7883/1000 Faces: De Falsis Diis I

1000 Faces: De Falsis Diis I
Date of Scene:	19 September 2021
Location:	Paris, France
Synopsis:	How to repair a broken soul: lots of energy, a brilliant Inhuman king, and pastries!
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

Jane Foster has posed:
The City of Lights is quite like no other, especially in the last whispers of summer. A foggy night has an enchantment all of its own.

A warm afternoon gave way to the cooler evening, a temperature inversion over the city producing thick mist. Clinging condensation halos the streetlights in surreal orbs cast in white and sodium-yellow, painting streaks on the sweating shopfront windows. People drink coffee or wine in the mysterious allure the weather brings, while the damp streets shine in jewel-box colours. Even the Eiffel Tower, the beacon for French identity in microcosm, rises above wet-leafed trees in a ghostly glow.

~A beautiful time to be out. We could be on our way to a party at a palace or a place of art just before the war.~ Gallery is not a word exactly easy to sign, and so she defaults to relying on her bond in Blackagar's mind. <<Do you have art galleries or similar places to appreciate people's creations in Attilan? Surely there must be something for even scientific discoveries made beautiful or for aesthetic purposes.>>

Reason to walk: their let doesn't actually have much of a kitchen, for that's the very nature of Parisian homes. You eat outside at a cafe, or find a creperie or something on a walk. Food trucks are abundant enough. Their path meanders through the damaged Left Bank, and she glances at the ruined seam where French workers have tried for the past month to restore the damage, filling in the collapsed veins. <<You know they buried their dead beneath the city here in great mausoleums? It's said more people dwell under the city than live inside it, though that's to be expected. The whole catacomb system is huge.>> A raw sort of wound on Paris, a stain still on her heart. <<It belongs to another now. I can feel that.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The morning had blended to the afternoon and those moments had eventually led to this evening out, walking in the city hand in hand, hip to hip, close in contact and the brushes of touch crossing casually during their winding paths. He has been interested in the city, as it is an older one for the Europeans. Old enough to even be known on Attilan and in the records. <<Yes, we do. Art, science, those things exist and we have libraries and studies committed to them,>> he affirms softly with a small smile. <<We are not a utiliarian society, things are quite similar as to what you would find here in many cities. Perhaps not the excesses. But Attilan is the home of Inhuman culture, and our culture is millenia old.>>

The passing of several food trucks do draw his blue eyes, his ability to eat substantial and rarely is he to decline food. Earth food has grown on Blackagar, all sorts of it and he eagerly takes opportunities to engage in new ones. But it is the sentiments that Jane expresses that has him pausing their walk, looking at her. <<What do you mean, that it belongs to another?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Old indeed, and few places this far north older than the fishing village founded by the Parisii. Their bridges may be long gone, but Lutetia's ancient history remains and the greatest city of the medieval period still prevails in spirit if not totally in fact.

Ancient places remember themselves, the Celtic society transformed to Roman and then Catholic, humming under her feet. Jane's steps tread those of her ancestors on some side or another. <<I figured as much. Nonetheless, their presentation may be very different. Going to Turkey and Egypt showed me how much tastes differ. While I can still recognize them, the nature of traditional galleries wouldn't be like what I grew up with. Something to best understand through the lens of a visitor asking someone who lives there, right?>> Complicated speech might call for signing, but she only bothers now and then, illustrating specific words or phrases for practice. With Blackagar holding her hand, sign means sacrificing contact, something she is quite unwilling to do.

<<Attilan must be constructed rather fabulously to endure where it is.>> Her gaze lifts from him and up to the array of ghostly shapes looming from the heavy mist. Visibility is reduced to shreds, meters instead of blocks and more. Art nouveau doors wrought in brass or verdigrised by copper shape flowers in one handsome house, the front planters bursting with almost garish orange and red nasturtiums and geraniums holding out against the reaping season. She watches with amusement as he takes in the food options, and nudges him with her elbow. <<Pick one. We can get anything. My French is passable enough to ask for bulgogi or that Afro-soul food. Mm, Afropean? Looks like yassa sauce and braised chicken with attieke. I've never seen that in New York.>> Oh, he is not alone in indulging in cultural experiences. New Soul Food is something damn special.

