Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	The emblem of the particoloured domino mask resides close to an occluded lamp. Up on the third floor, the hallway remains darker than most Jemma trod so far. Perhaps it's the dimmed, almost frosty blue light that fails to banish the darkness or the lack of bright stars lending their cosmic radiance through the windows. Her body might feel colder, and any touch of the leaded panes is biting to bare fingers or hands. Her breath doesn't quite fog in the air. Smooth flagstones become a polished black ribbon up to a heavy pair of doors chained together. Black iron links wind around the handles that come together like clutching hands made of polished horn or petrified wood. To enter, Jemma has to yank and haul on the heavy chain, making a cacophonous noise as the links moan and jangle loudly. Beyond the doors is no chamber, as she has seen elsewhere. Only darkness of a heavy night, and the undeniable sense that something lies beyond the black velvet curtain shrouding her way. She can push it aside, pass right through, or turn back, but turning back always puts her facing the same curtain again.
Jemma Simmons	It certainly is cold, here on the third floor. Or, rather, it feels cold. But, should Jemma be feeling cold? It is all in her head that she is cold and she really isn't? Being the scientist that she is, confronted with the most unusual circumstances that she is in, of course it warrants a test. That would be why Jemma, complete in her usual research attire, consisting of a grey cardigan, button down blouse (purple with white polka dots), pants, and comfy shoes....with a lab coat thrown over top. She reaches out to touch the window. Yes...that is cold. Test completed. When did Jemma switch to comfortable clothing? That part is still fuzzy. It just seemed to happen. Just like Jemma finding her way to the door with the heavy chain. And, despite it being cold, or assuming it will be cold, Jemma was able to open the door with little difficulty, despite what the heavy jangling of chains would indicate. And...before her, the black velvet curtain. And to the left, the same velvet curtain. And to the right. And behind her. Apparently, she is to pass through the curtain. "Yes, yes, I understand." To whom does Jemma speak to? It doesn't matter at this point. All that matters is the black veil before her. She needs to move forward, plain and simple. So, she does, stepping through the curtain with just a minor hand wave to push the fabric to a side to allow for easier passage. Onward and forward.
Jane Foster	The curtain brushes over Jemma's shoulder, at once light as a moth-eaten scrap in a Victorian house and heavy as a Sisyphean stone. Shoving past takes effort. Gossamer sorrow spills around her in a cool rush of clouds in the aftermath of the curtain pulling back. Then comes trudging or strolling down the slanting slippery path, her heels slipping on black stones. Nothing mortars the slabs together, and she lacks a railing to steady herself with. Ite twists and turns under dim blue light, barely adequate to see more than a few feet in front of her. Few features except sheer walls greet her, the occasional glimpse of something pale, gargantuan, and white poking out. After the first few minutes, the descent seems to cover more distance than before. It's almost *easy* to rush on, and quickening her pace covers yet more distance. Black shapes emerge from the inky world, hard to spot from beyond. Dark sand laps the base of the path where cliffs fall away in a narrow, steep ravine. Even from afar, she can spot the staggered mast and proud bow of a ship presumably beached on the shore. Another craggy trail of switchbacks climbs the cliff to a keyhole entry, framed in artfully placed angular slabs that probably mark the entry to a cave or cliffside dwelling. Choices, choices.
Jemma Simmons	Choices indeed. It was a choice to pass through the curtain. Really, it was, contrary to what it may have appeared. Jemma could have just stood there and defiantly not walked through the curtain, despite the curtain being at every angle. Not moving forward is a choice. Yet, she chose to move forward. Just as Jemma chose to walk down the slippery path with no handhold and shoes that, while comfortable, are completely wrong for the surface that she is trotting upon. What was once somewhat treacherous becomes easier to manage...and the descent speeds along, until she is finally able to discern more than just pale shapes. A ship. And a cliff. Does Jemma continue downward towards the ship or does she climb the cliff to see what she can see? For the scientist, curiosity leads to answers. And...Jemma is curious about the cliff. What is in that cliff? A trail leads to it...one that beckons to Jemma. And, from the cliff, what would she see? Would she be able to observe the apparent makings of the ship from that vantage point more clearly? Truly....it would seems that maybe, just maybe, she can satisfy that feline curiosity of what is at that cliff and how massive the ship may be...all at once. With that, Jemma finds her feet falling upon the trail of switchbacks. To the cliffside she shall go.
Jane Foster	Not moving is a choice, true. How long before the cold sank into her bones and her limbs folded, refusing to move? Before her muscles stilled and her breath refused to draw? Would she be a statuette of herself in the darkness, like the strange shapes she observed below the walls of Eden? Questions not to tickle the fancies of a scientist, logic problems not to be turned over in Fitz's capable hands or over donburi and noodles with Daisy in the lab. --- The path leading up the cliff is not without its hazards over a sandy beach. Stone rears up high overhead and offers her no protection from howling winds that blow erratically from different directions. The thin ledge scarcely wide enough for her. In places she has to flatten herself and edge along, feeling the path crumble away. Fine sand and scree blown off the cliff top rains down on her, grit to get in her eyes and insinuate itself between layers of her clothes. Razor-sharp chips and bits of yellowed bone litter the way, ready to trip her up or send her over the side. Her feet skid. Handholds, where she finds them, are sharp and rough, jutting edges biting into grasping palms. The place might be determined to take its pound of flesh, more than most. Instead of fresh red liquid welling up, her cuts bleed soft, sustaining green of spring, the only colour in the monochrome landscape. And still she has far to go. The arduous path up is not easy for a seasoned climber, though a woman subject to SHIELD's menacing training regimen might not be conquered so easily. How much simpler it might be to be a spider who can just *scale* a wall...
