6977/Interview with the Marshall

Interview with the Marshall
Date of Scene:	17 July 2021
Location:	Asgardian Embassy
Synopsis:	Sif does diplomacy. It's not a total disaster. Quite.
Cast of Characters:	Terry O'Neil, Sif

---

Terry O'Neil has posed:
How do you interview a goddess?

Terry has thought about this while on his way to the Embassy. There was plenty of advice to which he had been privy, back in Wonderland. Such pearls included things like-

Look up, speak nicely, and don't twiddle your fingers all the time.

Curtsy while you're thinking what to say, it saves time.
5rOpen your mouth a LITTLE wider when you speak, and always say, 'Your Majesty.'

Turn out your toes as you walk-- and remember who you are!

Thinking better of it, it seemed to him that very little in Wonderland had prepared him for the event of dealing with a goddess. There were no gods in Wonderland and Looking-Glass Land, technically speaking. Sure, there was that religion dedicated to Alice... and everybody agreed that the Red King was, essentially, the thing that kept the world existing... but to worship a *King* was something most Wonderlanders wouldn't consider seemly. It was like worshipping the postman, or the health inspector. It would only encourage them.

Terry shows up at the Asgardian Embassy hoping against hope that he is prepared. He has even attired himself a little nicer than his usual Official Planet Business attire: A vest and tie in elegant but muted silver, a black long-sleeved shirt and pants, and matching shoes.

As he approaches the entrance, he sends a message to Sif's phone, as she asked him to do.

<I'm arriving at the embassy now, Lady Sif!> He pauses for a second, and then adds, <I'm wearing my human appearance. No cat today.> Because he had spent way too much time as the Cheshire recently, and he needed to ground himself, lest he become... loopy.

Sif has posed:
How does one do one of these confounded 'interviews'?

With Loki's journeys, and Thor's absence (likely sowing entire new fields, knowing him), it's left to Sif to represent Asgard in their absence, as ranking member of the Court. But neither courtly life nor battle has prepared her for the world of public relations.

She's watched interviews, aided by the 'helpful' staff and by her friends. All that came from her studies: interviews are fluid battlegrounds where anything can happen and it can all go pear-shaped in moments.

Why couldn't it just be a good, clean, honest battle with the Jotun? Fire giants. They're a known danger.

Choosing carefully, after giving it some thought she chose to dress as her primary role: the Marshall of Asgard's armies. The field general that has led them to victory countless times over the past millenia. Sanguine and white, her House colours, with accents of silver scale and chain. White baltea in stiff leather, riveted and inlaid silver. And the blood cloak, trimmed with ermine, to give it a dramatic flair. She cuts a fearsome figure in battle. Undoubtedly no less for this interview. She can cow the interviewer into submission.

That's the plan, at any rate. Now to do something about the sweat in her palms...

<I am ready.> Text message replied, terse as if each letter was a cost. On Terry's arrival he is hastily ushered to Sif's office. A large office dominated by wall and rack displays of weapons and armour, like a miniature museum of arms, with only a small desk shoved against a wall at the end. Two chairs--comfortable poet's chairs--have been arranged among the arrayed symbols of Asgard's might.

"Mr. O'Neil," Sif purrs as he's announced, standing from her chair to approach for a vigorous handclasp. "How nice to see you again."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Lady Sif!" Terry says, a large grin at the ready. His grin isn't nearly as impressive when he isn't The Cat, but with his red hair and freckles, it has an almost elfin look. He is nowhere near physically strong as Sif, but he nevertheless gives the best handclasp he can give. "Thank you for granting me this interview-- this is quite an impressive office!" his eyes dart across the racks, curiosity shinng in them as they go over the shapes, both familiar and unkown. He seems to fixate on a sword with jelling-style inlay decorations, "I have seen this design before... in books. The book called it a 'Sverð'" he say, glancing at Sif, "But I wo-- oh. I'm getting ahead of myself. I'm sorry." He smiles apologetically, "It's not every day that you get a glimpse of a world only heard of in legends. Please don't think me rude- I'm just a little jittery."