She can almost forget the last question. <<Something happened in Paris since I was last here, last year anyway. Since a band of soldiers that fought eight centuries ago decided to cause trouble. Someone, something made a claim on Paris. We're being watched. Not likely hostile yet if we can walk about, but it has a way of making a girl feel a bit naked.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Yes, it is a different sort of cultural presentation than what one would find here. I believe the closest in feel to things would be the interactive museums and science areas that I have found here,>> Blackagar affirms softly. The beauty of the city, even with the thick fog cutting into the visibility, is present. Under their feet the street itself holds the textures of a city that breathes a life on its own. With the vision of their surroundings lost, it simply means embracing the other senses to experience things.

The offers of the food pull his eyes not to the carts they can see when passing them but rather to the chocolate eyed woman, eyebrow lifting slowly as he gazes at her and the slow turn that brings the pair face to face. <> The question about Attilan's existence is not ignored, it is pondered over, about to be answered when the expressions about /this/ place strikes him.

The protective nature swells, felt within his mind when she says she feels like she is being watched. <<Soldiers that were dead returned to life? What is this something that has made a claim?>> Confusion, concern, and wariness creep into him; not enough to take action beyond tightening his hand on hers again with a protective disposition.

Jane Foster has posed:
<<There.>> A faint smile lifts to her lips, blooming in full against the haze-shrouded backdrop of the night sky. <<I would expect no less. Full sensory experiences that indulge the magnificence of a moment, or many, held in collective respect or wonder by an old people. If only those of long-ago Egypt or even the Enlightenment could have had their voices and ideas recorded in such an interactive way. I would have loved to speak with Maxwell or Hatshepsut or any number of ancient astronomers.>>

Once set on a path for the Cameroonian soul food truck, L'Afrotruck indeed becomes their destination. Something about the delicious song of cassava and five spices will be the first stop, but not the last, for there's a promising Singaporean option just down the way she wants to sample next. The best part, Afrotruck's soul food prepares the chicken over a grill, and the fragrant smell wafts their way. <> She tilts her head up to throw a smile his way. The fact they can stand side by side in that far too gracious, professional-level kitchen and do something with the fancy appliances together is one of life's small, profound joys. <<Our home, our meals. You've got me positively sentimental.>>

Jane's French absolutely isn't perfect for all of half a second. Lining up is no trouble, and when it's their turn, the expectant moment falls. "Bonsoir, mes amis!" she says and the Cameroonian gentleman. "Je voudrais du Afrosubsaharienne, s'il vous plait. Avec une attieke afropeen et gombo braise. Et ma sauce? Yassa Afropeenne aussi."

She sounds like she grew up next door. He probably has to line up the unexpected doubling of this fact while she plucks several Euro bills and coins from her pocket, and slides them across to him. Only then can the surprise in her own expression be found. <<Did I not tell you who killed me?>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
There is an agreement to the intent of the plans, a couple of meals and experimenting over a wider range of opportunities the initial stop having Blackagar lifting his head up a bit, inhaling the fragrance of the first stop of the evening. The collection of menus is affirmed as well with a nod of his head, <>

He so enjoys those moments himself, the tenderness of feeling when those topics come up make him smile warmly. Standing side by side in their kitchen, doing preparation, cooking, tasting. So many meals that end up being paused before resumed later. <<Yes, it is a very sentimental moment, and I adore it.>>

