4905/No Body, No Crime

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No Body, No Crime
Date of Scene: 27 January 2021
Location: Branches of Yggdrasil
Synopsis: Death is a stylish look.
Cast of Characters: Jane Foster, Amora

Jane Foster has posed:
Yggdrasil is, in art, a great ash tree. Sometimes an oak. The English countryside with its great titans in the midst of soft grain and wildflowers gives rise to those sylvan behemoths with stately, spreading boughs and a full coronet of green leaves. Each atremble with purpose, this vision of the world that painters and skalds so adore.

They're wrong, of course. No giant space tree in the sky. No collection of worlds hanging from the boughs like fat, multicoloured fruit or tiny metal acorns.

A slipstream of colour shoots vibrant citrine, gold, and brass from a trunk line, one of those hidden paths through the universe. Here smaller and finer filaments break off, feeding into other parts of a place without reach. It's beautiful in its way, surprisingly detailed bleed of power from the incarnation of Yggdrasil as a superhighway for energy, an operating network for the universe, instead of a physical arboreal presence holding up the worlds.

This small space links not to Midgard but the shrouded world of Vanaheim, wreathed in mist and fog wherever it would come out into the great sprawl of gold-leaf forests in autumn. A splendid place, a suitable one. It would very much be appropriate for a girl to go, if she were on a mission, had she a purpose. Even for holiday.

Typically useful to bring a body along, instead of walking through the mists like a ghost, tinted the same foxfire shades.

"Ah, Dane. If you could see it now."

Amora has posed:
Midgard can often be a pit of boredom. Really, some humans are just soooo drab and not willing to fight back, showering her with gifts just to have fleeting moments of Amora's attention. For that's all they get. Yet for lives that are spent in a blink that is more than enough for the millenia-old sorceress. Yet as of late there was some glimmer of hope. Excitement? First with the raw piece of magic she had retrieved and had crafted into a staff... A raw piece that had allowed her to break into the Sanctum Sanctorum itself to retrieve a blade that was long lost to her people.

The Dragonfang Blade.

Besides all that she was *also* get ominous signs of Hell Princes doing the naughty with mortals. And while she found nothing wrong with some mischief there were some things that just weren't good to have around.

So with that all in her mind, along with the mysterious disappearance of Jane Foster, Amora had taken a turn towards Yggdrasil, visiting the fabled tree in a wish to renew her magical energies and also continue her search for the woman. She knew she would need that for the near future..

The Enchantress appeared as if brought in by a breeze, fabulous dress on, a intricate staff in hand, chin high as she took in the flowing energies that immersed her senses in it.

"Mmmm, it has been so long.." She murmurs, mostly to herself.

Jane Foster has posed:
Pathways radiate outward. So many choices to follow would make for an infinite number of paths to take. But a naked soul unmoored from her body is here, just another jot of dust in the eye of a greater god. Creation itself swallows her up. Jane Foster, peering too deep into the heavens, has fallen into them, and that strange journey, for the moment, has brought her here.

She reaches out a translucent hand to brush against the intangible pressure that bars Vanaheim from casual admission even by these pathways, these branchioles that don't even deserve a greater name. Something gives under her fingertips, letting them through the wrist. There lies warmth and the slightest touch of smoke to the air, mysteries resolved into tangible form that she might not have the slightest influence over. It's a grim fact for her, the nudge to so many things going right through or reflected with an unwelcome solidity. Objects nudge her, not the other way around. No gravity there.

But this gives. So she pushes, stepping past, caught halfway between nowhere and somewhere, the clarion call of Vanaheim strong.

Her gown is a hitched thing, woven under the waist by a resplendent girdle of tricky complexity. A spiral brooch at her shoulder pins a long cloak that holds no weight, no stain of colour. All those distinguishable textures don't give any hint of weight or hue, but they're unquestionably fine by Vanir make. Not royal -- Frigga gets that right, after all -- but highborn, respectably noble, particularly wild. Hence the feather motif running down the woven cloak; hence the ghostly dagger at her side, slender and long and sharp. Some things are more difficult to explain away, so she won't, edging closer to a portal that carries the stains of amber and woodsmoke, welcoming now as it would be in life. Campfire smells, though more elegant. Glamping, really. Amora might even tolerate it.

She looks back sharply all of a sudden, those wide milky eyes dark and lit by shadows instead of its usual warmth. A line on her brow forms; the loose wave of her hair stir in a breeze that isn't there. Amora isn't a shape she /expects/ to see. Sif, maybe. Loki, no. Thor... That's a Thor spot.

<<What?>> Words gone soundless. Here, her thoughts are private, words she cannot express unless another walks those realms Astral.

