1963-09-19 - The Crown Prince's Back
Summary: Scarlett partakes of the great hall of Asgard. Hrimhari discovers old friends, Sif steals Thor's mead, and Thor suggests a Midgardner should be a thief.
Related: It's Thor's Party
Theme Song: The Angels - My Boyfriend's Back
thor hrimhari rogue sif 

Restless to the pulsations of energy filling a foreign realm, it may be hard — if not outright impossible — for the young Midgardner called Scarlett to many, and something else to a precious few to stay abed for long. Her considerable vitality times her very well to the normal rhythms of Asgardian life, far more than a typical mortal would ever manage. Then, is she a typical mortal? Snatching rest where she can after a perilously insightful jaunt to the great library, she forsakes wasting another spare hour slumbering when there is a marvel to behold for the first, and perhaps only, time in her short life.

Thus she washes her face and hands, the ablutions a foray into straightening her braids into their elaborate perfection, and sets out to find the golden strand of her fate anew. Proper dress here, such as she knows it, requires her to be exacting, perfect. It helps to have no less than Loki Odinson or Amora the Enchantress as sartorial paragons, though her attire in green was always a given. Natural redhead and all. A pause proves Crystalia, her errant mistress, to be engaged elsewhere.

Scarlett then performs the same routine as done before, slipping down the corridor. No effort to stifle her presence is made, alerting the guards assigned to the Prince's chambers their least troubling or important ward emerges. She communicates her desires simply enough: "May I be permitted to eat in the hall, if please you?"

Barnard College's administration surely have no idea their lessons on etiquette reached this far and fine a point. All the same, she awaits to be conveyed down wherever Asgardians given such honours may eat with a singular purpose: break bread.


Sif has arrived.


'Tis a strange feeling to stand once more in Asgard.

Such is the thought in Hrimhari's mind as he walks the corridors of the palace. The Great Hall is his destination. He moves as a man would: upon two legs, but in the form of something in between. Clad in nought but silver-grey fur from lupine head to clawed toe, he all but glides upon the polished stone floors. In near-silence.

Two wolves accompany him, one on either side. They are smaller than he, with mottled brown-ish coats, and go on all fours. These ones are native to Vanaheim; they are not from Hrimhari's pack.

As he approaches the double-doors leading into the hall of feasting, a guard to the right of the entrance calls out:

"His Highness, Hrimhari.Son of Fenris the Dread, Son…" The prince does not listen, and his head bows just slightly at the mention of Fenris. He is not proud of that. In fact, the entire 'ritual' makes little sense to him. Wolves do not announce themselves this way. Witnessing the Aesir behave so… makes them seem… slow. He knows they are not, but still…

"…of Loki. Prince of Wolves."

Thus, the prince enters.


Someone must have rung the dinner bell, for upon the other side of the hall another set of doors open.

"Lady Si—.."
"Speak aloud thine name and honorifics and I shall see you skinned and tanned."

The guard clears his throat as Sif brushes past, clearly an irritant look upon her face, armor not on but the cloth native to men in Asgard yet cut with a feminine feel draped along her skin. Her dark hair was oddly curled and dressed, dangling every which way upon her shoulders and face as she settles upon the bench with a press of her fingers against temple to ease that terrible temper that attempts to rise where no incantation was sought.

"ALE." She grumbles out. "No. Water." Water was best.. yes..


No doubt the heralds have a question on their face as soon as the escort arrives via the deeper, loftier reaches of the palace. Short by a handspan to be a native of the realm or its immediate sisters, Scarlett in heeled boots is shy of six feet and scarcely endowed by the glorious sartorial bounty of everyone else about her. Any curious looks her way deflect off her serene countenance, and she manages not to gawk like some slack-jawed, uncouth serf brought to the city for the first time. Circumspect regard happens behind a mask created by a girl navigating through a foreign world already — non-human among humans, woman among academics, soul-thief among sorcerers.

If the heralds have to wait, she murmurs, "Scarlett." If Sif gets to be 'merely' Sif, then she will follow that same lead graciously, gladly. Further titles may well be supplied, but not on her watch. Not yet, anyways.

