Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	Long Island is, by its very definition, long. A skinny cigar floating off the Connecticut coast, wreathed in pebbled beaches and strings of beach houses. Get past the fancy Gatsby mansions, though, and it becomes rural, glimpses of a long-ago past, beautifully rendered. A secluded spot bears the fury of the Atlantic in all seasons. The thin pine forest at the back gives way to long fields, grasses hit by salt spray, responding to the volatile changes in the weather and the wind. One of the oldest lighthouses around stands in red and white, a narrow column overlooking the vantage of, say, Portugal. Next stop, Porto. It's not wanderlust that brings her out here, entirely. The place holds some importance to her, in a way, as a place quiet and escaping from the noise of the city. Somewhere more natural that surely Blackagar might find more comfortable, less demanding. That' s the point. She leans against a bleached driftwood log, hand over her brow, peering out to the surf where various seabirds diligently run around to find an oyster or clam dinner.
Blackagar Boltagon	An escape of sort was needed. Birthday plans had fallen through due to the necessity of work; particularly the operations Jane had been on but much affirmation had been held, he has things in store. But the timing had fallen through. This escape? Not part of it, but it was something that was seized upon regardless. Blackagar gently patted the companion who had brought them, Lockjaw turning and starting to trot off down the beach before vanishing away. More and more he has been about, providing a mode of transport and checking in. With the departure, he makes his way to where Jane is leaning, moving to settle in next to her and facing out towards the ocean as well. Silence, not uncommon of course, follows for a few minutes before he glances and signs. ~The scientists on Attilan watching over your body inform me that it moved.~
Jane Foster	Only fair to give Blackagar as long a rope as he want for birthday plans. Jane wouldn't be angry for a delay. Trying to find Peggy Carter and her unborn child took priority at SHIELD, to say nothing of Asgardian issues, and somehow she finds herself in between it all. Having a chance for them to escape from the city and the endless demands on their time, be it work or baking, is something pleasurable. Lockjaw trotting away earns a smile. "Was it that we didn't use the driftwood as a stick?" she asks, sitting forward to clear the tree if a giant dog wants his giant stick. She stretches her feet ahead of her, digging trails in the sand, bare feet pointed to the water. Not that she really wants to shove her feet in the sea for more than a few seconds, given how cold that happens to be. Not everyone is a moon-bound king, immune practically to such cares. She turns her gaze up to him, her eyes a pale, clear tea brown. Not chocolate. Lighter. His sign language brings a smile, and his shoulder ends up rubbed by her hand, before she leans a bit into him. <<Did they apply a current?>>
Blackagar Boltagon	There's an odd snap to his hands as they move, a sound emanating with the motion. It would accompany the tonality of the words he signs, a very serious one. ~It corresponded with your mission.~ Blackagar's reply comes with a quirk upwards of his eyebrow directed towards her as if expecting elaboration on what's going on. The hands move, snapping again with emphasis and doing so in the 'Royal' style, ~I do not take such things lightly, if something is happening that impacts you, it thusly impacts me.~ Lockjaw reappears in a swirl of smoke, running across and then jumping over a nearby log to bamf away again. Someone is having a playful day, but it is not the King that is doing such.
Jane Foster	Tonality in sign is significant, though hard to achieve. The curiosity of it being able to give such deep nuances might be lost on someone outside the Deaf community, or those unable to speak. Royal measures add a different dimension, and the ability to upbraid someone without saying a word has an impact even on the astrophysicist. She sits up the straighter without even thinking about it, her gaze moving between his hands and up to Blackagar's face. ~I could not see myself even when sitting on it.~ Even lying on it, disturbing Jemma to no end, but that's not here or there. ~No feelings are relayed to me. I am not constantly cold, for one.~ She draws out a line on the sand, fully seated while Lockjaw frolics. The goodest boy scares off the birds, but only fair. "We encountered something in a HYDRA laboratory where they held Chief Carter. A living being that was more a colony or symbiotic collection of plants, appendages, and sentient life. Alien or advanced lifeform, I don't know." Words give concrete shapes, measured out against the perforations in memory, which lies in a trench in the before, the after. "Hunger drove it. I could... hear... it, all the different thoughts were hungry, and it tried to take me. I don't know what happened after that. It hit me. Afterward, Captain America and Barnes said it was running. The lab was not in a good state. It smelled like... sky. Storms."
