6683/A Pint an' A Punt

A Pint an' A Punt
Date of Scene:	24 June 2021
Location:	Craic
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Blackagar Boltagon, Jane Foster

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Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The whole concept of a phone thing was rather mundante to Blackagar, he hadn't really thought about the need to communicate in such a way before but then again, being on Earth he wasn't exactly having servants around to fetch what he might need or assistants to answer his requests. So, after having been given advice on the matter, he had joined the Earth world and had purchased a phone. It had scant few numbers within it but one of them was being looked at.

Sitting in the Irish Pub where lively music was being played he considered over the conversation he had had in the museum of history with the astrophysicist. She had intrigued him, she was interesting, well thought. Passionate about her beliefs even if he did not agree with all of them. But most importantly, she was good company.

Still looking at his phone, he pushes a few buttons and actually types out a text within it. ~If you are not terribly far from this location, would you care to join me for a drink?~ He links the GPS location and hits send, then settles back and motions for another mug of their ale.

Jane Foster has posed:
Phones are a marvel of modern communication, provided someone has not already come up with neural networks, psionic avenues, or a fleet of individuals communicating on their behalf. Various superior options are out of reach for the average individual, including incarnated astrophysicists not out to attract overt attention for the wrong reasons. Besides, while she has options other than a phone, the numbers tend to be fairly limited. The contacts list including Odin, everyone possibly dying -right now-, and the contingent of the Valkyrior is more than a little daunting.

*Ping*!

A message dances over a screen that's been dormant too long and since filled by several hundred notifications from all over. Having her own social media manager is a key part of getting through in life, and that Jane is grateful for as she peeks at the request. The GPS location is almost a laugh: it's a hop and a skip away from her present location, which involves trying to convince a very good golden retriever not to bring a ball back and beat her tail worriedly on the ground.

~~I can be there in a few minutes. -JF~~

The fact proves true. Five minutes is almost overkill, even by riding her bicycle through Happy Harbour, the joys of Staten Island living. Flat and generally easy to navigate is a far cry from the heavily urbanised situation in New York City. Craic isn't too busy by the hour they have chosen, enough to suggest comfortable lunches and early dinners, escaping from the heat in pleasantly dim conditions. The bartender happily serves up drinks and speaks quietly to his staff as they come and go, whilst a pair of dancers prepare for an evening's event with a rehearsal on the stage. Nothing is overtly loud, which perhaps makes it even more enjoyable. She slips in, the door shut behind her, sliding past the podium and waving at the host.

"Looking for a friend who came in early," she explains, hardly even bothering with a coat when a tank-top and a pair of jeans will do. Disarmingly casual, perhaps, with a backpack of no real size slung over her shoulder, she heads Blackagar's way.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
How does the Midnight King dress when he's travelling the world? Like a world traveller. A plain white T-shirt is on his body, a pair of blue jeans and well worn shoes. At least Blackagar has updated his look just slightly as he now also has a pair of sunglasses that rest atop his head. He was eyeing over the menu when Jane arrived, looking up from it to catch her visage and a hand lifts in greeting.

She approaches, he rises appropriately and signs to her, ~You made it.~ There is a hint of happiness on his lips when he does, gesturing to the booth he's been in and motioning to the ale that he already has with a questioning look. When she sits, he sits and settles in.

~I hope I didn't disturb anything important. There is no crisis I was just,~ he pauses seeming to search for the right word then shrugs and settles on one, ~lonely for someone to talk with.~

Jane Foster has posed:
A world traveller with the dust of the moon on his boots and the road leading into places forgotten by a hundred nations over the past millennium? It bares a story, the shadow he casts, though if only someone could hope to read it.

The table in front of her is open, if not vacant, beckoning to settle. The other side of the booth anchored thus deserves attention first. She waits to ensure that she is welcome still, answering Blackagar with a certain turn of a smile. "I did. Sit down, you don't have to rise on my account." A smile and warming posture suggest she's flattered all the same, her eyes brightening to a molten cocoa shade. Her bag she slings over the hook where coats normally go, and she slides into the booth without knocking the table at all with her knees. Funny that, it should happen, but a little more agility never hurt anyone. "It was a welcome diversion from the rigmarole of the afternoon. My days sometimes get started later, but for someone who studies the stars, I rarely get to sleep in." Banishing any expectation there is par for the course, met with a wry turn. "I promise, no crisis on my account. And truly, speaking with you has been the highlight of... a while."

Time still doesn't flow normally for someone who was out of it too long.

"How have you been? Finding your answers and gauging the temperature for whether to come for a swim? Any more encounters with Sif?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar is sipping the ale he was working on, seeming to be examining various beverages, this simply being the most recent one for him to try. There is an evaluatory expression before he sets it aside and 'speaks' back to Jane in his hand signaling way.