In retrospect, perhaps he shouldn't have had that fourth cup of coffee. How did Lois even manage?

Sif has posed:
"You have done your research. This is to your credit."

That's how you do it, in Midgard. You praise the efforts of others. They are pleased. Relaxed. Happier to talk. You control the conversaton better because it is harder to be unpleasant to someone you like.

Of course the wording that works for Asgardian Court may come across as more than a little arrogant and dismissive in Midgard style...

"That is indeed a sverð. That particular one was the one wielded by Beowulf, later discarded because the Sea Hag's invulnerability to the best craftsmanship of the men of Midgard rendered it useless. It has a name." A teasing grin slips over her face. "Let me see how good your research is. What's the name of that sverð and whose was it originally?"

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"No!" Terry says, his voice going up by a third, "No. /The/ sword of Beowulf? Dear goodness, Mister Stickelmeier would just /die/ to see this..." he murmurs, his eyes eating up the sword. "He was my literature teacher in High School. He made us do readings of Beowful. And the Illiad, and... well. It was like a class where we read over the works of the Skalds of many different nations."

"Hrunting. Given to him by Unferth, whose fame was lessened because he didn't dare attack the woman of the mere. To think that I've been lucky enough to see the sword of Beowful and the lasso of Hestia..." he blinks a little, and by way of explanation, he says to Sif:

"I was... a very lonely kid. I didn't really fit in with the others because I was... different. I was picked on and teased, so I escaped in books and stories. The stories of the Greek Gods and the gods of Asgard, and the Tuatha de danann and the fae sort of became the friends I didn't have in the real world." He smirks a little, "Back then I was told that I was wasting my time on things that wouldn't do me any good. Except for mom. She never said that."

Sif has posed:
"Ah, even better. Not research, but obsession. Our greatest craftsmen are like you: obsessed with their craft to the degree they forget all else."

Sif wrinkles her nose and laughs. "Including, oft times, personal grooming. You do not want to be in a Dwarven smithy when they're busy on a Great Work."

She gestures to the seats. "Please, take a seat. That one gives you a better view of the display. After the interview I'll gladly have one of the staff go over every trophy in it. Some might come up in interview. Would you care for a drink? I can have ale, mead, wine, or stronger brought to you at need. Or if you are particularly brave some Asgardian beverages."

She presses her lips together to white as she suppresses a grin.

"Though I would not recommend the latter. It has ... impacts ... on mortals."

She positions herself next to her chair, waiting for Terry to take his seat, acting the part of hostess. And it's not hard to see that she's acting the role. Little microhesitations in her mannerisms and speech as if consulting within what she is supposed to do next.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Oh, I think water will be fine for now- I am not of age to drink in this country, so I haven't had the practice necessary to hold my ale well. It would be a fine interview if I suddenly stopped to ask questions and instead broke into song-" he says, and grins as he sits down "And I have been told that I have the voice of a tin can falling down a staircase made of copper. My singing voice is so offensive that it could be considered an act of war, so for the sake of peace, I must abstain." For all of his laid-back attitude, Terry is very observant. He can tell Sif is ill at ease with the niceties of hosting, so he relaxes his manner just a little more, indicating that perhaps a level of informality isn't amiss.

"Now, I must mention a few things about the interview. This will be very straightforward- my role is to inform people. This isn't a hostile interview, but if at any moment you consider a question to be out of bounds, or be outside of the scope of what you feel comfortable answering, you can choose not to answer it. We can even go 'off the record' as it were and talk about it."

He gestures, "Going off the record means that whatever you discuss with me will not be part of the interview during that time, unless you approve of it being added later on. And the promise that that shall be the practice to which I will adhere is backed by my honor as a Titan- may I be forever besmirched if I ever go back on it." He crosses one leg at the knee, and rests his hands on it. "Is that satisfactory? If it is, I can start the interview."

Sif has posed:
Sif nods in the direction of the servant hovering in the door at Terry's mention of water, with that servant scurrying off to get it, the trolley-like affair left floating in the hallway filled with assorted beverages.