However it comes to pass, they may see her before she sees them. A narrow measure of time, while she gazes over the hall and orients on some open spot not about to banish her to a corner or displace half the dining guards horrified they have a Midgardner in their midst. Just a Midgardner, nothing strange there. Head high, back straight, she swans through without a care in the world, deferential but not beaten down, demure but not doggedly subservient. Right after the wolves, in fact. Absent is her usual wildflower concoction, replaced by neroli, rain, and sandalwood. "Your highness." That passes as hello. Wherein she'll nod respectfully and, if Sif is in sight without a tankard blocking the way, a shared nod follows there, too. Establishing a web for the gossips, is she?


The prince turns to look at Scarlett… and smiles.

Turning aside to walk towards her, he extends both his furred hands as though to grasp hers. At the same time, he inhales through his nostrils, turning his noble head upward at the aroma, and finally looks her in the eye.

"Milady Bloodcrown," says he, genuinely pleased to see her. "This one finds you well, and…" His ears twitch as he tries to find a word for 'free' or 'at liberty' without implying she is a prisoner. Instead, he looks meaningfully around the hall of feasting, and lets his gaze do the talking.

Half a moment later, his golden eyes look her up and down, and his head tilts sideways in curiosity. "'Tis lost on Hrimhari, the emphasis of others on…coverings… but this attire of thine — it suits thee."

He smiles.

Tracing Scarlett's gaze toward Sif, whom he has already smelled coming ('tis a normal thing for him — not to imply she is 'Sif the Stinky'), Hrimhari's tail sways from side to side and his ears prick forwards. "Ah," says he with joy. "The Denmother arrives."


Water was soon deposited in front of her, the tankard soon gripped and taken down with.. surprisingly dainty sips. She takes her time with this, as if it were a heated brew that would immediately scald her tongue, her eyes narrowed in contemplative, tacticians thought.

Announcements aside, Sif is well aware of who was in attendance, her gaze falling upon the two as they make their initial greetings. It has been a time since she has seen Little Paw, but not only the night before that she has seen Scarlett.

With a turn of her head to the left and right, her hand lifts to motion them over. Not as if she were commanding, but as a friend who simply wanted the company and their time.


"It would fail to stand that one attends a feast dressed as an object for speculation." One mustn't say derision in mixed company. "It is an honour to make your acquaintance once again, and in proper circumstances. However lovely that wooded dell may be, meeting without urgency has its place." The speculation will still run unchecked but small efforts, at least, reflect well upon her host and through the Crown Prince, his intended and his parents. Let the established peculiarities of the family not be reduced to a glaring example, after all. Scarlett laces her fingers together, the fine golden scale woven against her boots and sleeves glinting in the light. These give nearly full coverage to her skin, allowing no inadvertent brushes, though being on high alert means her curse stands very mildly checked.

"The Lady Sif acknowledges us. Would it please you to join her?" With some restraint to her volume, she inquires while pivoting slightly to put her on a more or less direct line for the shield maiden. Her guards no doubt have their cues to follow, though she vocalizes them as much as relies on countless small tells. "I had thought to break my fast before dipping into whatever revels may exist for one such as I."

That's right, let the titled people fuss over diplomacy and measures of betrothal, internment, and banishment while the forgettable ones ghost like grey silhouettes through a foggy London night doing whatever takes their fancy.


The Wolf Prince smiles again, his golden eyes glancing toward Sif — his 'Denmother', as he affectionately calls her — and then back to Scarlett, to whom he offers a lowered head. "This one would drink of that pleasure as water from a wooded stream," says he. "Come."

Before making his way to Sif (accompanied by Scarlett, of course), the wolfman turns aside to his lupine escort. He says nothing — verbally, that is — but his eyes light up and he gives Sif yet another meaningful look.

Both wolves — Rowanoak, and Sleeps-in-Hollows by name — instantly sit straight up, then bound across the hall toward Sif. Fortunately, they do not knock anyone flying, or plant anyone's faces into their respective meals (but that is not to say they do not come close to it).

Watching his wolves go, Hrimhari offers an arm to Scarlett to follow after them at a more dignified pace. "This one's eyes are brighter for having seen thee, lady," he tells her. "When Hrimhari's ears did hear of thy… sojourn here, worry fell upon him like a winter fog in the dales."

A pause.

"Is all… well?"


