Owner	Pose
Jonathan Sims	The gods--if they are the ones who control the weather--have seen fit to grace Westchester County with a surprising amount of snow this weekend. The area usually gets most of its snow in February, but perhaps in recognition that February's going to be a tough time for some, they've gotten a few inches early, leaving the Triskelion covered in a blanket of pristine white that glitters in the light. The air is still and cold, and there's a bright new star in the sky to the southeast, hovering over the city of New York.     Perfect weather for a holiday party.     It's not quite a "Yule" party but it's not quite a "Christmas" party. It is, perhaps, just a reflection of the natural human inclination to combat cold and darkness with light and festivity. Mostly it's spiced cider and hot buttered rum and punch (which probably also has rum in it) and candy canes outside, semi-organized snow fun--look, nobody really /expected/ snow, the forecast did /not/ call for it, but you take the chances where you can--and inside there's a couple of tables with snacks set out, and some chairs to sit in. Lots of lights, some greenery hung up. Nothing super-fancy, and it's got the air of an office Christmas party most likely, but a good way to relax and unwind in the face of the potential end of the world.     There's been weird stuff happening all day, though. Lights flickering, tables collapsing, one member of the janitorial staff swears up down and sideways that the Virgin Mary appeared to him in the punch bowl and refused to do any more work on the event. Strange readings have been registered in the dimensional measuring equipment, and some of the WAND people might be here /just/ to poke around and see if anything strange happens.     One such WAND person has been part of the improptu snowball fights--oddly enough for those in SHIELD who've known him the last couple of months. As the two teams call a draw, Jonathan Sims heads over toward the punch bowl to get some of that hot buttered rum and warm up his hands. Mystic senses are on high alert but nothing weird's happened at the party just yet.
Sara Pezzini	The holidays were a rough time for Sara, even before everything the last month had caused. The idea of an office holiday party wasn't rejected out right, nor was it accepted with open arms. She had intended to come by, get a reading of the festivities and decide from there. The news of the Virgin Mary in the punch bowl had changed her mind however. Having been raised Catholic, which of course meant she was no longer Catholic at all, the idea of Mary in the punch sort of made her snerk, but it also meant that something might be up. On her right wrist the silver bracelet she always wore was firmly in place, the major difference was that the huge red stone wasn't red... it was a swirling of orange and red smoke. Witchblade's eye was open and watching, ready to report anything he saw, felt or believed to be there. Meanwhile, Sara had to mingle.
Martin Blackwood	Martin Blackwood has been watching the impromptu fight from one of the chairs. He looks a bit tired (being an EMT durign the holidays is anything but boring) but is otherwise in good spirits. He gets up as Jon gets his own drink. His gloved hands are cupped around a paper cup of his own steaming beverage of choice. His dressed in casual wool slacks, and heeled boots of sturdy and, most importantly, waterproof material. His torso is covered by a heavy grey wool coat with the budding of a blue crocheted scarf tucking from under the collar. His head is uncovered, letting his dark curls free to fall as they may in his usual touseled look.     "It's good to see you in high spirits" he says to his husband, before taking a sip of the warm cider. "Especially given the state of things recently." He glances up at the sky and the glowing new "star" that rests there immovable though it may be. He Jewish sensibilities are getting *really* tired of the various Hyper-Christian cult activities that have propped up around its emergence of late.
Jane Foster	Round yon Virgin Margarita, strawberry or Florida lime, slush and heavenly peace! Or nog and spiced bliss. Especially adding a shot or three for those old enough, rum splashed liberally into a hot drink while Jane negotiates a path to the bowl. Several of her sensors are discreetly pressed to tables, under seats, the usual, and feed a steady stream of data into her phone. Scientist lady sciences it up for a lovely evening, going light on drinks. She maintains a calm air about her, all the same, happy to participate in a round of singing and resisting calls for games. The smile is pasted on, her expression perfectly unchanged from a look of distant contentment. Steady as she goes, that might be the proper way to go about all of this with her fellow Furiae recovering from Chinese food and her better half chasing moonbeams.