Even being friends with Thea Queen has still not yet got the idea of "not everybody boozes" into her head apparently.

"I do not shy away from conflict," she says easily, eyes twinkling briefly at the implication as she slips into the seat opposite Terry, sitting ramrod straight, legs together, angled slightly to one side. "But I do prefer polite discourse in matters which are not the realm of arms, so the terms of your interview seem palatable. Especially since our own research suggests you are an interviewer with integrity."

The servant rushes back with a small stand, placing it next to Terry, upon which he places a pitcher of water with ice and a glass. The glass is filled from the pitcher and the servant backs away, exiting and closing the door.

"So let us start the interview."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry thanks the servant for the water, and smiles at Sif "Excellent! So--" he takes out his phone, and places it where Sif can see it. The screen is black with a green arrow on it, and it becomes a red dot that blinks when the teen touches it. "It's recording. If at any moment you want to pause the interview to speak off the record, just touch the screen and it will pause. "

Once that is acknowledged, he leans forward, hands clasped over his knee in his 'interview' position. It's not something he's even conscious that he does it, and it's an almost perfect copy of some of April's body language when she's conducting interviews.

"Our knowledge of you is sorely lacking, Lady Sif- to most of Midgard, you are a mystery as almost no stories have survived. This is very unfortunate but not uncommon- archives burn down, or oral traditions die out when a population is wiped out by plague or warfare. Whichever is the culprit for our dearth of information, the result is that you are an enigma. Who is Lady Sif, in her own words?"

Sif has posed:
"I am Lady Sif of Asgard, of the Vanir," Sif begins. "Brother to Heimdall the Faithful. Called the Dark-Haired Daughter of Asgard. Gentlest of the Gentle. The Unstoppable." She laughs easily. "And I'm well aware of the contradiction between the final two. I'm the Marshall-in-Chief of the Armies of Asgard. I command them in battle when they are not personally commanded by the Royal Family."

Her lips quirk briefly as she leans ever-so-slightly forward as if about to reveal a conspiratorial secret.

"I am proof positive, in short, that there is a cure for being a spoiled brat."

She leans back again into her ramrod upright pose.

"And you may find that the reason oral traditions of me died out is precisely because of populations being wiped out by warfare. That has been my purview, after all, and unlike my sisters in the Valkyrior, after my brief service with them, I was not sent to bring succour, but the scourge. Few prayed to me. More prayed to my friend Brunnhilde and her compassionate mob to have their souls taken to Valhalla or Vanaheim." Her face turns briefly hard. "My job was to ensure they were sent along the way."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
There's always a need for back and forth between interviewer and interviewee, and Terry almost smiles when Sif leans forward a little. He doesn't say it, but the quip that occurs to him is that somebody needs to tell the Titans that there is a cure for him, after all.

But the subject touches on an interesting tangent, and he briefly makes a mental note abut Brunhilde.

"Yes- when we first met, you mentioned that you have been called Goddess of War. Many people nowadays see warfare as a needless cost of life. Does the Asgardian view differ greatly from that?"

Sif has posed:
"What you call warfare today, and what I have called warfare my entire life, differ greatly in application and meaning," Sif says decisively, face darkening imperceptibly. "I lead Asgard's armies. And by this I mean I lead them. Only a small march of days ago we fought some rebels, striking them down decisively. While yes, I was in the command tent for arraying and commanding our forces, once we engaged I was in the thick of it. A spear transfixed my thigh. It could just as easily have been as Birman, one of my Wolf Warriors, whose life was ended by a spear in his eye. I do not command my people to do that which I would not myself do."

Nerves have been struck, it seems, since Sif's head turns as if planning to get up and start pacing. She manages, however, to rein in the urge.

"What I see in Midgard now is not warfare. It is indescriminate slaughter given the name. I take warriors into battle to fight other warriors. I do not sit growing diseased with age while I order men in boxes to control boxes half a world away that rain fire and death on a village suspected of maybe containing one or two warriors, not caring for the peasants in the village. What is called 'warfare' here and now would be called the sickening outcome of a diseased mind from whence I come."