Tales of Sif put her as no ordinary woman. There was no shame in how she carries herself, how she played rough and tumble with Loki and Thor as children. Mucked about in the mud and threw that same mud upon their linen. How Heimdall could often times find something in his seat upon which he sits, and a bruise and a yell of anger at his little sisters toying. Or talks between the two, which end up in playful banter and tussling.

Those were some of the rarer moments when she truly shined. Around home, those she cares for, in a place with familiarity.

Rowanoak and Sleeps-In-Hollows were on the prowl, Sif's water was immediately discarded for their attentions, a quick leg tossed over the bench so that she could create a roll to meet them upon even keel. "Arrrrrgg!" She throws out, her hands reaching out to lightly smack the both of them together; a mash of fur and love that she immediately tackles into and begins to roll.

Yes. Sif was rolling with wolves.


The Feast Hall is truly where all of the palace gather; except for those, obviously, that take their meals in their chambers. While some of the royal family may do just that, it's been a little while since Thor's been home, and the Hall is a place where the Crown Prince does enjoy spending time, whether it is eating or contemplating on the stairs by the grand balcony that overlooks the city below.

A hand is held up to forestall any announcements of his appearance, and Thor pauses at the great doors to the scenes of the feasting, normal, everyday fare in the life of Asgard. All manner of meat, fruit, cheese, bread, wine, ale, mead.. and the kitchens never seem to lack for supplies. (Though hunting is one of Thor's more favored activities. Minus the dead reindeer…)

And there… Sif is rolling with the dogs. No wonder, to see Hrim and.. ah..

"You will get fur all over your silk, Sif," comes in a measure basso tone. "You don't have many of those." Unless, of course, she goes shopping with Amora and Crystalia. Then? Oof. "The tailors will be busy mending your outfits. Take care that they have more work than they can handle."


Conveyed by the Wolf Prince, Scarlett can parlay a polite discussion in the courtly forms of Asgard as well as any. Though everyone around her surely has no trouble understanding her English, she conversely has but the absolute barest understanding of Allspeak, literally boiled down to thank you, hello, and the essentials to get by. "Fear not for a guest of His Highness such as me, for the fair treatment rendered to me honours Thor Odinson." Is all well? By the sound of her voice, it might seem so; the dissembling would be harder pressed to read under the surface. Nuances demand a great deal of observation, and she well knows herself to be on display.

The performance of the wolves warrants a lustrous chord of laughter, a mild clip of her hands together acknowledging the warm reunion between Sif and her pack. "Well met this day, my lady." It will be her place to sit on the bench, neatly folding her feet together and sweeping her legs to the side. "A happy circumstance to meet with such companions, is it not? You are looking well."

Hands in lap, back straight, she is a picture of propriety. Mostly. However food is requested, bashfulness is absent there. "Bread and honey, please, and mead." When in Asgard, do as the Asgardians do.


The wolves growl out their words towards the Denmother; one latching upon her wrist to tug and pull at the linen just as the Thunderer curses her with his words. A curse! Yes, the silk does rip within their tooth and paw, their leaps among her scratching her up nice with a display of skin that leaves better parts hidden by that silk garb alone! "Ah! Then I shall have you foot the bill, Odinson! You wound me!" Because he cursed her. Cursed her really well.

She had to push the wolflings away so that she could take a seat upon the floor, one leg cocked up so that her foot could remain planted upright, arm draped over as the wolves themselves settle around her bellied up and wait for affection. "But we love them so. The fur that they give to me are gifts!" She pats a wolf belly just as Scarlett joins, her head leaning back as she gives a dutiful nod towards Scarlett, a little lean in to as she murmurs softly. "It is happy, most happy for plebs like us.." She grins then, dipping her head for kisses. "Though I suppose a change is necessary. Odinson. My brother refuses me in light of his duties. We must spar soon."


Delight between lupine greetings and Asgardian goddess proves somewhat infectious. Fingers hooked around her knees, Scarlett leans forward and watches the interplay of snapping jaws and torn fabric. "The lamentations of clothing and fashion! Alas, we do not all have such liberties to roam about in leathers or wool." Her merriment might seem utterly vapid; of course a girl of tender years, and one in Crystal or Amora's company, would be adept at talking of clothes. No? "You shall make a statement of your shredded silks, and happiness is worth the cost of a few torn hems."

