posed:
"I see a troubled path
     For my people up ahead;
     I hear the war cries echoing
     The silence of the dead."

The vocalist defiantly continues at least a bit of the song, though he's armed with a pair of sticks. Not much good, really, though he doesn't seem willing to put them down. The table flung over close to the drummer sends him darting fast to his feet, standing among the scattered chairs. Other musicians hasten to rise, a group of six in the tight confines of the pub. Neither flautist or fiddler continue, looking around with narrowed eyes, falling into a wall of three in front of the singer. Altogether, they're pale and watchful, cheeks flushed, mouths tight. The crowd already gathered for a song doesn't need much to tip over into a brawl, violence incipient on the fading sounds of music. People squeeze into the bar, and one takes no chances, running straight for the loo. Bathroom break, stage left. A shoving match near the slammed door takes care of where the trouble comes from: that's a tall man with an absolutely /fabulous/ leather Tilley hat and an equally fabulous burgundy duster coat stained black several inches deep around the hem.

The shoving match abruptly ends with a callous toss that bodily lifts and flings the unfortunate gent in a Manchester United jersey right into a few tables. Landing rough makes for a loud tinkling. "Moth, you can stop hiding. You've been running dead for /days/ now." A flash of a grin sets things all wrong. His skin's a cool cobalt, not exactly ashen, and that hair? Perfectly white. Human? Maaaaybe?

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mikhail is now unhappy. Not just was his own beer wasted, but htat of his friends too. "Sorry," he says to the others. Mik has not been sniffing at the air, but he is also in his human form, so the ursine senses are not kicking in yet. To Dane, Mik nods, "Da. This is problem."

The arrival of the new threat, though makes Mik pause. "Looks like we have big problem. Not going to get hairy, yet, but maybe will." Currently he is not threatened, but also does not want to attract too much attention yet. Mik looks to the others, "Moth? Is that anyone we know?" His tone is hard, but knowing he is definitely not the ranking agent here, he is not in a position to give commands.

Jessica Drew has posed:
The Irish tunes and good cheer reel into a realm that reeks of the supernatural to Jessica. Mikhail is not the only person feeling unhappy. "Kendra, keep on your guard. This stinks. Literally."

Glass in her hand, she looks back over her shoulder, "The guy looks dead, if you ask me, smells dead, too. That's someone's big problem. I don't know any Moth, do you Kendra?"

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi shrugs her shoulders at the question of Moth. "Right. Find and detain Mothman. Detain apparently very strong world of warcraft guy. Start polite, escalate if they escalate. Let's use our words. Jane hit the fire alarm, let's vacate this place of the public." If there's one thing she can do, it's meet out a few broad enough orders to get to the bottom of this weirdness. She trusts in her team to get it done.

No wings for her today, this was meant to be a nice fun outing. There's a buzz on her wrist, another message from Lance. She quickly replies back <Not my fault>. He knows that code well enough. She might be home late, somehow work has ruined another social outing.

Bobbi starts to weave her way through the crowd toward the cobalt skinned man. She has no idea how strong he is, nor really how strong Kendra might be now - but she does know she doesn't know her own upper limits yet. Ideally she won't have to find out tonight.

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Dark Elf. Asgardian...er...from one of the Asgardian Realms. You might have to ask an Asgardian for much more info than that, but likely a pretty serious threat." Dane explains, nodding to Jane and moving out from behind the table himself, "Sounds like he's after someone. Not ringing any bells." He could armor up, or pop the photonic shield or sword, or summon the Ebony Blade (which might honestly be more suitable here), but...all of these things attract attention and for the moment they're not the focus. So he waits...at least a moment or two more...before any more "flashy" abilities come into play. So for the moment he just looks like some bloke lining up in front of the table.

Kendra Saunders has posed:
A frown as she looks over at Jessica and then she nods to Bobbi. Bobbi is technically in charge even if this isn't some kind of special op. She walks forward all the same, idly placing her baton to her shoulder as she approaches, "Hey there." She calls out and nods to the white haired, ebony skinned man, "Agent Kendra Saunders. Shield. What's this about?" She asks given she can go ahead and stand out from the crowd. It's highly unlikely anyone is unaware that she has huge wings on her back.