Cael Becker	Cael was here for one reason and one reason only - the party vibe. Maybe she hasn't heard about the weirdness - maybe she's determined to dismiss it, and ignore. She has enough weird in her life - right now all she wants is some hot, mulled cider. She holds a cup of it in her hands at the moment, sipping at it, and glancing briefly towards the pen not far off where Redfox, the strange mutant fox she had 'adopted,' is standing by the fence - staring at her.     Well. Not staring. The thing is blind, that's one of the things they'd learned in studying it. But hell if it doesn't look like the creature is staring at her.     For once, Cael has traded in her usual jeans and leather jacket for more appropriate attire for the snow, including a down-stuffed puffy jacket of a charcoal grey color, and a knit woolen cap pulled down over her ears. She even has a scarf, and gloves. Shit never got this cold in Phoenix...     At the moment, she lingers at the edge of the gathering, simply watching in silence as she enjoys her drink.
Bobbi Morse	After the GIRL Expo and ensuing AIM attack on the event, Bobbi was ready for something a bit less, well, eventful. This was a good chance to visit with those she hadn't worked with or spoken to in a while and to just enjoy the season and all of its holidays. She arrived dressed comfortably for the weather in a thick gray turtleneck, jeans and hiking boots, she offered waves to the other agents and SHIELD members she saw. Pausing long enough to pack a loose snowball and toss it good naturedly toward those in the snowball fight just before it ends with a draw, she laughed and went to get a cup of the warm cider; if only to keep her hands warm.
Jonathan Sims	"It's precisely /because/ of the state of things recently," Jon replies to his husband as the other man comes over to the punch bowl. "I'm channeling some of Granny Moira's Blitz spirit, I suppose. Maybe angels are invading, maybe I have a date with an archangel's retribution, but I'm not going to stop my life because of that." He shrugs, and smiles, and gets himself some buttered rum.     The sensors are reading a kind of low-level trickle, as if something were slowly gathering. Nothing visible to normal senses, or even mystic senses (if distracted), but technology is not distractable, if easier to interrupt than a human. Nothing spikes on Jane's phone just yet, nor pings the Archivist or Witchblade to notice.
Sara Pezzini	While looking over the punch bowl, or rather letting Witchblade look over the punchbowl, Sara gets herself some of the cider as well. She's wearing a pale green sweater and a pair of slacks, nothing fancy really but not her usual. Her coat was in her locker, she'd grab is later. "Could be our last winter holiday, might as well take advantage of it," she comments with a smirk. "So... happy holidays everyone, I'll be sending a pound of coffee to each of you, with a bow on top."
Martin Blackwood	Martin smiles. "A good plan if there ever was one" he comments to his husband sipping more of the drink. At Sara's proclimation he calls to her, "Here here!" as he raises his small cup in a toast.     Something seems to distract him suddenly and he looks around as is searching for a source. "Jon... do you feel that?" he asks, looking at the man with a worried expression.
Jane Foster	Maybe they all need to let their hair down. Reason enough for Jane to wear braids, or at least some facsimile of a French braid equivalent. She has the glass to her lips that she barely drinks, breathing in that warming gourmand scent of nutmeg and cinnamon washed over by the rum toddy. "Commander, look who the stars aligned for!" she calls lightly to Bobbi, the blonde standing out among many familiar faces. "Come sit over here, if you like. Have we dragged you away safely?" Others might relax and she should, but the tickle of the odd always stick too close to her brain. "I won't believe this is the end, considering we were told the end was nigh not that long ago," she replies with enthusiasm enough. "There's always hope."