Standing, listening to her ordering rapidly in french draws a surprised expression. His own familiarity with the language is loose at best, having learned some on their arrival but not having devoted himself. There is only surprsie at the speed, not the capability, the mastery she's shown of Royal Sign has demonstrated capability. But as she finishes, and turns to him, he nods slowly, <<You did, a Draugr I believe you stated? Aiming to kill another that you interceded for?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
First up, the order of that delicious chicken prepared over coals and sprinkled with a heady array of spices, cassava, semolina, tomatoes, and herbs. Maybe exceeding expectations as a mostly silent, clueless American can be washed away, since it's unlikely that the vendors of the Afrotruck know Jane from Bill Nye or Guy Nie le Science Guy. Blackagar isn't any less of mild interest, especially with a nice tip involved, but damn good food is damn good food. "Afrodisiac dishes!" is stuck in a French sticker on the side of the bright food truck, and it isn't wrong. <> She points to the Afro-Caribbean option mentioning curry antillais, which goes with a coconut and vanilla bean sauce and sweet potatoes that might speak to a sweet-ish tooth. Savory sweet?

<<Never cease adoring standing beside me as I destroy an attempt to make a proper peanut sauce or fry plaintains the way they were intended.>> Wry amusement speaks to their limitations, her own well-known on that front. Never cease trying though! Jane gives a low chuckle and moves to the side, making a few quick signs in order not to concern the guests too much. <<After this, part two of the surprise. We should have plenty to share.>>

Flicking her hair off her shoulder, she slowly nods. <<A draugr. One dead. The rest of the soldiers there, near as I can tell, were actual Norsemen. I came to Paris shortly before Orkney where the draugr happened. Paris didn't feel like this. Like there's a weight flitting through the air, nothing immediately visible, but there. Maybe down an alley or on a rooftop, something could be watching us. Things have changed a lot in the background lately. I /felt/ what happened in Mexico to my bones. This could be from everything that grew disordered while I was on the Tree, or afterward, but I'm not sure.>> Her smile turns a bit lopsided, faded by the inkstain memory. <<Paris is built on the dead. Whole catacombs miles long. Someone may not be too thrilled a psychopomp like me is walking around, since I work for Odin and this isn't Odin's territory. Something I have to be mindful of. Or maybe just someone who feels the seal of Asgard on my wrist. Could be either.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The first dish, delightful. Blackagar's palette, beginning as it did with a rather bland experience due to limited options of food on Attilan has grown rapidly. The American cuisines have branched out to all sorts of curries, spiced rubs, fruits, vegetables and proteins that continue to expand. The secret delight he has in watching the specific food shows on the television do not help matters, although he does attempt to keep such viewings limited. It may well be that Jane has been handedly assisting in transforming the King into a foodie. This meal helps that process along as he samples from the plate.

<<Coconut oil.>> The simple thought given and then he blinks and smiles, <<The plantains would be better if we fried them in coconut oil.>> He in turn makes signs occassionally, as to not completely make others uncomfortable, often times simply seeing the hand motions reassure people that it is nothing terribly uncommon taking place.

As Jane explains the encounter, that it was here, he frowns some as that realization settles in and he listens. <<I have been reluctant to bring such things up, because I do not have firm solutions. However, do you think it is possible that this dissonance you feel is connected to the fact that you are existing in at least two, if not three, planes at present?>> he asks softly, looking at Jane with a blue gazed concern. <<If things have changed perhaps the forces that are causing your form to be parted are weakening.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Has that been the problem all along? I hardly expected that coconut oil would be the solution, though that makes sense. An air fryer can't be used on a plaintain, either, not with the same happy results. I shall bow to your wisdom.>> Interest sizzles wherever unfamiliar spices or a fresh arrangement might be found. Jane is fine with chowing down on hamburgers and well-made French fries -- or better yet, pommes frites -- like anyone raised on American cuisine, but the world exists in far more interesting culinary adventures. He's scarcely scratched her surface when it comes to fish, though in that, she is a discerning customer at the best of times. New York doesn't lack for amazing sushi or proper seafood restauramts, either, and a good amount of her diet resides in making a decent set of rolls to take for lunch when she can. Blackagar's routines in broadening his repertoire are purely a matter of happiness for her.