Bobbi might not have a clue how strong she is now but she at least has a hint. One, from having lived it but also two, because she knows what Nth metal can do. Now she's got it embedded in her. She's unclear just what the effect is but she knows that she possibly has the least chance of being broken in half if this guy decides just to attack.

Jane Foster has posed:
The gentleman calling for Moth looks around briefly. Some of the stunned bystanders in the bar might try to decide if a body lies in the spill of chairs and tables. Eventually someone there hauls up the football fan by the shoulders; the musicians retreat back into the masses. No one named Moth responds, and the dark elf contemptuously disregards engagement unless it's literally to walk through or around them, steadily going for the back of the pub. "I require no shield, creature. Moth flees from his crimes, and justice pursues the criminal." Jessica's commentary gets no response other than a mild lip-curl.

Jane pulling a fire alarm won't be necessary given the bubble of patrons splitting into the fight or flight camp. Fight means grabbing anything at hand. Bottle, umbrella, a chair. They're happy to engage; one on thirty looks like good odds. Pulling down his hat, he doesn't hesitate to throw an elbow to block a punch, carelessly shrugging off someone headed for his back. Wading through people doesn't cause him any concern, though he shoots Dane an outright disgusted look. "Asgardian? You wound me. Overbearing louts, the lot." A glass rings down and he bats it aside hard enough to hit the ceiling on his way to the stage. "Do test my patience, truly." The smile shows white, white teeth. "I dare you."

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
This is a problem. There is a threat on the board and Mik is concerned. Not the most restrained of agents, he strides forward to join Bobbi, since if this guy has the superpowered arm that wasted perfectly good liquor, Mik can't let anyone go in alone, and a Russian giant can at least help out a little bit. Also to shield the body in case his mates need to get him out, though Mik gives Jessica a nod after she mentions the guy is dead. "What did this Moth do? Perhaps instead of wrecking bar you could explain better." Admittedly it's with a heavy accent, but Mik gonna Mik. He looks to Bobbi, "Things getting hairy?" Not usually one for idioms, but may as well ask. Because things are about to get hairy, literally.3

Jessica Drew has posed:
Bobbi doesn't walk alone to confront the blue-faced menace. Not half a stride behind her, Jessica marches, her free hand down at her side out of sight knotting and flaring open with a barely visible aura of blue light around it.

She catches Dane's words, "Dark elf? Ugliest thing I've ever seen," she mutters with distaste, motioning with the glass toward the door. "Where are the Asgardians now then? No matter, we can handle this trouble." Hope or an honest assessment? Some of the strongest gifted people on the planet flank her side. She lifts her chin at the sneer curling the elf's lip. Jessica dares. She raises a finger in the air, calling attention to herself, not asking polite permission.

"Hairy?" She quips. "That works for me."

Jane Foster has posed:
The dark elf shrugs; a Russian giant asking about Moth is responsible. "I have neither time nor interest to speak with savages." The smart black and burgundy lines of his coat sway as he moves on, fully prepared to make a space for himself en route to whatever is in the back. Probably a kitchen.

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi likes Kendra's direct approach, though it doesn't appear to be helping. Best to try a little bit of bullshit. She ducks back as a punch is thrown her way and she grips the nerves above the wrist and below the shoulder enough to give the guy a good reason to consider going home. She shakes her head at him and then moves on to Mr. Grey.

She looks over to Mikhael and nods her head, "Let's see, give him a moment - if he wants things to get hairy.."

"By articles of the realms interstellar treaty: all law enforcement, polite, agent, or bounty hunter must present their claims to SHIELD before engaging in populaced areas Sir," she says pulling that nonsense right outta her butt. Weirdly, it's worked before, though this guy looks like he's spoiling for a fight.

"Pursuant to a valid claim against this Moth person, SHIELD may by treaty grant you permission to hunt your fugitive with assistance," if he's legit, he'll at least have to humour the concept. "We don't want fugitives on Earth who have not been granted asylum Sir," she says holding out a hand as if to say 'stop' though the gesture might not be as universal as she hopes.