~Unfortunately I have not seen Lady Sif lately. We cross paths by chance when we do. I suspect there may be a natural inclination of persons of strength to migrate to the same regions. Or just happenstance, either way, we haven't seen each other in a couple of weeks.~ There seems to be a thoughtful look to him when he shares that, perhaps considering if he should not attempt to reach out to the woman as well. But then his attention returns fully to Jane and he considers her carefully.

~I am finding that for some answers I find, more questions pop up. Although this is to be expected. I would say of late I am leaning towards perhaps at the least making some of your world's leaders aware of our presence so that perhaps they could gauge how best to address our presence with their people. An avenue I had not considered before, but actually those topics were not why I reached out. I was actually more interested in a specific line of discussion.~

~You.~

Jane Foster has posed:
The ale is good enough for one, and probably two. If the server comes by, she makes a simple request; "Hard cider, sweet rather than dry. Whatever bread you have fresh as a start, please." They know her here, somewhat, given it's in her stomping grounds. Though not showing up for months will diminish memory for the best of them.

"That is two of us then," she tells the Inhuman king with a faint smile, and she rests her elbows lightly against the table long enough to settle in a bit better. "Persons of strength headed to the same places. I can't argue with that too heavily, for I have seen it myself. You will turn and there are the same faces always gathering. Particular shared interests will do that too. If I catch her, I will say hello, if you like? Or conversely if you do, my best wishes are hers." The smile she raises is an optimistic show.

"This is natural, yes, to have endless questions branching out from answers. Rarely are things absolute." Lamentations of a scientist; it's how life goes. "A gauge by reaching out is positive. Avoid Victor von Doom, if you would, for a litmus test. He is authoritarian; brilliant, but disposed to expansion and defense of humanity more jthan most. Just as a suggestion."

Her gaze lifts when he calls her out, and the drink is dropped off with a cork coaster. A word of thanks to the server sends him off, back to worry about bread and butter. "Me? I rather think you're the more interesting one, if I daresay so myself, but that's the nature of things. How can I be of help about... well, me?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar lifts an eyebrow at the order, a cider, interesting, something he will need to perhaps try one day. The selection of bread is nodded to, a universal constant that. He relaxes as she begins to speak, smiling at the concept of greeting Sif on his behalf giving an ascenting nod to her. The same is given on her behalf.

As she speaks and mentions Doom, his brow furrows and he nods, hands lifting, ~I have heard of this one prior. I suspect there is a strong likelihood of conflict that will arise there. Not instigated but unavoidable.~

That subject, not the one that interests him, is set aside as the bread arrives. The dark haired man nodding his gratitude to the woman as she departs and looking back to Jane he begins to sign, this time differently. He does it in a very casual manner but rather than using the American Sign Language, he is doing it in Royal Attilan. There are substantial differences as he speaks more fluidly that way.

~I am considered by my people to be rather astute. To pick up on things that are under the surface. Not quite telepathy as some here have but an insightfulness. I do not know why but when we parted ways, I was left feeling that there was something more. Not hidden, but still uncovered. So I was wondering if you would just tell me about anything that struck your mind.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"If you know him, then you have an advantage. I should warn you: he's fond of music. You might have a tactical advantage by having a pianist or an appreciation for classical, though he showed as much interest in showtunes from performances over the past century," Jane warns. There's another of those wry smiles, an indication of something not fully told. Firsthand experience informs her, and whatever Blackagar might pick up from that could aid him in the future.

She reaches for her cider, taking a sip from it. Not much foam gathers, though the tart bite mingles with the sweetness. It's late summer in a glass down to the context of the golden shade, rich and vibrant. Another sip follows the first, less for its thirst quenching properties than to merely enjoy the flavour profile gliding over her lips and down her throat with a swallow.

The transition from ASL into more sinuous, rapid motions could well be marked in some fashion. A raised eyebrow, watching far more focused upon the way his hands and fingers shift to form ideas that spring to life as simply as if he'd spoken them at audible conversational levels. The first few bars of that song, of a sort, require focused study. "The company was delightful," she says, slowly, though her English is perfectly rounded and suitable. It could be High Kree, tossed into the face of an Accuser, and they would grasp her perfectly. His handsigns, much more intriguing. "After hardly having a moment to myself in a while, I found the absence afterward not welcome at all. It was a very good conversation, a discussion that remained with me for a while. Was that the sort of answer you are looking for? Or are you wondering something more general like 'I wonder if that loaf of bread is still warm' or 'Does he know that HMS Pinafore is a diplomatic war with Latveria?'"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Or how does she understand a langauge that is only known to those within the Attilan Royal Family?~ Blackagar signs to her, a warm smile on his lips as she looks at the woman. The signals of his gestures meaningful. It is different, the words seem to pop as understanding grows. There's a tenor to them and a timbre of tone. He reaches down and sips his ale letting Jane have a moment before he continues.

