7505/Hunters at the Feast

Hunters at the Feast
Date of Scene:	23 August 2021
Location:	The Moveable Feast Club, Brooklyn Navy Yard, NYC
Synopsis:	Amanda bumps into Brunnhilde at The Moveable Feast and finds herself wrapped into a hunt for a missing Dr. Strange.
Cast of Characters:	Amanda Sefton, Brunnhilde

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Amanda Sefton has posed:
The last time Amanda was at The Moveable Feast, it was in Tribeca. Today, it's in a rundown area of the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The building that houses it is low and squat, a yellow brick thing jammed at the end of a block of rundown yellow brick walkups from sometime when Victoria still sat on the throne of England. The grafiti on the walls is both colourful and obscene, interrupted by barred windows and wallpapered posters that are less about advertising and more about being a diffierent form of grafiti.

Despite this, and despite the fact it's even on one of the city's extensive transit routes, it's somehow easy to find for those that are looking for it. Or those that have need of it. Or those that don't give even a half shit about it but just want to get themselves lost and, preferably, completely blotted for a time. That's just the charm of the place.

In Amanda's case, she knows there's a certain half-demon who specializes in unique spell components that usually spends his evenings in a little booth at the end of the bar, flirting with the regulars and terrorizing the newbies all in the name of a good time. He may have something useful for her. Or he may not. It really depends on his mood. And, often, what she's willing to do for him in exchange -- which is often less than he'd like but more than he expects.

She enters the bar through a rolled loading bay door in the back of the building and ducks under a heavy black drape of cloth to follow the narrow corridor to where the music pulses and the alcohol (from this world and others) flows freely, right alongside who knows what else. Entering the club propery, she tosses back her deep blue hood and smiles a little at the familiar decadence and debauchery. Generally, she's not given to the darkside, but she is still given to the wild magic on occasion. Sometimes, it shows.

Her blue eyes scan the club quickly. Estuaguo isn't here yet, it seems. This surprises her. But no matter. She can wait. She swings up to the bar and slides onto a stool, signalling the barkeep for one of the house ales.

Brunnhilde has posed:
A few seats down a voice growls out from under a grey hoodie, "Another one, yeah?"

Brunnhilde points to her empty tumbler. She's slumped against the edge of the bar, head just lifted up from her crossed arms. It looks like she's been here a while.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
The bartender slides Amanda's ale straight past Brunnhilde before he picks up a bottle to refill the Asgardian's glass. Amanda reaches out a slender hand to slow it before it passes. A small smile touches her lips as she does.

She glances over to the other woman, deciding either the woman is already three sheets to the wind or she's coming off a hellva night and is more in need of a place to crash than another drink.

The Moveable Feast, however, doesn't tend to follow human laws about such things. Indeed, the authorities rarely find this place, and never without distinct cause or outside help. Amanda knows this firsthand, based on the last time she was here. She's also learned... some people *like* their poison to just about kill them.

Not her business.

She turns so that she's faced away from the bar, ale in hand, and able to gaze out at the dancers gyrating on the dance floor and the figures lurking in the shadows of the booths.

Brunnhilde has posed:
The valkyrie-in-exhile -- well sort of, if you don't count all of the cross pantheon odd-jobs work she'd been unable to aviod recently, -- grunts as the bottle slows, but since the liquor makes its way to her glass, she doesn't comment. Instead she props her chin up in one hand and drains her glass. The whiskey's burn chases the stupor from her gaze and Brunnhilde blinks and looks around blearily.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
"Hey," a young woman says, sliding up beside Amanda -- between her and the Valkyrie, really. "I know who you are. You're the Chosen One."

Amanda closes her eyes and lets out a soft groan. "Stop," she says holding up a hand, her English accent crisp, a hint more of the German underneath it seeping to the surface. "Just... turn around and walk away. I'm not starting a coven. I'm not taking on any apprentices, either." A beat. "Also, no matter what you've heard, he and I are *not* together."