Cael Becker	Cael's eyes are drawn from the little red fox, jokingly named Redfox, with its weird bony plates protruding from it back - and over to Jon and Martin, a frown tugging briefly at her lips. Protect Martin - that's what Jon had told her to do. When all of this goes to shit - make sure Martin is okay.     Because fellow SHIELD agents are easy to babysit. God, the lot of them can be so frustrating. She shakes her head, trying to turn her thoughts away from the impending attack, as her foot scuffs at the fallen snow. Cheerfully generic holiday music plays, and she fights the urge to roll her eyes broadly.     Oh great. Someone put the Date Rape Christmas song on the playlist.
Bobbi Morse	Bobbi Morse picks up her cup of cider and sips. Mmm. Turning as Jane calls to her, a warm smile is offered. "Jane. Merry Yuletide?" She pauses, thinking that over. That was the right greeting, right? She crosses over to join Jane as invited. "It is remarkable, isn't it?" Sitting down, she sips her cider again, "mm, this is very good.." then glancing over, "How have you been? Seems like it has been - active - recently hasn't it?" She glances at the others as they move around and interact.
Jonathan Sims	"Oh, that's been going on all day," Jon says with a shrug. "I figure it's just the approaching solstice, there's a reason so many old temples were aligned to the sun. That reminds me, Tim and I were--"     There's a spike in the readings on Jane's phone, and every person with mystical senses in the area can feel it--mystical energy, a bright burst of it, cold but somehow comforting, like a shower of snowflakes on a winter's morning. It's accompanied by a cracking sound, like an icicle breaking, that can be heard across the courtyard--generally from the street.     And then everything settles back, cold and still. The lights flicker briefly and then shine steady and bright.
Sara Pezzini	Lifting the cup to her lips, Sara never takes that drink. As the sensation shivers up her spine, her head turns to look in the direction the sound came from. "Anyone else feel that?" she asks quietly as she scans the street, then starts walking that way. Snow in December was strange enough, now this? Most might not think anything of it, but Sara was well aware the littlest things could lead to trouble, better to check it out.
Martin Blackwood	Martin frowns as the chill sweeps through the courtyard. "I think it's more than that..." he says, looking to the street. He lets it linger for a moment before shaking his head. He sips his cider stubbornly and mutters, "I guess whatever it is doesn't want to be known just yet."     "Would be awful foolish to ambush a buch of SHIELD agents during out festivites" he says, a bit louder. "Especially when we're all on edge about an impending invasion... wouldn't it?"
Jane Foster	"Happy Yuletide, Jolablot, Dongzhi, Yalda Night, Maghi..." Jane pauses for a moment, grinning over her drink. "Probably Dies Natalis Solis Invicti, too, depending on how you measure the calendar. To suns and warmth, hearthfire and binge-watching shows." The suggestion of a hum touches her lips as she shunts aside to give Bobbi a bit more room to join her. "Isn't it lovely? Kudos to everyone who put together the drinks and festivities. Though they were getting a little too into their cups." Her gaze turns from Cael to Martin and Jon, offering them a friendly nod. "Very active. Up to WAND work, recovering a few objects, and now fulfilling a few of my obligations to SWORD. I should speak with you on that, since I have some ideas that your expertise would be welcome for. After this, though." Especially as her phone alerts her with a string of sparkling lines, dancing needles going like a chill through the spine and ringing off a gold bangle of no consequence at all. "Atmospheric temperatures registered something more Martian than terrestrial. Unless we suddenly tripped and landed in Oymyakon, we're in the wrong spot for that." Clear and bright, then, she slips up from her seat and carries her cup with her. If hanging around Asgardians has taught her anything, always bring the drink. "The field runs here to here," she gestures broadly, "with the greatest deviations being in that quadrant and running off O3, which puts us here." Yes, she's going to bloody outscience the problem. In WAND. Why?
Cael Becker	Cael has just started to move towards the pen of her little pal - perhaps thinking better of an attempt to socialize when she's feeling so on-edge (and sober). That is, of course, when the strange chill runs through - setting people on edge, and sending Jane into a soliloquy of nonsense that, honestly, makes no more sense to her than the shit Wade spouts. "...English, motherfucker. Do you speak it?" she mutters under her breath, staring at Jane in bafflement.