She pauses and visibly settles herself down.

"So yes, were warfare in Asgard done the way it is here, I would agree that warfare is a needless cost of life. Of innocent life, in specific."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"There is a marked difference between those two versions of warfare, that's for certain." Terry takes a sip from his water and looks thoughtful for a few seconds. "It seems to me that in your examples, your version of warfare involved voluntary participants and that there is no honor in bringing its fury upon the unwary and the innocent, as we currently do in Midgard. Would you say that's a fair assessment?"

Sif has posed:
"I do not pretend to perfection," Sif says quietly, briefly introspective. "I have many more sobriquets than I have given you. None of them is 'The Perfect'. Warfare is violent. Violent things happen. Sometimes innocents die. It is the focus that is different."

Her eyes look up at Terry, almost challengingly. "The ideal is what differs, as is the reaction. When innocents or allies die because of our actions we are horrified. Punished. Those who habitually do so are shunned. Exiled even."

And now the urge to pace takes her as she stands and starts to tread, her heavy boots clacking against the hardwood. Her voice grows cold and hard with suppressed anger.

"While the doctrine of war here is so-called 'total warfare'. Any citizen of the opposing side is elevated into a combatant and a fair target, as long as you can justify, however weakly or indirectly, what they do as contributing in some way to a war effort. So a farmer: combatant. A shoemaker: combatant. A craftsman making hammers: combatant. And all of them become targets for your missiles and your bombs. In many ways I am glad I am almost forgotten here. Nothing would horrify my soul more than having 'warriors' like this praying to me for victory."

The pacing stops, Sif taking a deep breath and expelling it quietly before her voice softens. She's back to being the interviewee, not the lecturer.

"When I make my mistakes and innocents die, either in the battle or as general of same, I am punished ... often most harshly by myself. I spend my time seeking ways it could have been avoided. I learn and get better next time. And make no mistake, Mr. O'Neil. I make mistakes. Innocents have died. I have had thirteen hundred years of mistakes and they all weigh on me. When people in my command deliberately harm those who are not of the sword, they are executed. Shamefully. To guarantee they will never see Valhalla. Their souls are sent screaming into the clutches of Hela. Because there is no honour in destroying the defenseless. No glory in killing one who has no means to kill you."

She stops, snorts, shakes her head. "So much for preparation," she says ruefully as she regains her seat. "I had been warned that questions of my role would come up and thought myself prepared. Please do forgive the outburst."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry leans back and steeples his fingers, the indexes touching his lips as he looks at Sif. "You have nothing to apologize for. You are being honest with me, which is what every interviewer wants. If a Goddess of War decided to fuss about cucumber sandwiches instead of expressing her disgust at how some people use her domain when asked about it, I would think I'd have a reason to feel insulted. It would be an implication that I am somehow not ready or capable of handling her opinion. Many people dislike warfare altogether, but I don't think I am wrong when I say that many people of that persuasion would also agree completely with your assessment of how most modern nations handle warfare."

His expression clouds for a second, as a thought occurs to him, and he speaks up. "So- this is the point where I am forced to follow the skein of this topic, but it might be uncomfortable. As I said, if you need to pause..." he nods towards the recorder.

"I think I am beginning to understand your outlook. But no doubt you can imagine that those who will read your words will also look at the events of three years ago and try to reconcile the Asgardian position of warfare and Loki's invasion and the innocent lives that were lost." He spreads his hands, "Can you help me understand? I realize this is not an easy question, especially considering who was involved." He gestures at the recorder, as if to remind her once again that she can simply Joan Crawford the question with a 'no comment.'

Sif has posed:
Sif's expression is almost amused at this line. Almost.

"You thought I would not be prepared for this?" she asks, placing her hand on the centre of her chest as she leans back in feigned surprise. "Should I feel insulted?"

Then she winks. A straight-up, visible, wink. Paired with a brief grin. Very brief.