Not yet, anyway.

The young woman looks taken aback at first. Then, she starts to scowl and draw herself up indignantly. Amanda's eyes flash and she speaks a soft word in Romani. Magic flares around her, leaving the young woman looking around in confusion.

Oh, Amanda's still sitting in her stool. The Valkyrie can do doubt see that. But as far as the girl is concerned, the sorceress has disappeared in a puff of smoke.

A soft string of expletives comes from the girl's mouth. She glances briefly at Brunnhilde and then lets out a huffy breath and flounces away. It's only after she's pouted her way back across the bar that Amanda lets the illusion drop. She shakes her head and sighs.

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde raises an eyebrow at the exchange. But uses the time to signal to the bartender that she needs another drink. This one she lets sit in the glass -- for at least a whole minute. She's too busy smirking as the intruder removes herself with obvious irritation.

"Nice trick," she says, raising the glass in a toast to her company.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda glances over to the Asgardian and then chuckles softly. She raises her glass in return. "Thanks. I find it more efficient than dropping them through a portal to the Sahara. Takes less energy." She smirks a little as she says it. There are times the Sahara vacation wins out. But she does tend to reserve that for the more persistent of irritants.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"And not as flashy as a giant shimmery rainbow," Brunnhilde agrees, thinking of Heimdall and the Bifrost. She swallows her drink. "Must be nice. Disappearing."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda arches a brow faintly at the comment. She gives a wry smile. "It has its advantages, yes," she concedes. She lifts her chin in a gesture towards the girl pouting with her friends in the corner. "That lot really isn't much of a threat. They're groupies, attracted more to a friend of mine than me, really. I'm not remotely anyone's Chosen One. But because he and I are friends, they think if they get in my good graces, they'll get in his." A beat. She shakes her head. "That's not at all how it works."

Brunnhilde has posed:
The valkyrie hadn't asked. It was none of her business, really. But she seems to in a conversation now. Well. "I can see how that gets irritating," she acknowledges.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
It's a bar. Conversations happen. Sure, getting stupid drunk and falling down in a stupor happens, too. Especially in this place -- particularly when the more illicit substances are making the rounds. But, conversation. Yeah. It happens.

Amanda gives a mild shrug, recognizing that the other woman probably really doesn't care. "For most disappearing acts, I recommend a flashy distraction and silent exit."

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde's stares at the woman down the bar, unable to mask her chagrin. "Yeah," she says, "yeah, that definitely works."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda cants her head some at Brunnhilde's chagrin. She's not sure, in that moment, if the woman is chagrinned because she's still talking to her, or if it's the thought of 'exunt stage left' that's triggered something.

She takes a deep swig of her ale, once again surveying the room, looking for Estuaguo. He doesn't seem to be here, still. She chuffs a soft, thoughtful sound. Then she glances back at the other woman. "I get the feeling I should leave you to your whiskey."

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Sorry," the ex-Valkyrie says. "I'm bad company. Ask anybody." She belches softly.

Brunnhilde looks over to Amanda, opens her mouth, closes it again, and shakes her head. "Sorry," she says again.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
While Amanda's pretty sure there's a story there -- there always is -- she's also not sure pressing for the tale is the right move. Instead, she just gives the other woman a brief nod. "Nobody's perfect." She gives a bit of a wink as she speaks, but then downs another mouthful of ale and turns her focus outward again, waiting.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Too right," Brunnhilde says. The thought seems to cheer her. So does the drink. Because of course, she's asked for another.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
As the woman seems to relax some, Amanda settles back more easily, a light smile on her lips. However, she doesn't press the conversation further. She's here, if the woman decides to talk. But ultimately... she just needs to meet the damned half-demon, get the vial he promised her, and get the hell back home before any more of Luci's groupies crawl out of the woodwork. So, perhaps blessedly, she leaves the Asgardian to her own devices.