~Your secrets are of course, your own Jane Foster. But I must say that you fascinate me. On a world of billions, there are very few individuals that I have found beyond a curiousity, you are a fascination. If you would indulge me perhaps? I would not wish to pry upon you without equal exchange however, I am, for your purposes, an open book upon this afternoon. Someone among your people should understand Attilan if the need arises.~

Jane Foster has posed:
In a sea of people, there's very little chance anyone there fluently speaks Latin. So Jane shifts into it, though a few of the words have their declensions mildly stomped on, for the uncommon situation of full fluency in an ancient tongue last in use roughly around 500 CE, give or take, shines. It doesn't make entirely much of a difference. "So that is what it is. I have an incomplete answer at best for you, because I know only a little of the process myself. Not for lack of trying, but my time was barely my own for a while."

Another drink then, one with the glass raised to her lips and a significant portion closer to a finger taken in several slow but quick sips. Cider ends up put aside. "The short answer, several angry entombed soldiers tried to hurt a companion of mine and this was a side effect when I woke up."

Another bit of turning her glass around and she looks away, though not for long. Blackagar pulls her attention up. "The longer story? I deliberately took a hit for her, and fell. When I woke up, I was somewhere very far away among a people I did not know. They didn't know me, but I understood them in the short time we stayed together before I was sent away. The process kept happening again and again. Like a messenger, a courier. Everywhere that path took me, the words the people spoke made sense. It's stayed the same ever since, until I managed to finally come back and stay in one place. I still feel the call to go, but nothing is pushing me away uncontrolled to answer anymore. So here we are, having a drink, instead of you seeing me for a few minutes and then turning your back for me to vanish and some unpleasant worries enter your mind about what happened with that rude lady."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar listens and considers, her story bringing as many questions to mind as it provides answers, but it does provide /some/ answers. Looking at her over his ale, turning the mug in his hands, he finally lifts up his fingers and signs to her, ~To be fair, that is a bit more than just being an astrophysicist.~ The way his gestures come it includes the sensation of his chuckle, the humor he feels and expresses that he verbally cannot.

~This transition of your life. It was been welcome? Unwelcome? You make it sound as half burden yet half mercy. A choice to save another is noble, but it came with a blessing or a curse?~

He let's her answer before adding in with additional thought, ~For me, it is a blessing. To have one here that can understand my language when none other can. The other, it is like speaking with a limited alphabet when all the words could be available.~

Jane Foster has posed:
She veils certain thoughts in secrecy, shrouding the essential truth that must be consolidated and preserved. Or perhaps explored by scientific principles where none can apply despite her best efforts. "It is," she says, and idly shifts her fingers to rest under her chin. A game effort, her smile being slender but rueful. "But let's be honest, how would you have taken it if I told you the last few months have been ages for me, wrapped in violence to boot? Not very well, I assume." He's infinitely more articulate than she can hope to be under the circumstances, unable to mirror the smooth movements of his hands or the nuanced details that arise. Not yet.

Those are hard questions from Blackagar, though he receives an answer couched in long pauses to reflect on what they mean. "To be fair, I didn't think long before I acted. Had I known how long this would have me away from everyone I cared about..." She holds up her hands. "Yes. I'd still do it. Because she is still alive, and that's what is right. Still being able to see the stars rise or have conversations in a cracking Irish pub with mysterious, but open-minded, people like you is worth so much. Every experience takes on a new, distinct quality now that it didn't before, so it came with both. My friends and my work probably thought I ditched them, and reconnecting isn't easy. Was it easy for you to leave behind your home and come here? To face that perhaps you might have a hostile reaction, let alone a violent one?" Tables turn with liquid ease, spun by the brunette as she leans over the table a little and rests her chin back on her laced fingers. "This transition must be there for you too, isn't it? It is noble to check for the safety of your people and their best interests, but it seems to me you have to put yourself behind their needs more of the time than perhaps you let on."

A pause and then she smiles, half-arc of her lips, tugged up to the side. Purposes why resolve to be seen; read in the comfortable arc of her shoulder. "Fascinating and good company, that's a mutual feeling. So you do not think it is one-sided. An open book for me to read is a dangerous situation; I might ask questions that probe deep. Like what brought you here -- your feet? A ship? Did you learn English by watching or have you studied from afar? What do you think when you look to the moon? Have you ever been beyond it? Are you ever concerned that the prerogatives of your position will consume your personal interests, or the quandaries of choosing the right path could turn wrong, and what happens then? Perhaps you've got such a strong sense of self or excellent support that you have great confidence you will tackle any problem. It's not unlikely, is it?" A bit of a chuckle lies there, though the questions cease their soft barrage, harmless as they are.