Her gaze flicks upwards to measure Sif's expression, rendered in curious and guarded shades by turns. Whatever might be said of her brother, and much less an Odinson, she is prone to showing only the slightest hint of interest behind the courtly mask. Presumably something her lady might wish to hear, or not.

"You mean to spar with your brother or with the prince?" she asks, tipping her head to the side.


It's easy to tell who Thor's 'friends' are and who are those that exist to serve the court. As Thor takes his first steps in, there are those who incline their heads towards the Prince in casual recognition but recognition and propriety all the same. He's got a lopsided smile on his face, blue eyes bright, and his hair pulled back in something of a pony-tail with strands falling on either side of his face. He's dressed in casual clothes in Asgardian style; in tunic and capes draped 'round his shoulders.

"Nephew," is given in acknowledgment, complete with a nod, the smile lingering. "Ah.. Lady Scarlett.. how are you finding your rarified cage?" That particular question is given a little softer, his tones a fair bit hushed for when he crosses the divide. As a server passes, Thor pulls a vine of grapes from the tray without missing a step, and in a few paces, he's offering a hand to his Sword Maiden for her to take it or not.. her choice.

"It would cost me more should you decide upon a new set of armor and weapons, Sif," Thor laughs. "Silk, you are much too practical." In the other hand, he offers the grapes, "Aye.. actually that does seem the thing. We should spar. This afternoon, then?" Guess that might answer the Lady Scarlett's question? In Thor's mind, anyway.


Sif rises.. "Yes. This afternoon."

Questions were answered and the heads were pat. Sif was already rushing off to change clothes.. after the taking of the grapes from his hand. "I shall return upon the hour!"


"Rowanoak. Sleeps-in-Hollows."

Hrimhari looks between both silvan wolves, and they — reluctantly — return to his side. Duty wins out over their demeanour before long, and the two of them stand at either side of their prince, now 'all business'. These could teach Midgardian dogs a thing or three about discipline…

"Uncle," the prince says in greeting to Thor, and he bows his head in respect. Turning toward Sif, Hrimhari's eyes gleam. "This one is promised a hunt, ere long…" and he leaves the sentence hanging somewhat. "Name thy prey and we shall take it down betwixt us."

He looks at Scarlett. "Hrimhari wonders if milady Bloodcrown has even felt the Hunt?"


"Rowanoak. Sleeps-in-Hollows."

As the lady Sif leaves, Hrimhari looks between both silvan wolves, and they — reluctantly — return to his side. Duty wins out over their demeanour before long, and the two of them stand at either side of their prince, now 'all business'. These could teach Midgardian dogs a thing or three about discipline…

"Uncle," the prince says in greeting to Thor, and he bows his head in respect. Watching after Sif, Hrimhari's eyes gleam with muted rueful light. "This one was promised a hunt, ere long…" and he leaves the sentence hanging somewhat. He looks at Scarlett. "Hrimhari wonders if milady Bloodcrown has even felt the Hunt?"


Let it be assumed that Lady Scarlett is not oblivious to Thor, but merely awaits the opportunity to speak without broadcasting her conversation to all and sundry. When he finishes up with Sif, she rises from the bench to execute a curtsey made the easier for her skirt's design. More a diaphanous sash than a full gown, she benefits from a broad range of motion that no girl in a ballgown at a fete would ever achieve. Gilt, forest green, and moonlit white make her some mortal dryad of sorts. "Your Highness." No my lord, not here, not yet. "I sing as joyously as any could wish in such opulent surroundings."

The servant finally designs to appear with her bread and a pot of golden honey, the mead delivered probably sufficient to keep her quenched for a day and a half.

Her gaze slants towards Hrimhari, and his question leaves her at a loss for but a moment. Exchanges of a mask are necessary, from polite to serene to animated, all the while smiling to deflect the casual regard from elsewhere. Everyone listens, all report. "But of course, my lord. I do not profess to be outstanding at the hunt, though how not to enjoy the thrill of the search and flushing out the quarry? Times above I've been the very deer."


