Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	Another path crossed, another Jane not his own met and lost. Another lifetime encountered from a point of no return. Blackagar's return to the quiet chamber comes without fanfare, though the proverbial door slams shut on the resonating howl of laughter and his voice obliterating a device meant to contain the power cosmic. He enters into a space defined by light from the stained glass oriel window mounted high on the wall. Glistening gold and milky silver fragments splash across him and the floor. Looking up reveals the arching bridge over a dark river, albeit subtly broken. The shining span no longer reaches from one bank to the other, cleaved in half at the center. Dark water shot by wavelets and iridescent blue currents adds a dramatic element not present from before. The only other element is the silence. The House of Wisdom holds its secrets and memories close, but his finely attuned senses might realize the hush lasts longer and carries a deeper texture than before. Daisy and Jemma do not answer Jessica's questions down the long hallway. Jessica, arguably the lightest footed of them all, leaves no hushed tempo in her wake headed for one of the many rooms. For the first time he detected the Inhuman hacker, he may well and truly be alone.
Blackagar Boltagon	The silence permeates deeply, into him, around him, and the reality of the situation becomes yet another component of it is what it is within his mind. There is no true control of the environment now, and the fact that there is utter silence means a few possible options. The others have gone to their destinations, they have been kicked out of this place, or they have fallen into it. Of the three possibilities that flirt with his mind, he opts to put his faith in the first. The brief respite he allowed himself is far from enough to recharge him, when was the last time Blackagar felt aches? Pains? Like his body had been punished physically, his mind weathered, his spirit struggling. He is fighting a different battle now, one against himself. Still, one step after another is taken towards the center hall of the House, towards seeking the next destination.
Jane Foster	Light shines from the sconces as he passes them on his way into the main chamber. Nothing changed from his last traverse across the central hub. One lamp there shines darkly, shifted to a dull blue glow cast over a large door directly to the north. Unlike all the rest, this door does not stand down a hallway on the first or second floor. Grim shadow splashes against the thorny canes winding around the edges of the tiara, blooming into dark roses. Might they be red or pink? In the imperfect light, the petals are stained a deep purple-black. This door should open into a grand hall given the significant proportions. Dense wood more like metal requires a significant push to force open. Unlike the others, it does not let Blackagar in easily. The matter must be forced. When it does, the black, iridescent shard lying abandoned on the floor bears uncanny parallels to a damaged Atlantic port he saw months ago. The shard radiates power, and it is not kind.
Blackagar Boltagon	The force he uses to budge the door open exhausts him further, and Blackagar wearily steps when he finally does make it. The steps beyond the door should hold what he expects, large ornate areas, fanciful tapestries, everything else that he might consider. But instead what he finds is a black hard on the floor. Looking at it, he reaches a hand to his temple, brow furrowing. Familiarity is present but it is off just enough for him to recall. Why is everything so fuzzy again? Where ... The soft sound of dripping pulls his attention, he has not heard water in this place previously. Then feeling the tickle he reaches up, touching his face and pulling his hand back, covered in blood from his nose.
Jane Foster	Blackagar stands alone in the hall. The great rose window witnessed from outside when he approached the House *should* grace the exterior wall at the far end. It does not, or the blue shadows muddling the light render the glass opaque and dull against the dim stone raised into neo-Gothic arches of a style commonplace to the academic complexes of Europe and those inspired by European forerunners. Here is the splendour of the Ivy Leagues, the clean, pure lines and pointed arches embellished by sharp pendantive points and twisted filigree. Stone decoration in trefoils and flamboyant traceries radiates sharp edges and decadent curves, braced and branching like a dark reflection of a forest caught in jet and obsidian. Murk ripples around him, shifting tides ever so slowly diminishing the remaining illumination, if he waits long enough. The sullen crackle of copper fire an atom thick teases his vision, prickly and weighty. Clarity slips slowly back into focus, the *otherness* present in the back of his mind spiking with an electric shiver. Even in the dark, the chunk of stone is compelling. It hasn't facets but conchoidal fractures, curving razored edges that hum with contained power. Flickers pass through the glossy iridescence of an oil slick on the midnight sea; hints of purple, ultramarine, and wine-dark fire flashing and threaded beneath like an opal. If he touches it, the world opens with none of the previous transitions he experienced. Instead, the rainbow erupts a breath later after hanging on a precipice around him, slamming down with the force of a waterfall, a water bomber's drop. The lurch forward means crashing down into the immense spectrum of lethargic energy surging through dimensions, cutting across possibilities. Does memory supply the name; borrowed knowledge? The inverted bridge between the myriad Realms on Yggdrasil. This is the Bifrost and it is not. The *Black Bifrost*, then. Stripped of its joyous radiance and banner of sublime hope, instead tarred and inverted. Being shot through the cosmos delivers visitors to a midnight garden in a golden city rendered silver by night. **Asgard**.