Brunnhilde has posed:
The Asgardian drinks in silence, but the liquor does not soothe her back to a sleepy stupor. Nor does it bring a joyful smile to her lips. Instead it seems to only increase her ire. The empty glasses hit the bar with more and more force as every successive drink is downed. Until one shatters.

Brunnhilde plucks a sliver of glass from her palm. "Damn, that Doctor," she mutters to no one in particular.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda's ears rise faintly at the curse. She glances over to the Asgardian. "Doctor?" A brow arches faintly, curiously. Not that she expects the woman to respond. Her own business. But, Amanda did tell her about the groupies. So, hey. Anything's possible.

Brunnhilde has posed:
The small cut in the pad of her thumb slowly closes back together. She holds it up to show Amananda. "Not a physician," she says grimacing at the irony. "A metaphysician, I suppose. A *strange* man. He lost something that belongs to me. Sort of."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
"Strange..." There's something in the way the Asgardian says the word. Amanda's eyes narrow. "Doctor Strange?" She gives a wry smile. "We've met. He doesn't strike me as the absentminded type, but he definitely suited his name." She remembers him as distracted, though she believes that was because he was contending with the City's corrupted soul at the time. Even so, she hasn't seen him since then.

They aren't close, by any means.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Got it in one," Brunnhilde said. "Bastard was so absentminded, he left his door unlocked while he was out."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
The exprsesion on Amanda's face turns wryly amused and entirely unsurprised. "I suspect he thinks the Sanctum will protect itself." And really, he's not wrong. "What did he lose?"

Brunnhilde has posed:
Anger and chagrin chase across Brunnhilde's face. "My Dragonfang," she growls.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda's brows crease faintly. "Dragonfang," she repeats. Now, see, in her line of work, that could actually mean the fang of a real dragon. Or it could be something else. And since all she really knows about the other woman is that she heals quickly, holds a lot of liquor, and she seems to want to keep mostly to herself. "Real dragon fang or an artifact?" Her knowledge of Valkyrie weaponry is fairly limited. And her exposure to Asgardians amounts to half a dozen encounters with Thor and, more often, Loki.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Both," Brunnhilde tells her. "It is the traditional blade of the Valkyrior. Carved from the fang of a dragon. Name simple enough, even Thor couldn't forget it."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda actually barks a laugh at the comment about Thor, though it sounds like something Loki might say. "Thor has always been solicitous of me," she notes. "Though his brother is occasionally more problematic."

Nevertheless, her lips purse slightly. "Valkyior. Seems to me, not having your sword could be a bit of a challenge. I'm surprised Strange lost something so important."

Brunnhilde has posed:
"I'm not." The Valkyrie snarls. "He didn't even tell me who took it. And now I don't know where he's fucked off to."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
That bit of news causes Amanda a little bit more concern. "He's not at the Sanctum?" That surprises her, but she knows there's any number of reasons why he wouldn't be there. "Have you spoken with Wong?"

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde shrugs. "Last time I went looking for him, he'd made himself scarce. Probably stuck his nose into the Death War."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Death War. Wow. Amanda's learning all sorts of things, tonight. It almost doesn't matter, any more, if Estuago turns up or not.

"I'm almost afraid to ask what that is," she says dryly. She reaches for her ale and sucks down a fuller mouthful. "But that sounds like something he'd do." She regards the Asgardian for a moment. "Do you want to search for him? Or for the sword?"

Brunnhilde has posed:
The Valkyrie wants her sword back. But she wants a fight more. She's been chasing cultists upturning the laws of death without her sword. And it's all his fault. "Him."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Not quite the answer Amanda expected. But maybe not as surprising an answer as she first thinks it to be. In the Valkyior's place, she'd have gone after the sword. "That could be a challenge, if he doesn't want to be found."