"I would like to understand Attilan, you. And for you to feel heard. Nothing is worse than being someone limited in their language skills and no translator at hand, which I guess is something you've found at hand." Her fingers gracefully tilt to form a simple word: 'me!' It's fairly straightforward compared to others. "Sign is beautiful, like dancing or singing in this way. Do all your court use it, or is it particular to certain places?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Facing Jane's barrage of questions, of thoughts that she expresses when he offers himself as an open book, Blackagar considers them and selects a few in places to respond to, beginning with the latter as the first.

~Most of the immediate court can understand me through thought and expression. They can read my body and hear my mind. The closer I am to a person, the more clearly they do such until it is a fluid form of communication.~ He pauses, considering Jane but then goes on, ~From what I have been able to determine the depth of intimacy with the individual has an impact as well. But as for those outside of that. Most understand my wishes through a translator who speaks on my behalf.~

~You have never even asked why it is I do not speak, which I consider to be interesting. Most would find that the first curiousity, the assumption of physical inability. I can, in fact, speak but to do so would bring about the destruction of much. My strength lies within my voice.~ He then goes into tale, sharing a story from his youth of the destruction by accident of a mountain on the moon (leaving out the deaths of his parents involved) to illustrate why he does not speak.

But then the real questions, the struggles, begin. ~Do not all leaders place their people before themselves? Is that not he sacrifice of leadership? That their needs must come before my own? Yes, many times I have set aside my desires to make sure that what they need is met.~

Jane Foster has posed:
Storytelling is at the art of craic -- that's what it is, the wonderful taletelling, drinking, friendship all wound up into once. Dancing and music may factor in, but they have both of these in spades, if germinated fresh from the seed in fallow, well-watered soils. Down one cider, Jane seeks another, and waits on Blackagar for an indication he might care for one of his own or another ale as suits him. The performers practicing on the stage descend into a basic fiddling reel, accompanied by the soft plink of a flute from the one girl who twirls while she plays.

Jane listens to him well until he's done, hands still, and then the questions or comments can stitch together softly and finely. "That is unique then, you share with your court a method of communication not widely used even among your people? That would be helpful. Gestures are subtle; many don't even notice them. I imagine then that you have a diplomatic edge where called for."

Bread is peeled, broken into slices, and she sets aside one on a plate. Then comes the honeyed butter, a rich churned spread that a blunt, rounded knife makes short work of from the little tureen. "They understand based on intimacy, a connection? That stands to reason. The more they pracice and learn to read, the better they fathom what your intent is? Or do you mean something more...?" There aren't words for it, not properly. "Bonded?" It will have to do.

She takes a bite of the bread, small and delighted in the distinct flavour, the texture. It's no soda bread, which needs something to recommend it. He asks of muteness and she shakes her head. "Speaking of a person's abilities can be rude. My mother was a physician, remember. She taught me to treat everyone with equity. We found a way to communicate, so why make you uncomfortable or think I was obvious?" She tucks her hand under her chin. "Even if that's talking to a man who evidently caused moonquakes and microavalanches. Or macro ones. I don't know exactly what volume you displaced." The very notion to someone who understands astrogeology and astrophysics as easily as breathing, just about, is clear. Abundant risk if he's absolutely teasing, pulling her legs.

"You're a good man, Blackagar, if you let the concerns of your people stand highest in your mind. Many don't. Or they conflate their needs with their peoples. Though if we could do anything right now, for you, what would it be?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar blinks at the question Jane poses him. If he could do anything right now what would it be. There's a long look at her in consideration and then after a moment his hands move fluidly in speech.

~I am doing what I want to be doing right now.~

A considerable statement for him to offer, but company on a lonely world over bread and ale is perhaps a salve to that isolation he must feel. He has taken some bread himself, silently eating it while she speaks. The gestures require him to set it aside however, more of his thoughts to come. ~A bonding, yes, that is a good way to put it. It is a deeper connection that allows the fluid transfer of thoughts and impressions.~ An affirming nod accompanies that before he circles back way.

~You said you have lived and died many times in your situation? Do you feel the pain still or has it released and only the memory of these things remain?~

Jane Foster has posed:
What then indeed? Questions run the gamut and answers follow suit, possibilities being nearly infinite in every respect. She waits without a rush, noshing on the bread that crumbles a little around the centre and its crusty edges endure, waiting for a bite or tear to be properly consumed. It's good stuff, fairly fresh from the oven, baked only that day. Round loaves get eaten in large quantities around Craic; as an Irish pub ought to, they feed hearty foods and lighter fare, all to make the stomach happy.

"I am glad, then," she says with a smile. "As long as you aren't just saying that to flatter me, but you mean it." Her finger taps the tabletop, hardly a threat, but principally meant to drag attention to the seriousness of what Jane implies. As long as Blackagar is happy, so be it.