The meal is soon enough ready, called up for them to carry off in a recyclable container. They can well and easily go find somewhere to dine, but that second destination lies ahead of them. One that means meandering around the street in its misty haze to a second choice, Mum Dim Sum, which uses a variety of bao buns, rice bowls, and variations to settle a snack. She's more concerned about the dim sum, three piece arrangements of pork and five spices, mixed up with carrots and shiitake mushrooms. Guiding him along, she loops her arm around Blackagar's back. <<Sometimes more than three. In a bad situation, it can spread me fairly far.>> Pray no Asgardian party bus falls off a bridge. <<You can always present the situation to me, you know that. Finding solutions comes from awareness of the issues. It could be the dissonance originates out of my unusual situation and you're probably right that it has something to do with it. But there is also a black owl sitting on that building.>> Is there really? A sharp eye might notice the stygian bird superimposed on wet roof tiles, and almost invisible.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<At least that is what I have read about it, after our last failed venture with the tostones I believed it best to spend the time figuring out how to do it properly,>> Blackagar affirms with amusement in his mind. A hand rests now on Jane's back, trailing the small in a small protective gesture. Unnecessary he knows, but it is for him more than her. That feeling of contact and reassurance that she is nearby. Their foodventures have grown, it is something he adores and iterates quite often.

As they linger in the misty area, sampling the first preparation of food the approval is felt from him, iterated in his mind as well. But the conversation of her situation still occupies him largely, <<The situation is not one I feel comfortable enough to really engage with. But I have considered the importance of resolving it. I cannot fathom that it is /good/ for you to be in this displacement as you are.>> The look he gives her, tender and concerned all rolled over in the blue eyes. The mention of the owl gets a glance from Blackagar, his eyes coming back, <<Is that an unusual thing? I am not familiar with the habits of birds in this city.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<Your capacity for problem-solving never ceases to amaze me. Diplomatic matters, overcoming biases between divided societies, and now fixing our concerns with frying plantains.>> Jane's affection strikes as a high C golden note in their minds, curling around Blackagar's thoughts. Though a faint grey undertone sweeps behind, a caution that persists behind his wary stance. <<It would be so much more convenient to drop the mortal guise, but we have just purchased dinner and I'm concerned showing my face would only make it worse.>> His opinion of protectiveness can be thoroughly punctured by the wordless gratitude, for while it may assuage his own worries, it anchors her unease somewhere safe and secure. Besides, if trouble really hits, what the hell can possibly get through /him/?

A full Kree battle contingent? The taxman?

Her gaze scans the rooftops, but mist stymies her as it has on countless occasions. <<The compliment you paid me for knowing anything more or being further willing to engage is a point in your favour, my dearest and loveliest heart. Disregard that I cannot even see my own frozen pie shell when Luna and Jems can, shall we?>> Astronomers and cloudy nights get rather bothered, and it's not like she can just pull a stake, stab it into the ground, and read the results of an electromagnetic spectral side-scan. The thought comes and goes. <<Birds of prey do well in cities. On the other hand...>> They have chicken. Mmm, spiced chicken. She hooks her fingers into the box and comes up with a small portion. <<Let's test, shall we? I'm going to leave this over as an offering to our friend up there. He may be hungry.>>

Oh yes. Hungry? That's quite true, a black-winged soot-monster watching with empty black eyes down on the few interested. It makes not a sound, huddled in the shadows.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<There is nothing wrong with solving problems as they come up,>> he adds with a mental laughter. The strings of things that Jane lists off that he attempts to do is quite humorous when set up against their plantain issues. <> It wouldn't be the first, he doubts it will be the last, when he departs to travel some place only to return food like the greatest of delivery services. Granted, he does do it rarely to avoid drawing attention. That, and cooking together /is/ that much better. <<It may be, but to draw that attention to us at this point would perhaps be counter productive, additionally, it would interrupt our meal.>> He is picking up some of the chicken to eat while thinking that. His hands move some in sign, an after thought to appease any that may be watching. But there is that element of safety, the last time she fell under assault, he was not present.