"Prince Loki, as a member of the Royal Family, and as my superior in both standing and rank, as well as a personal friend of mine since my youth ..." She pauses, then laughs. "... though he is responsible for my golden hair being turned black. I'm not sure if I have forgiven him for that or still plot revenge ..." Face more serious again. "... is above my grade to criticize or praise. It is not in my purview to do so. He is well-known for plotting and planning and his plans are often convoluted to the point of being hard to decipher. I concern myself with battle, not governance, and thus can and will not speculate as to his motives and deeds."

She fixes her gaze on Terry again. "I can, however, speak to the behaviour of Asgard's troops in that attack. In specific how there weren't any. Only the Crown Prince was involved, and he was involved on the side of Midgard and its denizens. As its defender and guardian. The same role I have, in his honour, adopted for my stay in Midgard. Defender and guardian."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry smiles, puts down his glass of water "I think I should be glad. Golden hair is very tedious to upkeep, whereas black goes with everything. I speak of this as a redhead- if I had been born a brunet, I wouldn't need to lather myself up with sunscreen every time I go out for fear of combusting under the sun. Not that I imagine Asgardians need to worry about such things as skin cancer..." he clears his throat, resetting his tone.

"Indeed, everybody remembers Thor's performance during that event-" and here his hand slides to briefly pause the recorder, and he leans forward. "Just between us, Mjolnir went through my mother's parked car during one of the battles. You could see the shape almost perfectly through the driver side door. I tried to convince her to sell it on Ebay to raise money for a new car and she gave me the most vicious /glare/..." he leans back and unpauses the recording.

"It must be a difficult position, knowing that you will act as a protector of the realm even against a childhood friend, should he choose to act again in that fashion. How long are you planning to stay in Midgard? And what is your impression of it?" he pauses, and winks, "Inept and corrupt military leaders aside, that is."

Sif has posed:
"I have no particular plans for my stay. It will likely be a short one ... no longer than a century or two."

Sif pauses to let that sink in. She knows what she did, and it's printed in slyness over her face.

"I am, however, known for my intransigence. Prince Loki and I have wound up in battle both together and in opposition many times in my life. He knows that I can fight against him and still number him among my friends, and the reverse is also true. I am loyal to my oaths and to my station--my duty. I am not swayed easily from either."

The dangerous ground trod, her stance minutely relaxes. She reaches forward and presses the screen.

"Tell your mother that the Lady Sif regrets the harm done her holdings by the Crown Prince and offers to make amends in the form of a new vehicle."

Pressing again, restarting the recording, she leans back. "Midgard has changed, to answer your other question. It is not the place I left almost a thousand years ago. And while in some regards things have grown worse--the aforementioned warfare--in others your people have started to build a barbaric splendour that heralds great things in your future. I am eager to learn more."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
The redhead strokes his chin, an idea fluttering by his brain again. "From a Midgardian perspective, some might make the point that Asgard has its own unique challenges. As a Prince, Loki could be seen as being able to act outside of the sphere of punishment that would be reserved for others. As you mentioned before, someone under your command who put the sword to a non-warrior would be executed, but that changes when rank comes into play..." he raises both hands, "But it would be worth observing that that is a problem in Midgard as well. And in other pantheons." The Greeks come to mind. Quite frequently. Very frequently. God, do they ever-

Sif has posed:
"We all indeed have our challenges. Asgard is beset on all sides by foes and this sometimes informs how we interact with the Nine Realms, possibly to the negative." Sif chuckles lightly. "And I have never seen a group of individual beings numbering more than three that does not have hierarchy which oft supplants the ideals. I think the expression I have heard is 'rank hath its privileges'. And some of those privileges--overt or covert--are often very rank indeed."

Her face goes severe. "I, however, hold myself to the same standards I hold those who report to me. If I commit foul deeds, I expect the same penalty I would give out. Even in matters such as post-battle leeches, I obey the decisions of the leeches in who gets treated when. I will not claim higher priority for a slash on my shoulder over a severed leg merely because I am of the Court. This is, however, I will acknowledge before you try to spring it upon me, purely a personal choice and not one enforced by our society."