"Fluid transfer of thoughts and impressions is... just about psionic, if our limited science in that field holds." She doesn't push further, any more than she downs the whole of the cider in a gulp, though it might be tempting. Other truths weigh out, and she shifts in the booth, unsettled but not to the point of flight. Troubled lines dance along fair skin, and she raises her eyes briefly to the ceiling. "It's a complicated state, but yes. I lost track after the two hundredth time or so. Never the same way, not exactly, since lives are not the same and neither are the circumstances they end in. The whole thing happened," she murmurs, looking back to him instead of the tabletop or stained glass. The fiddle skirls. Her words lose their rhythm. "Each time, with the intimacy of a bond that allowed the shared thoughts and impressions through the end. Then I was yanked away and on to the next spot. I guess I should ask if you or your people have any philosophical or religious approaches to life and death. Do you believe in anything that way?"

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The depth of the question causes Blackagar to actually blink aback. It is a difficult inquiry but he settles in and begins to respond after he has taken the time to consider the response. The patience of him thinking it over is clear but then he begins.

~We believe that each of our lives is an important piece of a grand puzzle. That each of us is born for a purpose, specific in that regard, guided by our genetics towards the end. So in that regard we hold in near religious stature our scientists and geneticists that for many centuries helped to guide this. We have prophecies of what to expect, some hold to these tightly, others find them to be a bit more antiquated.~

He reaches to take a drink of his ale, even though he isn't speaking it does allow for a break and processing. Then he continues on.

~As for Death, individuals have their views. We do not hold a large cultural mindset beyond that when a life is lost in service of purpose to our people then it is honored. And of yourself? We have studied Earth philosophies as they have evolved from afar. Haveing experienced life and death as you did, has it changed your perspective?~

Jane Foster has posed:
"I was raised, like many people of my age and culture, to believe somewhat in a church that had long since lost its cultural and social supremacy. My mother believed life was sacred, something you honoured by acting your best to protect it. That stretched into letting people have their dignity when their time came to an end, as much as my reverence and wonder for towering, ancient trees in a rainforest nibbled to a patchwork by human development," Jane says. The topic is not a difficult one for her; perhaps between the endless resurrection cycle, she's had the chance to contemplate a little. "My parents did not pressure me into conformity or belief with any religious standard. As cosmologists go, we review something greater every time we peer out into space and see the vastness surrounding us. Billions of years are as difficult to comprehend as billions of grains of sand or cells. I appreciate the hard work of geneticists, for example. They were on the micro scale; my studies are on the macro."

It's quite true, as she curls and uncurls her fingers, mirroring a few of his gestures. Things to learn, as she puzzles over them, speaking nonsense at the start but having a feel. Catching the Inhuman king offguard earns no points or obvious pleasure, but she might beam a bit of a wider smile because. "So I hold all of nature, the universe itself, with a sense of awe. Everything has its place and a grandeur unimaginable in a way. I have more, now. For rain, and the sound of music, the ability to *dance*. Good bread. Everything has more concrete value when caught on the hinge of something worse, something finite and ending. I suppose it sharpened the focus I held already and gave me reason to care more than I do. Value it, protect it. Where this takes me yet, hardly clear, but at least every day is a gift. To you, then."

She holds up her glass in a toast, and says, "You clink the glass against mine, and drink."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar lifts his glass, clinks it against Jane's, and then takes a drink of his ale before setting it down, smile blooming on his lips. ~There are so many people on this world with differeing views even within their cultural groups. It is definitely a fascinating thing to witness, but even more helps to put into context that which you speak of. The growth of acceptance, the slow tread forward. You hold within you much hope then? Despite what you have seen, you have hope?~

Letting the question linger he picks up some bread, taking a bite, then sets it down once more. ~You are beginning to learn,~ he nods towards her hands. He holds his own up as he makes the gestures, slowing them just a little which seems to make the words almost drag out like he was speaking slower himself. ~Very few try to learn outside those who need to. My former fiance would often chastize those who did which I think discouraged others from trying. So you asked me, if I could be anywhere, or be doing anything, what would it be. I ask you the same.~

Jane Foster has posed:
The drinks kiss, the liquid dances over the palate, and a swallow condemns any variations to slumber once more. "We can agree on nothing, as a rule. Even collective threats will bring out varying viewpoints." Jane chuckles softly, shaking her head. "Humanity in all its flavours is quite maddening to an outside perspective, or anyone expecting homogeneity. We can barely achieve that in smaller numbers, and still the collective action must accommodate the consensus of the many instead of the all. Fascinating unless you have to deal with it. Rather like herding cats to get them to point all in the same direction, and keep them on task. Trust me, I keep hearing about conquests by alien powers and wonder if those aliens have any idea how much trouble we are. They need only read or watch something by Douglas Adams, one our great authors, to realize the bother isn't worth it."