Blackagar Boltagon	The description of the entity that Jane lays out gets a steady look from him, followed by the fact that she was indeed struck. It is only speculation since the time specifics are unknown, but that could be the trigger that led to some kind of impact. Regardless, it was more pieces in a puzzle that was growing and one that was causing him stress. If he could grunt, he would. Instead, he has a flat expression equivalent to such. When his hands move yet again, they form the words rather pointedly. ~How does something smell like the sky?~ It is a curiosity at first for him, but it follows shortly after with, ~This creature which struck you is running? If it is Alien of nature, or something advanced, then whatever was done could have impacted you. And could provide an answer to some questions we have to help you realign.~ ~I feel I have been patient though, to allow your SHIELD opportunity to deal with some of these issues, but HYDRA's assault on my people ... has gone unpunished.~
Jane Foster	She can visualize the pieces of a hive mind monster, but drawing it in the sand takes some effort. Charting stars and drawing circles all the day through actually helps to make those squiggles better than a stick figure. ~The appendages moved independently. Like an octopus. They were not tentacles.~ Things that would make Swamp Thing cry foul for being inappropriately copied, she tries to shape together. Still for a moment, she brushes sand from her hands and puts them on Blackagar's knees instead to keep a sense of calm, of physical presence that she is still there. ~It fled. Alive, injured, and afraid. The intelligence was base, not advanced. It took a shield and bullets going through it. The damage it knit together from the plant and flesh.~ Truly, pretty gross. Her grimace in memory is enough of that. Still, she shifts, gathering her thoughts. "The sky has a smell. It changes before it rains to petrichor, more earth and hot asphalt. During the rain and after, it changes. When it storms, the hot sear of metal and the electric, acrid chlorine spark of lightning. That's the ozone. I didn't smell water. I tasted that heat from the sky. Cap and Barnes wanted me to burn the thing, we'd destroyed flamethrowers and I didn't have anything on hand." That slow, steady beat of her thoughts drops to the sea again. "I got my hands on it. Then it was gone, fleeing. It's all black between that. You have been patient, and no one would fault you for delivering your response to HYDRA. Though be sure this is a path you are prepared to take. I will support you no matter what you need there, but vengeance is a dangerous path."
Blackagar Boltagon	The crisp snap of his hands as they move to puncture the space, it would seem Blackagar is in a mood this day, stemming from a number of things, among which could be this presence of HYDRA, frustrations on Attilan, concern over Jane, most likely the swirling of all three. And all three driving him to the same conclusion. When his hands come together, there is a sound, that emphasis so present as are the directed movements. He could speak with his mind, but he has been doing it with an emphasis on the language. ~Vengeance is the harm in return for someone harming another, a punishment.~ Blue eyes flare a bit, light as he looks directly at Jane, ~Justice is the process of law. HYDRA has committed crimes against Inhumans. And there is only one King, and that is me. I have judged them. And their punishments will be just.~
Jane Foster	The wordless incline of her head measures that question. Lockjaw might not be frolicking in the water now. How wise is that hound to the moods of his companion? Surely better than some. <<Then I will stand with you.>> If he can hear her thoughts, then that quiet, soft outreach comes with quiet certainty. She rubs her wrist out of habit, and then glances down at the offending, innocent ring of fine chain links. Usually it likes to be a bangle. A slim one, nothing impressive. Occasionally it bothers to be a cuff. Now, it's pretending to be the smallest ring of delicate, interlinked loops possible. "Undrjarn hasn't raised a protest, so I may presume that we stand with you too."