He let's her scan the rooftops, his eyes are on hers instead watching for reaction carefully and letting that dictate to him what he may need to consider. <<You know, I don't think I tell you often enough how beautiful your eyes are.>> It is an idle thought, floating before Blackagar smiles and takes some more of their shared chicken. <>

Watching the bait laid out for the blacked owl, a tilt of his head comes, eyebrow lofting slowly. <<Are we certain we wish to feed our friend?>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<My mother had a story about sending my dad off in a sheeting rainstorm to find fresh strawberries when she was pretty far along with me. In those days, you could not buy strawberries at any supermarket and stores weren't open until the wee hours.>> Jane casts that thought his way, fuzzy and blurred from childhood memory, the faint echoes of her father's voice probably contained therein. The notion of Air Blackbolt tickles after a fashion, turning her cheeks mildly pink and her smile rising far enough to dimple her cheeks in sheer pleasure. <<The things we do for one another because it makes us happy. Let's save Puerto Rico flights for extremis. You have a cold, I'll go to the stars for you. You bring me delicious plantains.>>

Taking his advice, she avoids offering that sampling of chicken to the owl after all, and instead pops it into her mouth. The liberal spicing is not for the faint of heart; it absolutely contains a broad spectrum of Afro-European stylings put together with sub-Saharan traditions, and absolutely dances on the tongue in a harmonious medley as bright as the sun on a warm, bright day. Sucking her fingertip clean, she shifts her cocoa gaze from the suspicious owl in the mist back to the man far closer at hand. <> She breaks into a smile, brief as it is.

The owl hasn't moved. It leers, because what else would that strigid do with huge dark pits for eyes and cruelty curved in every claw and beak? It won't be the only haunt watching their progress, but so far the stygian feathers haven't been ruffled into a pounce. Yet.

<<I'm afraid the next choice, love, is that /I/ am dinner for it. I watched things like that consume souls. You see green fire, we run. That was the hallmark someone was being devoured.>> The certain, unbending murmur in his mind bears hallmarks of the other side, the psychopomp in mortal clothes, even if they're one and the same. <<What sort of shock are you talking about? Dropping the body off the roof? I thought about that, except I cannot lift it to even see it. Lying in that pod was bad enough. Daisy swears I was literally occupying myself but... not really.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<That is an interesting tale, and your father, he braved the weather for berries for your mother?>> he asks somewhat curious. <<On Attilan, we would expect the woman to simply get them herself, not to be served upon. Is that an Earth tradition? To turn the male into a servant during pregnancy?>> He expresses it /so/ seriously but there's a small glint of humor in those eyes. <<Oh, it is considered a gift, I see. Not an expectations.>>

When she talks about the artistry however, his eyebrow quirks once more and he looks deeply into her brown eyes, <<An artist?>> he asks softly towards her, reaching the non eating hand up to brush fingertips over her cheek. <<I am glad you are not, because then you might be more interested in a painting than in the real thing. But I must convey a lot with my look, for those who cannot know my mind, it is how they gain a greater insight into my words.>> A part of his communication and one that he shares so freely with her.

Keeping a knowledge of the presence of the owl, his attention remains on Jane thoughtfully. <<If we see green flames, I will destroy the foul bird. And anything else that would consider your soul fair game. I believe I would have /much/ to say about such a thing.>>

But then she brings it back around to his thoughts and he is silent, significantly so. Finally he lays an image rather than words. The two Janes, somewhat slightly out of sync with one another. Having her lay upon her body, putting the two in the same space and then shocking them back into unison. <<Something akin to that. As for how? I do not know how much power would be needed. If we knew the strength of energy used to separate you, we would know what might be needed to realign you.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<My father wasn't going to make her drive to the store in bad weather because he wanted her to rest, and not hurt, seeing that served other people every day of her life.>> Jane's mental voice chimes in brightly to the serious tone that probably suggests teasing. <<Had you a malady that impacted your mobility, I am /certain/ in Attilan you were told to go get it yourself. It builds character.>> That might be pushing matters a little too far, but she breaks into a hint of a smirk even while considering at some level the owl might be eyeing her up the way she and Blackagar eyed up their dinner. Or one another in a different fashion.