Cynic, but a happy one, if only for a little. She delights in teasing Blackagar a very little. Then, the test.

Those gestures /don't/ mean anything except what she intends them to, and still, somehow, making herself understood is possible. A quick shaping of words as she rounds out their purpose. "I always hold hope. Most peoples are good." Universal ability to be comprehended is -helpful-, though it is a far cry from what he masters, and her own ability to shape his words through canny observation, dumb luck, and divine interference -- thank you, All-Father -- ply a path for them to at least manage elementary measures. "I don't quite understand," she verbalizes, "how to squish my fingers up in a crescent and then glide through the way you do. I am guessing that lends emphasis, or indicates the negative?" She's trying! Inference might help, but she has to control and watch two things at once, to say nothing of Blackagar's expression itself.

"I am sorry that your fiance felt that way. Communication should not be a barrier when it already is for so many." Truly meant, that. Even when he sets her back on her proverbial heels, and the spill of possibilities just about blinds her to silence. "Anywhere, anything. Here." A pause. "Dancing. Movement was... limited for me, at times. Sometimes I think it might be, felt like flashes in the night, dreams you cannot quite hold onto."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Your sympathies are appreciated, but not necessary. It was done I believe from a position of good intent even if it did not always pan out that way. One of our great philosophers spoke of the intention of actions leading to energies, positive and negative both. This was in fact while our people were still on the Earth.~ Blackagar shares this and then he smiles widely at Jane.

~You are doing excellent. That movement comes from practice, it can mean both depending upon the speed.~ He demonstrates then, ~The opposite of the word. This is an emphasis. Like you would consider sarcasm.~ There are odd similarities in the languages. But then he places his hands on the table with a frown.

~If what you seek is dancing, that is certainly something that can be done Lady Foster. I may not be the most agile of dancers among my people, but I am a quick study.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"Is it a bad suggestion? I am perfectly content sitting here and talking, though Irish music here has an element that yearns to be alive. In some ways the music comes out of passion and a bit of rebellion. Quite a bit originates from resistance to those who would have suppressed their culture, and the rest in story." She reaches for the glass and lifts it, another sip taken. "You do not have to dance if you do not want to. I do not, as a rule, boss about princes and kings."

As a rule. There is a one-eyed god rolling his remaining orb at that, while Mimir snickers quietly.

She runs her finger along the sweating glass, the condensation leaving a trail. "I mean that. This is rare and precious enough to be extremely enjoyable. Right now, this -- conversation, learning, finding common ground -- is all I could possibly ask for. It feels very much a gift, and the most I can do is offer it straight back to you however you would allow me."

She tries the gesture again, sliding her thumb down a little lower, crooking her index and middle finger. The execution becomes smoother with some practice, fitting together more naturally.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~It is no inconvience, but I concur that this conversation is quite the highlight,~ Blackagar says back. ~Yes, that is much better,~ the affirmation coming to the movements of her hands as she practices them. ~The fluidity I think is what gives it the feel of natural speech, although I suspect it is also a part of me and helping me focus my thoughts to make a stronger impression with them.~

He considers the music, turning his ear to it a moment then nods, ~Most of our music stems from a study of classical structures before we left Earth. So a large amount of crossover exists to that point, but then ours deviates into more eclectic classical than what I have heard here. It feels that there has been a loss of melody amongst the music of Earth from what I listened to growing up in studying.~

~As for bossing me around? I am no more than a simple wanderer on this world. No title, no position. So fear not any concept of giving me orders. Of course, if I don't like those orders I may furrow my brow and shake my head at them.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"You are certain?" Jane reaches for the cider again, refilled as it was. A second drink so soon after the first might hit hard, if she doesn't pace herself. Getting away from the glass isn't particularly a problem. A drunkard she has never been, though neither a teetotaler. "The fluidity is probably a large part of that element. You make it look very easy, and communicate at a depth I was not expecting. Your gestures convey subtle emotions; I imagine sharp, quick ones look and feel very different from a slower, more deliberate pattern of motion."

The pause from Blackagar to gauge whether the music is suitable to his tastes brings a flowering smile to her lips, rapidly shaped. "Ah, the credible issue of whether you know what the sound is and how to dance to it. The rhythms for Irish music are not a little more loose and speedy than most classical, though we could request something I am sure. It's a bit early for them to have any kind of evening dancing going on."

The lyrical serenade of the fiddle is just another name for a simpler violin, and she has little trouble inquiring of the pair on the stage going through their routine for something more traditional. "Do you have a website I can make a donation at?" Her phone at the ready, transferring funds shouldn't be utterly an issue. It's not as though her resources and assets ended up frozen when SHIELD did.