Bobbi Morse	Bobbi Morse was about to say something; She hasn't got mysitc senses or anything of the sort; but she can feel the chill rush past. It's enough for her to finally break down and put on her knit cap just for a bit of extra warmth. She looks up and around, even skyward, as the crackling sound reverberates. "Hmm.." she glances toward Jane; if anyone is going to sense something odd at a solstice celebration, she's likely sitting next to one of the most attuned.
Jonathan Sims	The street from which the cracking sound came is really just part of the Triskelion grounds, not a proper street, but it's the main one that twists and winds up toward the public roads that lead to the Hyperloop and the rest of civilization. Where Jane gestures the largest deviation in readings is toward the first curve in the road that leads out of the grounds, toward something presumably out of sight. And as people move that way, the feeling picks back up--cold, crisp, clear, but fluctuating more than it was before as if it's no longer a field but more localized.     "Is that what that was?" Jon says as he follows Jane, bringing his own drink and frowning. He's scanning the road in the direction she's gesturing. "It got /very/ cold," he clarifies for Cael, "though I thought that was just a burst of magic."
Martin Blackwood	Martin gives Jon a look. "I really hope this isn't another crisis at hand. We've had one too many of those of late..." he mutters and starts to pull off a glove. He tucks in into a coat pocket and withdraws a white one that has a pattern of arcane geometric shapes etched into the palm and back of the fabric in dark blue thread.     "Can't have a single party without some monster or ancient thing coming to crash it these days... I swear..." he mutters and calls to Sara. "Pezzini, wait up." He crunches over the snow packed earth, graceful despite the uneaven ground. A low level turquoise glow surrounds his gloved hand. There is a look of concentration on his features as he nears the bearer of the Witchblade.
Jane Foster	The path up to the bend in the road stretches ahead of them, and astrophysicist her phone once on the path there. "Among other things. Putting together a few readings, I can safely assure you Santa has not come early. Therefore, welcome mats might be pulled out?" she tells Jon, still determined to smile. Wearing sweaters is a wise move, thankfully. "No reason to say we aren't friendly," Jane insists, and holds out the mug of rummed nog, a perfectly suitable option. She is careful how she places her feet so as not to slip on wet grass or iced concrete. "Blackwood, mind it's a bit unstable over here." Because she is slippy mcgee, and carefully wobbling her way out. "Hello, and welcome to the party! You do not have to worry about us if you want to enjoy some music, have a drink," get stabbed six ways to Sunday if you're hostile, "and share in the festivities." Yes, she is talking to open air. What else is new?
Cael Becker	"Well. Last time it was Hydra," Cael remarks to Martin, as her gaze follows Sara. She starts to trail the woman, slowly and cautiously. She should stay the hell out of it - she's unarmed, she has no particular //gifts// - and she knows nothing about magic. Though surely if it was a chill it was just... well. A chill, right?     But if Witchblade says it's a 'familiar energy'...     "A familiar threat? Or is it benign?" she calls after her roommate, as she continues to follow her at a distance.
Bobbi Morse	Bobbi Morse watches as things begin to happen that are well beyond her expertise. Following along, if only out of curiosity to what the others are sensing and reading, she listens but keeps quiet with nothing to really add. But she does keep her eyes moving. It's just the years of training kicking in. If there is something she can do she will of course.