Jemma Simmons	Perhaps the ship would have been better. The thought does run through Jemma's mind. Did she pick the wrong path? Would it have been better to go down to the beach? The nagging tugs of doubt pull upon Jemma, seeking to tangle her intent as thoroughly as the path seeks to tangle her feet. It is all a deterrent. Obstacles placed in her path to prevent Jemma from reaching her goal. Winds threatening to blow her from her precarious perch. Handholds that have not rounded from the sand and wind, but rather sharpened to pierce flesh. All of it meant to try to turn Jemma back, to urge her to quit. But...it is just the black velvet curtain. There is no turning back. No returning to start. There is just forward....and forward Jemma shall go. The bleeding of green, rather than red, is only barely noted. There will be time later to examine her hands. Questions to ask later. For now, with nothing to chase Jemma but her own trepidations, she has but to continue onward. The way is not easy...but the truly rewarding experiences never come from a simple path. SHIELD may have trained tenacity into Jemma Simmons, but it is her own stubborn streak that keeps her onward and upward. Methodically. Gradual but never ceasing. The scientist makes the climb.... ...until finally a doorway stands before her. And even now, on seemingly solid terrain, Jemma does not look back behind her, to see the path she has taken. Instead, she looks around, to see if she can now fully examine the ship from afar. And...to the doorway before her, to determine its ilk before she ultimately does what she has always intended to do. Jemma passes through the doorway.
Jane Foster	Wind scours the stone and flesh with equally remorseless fingers, ripping at the pretty polka dotted fabric. Cold remains a persistent issue, sinking into the arms that ache and hands that lose their fine motor control to the spreading numbness. Jemma might equate it with frostbite or neuropathy, a slow-moving condition with potentially dramatic results if not addressed in good time. The hurts compound little by little. Out of her leaks a green thread to mark where she goes, stains left on the unforgiving stone or robbed on the moaning, skirting breeze. Sounds from unpleasant to downright eerie keen above her shoulder, moaning past her ear when they are kind. When they are not, the pandemonium shrieks, redolent with suffering and torment, would be enough to drive someone mad. They cleave through thoughts and punch down upon unprotected minds. No soft sides remain to the wailing winds that siphon hope and life from the unprotected woman on the ledge. Forward, shoved back, pried away from the rock like a cruel child fishing for cockles in the shallows. Her knees hurt and her body carries so many small wounds before an indifferent set of stone slabs. Grit blasted surfaces make the suggestions of shapes difficult to perceive. Fitz might liken them to Pictish stones, slashed by the hint of an elk's majestic rack or the prodding thrust of a spear. Here and there, deep cracks penetrate into the dark rock and whole chunks have fallen away. She can feel traces of a mast, or maybe a tree, where seeing them is difficult. The gateway has no door, just darkness. From her perch, through the gritty winds buffeting her face, she can make out that ship. Enormous by medieval standards, larger than a ship-of-the-line and embarking on destroyer sized. Its mast is a massive tree jutting upright, metal prongs and bits blending in with the black metal sides and twinges of rust. The hulk is mostly upright, listing ever so slightly, festooned in a few enormous chains where each link is about the size of a longboat. A modest longboat, anyway. Behind her, the narrow passage isn't meant for someone to stand fully. She will have to crawl. Bow her head, dip low, and feel the craggy knobs and uneen spots before her. The distance isn't that far, maybe three or four body lengths, but the walls come so close together they touch her shoulders and force her to twist and wiggle to try and get through. It's easiest with her arms folded to her chest, her body wedged and squeezed over slippery, oozing moisture that is common to caves. It, too, is frigid, all too organic. And with a shove and a grunt and crushed breath from the lungs, the passage expels her into the velvet dark. Four dim pools are arranged in a quatrefoil, fed by a dripping spring over a 'waterfall' of calcified rock. Lots of pointy bits, very impressive. The 'waterfall' has a natural shelf sticking out, littered by a few objects soaked in the veneer of rock that one day will cover them in a massive natural stone pillar. In the first pool lies a partially submerged set of scales, of all things. Coins and a few weights scattered about hold a compelling sheen. Here, the water is warm. The second has a floating lotus on a lily pad, almost glowing blue. The sharp petal points are unusually tranquil and the main source of light. The third pool sits at the base of a tree, a few apples hanging from its branches: gold and red. Roots twine into the water's depths. The fourth contains an oval mirror partially submerged in the water, and the image holds a frozen ghost in unmoving torment. And then the shelf, complete with a medal, a pen, and a book with her own name on it, pages wrought and stamped by a litany of scientific discoveries, counterpoint, analyses, and more.