His fingers sculpting a route across the slanted lineaments of her cheekbone almost invite a drowsy state, a willingness to brush her skin to his palm in the fond gesture replete with many other suggestions. 'Tis Paris, after all; the temptation to nip at the fleshier heel or curve beside his thumb. Not enough to hurt, only to insist on an impression. <<What painting compares to flesh and blood, love? I know not a one that can convey such affection as you.>> A nip becomes a kiss, and then a light raise of her shoulders. <<Better then to know your mind and understand the fathomless depths brimming with ideas or mischief.>>

That's right. He is mischief. The certainty will never fade.

<> A little shiver of her wrist doesn't move that totally modest thin gold bangle, one that sometimes decides to be a chain bracelet or something more entangling. Blackagar can throw his full might against it and not even snap a link as fine as angel hair. <<A different matter if we crossed paths now. I'd throw this and let you prove yourself a masterful orator. For all I can literally take you to where my body is, I do not have the foggiest idea of how to shock myself into it. I tried taking this off. It wouldn't budge.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A considering look is given, fingers running over her cheek still but his eyes have gone to that wrist and the bracelet over it, the way the fine strands entwine and a bit of a slow smile touches his lips. <<On the gas giant. And before. You were able to withstand my voice, even if it was just mild, yes?>> Blackagar asks softly to her, then looking up to those bottomless and deep chocolate eyes. <<If it protects you, then perhaps we need not be worried about how much energy we bombard you with. Only discovering /if/ you are at a different vibration as it were from your body. If that is the case, a sort of misalignment between the two in our space-time, then it is a mere task to realign them, yes?>>

The way he thinks, or just rearranging the filaments of the universal streams as a casual task. Doing it with a smile on his lips and fond gaze in his eyes like the mere concept is not an incredible task unto itself. He /is/ mischief.

<<After our trip here, to Paris, we return to SHIELD and find your friend Jemma. Let us share this possibility with her. And if that is not sufficient, then I will find this draugr myself.>> Slowly, his eyes peel from Jane and land on that owl, staring right at it. <>

Jane Foster has posed:
<> Who better to understand duty than him? Standing on her tiptoes, she would soon as set her brow to his, but being the shorter of the pair, shall tolerate her cheek to his instead. Otherwise dinner gets crushed. <<Though I do not think myself likely to weather you performing Don't Stop' Believin' or Don't Stop Me Now for karaoke. A sure way to find out whether all that talk of enduring your beautiful chords and high notes eternally is true or not, wouldn't it? Not to doubt you do sound beautiful.>> Her hand rests briefly against Blackagar's sternum, thumb and pinkie finger fanned wide. It has to be so; she knows his mental voice, and the rest simmers with brilliant satisfaction.

<<Only you would talk about realigning space-time as if it were nearly nothing.>> She pauses. <> The moment slips into focus, owl bedamned, black shadows and hazy mist a curtain for the beauties of Paris except the spellbinding lights floating on a sea of deep greys and wet stone. Rearrange universal filaments, of course. <<You are a bloody genius, Blackagar Boltagon. In a mad roundabout way, that would be a neat way of managing it. Witten's string theory would make it utterly trivial since you don't have to worry about spatial curvature at all. Rather than that, you would need to construct the path for quantum gravity by layering the possible combinations and work out a sum in a closed system. Narrows down the possibilities to a finite number, and then you can establish where the surfaces lie. You would need that to plot both particles atop a given point, and they should co-exist functionally in a proper correspondence. At that point, all you require is the proper energizing of the operators on the string, and they would be unified. We're only talking vibrations in 10-dimensional spacetime, give or take, though it really comes down to four. But doable, if we erase some of the constants. If I can make an atom jump across a room through a wormhole or banish the terrigen gas or its container that was trying to inundate a rail station, I should be able to get you fundamentally simplified equations. Jemma might be able to grasp it. I don't doubt that a few of your people likely would.>>

Her chin lifts and she slowly, carefuly speaks. "Lucky for us I know who could help you find him. But getting to her is a tad tricky."