Amora has posed:
Yggdrasil is indeed one of those places of convergence, of paths that lead to so many roads. One of them should certainly show one's destiny, shouldn't it? Not that Amora leaves *her* fate to chance, blazing through life as an Asgardian and never allowing herself to be caught on the consequences of her own schemes. But maybe that's exactly what her fate is. To serve as a counterpoint to the other Asgardians. For all has a purpose in this life..

Being here has the gift of calming her, of allowing her to think and consider the various roads ahead, where she can go, what she can take, what she should do. All for Asgard, before the throes of Ragnarok comes and attempts to claim it. But this time, she would allow it not to happen. Eyes blaze with power as that staff she carries hums with raw magical material, one that resonates even in the astral, blinding and powerful.. "Mmmm, who is ..?"

She stops her meditation, considering, a breeze that feels too familiar to just be a coincidence. It brings her back to something in the past. Something lost that can still be found.

Ancient words are spoken then, pure Asgardian as she begins to incant a spell, one to transcend body as she reaches to touch the Astral plane, seeking that which is hidden. For if anyone is to be hidden that's normally Amora!

Jane Foster has posed:
The path to show destiny is surely wound up in the painted threads dancing under the Norns' fingertips, though what have they spun for Amora in glistening green and devious golds? Much less what has become of the thin, frayed line that snapped under their auspices back when Verdandi made her measure? Jane isn't going to be at that well for some time yet, Nornheim another matter altogether. For all has purpose in this life.

But what about those in the fall between life and death?

Hindrances keep her from moving on, at least, caught on the threshold of a doomed path that would beckon deeper. She can almost see the room on the other side, melting into its heat, the tethers of fate already snarled around a spirit form walking freely. Leaves fill in. The splendour of youth dips to something different, her skin taking on a nutty finish, the patterned work of tattoos laid on it filling in the space of her shoulder, marks under her eyes, giving a different aspect as if the memory of another's visage is impressed on her own. Over it, into it, putty that forms to whatever glorious purpose it means to be.

Amora might well see that superimposed image growing a bit weightier, the unmoored cords of the Astral form for a mortal bound into a Vanir noble of some kind. Or certainly headed that way, tilting heavily to embodiment of a kind or another.

Amora has posed:
The sorceress's own essence seems to float out, the greens and golds glowing as she turns transparent, body left behind in the real while she traverses what lies beyond the mortal eye. That which only powerful sorcerers can aim to access. The woman's crystal gaze fixes ahead, taking in the form of the noble, still growing, still turning into what their fate is to be. A faint smile that tells much appears on the Asgardian's lips.

<< So you have already reached this point. >> Is she surprised? It doesn't sound like it. Or perhaps she is just very good in hiding her real feelings and motivations.

<< It's a big step, but it is not one that should be taken in doubt. Yet the longer you stay, the more doubt there will be. It is an interesting problem. >> The sorceress flows free, towards the noble, chin lifted as it comes to stand next to it, ethereal dress flowing at the whim of unseen winds.

Jane Foster has posed:
Crystal will capture it, then, citrine and gold bleeding into the woman's form as though they aren't on the astral at all. Though in doing so, Jane fades off that branch, sliding into the Vanir entryway, two-thirds crossed over before measuring that disturbance with the storm cloud eyes canted in a most distinctive fashion.

Life and death are such tricky things.

Her ability to distinguish whatever Amora is saying doesn't seem particularly challenged, that slight tip of her head acknowledging the woman. It might be the Enchantress speaks English, the Vanir of Vanaheim, something else altogether. Aesir? The clashing tongues of insectoids that can speak? Mysteries abound. Easy to fall down a rabbit hole and understand, but the fine confluence of beautifully worked leather and soft wool, the spun cloth of the woodland clearings shining around her in detail that would do a portrait proud. Except it's nearly real, nearly her.

<<Doubt?>> Those heavy rings on thin braids give more character of what form might await on the other side. Just step through, and the flesh will be there, waiting for her. Another body to step into, in whatever condition it is. Her instant of pause is settled by Amora's question, and she can set her heels against the magnetic pull that so longs to continue its path to whatever purposes. A brief moment, the colour bleeds out except at the edges, rendering her once more pale as a wraith wrapped in a silver fog, features vaguely more her own. <<Climbing or falling, you mean?>>

Amora has posed:
<< Choosing to be who we are meant to rarely comes easy. Specially to mortals whose lives can be so fleeting, so fragile and often without purpose. >> The Enchantress continues in Asgardian, even if in here there is no language but the universal one of sharing thoughts that mingle into words that are immediately understood. << There is no heavier burden. >>

The Asgardian looks at the shimmering pathway that seems to have been Jane's choice, watching the form that appears to just be waiting to go through. << But you already know what to do. >> a brow arching as if in question of the woman, as if challenging her to answer if that is not true.

<< I will be seeing you again soon, I am certain of so. >> No doubt in Amora's lips as she speaks, the power of her words resonating across the Astral. She would be waiting.