Her shoulders lift in an elegant shrug.

"Asgard itself has many epithets, and again, none of them is 'Home of Perfection'."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Wherever two or more are gathered for any purpose, bureaucracy shall be there-- it seems to be an eternal constant, from there to the Olympian fields or the court of the Jade Emperor, all the way down to the internal revenue services office in Canarsie." Of course, there were always those who rattled against the walls, he muses. Asgard had its Loki, Olympus had Hermes, and the Jade Emperor had to deal with Sun Wukong. Patterns that repeat stretch out before him for a second, and he briefly feels a slight chill.

Didn't Sif tell him that he reminded her of Loki in some fashion? In his brief career as a trickster superhero, he had done quite a few things that caused chaos for his team-mates, unintentionally.

Could that be his future?

Realizing he's given dead air for a few seconds, he shakes himself back to reality and says "Still, I imagine that the splendor of Asgard is markedly different than what is found in Midgard? It is unlikely that any mortal eyes will ever see it, so all we can know about it must come from you."

Sif has posed:
"Some mortal eyes will see it, undoubtedly, as we engage more with Midgard after our years of withdrawal. I cannot see diplomacy without mutual visitation happening at some point."

Sif gestures to the window.

"But the people here were reintroduced to our existence in a fashion that was shocking and potentially one of mistrust. Small steps need to be taken, not large, brash one."

Again a good-natured chuckle.

"My own nature, tragically, is large and brash. I'm sure there are some members of Court having sleepless nights over my presence here."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
"Large and brash- there is nothing wrong with large and brash. It has its time and place- I myself am not one very adept at the finer details of diplomacy," he admits.

"But large and brash... not too unlike how you described our modern world, in a way." He reaches over for another sip of his water and says, "Barbaric splendor is a /very/ specific and interesting choice of words, and I can't help but be very curious about it. What do you see in our world that inspired that description?"

Sif has posed:
Sif purses her lips as she regards Terry a while. The imagined sound of gears grinding can be heard emanating from her brain.

"It is," she finally says, "very specific, yes, and I can see how it might intrigue you. You have been paying attention and formulating your questions with care. Please allow me the opportunity to do the same with my answer.

For her part she picks up what looks for all the world like a souvenir skull from some horror ride at a theme park, filled with ale. She takes a mouthful and swishes it around in a small nervous habit as she thinks. Swallowing, she continues.

"By 'barbaric' I don't mean that you are barbarians, first, I thought I should make clear. Your war practices aside--and I put that down to having had no guidance for a thousand years--there is really nothing about you that marks you as barbarians. You have cities. You have fine arts. You have leisure classes. You have all the hallmarks of civilization."

She sets down the novelty-sized skull mug which makes a sound that is very authentically bone against the wood of her own side table.

"I mean here more crudely splendid. And I don't mean the term as an insult, but rather descriptive."

She pinches the bridge of her nose in concentration, frowning a bit, before finally figuring out what she might want to explain. This she begins by drawing the dagger at her waist and throwing it at Terry.

Beside Terry. Sticking into the table, positioned for his clear view.

"That is an example. This is a utility knife. It is not particularly valued. There are thousands just like it within ten kilometres of me when I visit the Court. Yet if you look at it ... please feel free to take it up ... you will see subtlety of design and workmanship that would elevate this blade into top tier knives of your world."

Settling back comfortably in her chair, Sif continues her explanation.

"Our youngest craftsmen making blades of this kind are older than your oldest living people. They have been performing their craft for centuries. They have better knowledge of metals. Of working them. They have routine enchantments they can use to improve the crystalline quality of the blade. Even in shaping and balancing the blade they have more knowledge tied up in their heads and fingers than all the craftsmen of Midgard put together. Of COURSE their work is going to be more refined than what you can make."

Again she gestures out the window.

"But the relative crudity of your techniques and materials does not impede your imagination. You can't quite get what you aim for because of your lack, but you strive anyway and build wonderful, splendorous things, large and small--your friend with the glass works an example of the latter--within your limitations. This heralds good things for your kind over the forthcoming millenia."