"You prefer classical melodies, then so we shall have it. If you can oblige my friend and me, please?" The smile might be all they need.

Then she returns as the pair on the stage ruffle through a few pages themselves, looking at their phones and materials, commiserating on how to begin. That offers time for the astrophysicist and Inhuman king to sit together a little longer after the brunette returns to the table. "We can simply decide not to, if you don't find this to your liking. Musical tastes vary widely and Ireland, a country to the east of here over the ocean, is noted for its musical tastes."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~I'm not sure it's purely just classical. I'm not completely opposed to all of the modern musics. But it doesn't seem to sing to me as much,~ Blackagar says with a smile. But then Jane is asking for things to change, requesting a fresh music style and it brings his eyes to her with a look of appreciation. A small nod of his head in acknowledgement as he adds, ~This does sound a touch more familiar.~

When Jane comments about sitting if it's not to his liking, he shakes his head slowly and makes a small expression of disagreement. ~I do not believe dancing really is that much to do with the music itself, but more to do with the company one keeps. One can dance horribly to good music, or dance beautifully to bad music. Either way, when dancing is taking place there is joy, is there not?~

Jane Foster has posed:
"What sings to you?" An unfair question to ask a man if she's planning on borrowing his hands or pulling them into a dance of any sort, but there can be multiple different avenues to an end. The stirring rhythms of proper Irish music is far less Enya or Dropkick Murphys and something produced in small towns and villages across the many counties. "I find myself fairly diverse in my tastes. Though what constitutes country music here will never be my preference. Or sheer noise, I suppose."

Yes, she will never fathom the joys of screeching noises in experimental creations. Pity those screamo artists playing with anti-ASMR effects.

Blackagar catches her offguard by suggesting that company has everything to do with dancing and that prompts a sudden laugh out of her. Sudden but honest, as most surprised reactions tend to be, couched in warmth that springs renewed. "That's utterly true. Joy underlies whatever we do -- or should do well, I would add."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
~Well said, what we do well,~ Blackagar affirms and smiles. ~Like I said, some of the music of this world I do not understand. It is perhaps that which you speak of. There is some where it is just yelling with noises that sound like metal scraping. I do not find this style of music enjoyable. But this?~ He motions to the music being played currently and nods approval, ~This I find quite enjoyable.~

So his hand then lifts up across the table towards Jane, upturned in an offer and he quirks an eyebrow. With only one hand he is able to sign and still convey the thoughts. ~Shall we? If I step on your toes, simply feel free to kick me in the shin and we will be even.~

Jane Foster has posed:
"Kick you in the shin? I would never." Jane takes no affront from that suggestion, though her amusement only spikes higher and shows in the minor and major keys. The smile that comes easily to her lips, the brightening of chocolate brown eyes. Maybe her occasional attempt at a gesture to respond to him is clumsy as a child's would be, but Blackagar has at least encouraged trying. Her essential nature is analytical with a heavy dollop of curiosity, supporting learning new things. So those unsteady gestures have the elegance of a foal on wobbly legs, but they do carry a simple aspect. ~This is well!~

Not perfect, but at least she has caught certain points of syntax by sheer repetition. Don't ask her to order anything or try to remotely say her own names.

The dance floor is wide for the few people there that afternoon, tables ringing a broad half-moon in front of a barely elevated stage. There the fiddler commands his court, the female flautist having exchanged her instrument for a guitar. The two of them blend surprisingly well, though the accompaniment of voice or piano might be ideal. Setting up an electric keyboard hasn't occurred to them, so it's a purely instrumental reel meant for festivities in the village hall, dances in pubs, things that everyday people do. Taking his hand, the astrophysicist guides him out. "I should probably let you lead, figuring how you are most comfortable dancing."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Considering the suggestion from Jane that he leads, Blackagar's brow furrows in thought before he nods and signs with his free hand. ~I believe there's a dance of my people that will work with this music. If it feels too familiar, please let me know.~ The latter part is given with an apologetic twist of his fingertips to express that it is indeed unintentional.

Stepping forward, he closes the distance between them some, smiles, and begins to lead in a dance step that would not be terribly unfamiliar to an Irish styled dance. It is a fluid movement, with an exchange of hands at times, a spinning of the partner and the occasional sweep of closeness, bringing one another together before separating once more. It would perhaps reflect most a stylized folk dance.

Jane Foster has posed:
A bit on the spot but not entirely unfair, is it? Jane hasn't got the ability to read pure movement; she is no Taskmaster, adopting skills on the fly after a few minutes of observation. Dancing she can manage, however, since the essential acts of movement are usually variations on one another until leaping, stamping or clapping get involved. As soon as they find the rhythm, everything blossoms out from there. Her shoulder lifts slightly and she laughs. "Familiar? You realize I have had not had a day or night to myself in... ages. It feels like ages. You can count yourself as quite safe."