<<She's also terrifyingly beautiful and vain, so try not to lose your heart to such awesome beauty? It's a common thing with her.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
As Jane devolves into the thought processes of string theory and quantum mechanics, there isn't quite the glazing over of Blackagar's eyes, but he does seem to be struggling to follow, well, most of the lines of the theory that she takes. However, he waits it out, having done such before when she allows her mind to traverse the pathways of thought and science that it needs to work through to get to the conclusions that are sought after. As she does, he lifts an eyebrow towards her and asks in a far innocent tone, <<What was that about being a genius?>> The inquiry has a bit of a playful, mirthful intonation to it.

<<I believe the greater question that does exist is what amount of energy would be needed to flatten out such a curve and to manage this feat? If you and Jemma were capable of working out the practicalities, then all that would remain in the implementation of such. That would be perhaps where I could be of some assistance. But all of this is dependant upon what you believe we need to be done. Do we need information? Further than what we have at present? For if so, then I best be considering how to find this person. Getting to someone is less tricky for me than you might realize. I have this preposterous tendency to simply do what I want.>> His forehead dips to press against hers, inferring the contact she had initially desired. <<And I do not care how beautiful someone may consider themselves to be. I think my heart is rather entrapped already.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Telepathically implanting a complete knowledge of quantum physics is, in theory, possible. So is leaping through the supermassive black hole in the galactic core and popping out in an alien Tahiti. Theoretically possible, and in practicality, not actually possible.

<<They gave me a shiny medal to show I knew scientific matters.>> Jane pauses and then steps back only a fraction, but just about that much. <> Reasons unto herself? Possibly. It's not science, this is life. Her fingertips skate up again to brush his shoulder and she looks up to Blackagar again. <<Amora literally weaponizes her beauty, and uses it to snare those who would be attracted to a woman. A kiss from her could steal volition of lesser people. Believe me when I say be cautious, and this from someone who thought it wiser to spare her than be struck by a very angry Norse raider. Days I wonder what went through my head.>> It wouldn't change anything. The act would be the same, repeated a hundred times, even knowing the pain or discomfort that would bring. She smiles when their heads touch, her nose nuzzled to the shadow of his. <<She might have ideas. She is a sorceress, probably centuries old, and could well see the whole problem in terms we never considered. Science vis-a-vis magic, to achieve a similar end. Truly all I can do is theorize because I'm acting blind around my own Sleeping Beauty self. We can warp space-time with the right energy signature with far too much effort or we go locate a bitter, rotting husk of flesh and let you shout its name. The latter honestly sounds much nicer to me.>>

She tries not to grimace. A frown will do. <>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<Then I would do well to simply not allow her to kiss me,>> Blackagar responds softly, still humored. It is not that he takes the threat real, but more the confidence he has in himself. Afterall, aside from the singular virus which devestated him his life has been nothing but casual struggles in terms of true conflict. How little he knows.

<<I will follow your lead on this though, Jane. As you said, it is your body. I do not wish to intervene where you do not wish me to. But do know, I really desire to find some kind of resolution. To bring your back into whole of reality.>> He gives that forehead another light brush despite her pulling away, chasing after her slowly with the gesture. <<Just tell me what you would have me do, and I will do it.>> At her disposal, a world breaker that would happily do what she asked. Point him, he will bend the will of any that stands against.