She takes another sip.

"Presuming you survive your wars, of course."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry takes the knife when instructed by Sif, hoping she missed the little start he gave when she threw the knife. She totally didnt, most likely. But soon he is entranced by the quality of the blade, and for a moment he fantasizes himself with some sort of protective material to add to his costume, of Asgardian craft. "You are right, it is absolutely exquisite. I've only seen craftsmanship like this at the Themysciran arts center..." he glances up at Sif, "but they are also immortal, as you are, and blessed by their gods. They've had thousands of years to perfect their craft with steel and magic..." and then, a little catch in his voice, "And I'll never get to see it in person because I am male. About as likely as ever gazing upon Asgard." He glances back down at the blade, and smiles a little.

"But you are right- if one thing we aren't lacking in, it's imagination. Have you tried the new things of this Midgard yet? The food? Or the music? Or the fashions?" A brief mental image arises in his mind of his first meeting with Sif, and the fashion disaster that she was wearing. He quietly puts a strike-through 'fashion' and instead mentally replaces it with 'clothes.' "Or for that matter, have you had a chance to sample some of the culture inspired by your legacy? There are operas, you know. Your friend Brunhilde is a main character in one of them. And then she sleeps through the next one." He resists from adding that many in the audience do, as well. Because he is very aware that his dislike for Wagner's glacial pacing isn't something that everybody shares. He is morbidly curious about what Sif's reaction would be upon seeing your standard stage Brunhilde.

"Surviving our wars... well. You might say that that's what some of us are here for. To ensure that the worst-case scenario never happens- to do what we can in the defense of this world, such as you do: ready to strike down a threat, no matter who or what it might be, if the fate of Midgard hangs in the balance..."

Sif has posed:
"That is partially what I am here for. I have sworn to defend Midgard with force of arms and my life, as part of my purview as Marshal of the Nine Realms. I take oaths very seriously."

Sif snorts at the reference to Wagner's operas. "I have seen some of how our stories have been ... altered, shall we say? ... in popular entertainments. They form another reason why I am at least somewhat glad that I have been largely forgotten. I can be spared the indignity of being put to sleep in a ring of flame to wait for a man at arms to come to my rescue and swive me to my proper place."

If her eyes rolled any further they'd pop out of her skull and roll on the floor.

"As for the new things, yes, I have been inundated by the new and by new takes on the old. Ice cream was a discovery. It is a dish I will be instructing my chefs in my estate to learn and perfect. Bananas are heavenly. I've not eaten anything like them before. There is a sauce put on some dishes...yellow and brown in colour with a gaseous bite to them that brings tears to the eyes. Mouseter? Something like that? It is a test of endurance for now, but it adds a very interesting flavour to foods that again I will instruct my chefs to begin to incorporate."

The next words out of her mouth are likely more Sif than Sif herself.

"I have taken a fancy to a manner of skald you have here who perform something called 'metal'. I do not understand the epithet. I have inspected their musical instruments and, while some elements of them are made of metal, they are predominantly wooden in nature. Unfortunate nomenclature aside, however, the music has an energy that I find attractive. It's not suited to the Courtly environment whatsoever, but it is almost perfect as an example of barbaric splendour."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
Terry laughs, "Ohhohooo.... you like Metal? I will have to get you in touch with some of my friends in the showbusiness industry. I think you are going to enjoy yourself immensely at one of the upcoming summer festivals..."

He also has an idea that hits him like lightning. A weekly webcast of Sif for the Planet- Discovering Midgard. A goddess tries wasabi for the first time. Sif tries Dulce de Leche. Jian wu sword dancing. The possibilities? Endless. Good press for the Asgardian embassy? Plenty. Click-worthy web content for the Planet? Yes! He'd have to talk to Lois. Then to Sif. And maybe he might finally get that promotion-

"I think we've got a lot I can work with for the interview. Now... let's get a few photos of you in your regalia next to the weapons. I think it'd look absolutely fantastic..."

And that's how you interview a goddess. Well. At least, he hopes so.