Jonathan Sims	What comes into view as the little group goes up the road is nothing particularly strange. A young woman, blonde, her hair in double French braids much like Jane's. She wears a pink snowsuit and looks, to the mortal eye, like nothing more than a normal girl in her late teens or early 20's, limping along with one arm wrapped about her waist.     "Oh thank God!" she calls as she sees the people. "Please, help me, we spun out on the ice, my mother and grandmother are in the car..."     How a car got past the front gates? No explanation. To mystic eyes she does not stand out at all--but there is a /resonance/ that Jane's bracelet and the Witchblade both can feel, something silver and cold, something that would be terribly obvious if it weren't hiding its light deliberately. Save for that, one might not notice she's anything odd at all.     Case in point? Jon doesn't seem to see anything is odd, lengthening his stride. "Where's this car?" he asks, looking to Martin. The EMT is the best positioned to help, after all.
Tara Tsabedze	Well aware that if there is danger aimed at herself, Witchblade will armor up, Sara is more worried about the others around her. This teen didn't /feel/ right, at all. There was some sort of act going on, the truth of this person or thing hidden. "Jon," she warns softly. "She's not what she seems." Knowing she can't stop anyone from doing anything, if Jon and the others move to follow this girl, she'll go first because not one part of this feels right, and Witchblade is starting to get itchy.
Martin Blackwood	Martin steps foward, what she seems or not, what Martin sees is an injured girl. "I'm an EMT, take me to the car and I can see to your grandmother and mother... as well as to you."      He scans the horizon, his eyes seeking signs of a crash or spinout. There is no car... not nearby at least. Instead, he reaches out a hand toward the girl's arm, that bluish pulse of energy around his glove growing slightly, seeking eactly how injured the girl actually is. It's his ace up his sleeve and how his cover as an EMT is so believable... aside from the 6 years of medical training, of course.
Jane Foster	Jane's medical training is sufficient to treat a threat of a car accident for what it is: concerning. "What condition are they in? How fast was the car going?" Let the math spin for other bright minds, too, to see the likelihood of things being as they are. If she cannot see the car from her current position, then trekking out a little further to gain better vantage for the road doesn't separate her overly far. The pink snowsuit is dubious to say the best, a kind of fashion that should have stayed in 1985 where it belongs. Still, she turns back briefly to the girl. "I'm not seeing any vehicles slid off the road or people beckoning for help. Are you sure that was clear?"
Cael Becker	Cael studies the girl with a skeptical gaze, holding back as some of the other agents approach. Her arms fold over her chest as she remains atop the rise, gazing down at the 'child' - and scanning the area for the sight of this supposed car. Like the others, she can see nothing, and she knows that a child and her family shouldn't be out here to begin with. They //all// know that.     So what's going on?     "Alis?" she murmurs quietly. "Do you see anything interesting that I wouldn't see?"
Bobbi Morse	Bobbi Morse looks at the girl as the group draws closer. It is immediately suspect given they within the Triskelion perimeter. She can't speak to mysitc or supernatural? aspects, but the obivious question remains, "How did they get past the front gates?"
Hope Svelgate	Winter Nights, Mother's Night, Disablot. The darkening of the year, the fading of life after the harvest for the Norse was a time to invoke the enigmatic spirits of Disir to pray for the next harvest. It is a sacred time of feasting and comradery even amidst the cold and chill and you never know who such celebrations might draw to their glow, even Death herself. It is not however the Pale Rider or even the White Witch that comes walking across the white snow that crunches underfoot, the way only fresh wet snow does. She appears to be a young woman, perhaps an inch or two above five foot, well brushed shoulder length blonde hair, and wearing a simple white dress and a cloak ostensibly to ward against the night's chill, in a style more common to the medieval era than the twenty-first century. The keen eyed might notice despite the crunch of the snow, no tracks are left in her wake. The figure says nothing as she comes to a stop, standing at a distance studying the girl in the snowsuit in silent contemplation, as the falling snow begins to gather upon the hood of her cloak.