The limitless perturbations of music summoned by the two stringed instruments forge a ready beat, a steady one that makes catching the tempo easier than some. It's not mere noise. Shift to the side and watch down, following where Blackagar moves, Jane mirrors the same in reverse. Not thinking about it actually comes easier than not. Forward, then the sweep, not too surprising, as she aims to give his feet more space to move and not trip over her. Or her trip over a chair, a table. In this, lightness and buoyancy apply, and she turns with him, using some relative grasp of Irish folk dancing. Even though Foster is arguably a Scottish name.

Hard to account this to a woman lying unconscious in cryosleep a few hundred miles away.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The dance is fluid, she is a quick study and he is as proclaimed earlier light on his feet. The familiarity of the dance he mentioned comes at the tail end of it, as it begins to wind down there is a moment where hands meet, the woman is spun into his grasp and then dipped over with his face near hers. He has cracked a smile and then he straightens to help her upright before stepping back and clapping for Jane. He looks unphased from he physical activity, it had been a light exercise in his mind but one that was well enjoyed.

As he finishes clapping, his hands move once again to speak with her, ~Exceptional!~ he declares, ~You could have easily stepped into the Attilan Royal Court and been considered among us without anyone batting an eye. You did not even flinch when I nearly dropped you at the end.~ That is 'said' with a bit of humor.

A study of the woman, his blue eyes watching her and then with a smile still on his lips he signs, ~If you have the energy, perhaps you can show me a dance of your people?~

Jane Foster has posed:
The art of the dance is one which serves them both well. Is there not something uplifting and freeing by way of music? The Irish duo have a good time, since rehearsing to one another gets old and tiresome fast. They more than happily respond to the energy from an audience willing to participate, and since it's slow enough, a few of the servers clap along or match the endless cleaning and prepping rhythms to the skirling fiddle. Jane turns and matches Blackagar step for step, at least mostly, and she spins with a bit more ease than she might expect. That brings a laugh to her lips, quickening her brightening eyes.

All too soon it ends. All too soon the fiddler is reaching for water, the dance over, the moment resolved to rush right along and hurry up. "You speak too kindly," she says, pushing her hair back and stifling laughter when covering her mouth with her hand. "I could pass at best thanks to you covering for me. Just as my gestures probably sound like baby talk, really." They haven't the smoothness or the ease they should.

"A dance of /my/ people?" That's totally unfair. It's only reasonable. "Astrophysicists generally need liquor for that. A lot, as it is. If you mean Americans... this isn't really the venue; we tend to like nightclubs. Moving to the rhythm of instrumental music, mostly."

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Considering, Blackagar nods after a moment in acceptance of her answer. ~I have seen some of those in my travels. The night clubs? Those are the places with loud music, alcoholic drinks and people rubbing against one another like the bathhouses of old?~ It's not a horrible description really. But he does extend a hand towards her, their table offering for them to sit once more.

~Tell me about that then, the night clubs. What are their purpose? It is a courtship process or simply a social event? Is this something I should investigate personally?~ Because that is what the world needs. Blackagar Boltagon at a rave.

Jane Foster has posed:
"What bathhouses did //you// go to?" asks Jane, incredulous and possibly amused more than she dares to let on. "Yes. Nightclubs usually have music, low lights, and drinks. The dance style can get quite acrobatic and athletic, but those styles..." She demonstrates the easy sway back and forth, shifting her weight between the balls of her feet, adding a bit of a groove to roll her shoulders. Without actual musical accompaniment, she daren't go on too long. Many talents as she; being a professional dancer on par with Dazzler is not one of them. She can do a pretty smooth side step, rolling her hips and turning around fully, but then she gestures. "That's modern. Waltzing and ballroom dancing are more classical, but you wouldn't catch anyone doing that in a nightclub save maybe Tony Stark. I don't think he has ever met a limit he didn't try to break.

Returning to the table is a blessing! Back then to their spot, where the cider awaits and a proper escape with bread is welcome. She in fact needs Blackagar at a rave. And Alison. It would be /spectacular/. "Nightclubs are entertainment, first and foremost. People want to dance and enjoy themselves. Yes, there is a courtship element, as almost everyone in this country avoids pre-arranged relationships or marriage contracts. Some cultural groups still do but it's far from the norm. So you have people who are currently in a relationship going with their partner there, or those who want partners often going to hope they will meet someone. They tend to be younger. Their purpose then is threefold: socializing, entertainment, and business. Making money for the owners, at least."

She waves her hand. "Try everything once if it is not illegal. You have stepped forth into the world, why not see if it is to your taste? Do you not have the same back home? How do you and your people entertain yourselves?"