"But proper channels must be taken before you can resume your hunt. In the mean time, please describe this Moth you are after and we, the Earth authorities, will detain them." The last time this worked Agent Hartley pulled it off with an Asgardian bounty hunter.

Dane Whitman has posed:
At least Dane manages to keep a straight face for all that. This guy though? He doesn't seem like he considers them worthy of wasting breath on, which can be both a plus and a minus. And so he waits once more, figuring he'll save his own "transformation" to coincide with a certain Russian's. May as well make for a bit of a spectacle if nothing else is working.

Kendra Saunders has posed:
A sharp breath is sucked in and she looks to Bobbi who speaks up. She has dealt with this type before. Dealt with Asgardians and those who come from those realms. She shifts her stance a little and smiles at Bobbi, "A moment." She states and then she flaps her wings backwards and sails through the air like a feather on the wind. She actually curls her body as she moves and one might question if she's...uh, as unused to those wings as she might possibly should be. She seems rather adept even as she lands near the path of the walking Dark Elf and her left wing whips out wide right into his path.

"You heard the nice lady." She again taps the baton on her shoulder, "Speak up about your claim, give us information...or don't." She looks at him with a smirk, "I've had a very rough week and if you wish for me to show you a savage..." She grins a wider, darker grin, "I can show you just how savage I can be." Those words coming out in a dangerous proposition that drips with future enjoyment.

Jane Foster has posed:
Maybe the gesture is universal, but the universe is an enormously vast place with more stars than grains of sand on every beach that has ever existed on Earth. Custom doesn't follow to all corners. "No," the dark elf says. "How futile the deceits you spin are, a whelp playing at lords and ladies. Bad as the Asgardians."

A flick of his hand up forms a whisking gesture. A cracked sound parts his lips, creating a blackened web of shimmering light around him. It happens so fast that the sparkling bands of midnight emerge at the same time they collapse, an inkstorm of negative energy dragging on everything around it. Bits of glass and dust crawl in towards him as he drops into the void. Teleporter. Ick.

Mikhail Uriokovitch has posed:
Mik snarls. "Savages!?" he barks out, and nearly begins the process of transforming but about as quickly as he gets the thought, Bobbi and Kendra speak up, and the threat bamfs out of the area.

"We have big problem," Mik says, anger lingering on his words, "Now he search world for this Moth? Also he does not recognize authority, so he will be even worse, da?" The Russian is visibly angered, just shy of a rage with reddened expression and breathing deeply. "We must find both, Moth and strange man."

Jessica Drew has posed:
A giggle tickles Jessica midway in her chest. She purses her lips in an effort not to break into a grin. Bobbi has the high language of bullshit dialed down, and the young agent is inordinately proud of the fact that she is their senior agent. Life takes an even more interesting turn as Kendra rises into the air, feather-light on the path to confrontation. "Looks like we're savages," she says to the agents around her.

Disappointment might be a strong word for the let down at seeing the portal suck the being into another realm.

"What a way to spoil a party! We seem to have a big problem. Let's see what we can do to calm people down after that show."

Bobbi Morse has posed:
Bobbi frowns a touch at his dismissal of her nonsense. Well, it was nonsense. She lowers her arms and looks around the room, then back to the agents. "Well, that went weirdly," she says. Poorly didn't fit.. nor did Well. "Foster Whitman, can you get in touch with the Asgardian embassy. If they don't have answers we can pursue other avenues."

"Let's assume Moth was here tonight. I'll get the geeks on the surveillance around the area, see if we can't see anyone fleeing. We're going to need some way to track that.. teleporter? yet another thing for R&D to mull over. May be we had a satellite passing overhead and it caught something."

She draws out her phone and dials the Ops, "Agent Morse," she says in response to the prompt. "0-2-7. Dark Elf apparently. Seeking out a supposedly criminal named Moth. Yes Sir. Satellite for weird signals. Cameras for this Moth perhaps. No.. nope, didn't acknowledge SHIELD authority at all. Yes Sir. Foster and Whitman are here. Yes Sir already have."

She hangs up and puts the phone away. "Oookay well I'm going back to the Triskelion." There's a raised eyebrow and motions to the kitchen, "He seemed to be heading that way. Super sniffers, go check it out."