Jonathan Sims	There's a flicker as Jane trots up the hill, a mirage, as if there was a car there, crashed into a pole, a truly girsly scene.     But whatever they've encountered seems to realize the jig is up and there's little point in continuing the farce.     The young woman straightens, all trace of limp and injury disappearing--there was a moment where Martin felt that, yes, there /was/ an injury, but then it's just... /gone/. And he can tell she's not human at all. To mystic eyes there is a halo of coruscating silver roiling off of her, cold light, crisp and beautiful.     She sighs. Her voice is musical, lilting. "Well, I suppose you pass the test, though in the opposite direction. My sister will surely commend your dedication to protecting your security." She glances to Bobbi, as if noting that though she could not see through the illusion she at least had the presence of mind to question. Her gaze sweeps the group, taking in each in turn. She notes Hope, off to one side, and inclines her head respectfully.     Jon, for his part, steps back and raises one hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the woman's presence. "What on Earth...?"
Tara Tsabedze	As the image of the teen shifts and change before Sara and the others, she is not the only change that happens. The red stone on the silver bracelet glimmers and in a matter of seconds, the gauntlet forms. No weapon, no aggression, no anger, but a reaction to the realization that a servant of Fate stands before him. For Sara's part she has no control over this, it merely happens as he informs his wielder who is there. "Well that explains the familiarity," Sara comments, basically ignoring that Witchblade was doing his own thing in that moment. "He calls her a Servant of Fate, if that helps anyone else."
Martin Blackwood	Martin was about to help. He really was, but the shift in tone, form, and body is enough to make his step back cautiously. "O...kay... that was unexpected..." he says glancing first to Jon then to Sara.     "Servant of Fate?" he asks the latter. "Like... Macbeth's Fates..." Which of course was cribbed from a variety of other myths but Martin's a classicist, not an archeologist.
Jane Foster	"You'd call them Parcae for the Latin, Moirai in Greek, and they have dozens of other names besides," Jane answers for them a bit dryly. Oh, but the amusement for whatever -- whomever -- she speaks to transcends simple conversation, making itself understood in whatever tongue is needed. "Is this an allegory, then? The mother and the crone are maimed by an accident, that we have much to worry about? No need to think about bubbling cauldrons," she asides to Martin. "I expect the concern is rather to the /path/ rather than the vehicle shuttled along it. Lay of the land has become rumpled and disrupted, perhaps?" Her head tilts as she nods, and then takes a deep enough breath, rubbing her thumb to the webbing beween her knuckles, a sonnet of gold and silver traced there. "I think we're all right, commander." Bobbi, in this case. "Though I would ask what brings such an august person to our festival. Again, can we offer you hospitality? A drink, refreshment?"
Cael Becker	Cael tilts her head to one side as she hears a response that no one else can hear, a quiet 'hrm' her only reaction.     That is, of course, until something ruffles her blonde hair, revealing the brightly colored rainbow tones dyed in the under layers of her hair. "Hey," she mutteres, "Cut it out." She runs her own fingers through her hair to smooth things back out - and frowns at the now changed appearance of the child.     She starts to approach cautiiously, looking it up and down. "Fate, huh?" There's a brief pause before she asks, "Do Servants of Fate have any tips for dealing with angels?" she asks.     Look, can anyone blame her for having a one-track mind these days?
Bobbi Morse	Bobbi Morse knows when to lead and when to let those with the first hand experience do the leading. This is clearly one of those instances. A nod to Jane, "That is good to hear" she observes. She keeps her eyes moving, searching the area. It would make sense there could be more, well, vistors. She'd rather not have them waltz up while attention was all focused on this one.
Hope Svelgate	The young woman in the white dress and cloak regards the fates, pleasant expression vanishing as her eyes narrow. Reaching into her cloak, there is a faint blue-white flash beneath it before she withdraws a traditional weaving spindle and very visibly breaks it with an audible crack before dropping the the pieces into the snow and walking away into the gloom beyond the lights, still leaving no tracks as if she never was. All that is left is the broken spindle to convey the regard, or lack thereof, in which this individual holds the agents of Fate.