Brunnhilde has posed:
"I don't know if he doesn't want to be found or if he's just lost or if he's dead or if he's having a fucking vacation. I didn't put a tracker on him." She stops her tirade for a minute. Her eyes look up and to the right, as though she's mentally scanning for something. "Nope," she says, "not dead." And then she smiles a vicious smile. "Good."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
"Not dead is a step in the right direction," Amanda says seriously. The valkyrie may not realize the jeopardy to be had by a vacant Sorcerer Supreme position, but the Sorceress certainly knows. And she knows she's not the one to step into his shoes. Besides, she's got her hands full with her own mystical work.

Her brows beetle faintly. "It might be possible to scry for him, if he hasn't cast an antiscrying charm about himself." Though there are ways to circumvent that... mainly by reversing the spell to indicate where he's not. Which is crazy, but does sometimes work.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Let's do that, then," Brunnhilde says, slurring only very slightly. "What do we do?"

Amanda Sefton has posed:
What do 'we' do...? Amanda blinks. Then, she slugs back some ale. Oh, what the hell. It can't hurt to have a Valkyior owe you one when the Asgardian God of Michief comes to call. "We find a more private place to talk, to start," she says, no archness in her tone at all. She's not flirting. "Then, we work some magic."

No, seriously. She's *not* flirting.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Well then, let's go." Brunnhilde says with a mischievous grin.

Then she gestures once more to the bartender. "Gimme the bottle."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda lays a few bills down on the counter to cover her ale. She leaves Brunnhilde to cover her own tab and pay for the bottle the bartender gives her. Then, she leads her towards the door. "I suspect we should be better introduced before we do al this," she tells her. "My name is Amanda, though they often call me Daytripper." She conjures a portal where the door is. Beyond it appears to be a small library.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Name's Brunnhilde," the Valkyrie admits. "But most people don't call me anything."

Amanda Sefton has posed:
"Beats 'hey you'," Amanda shrugs, leading her through the portal into the library. She lets the portal wink out once they're in the small space. As she moves through the near stacks, a fireplace where a couple of chairs sit ignites. She moves to that area, away from the tomes on the shelves, and pulls a small table closer to the chairs. "Expecially in a fight, I'd imagine." She's been in her fair share of those.

She then goes about gathering a few magical implements from throughout the workspace.

Brunnhilde has posed:
"Bit of a mouthful," The warrior says. "Sometimes they just say Valkyrie."

She moves restlessly around the library. As though now that she's started she can't stop. Or maybe it's the unfamiliar turf. She's not quite sure what to do. And too proud to do anything about it.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda pulls out a silver bowl and fills it with water. She pulls out an ebony wood tray filled with black sand. And she pulls out a small collection of crystals on lengths of chain or leather thongs. "The problem with seeking a sorcerer," she notes conversationally, as she prepares her tools, "is that you never really know what they're doing or whether or not they're open to being disturbed." She flashes a small smile. "I mean... none of us like to be disturbed and all of us hate being spied upon. But some of us are more open to cold calls than others. I don't know Strange well, but I'm hoping he's one of the more open sorts." She's got half a dozen methods she can try, each of them more difficult than the last.

"There's a bottle of Asgardian mede in that cold chest over there," she says then, gesturing to a stone chest under a window that, for the moment, looks out over a pleasant looking forest. "If the whiskey's not strong enough. I know how restless most people get when there's nothing they can do to help a spell."

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde picks up the bottle and gratefully takes a swig. As she registers the flavor and potency, she raises an eyebrow at Amanda. "Nice," she says, nodding. Taking another pull, she settles into one of the empty chairs to wait.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda gives a bit of a smirk and a light shrug. "I keep it on hand in case one of the Odinsons appears at my door." It's happened more often than she's enjoyed. Brunnhilde's just lucky Amanda's hybrid Starkbot/homunculus, Sir Patrick, isn't here. Knowing there are more Asgardians out there will probably give the little fellow electrical shorts. Then again, as long as they don't bring any more snakes with them, he'll probably be fine.

The sorceress surveys her worktable and gives a brief nod. "Might as well settle in," she tells her impromptu guest. "This... could take a while." Searching for needles in haystacks always does.