Jane Foster has posed:
The petite arch of an eyebrow is pure Jane, as is the slight tilt of her head. She doesn't have all the mannerisms that go with a body here, but remembers enough in the spirit for it to carry through. No need to knock back the long sleeves from her elbows when they wave over her hands. No need to question the abundance of wooden rings on those fingers, on the wool wraps up to her wrists. <<That's the funny thing. You mean to ask, where am I going? Or what am I doing? I confess, my lady, it's not entirely clear to me what you imply.>>

Put her on the back foot, perhaps. Maybe both of them are fully certain of their place, their purpose, and it's all a game of cards until someone folds or shows their hand.

<<Not the first route I have taken. Only the most recent. I could not tell you how many have come and gone. Measuring time by all this is rather inaccurate given the lack of timepieces and clocks.>> The faintest brimming of a smirk lifts. <<Are you suggesting that's my resurrection, in there?>>

Amora has posed:
<< What I am saying .... >> And now Amora can't help but to look amused, perhaps at that arch of an eyebrow that tells there is much of Jane in there still, << .... is that there is not a difference on where you are going and what you are doing, is there? Accepting who you are. >>

Gaze shifts from Jane-Vanir towards the path open for her to trail to, a thoughtful mmmm leaving her lips. << If you have to ask, mayhaps it is not the time yet. >> for her ressurrection, that is. << Yet I can assure you that your body awaits, protected. Time is no concern. >>

Though instead of focusing on what the future may hold Amora then turns a gear to the past, << Tell me a story of one thing you have done since beginning this trip. >>

Jane Foster has posed:
A wanderer's path through the tree remains, that mysterious line drawing Jane with magnetic force. She tilts her head up, looking into the faint glow marked by powers beyond her ken. Things she cannot really see, at that.

<<My body? I expected it to be in the ground by now. Cremation, possibly. I haven't any direct family left, and I could hardly put the choice on another.>> A name goes there, but she bites it back, the visual solidification of her sharply contrasted to the smoky clothing. For a moment, her hair is brown, her eyes wide, the freckles on her cheek stark before they fade away. <<I know that spear killed me, Lady Amora, there's no reason to beat around the truth. You haven't upset me. The All-Father has cunning, though possibly not a sense of fairness or humour.>>

A slip of her hand gestures high. <<All of this, a glimpse of what others of your people might see from their high perch. I haven't been bothering Heimdall, of course, nor anyone of consequence. There is a seat at a hall somewhere for a Midgardner, in all these wide worlds. I saw an enormous squirrel-like creature run past and ravens on the wing. I died on Disablot, did you know that?>>

Amora has posed:
<<The truth..>> More amusement reaching the old sorceress's expression, <<You know me. My nature. Do you believe the truth to be so simple as that?>> Even now the spins visible around the woman's ethereal form, the many strands that elude and escape vision. For what exactly is the truth where Amora is concerned? <<Your body is in stasis, the in-between. Your soul escaped, that is true but a residue was left. As if it was meant for you to return one day.>>

<<I knew there was a purpose for our path to cross on that island but if I knew what exactly it was before ... Ahhh.>> she clicks her tongue, perhaps annoyed at herself. Yet whatever else would she had done differently?!

That shift on her form though, the way she becomes more *clear* in her old form for a moment, biting back that name doesn't go unnoticed by the cunning Asgardian. <<You still have a strong connection to your mortal coil. Perhaps more than I expected. But maybe this time it will be different, a new age is upon us afterall.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<I believe you have nothing to lose. Sooner than later, I pass, it ends, and our time and company cease.>> Jane is particularly calm about that statement, the sanguine acceptance measured in a smile, in the steady look she delivers. <<If guilt lingers with you, do not let it. I would not hold you accountable for a choice I made.>>

A slow kind of unspooling follows her thoughts there, the profile of her stamped on the glimmering halo around the Vanaheim gate for the path she stands on. <<I made the choice once, and I would make it again. Remember that, and think softer upon those who were not beguiled or enraptured by you, but acted the best way they could. Not all of us are quite as rotten as you would think.>> She would chuckle, but the vibration of amusement rolling through her suits her well enough. It leaves a tarnished shimmer. <<Perhaps you keep hold of it for hope, my lady. You don't need to. Though I regret the time lost, the opportunities gone, my friends... you do not need to feel bad on my behalf. I don't hold any grudge, headed where I am bidden.>>

It would seem she means that, offering Amora the faintest of smiles and a raise of her hand. <<But as my father was fond of saying, do the right thing and life will reward you for it. Maybe not now, but it will. I believe that applies to you too, Amora.>>

Vanaheim's call is too strong, then, and she steps to the portal. It limns her in gold, the smell of woodsmoke, and then she's gone into that vessel of flesh and age and time, colliding with the ticking clock of mortality. A doorway flashes shut.

A raven chuckles.

Thunder grumbles in a starless sky on Yggdrasil.