Jonathan Sims	A scintillating laugh at Cael's question, silver bells in the snow. "My message to you? Fate is rarely what one expects. The more one struggles, the more tightly the web binds." She smiles to Jane. "The Moirai know something of that. Oedipus and Perseus, for two off the top of my head. Some things are inevitable, and it is how we face that down that shows our true nature."     A slight bow, then, to Jane. "I would appreciate that. I come with warning, yes, but I have my personal reasons for being the one to visit this night, and an invitation inside would be appreciated." An obscure pain crosses her features, and then is gone in an instant.     She turns behind and waves as if to say 'all is well.' The energy from that area vanishes after a moment, leaving only the one woman. Presumably there had been two others, with the way these things tend to work.     She looks toward Hope's retreating form and sighs. "And some struggle so hard the web cuts them through. But yes, the lay of the land is rumpled. The guiding stars are not what they should be. There is great calamity coming, but not all the potential deaths are inevitable. Do not sit in your fortress and wait out the tide--there will be battles to fight anon." Is that vague enough? It's definitely at least a little vague.     "Well we hardly needed /that/ warning," Jon mutters. He, too, so one-track minded that he doesn't see that perhaps the warning isn't meant for him nor even just for the immediate angelic incursion.
Tara Tsabedze	Turning toward the others, Sara remains watching and listening while Witchblade remains a gauntlet on her right hand and forearm. It's obvious she's used to this as she continues to act as if that hand were just like her other, even tucks her arms across her chest. "That was the vaguest warning I've heard," she comments quietly toward Martin and Jon, since they are the closest, though she makes no effort to not be heard. She was quiet merely not to be rude and interrupt this being heading inside for a drink or whatever it is that Jane intends to offer her. "I don't think there is such a think as a straight answer from a Fate," she then adds just as quietly.
Jane Foster	It's possible that the woman does not have a taste for buttered rum or hot toddies, punch, or the rest. Jane will discover something or rely on the people who carry their own alcohol to handle the niceties for their guest. She happily falls back to the task of ensuring they all enjoy the general comforts for a winter's night. "That's good to think upon. Shall we?" An invitation as much as one can give, she glides off to find a drink.
Martin Blackwood	Martin sensing no clear threat from this figure lets the blue glow around his hand wink out. "Then if it is not in offense to my superiors... perhaps you should come with us?" he asks, looking to said superiors. In this situation, Jane and Bobbi.     He shrugs at Sara. "Vague or not, it's something. I would think meeting a being that understands the nature of things before they happen would be rather exciting... especially if you're allowed to view them." He can't be in on the angel mischief, aspects of his own personal faith would shatter were he to interfere, but he is going to help how he can while still avoiding the army with every aspect of his being.     This creature however is not against his own beliefs and if it can help Jon and the others in the coming months... he is all for it.
Cael Becker	Cael's snort is and audible one - even from her position atop the nearest rise. "Great," she mutters. "Very helpful. Jesus H. Christ," she adds under her breath, as the turns to stride back towards the sound of the ridiculously cheerful Christmas music.     God. Walking in a Winter Wonderland? Aren't there any //newer// Christmas songs?
Bobbi Morse	Bobbi Morse seems to relax as it is determined that there is no immediate or direct threat. Though a curious look is aimed in Hope's direction at her response. But, trusting Jane's estimation that things are to return to a social setting and even merriment, she will run with that assessment. Turning, she goes along with Jane. It wasn't entirely a head trip but it still called for another drink.
Jonathan Sims	The young woman smiles as people comment on the 'helpful' nature of her advice, and says, "It is the nature of the warnings of fate to be vague. There are multiple messengers--but some people are less likely to heed the other calls." She nods to Martin, as if underscoring his point. "When you send out a distress call, do you send it to one person? No. You ring the warning bells, you blanket the appropriate bandwidths, you make the EBS scream at everyone watching TV that night." She smirks, and then goes to follow Jane.     As she passes him, the young woman touches Jon's shoulder, briefly. Murmurs something. Then walks on as if she'd never stopped.     Jon turns and blinks in surprise after her. "Heidi Karlsson, died 5th December, 1987. Her car spun out on the ice and crashed into a telephone pole, killing her, her mother, and her grandmother. The only survivor was her infant son, Stefan." A pause. "Isn't Stefan Karlsson one of the janitors...?"