Blackagar Boltagon	There is no direct recollection of Asgard, but stories told by friends and knowledge gained through the years do incline him to suspect the destination. There is a long road ahead but none of the vibrance that he was told of. The expectations are disrupted but it is not uncommon in this place. A frustrating reality. Leaning down, his hand raps on the surface of the bifrost, checking the integrity considering the color feels to him that of death and decay, wondering if it is still capable of holding him before he proceeds.
Jane Foster	A touch to the shard of the Black Bifrost jettisons the Midnight King is all it takes for him to be transported. The rush lasts a moment and interminably long; the duration betwen the space of a breath and a blink, and eons. Earth compresses, burnt by the stench of scorched plants and sundered dirt by the force of the black rainbow's impact. Gravity shifts back into existence as his atoms stream into a solid form again, punched back to the hallowed ground where another king rules, another law applies. Knotwork slashes and bends in a wide circle around him, scoring every leaf and crushed stem in its wake. Red and white poppies nod in waves around him, but the predominant flower are roses in profusion. Twisting canes weave around the structure of an impressive fence -- more a palisade, for a man with a mind to more martial affairs. Heady scents mingle, spiced and rich, others honeyed, but all overblown to the point of slightly cloying. Red blooms hang heady from thorny stems, the leaves ragged and nearly black. Leaving the garden leaves him facing that yard, a rather impressive home of some kind built with a steeply sloped roof and eaves crowned in formidably carved dragons. Snarling serpents bare golden teeth in all directions. The style is both archaic and futuristic, not altogether different from the woman's alter ego. Asgard is far more ancient than his own society, and yet far more scientifically inclined beneath the near-mythical trappings. Beyond the central home are several wending paths, a pond, and lower-hipped buildings that serve the effective role of a garage, a shed, a gazebo. Domestic. The Golden City itself rises in staggered towers and stunning vistas beyond a ring of trees casting covetous branches toward the glade where he finds himself, but it is still held at arm's reach through endless briars. Briar rose. Ring a bell?
Blackagar Boltagon	The edge of the city, deposited there abruptly in a materialized way leaves him disoriented once more. He shouldn't be disoriented, yet he is, staggering a step, then another before catching himself against the nearest object, a gnarled tree that he puts his weight into momentarily. The world twists like the canes, the smells rocking him to the core before it all passes. A step is taken and then he drops to his knees, breathing heavily, something extremely uncommon for him. When the moment passes, he can push himself upright again and look at the impressive structure, the slants, and the eaves leading to an initial impression of Nordic design. He had visited that location previously, plus the stories and tales. But the structure does pull his eyes, the central building set around the winding paths, the ponds, the lower buildings, all of it. The pull of the design reaches to him though and he starts, moving as if mud surrounds him and his muscles have turned to loose jelly, towards the house.
Jane Foster	The floral fragrance overwhelms all others, overlaid in syrupy strokes over the fresh air and the crushed grass underfoot, or the scorched sage, comfrey, and coriander that smell a bit like a ruined herbal meal. Burnt in the oven, without the chicken that should be there. Split wood beams that would be pleasantly resinous mingle with attar of roses, dizzyingly thick when he gets closer to the many bushes. It coats every breath. It dances on the palate with every swallow. Beyond the palisade wall covered in climbing roses dripping red and sweet, the luxurious three-story home bears signs of excellent maintenance. Everything is larger than average, even for a man as tall as Blackagar. High windows behind glittering lattices leaking soft bluish-white light peer out to the rose-girt gardens and the grounds enclosed within the palisade. Under the murky twilight, the gold fixtures become tarnished, a champagne silver coursing along dark wood where railings lead to the main doors or traceries pick out details carved into lintel pieces and ornate doors. Threading a path up to the front door isn't difficult and he finds himself on the doorstep unopposed. Shutters prevent casual peeks inside, as if this is all but expected. A few miniature rosettes nod in clusters from windowboxes for added cheer. The place looks cozy in some fashion, homely, even if the atmosphere tilts oppressive beneath the shining spires of the Golden City home to near-immortal gods.