<<Who do we need to gather? Who do you want kept away? This is my task now, to make you whole.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<> No envy there; Jane is an odd friend to the Enchantress, but so too she knows full well Amora's disposition and mercurial nature. Glimpses of warning flicker between them, glimpses of arcane prowess and fragments of the blonde mage's talent for warping thoughts and minds. <<Always you have my trust and faith in you. Just be cautious.>>

She taps her finger against her lips and then kisses him, squarely aware of the African spices and traces of oil carried on that light exchange. The pull away is only so long, for theirs is a twining rose around the trellis, always drawn back to a place of certitude, rooted in a strength that seeks the sun. <<Hush. I would not invite you to share your ideas or give guidance without some possibility of intervention. We are in this together, Blackagar, and I mean that. We're a pair in this, aren't we?>> Dark eyes seek their brighter parallels, cast in the blue fire of the hottest stars. <<My methods haven't worked much til now on myself. Jemma and Daisy worry about it enough. So here we are.>>

She holds his gaze, and will never tire of drinking in the sight of him, aware of the world but ridiculously, madly wrapped up in one another. How irritating for Parisians, if they were cool enough to care. <<We can ask Jemma about the space-time theory, but we need an alternate plan for that. In the meantime, let's seek the draugr and undead to learn what we can. If nothing else we erase them. We avoid Hela, the goddess of death for the Aesir, and probably Director Fury for now. Daisy and Jemma were part of this from the start. Some in SHIELD; May or Drew, for one. As much as I loathe to say it, Loki of Asgard helped in the past. He's more savvy than the rest of the court, but also likely enough to be a treacherous bastard. But useful. Thor will help but he's brawn, not brains.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
<<You compile your list of those you want to provide assistance, you know these people. I am merely the support for this endeavor, Jane.>> The words do not have self deprecation to them, they are truth spoken for all the people she lists, there are only a pair that he recognizes the names of with any certainty. <<But I cannot imagine lingering upon action forever is a wise choice, to do so even this long could perhaps open the window for a continual risk to you. What if the longer you are apart, the more difficult it is to bring you together?>>

That sentiment does come with a small, concerned smile. <<Come dear, let's pick up the rest of our intended meal. Fetch some dessert we please for the evening, and retire away from where the birds are watching you, waiting for a mistake. Unless you wish for us to create a stir, and attempt to drag out that Draghr this evening itself.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
<<I'm not used to having anyone but Darcy or Erik, and Darcy has her own life now within SHIELD not reliant on me. Strange as it seems, sometimes, it was the two of us for so long even after Asgard crashed into our lives.>> Jane smiles at the thought, traced in an air of poignancy, but not a great deal she can do about that. <<Pulling in everyone and sundry doesn't feel right, but then I have always tried to support other people first. Putting myself in the centre of it all, even on my own life, is sometimes odd.>> A misty breath pools through her lungs. <<You are more than support, Blackagar. I could wax into horrible poetry about what you mean, and thoroughly embarrass myself. We'll keep it to a safer patch instead of laying my heart bare and putting you on the spot.>>

The meal will eventually draw attention back, though it's not an imperative to sustain her in the same way those fleeting instants of connection, the lengthier purview of contact are. Begs the question if she could starve for lack of victuals, or only conversation and longing as the dead might? Dark thoughts, pushed aside. She follows Blackagar's gaze back to the chicken and decadent sauce and spice it marinates in, then the bao truck nearest where a five-spiced pork bun is just another adventure waiting to happen. <<We know the collective love for chocolate pastries, but I want to see if they've got mistrals at any open patisserie. Or something chocolate. Dessert sounds fair. The draugr I last saw on Orkney far, far north of here. They were entombed close to the great Ring of Brodgar, that portion of the island. That was in December. They could veritably be anywhere right now. I could upset the birds here, but it might not do me much good unless you care to shake down their master for information -- and he's probably in his domain.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
A smirk touches his lips, <<Come then, let's go investigate for the chocolates and pastries, along with what else you might fancy tonight. We will also grab a bottle of red and meander our way back to the loft. For I do not want to disrupt a date night with beating upon birds or travelling to the underworld, tonight.>> Reaching down, he takes her hand, and slowly starts winding past a few more of the food carts to add to the collection of meal that they began, but the night will take them to the other destinations before finally retiring.

7883/1000 Faces: De Falsis Diis I

Navigation menu

Personal tools

Namespaces

Variants

Views

More

Search

Navigation

Tools