Tara Tsabedze	Sara continues to walk with the others, pausing when Jon blurts out the information about the Karlsson family. Her eyes shift toward the punchbowl. She had heard Stefan refused to work after seeing the Virgin Mary in the punch bowl, which is why she had checked out the punch bowl first. "I think that's his name," she says, looking back toward Jon. "Why did that come up now?"
Martin Blackwood	Martin looks at the woman and then smacks his forehead. "It's... it's Mother's Night" he says with a groan. "Of course she's come to see her son..." he says. "She was sent to deliver this warning... but it's *her*... her son lives here." He frowns. "Maybe it wasn't the Virgin Mary in the punch... might've been her..." he says. "Mirrors, ghosts, liquid if still can resemeble a pane of glass in reflection."     He follows along after her and glances up. "Is your warning about the umm... well... the battle on the near horizon?" he asks. Nothing said the fates couldn't elaborate on their mystical warnings. Maybe it was just that no one ever asked.
Cael Becker	Cael skirts around the continuing celebration, making her way to the nearby pen where the strange little fox is kept. Reaching into her pocket, she pulls out some dog kibble, and starts tossing bits of it over the fence and into the snow, the the creature to pounce on, and devour.     The mysterious woman and her uselessly vague warnings seems to be in perfectly competant hands, after all. She isn't needed for everything.
Jonathan Sims	Heidi--if that is her name--merely smiles at Martin's question. Her job is done, and now she can attend to personal matters. She takes a glass of the spiked punch and then--potentially with an escort, whether of the good Dr. Foster or another--disappears into the building itself. The coruscating energy, cold and silver, follows after her, trailing along in wisps along the ground. A flurry of snow begins to fall around them.     "When she touched me, it... I just /knew/. An Archivist thing." Jon's hardly surprised by that, but his expression is thoughtful as he walks back over to the tables, ignoring the way the other SHIELD agents are milling about, some of them peering after the woman, some staring at those who just came back, some going about their business.     "I wonder when poor Mr. Karlsson is going to die. Or is she just taking the chance to visit?" He sighs.
Tara Tsabedze	Sara follows along with the others, listening to Martin's realization and nodding slightly. Her cider still sits on a table, cold by now, but she had no real interest in it anyway. Walking past the tables, her eyes follow 'Heidi' into the building, but she moves over to stand by Cael.
Martin Blackwood	Martin frowns at Jon. "What did she mutter to you?" he asks. "Was her warnign for you alone?" He seems worried. Fates were usually associated with death and if the message was for Jon, was his assurance about the angel not as true as he made it sound?     "Like I said, it is Mother's Night, perhaps the message for him is just a greeting and a reassurance to return to work since his neglect is noticed..." He smiles, trying to ignore the lump growing in his throat if the warning *was* for Jon.
Cael Becker	Cael's attention remains only on the fox, smiling as it bounds through the snow, kicking up powder, and scarfing up the treats. As Sara joins her, she reaches into her pocket for more of the kibble - wordlessly depositing a small handful into the other woman's hand.     There was still no explination for what the red mist had done to the poor creature - but honestly, she didn't even see that anymore when she looked at him. She just saw her Redfox.
Jonathan Sims	"Not a warning," Jon says softly. "Reassurance. She said I'm on the right path." He glances over toward where Cael's feeding the fox, perhaps hoping she didn't overhear. He doesn't want Cael to assume this means he's going to die, because it doesn't, necessarily.     "Come on," he says to Martin. "Let's just enjoy the rest of the party." He looks somber, now, though. Worried, maybe, for the janitor.