Thor is now without his grapes and his best friend as Sif hurries out with the tattered silk. "I will see you there!" is called after before blue eyes hunt for more grapes. Some are found, but it takes Thor more than a few steps away from the small gathered to grab some and return, happily nibbling now on the small fruit. He's got that 'canary' smile as one grape is popped in after the other.

"Aye, a hunt you shall have, Nephew. Depending upon my time, I may join you. There is business to be done after dinner this evening, and hopefully by morning, we'll have an accounting of it." Notice he's not inviting anyone. "Lady Scarlett, do not be afraid to join him should he go. Our horses are quite used to the pack, and the hunt, and they know the grounds and the lands beyond quite well, so should you be separated, they will bring you back."

Thor looks pleased, however, even if there is a hint of something that lies just below, and he looks to Scarlett once more. "I trust that should you cease singing, I will know there is concern to be had."


Hrimhari's ears twitch at the mention of Scarlett's singing, but he does not inquire. Not right at this moment in any case. Instead, he bows his head toward his great-uncle, and turns aside to one of the servants.

"Meat and water, for this one and these two," says he, indicating the other two wolves by him. A pause. "Refrain from secretly adding sweetmeats afterward. This one smells them all too well…"

There's a faint twinkle in his eyes then.

Looking back toward Thor, he adds: "This one returns to Midgard in a few moon's risings. Is there aught this one's liege requires in the meantime? Many of the wolves are silent; Hrimhari… would rather hear their voices."


She tears the loaf of bread in twain, securing the pieces to either side. Crumbs cascade upon a plate, bouncing over the dish. Each of them substitutes for an aril of a pomegranate. Scarlett will add a dash of honey a moment later, using the opportunity to dine with fastidious manners that allow for absolutely no hint of talking with her mouth full.

Never going to happen, at least in current company and audience.

"I leave it up to my lord's discretion whether he wishes my accompaniment," demurs the redhead, her braids in a rather elaborate rope wound and twisted in profusion that reveals the frosted shock of her bangs. Were she hooded, someone might mistake her as a snow-haired swanmaiden from the Celtic pantheon. Or, for that matter, Scandinavia. The leaves pinned at her hips, holding the skirt fast, glitter as she shifts to rest upon the outer line of her thigh. Did they say 'go,' she would.

Smiling, Scarlett lowers her hands to the table. "It would not serve me well to be far from my liege's presence, especially if summoned quickly." A wound to the soul, a brilliant gleam to the smile. "Though I hope to enjoy every opportunity to steep myself in the beauty of your home, from top to bottom. So far it has been breathtaking in every way."


Thor finishes the grapes quickly; there's little 'grace' to the Crown Prince, or rather, 'elegance'. As was said by someone, the Princes, both of them, are still 'young' by Asgardian standards even if they appear as adults in their prime. It's the grace, the affectations that Thor simply either has no use of or hasn't truly learned them. Mostly.

Okay, just not in the Feast Hall.

"As of right now," Thor is exhaling a long breath as he considers, his expression shifting from that lopsided smile to something more considering, "there is not. Perhaps later? I know not, but all I can ask is that should your aid be requested, that you answer the call." As if he has to ask? Or remind? It's more a 'heads up' that something may yet happen and that Hrim's presence would be appreciated. He shakes his head soon after, however, and chuckles as if to lighten the conversation, and he gestures at Scarlett.

"Your Mistress would probably enjoy the hunt, or at least the chase. It would get her away from the eyes of court, if only for a little while." And yes, he does mean Crystal. "It is remarkable, when one first lays eyes upon the city, and then the palace," Thor agrees readily. Though, for some reason, both Princes can turn their backs on it for, of all places, Midgard? "It was a wonder growing up. So many places to hide.."


The wolfman looks sombrely at Thor and lifts his muzzle, unblinking.

"When thou shouldst ask, this one shall follow." Hrimhari lowers his head again and looks sidelong at Scarlett, using only his eyes. "There is beauty in all Realms," says he softly. "Some more than others… depending upon which wolf you ask."

There's a faint chuckle at that.

"There is need for thy forgiveness, as this one departs to break his fast. Lady Bloodcrown, there is gratitude to rival the moon in its shine to see thee safe and well. Uncle…"

The Wolf Prince does not finish the sentence, but instead offers a decisive nod of his head. "Breathe deep," he remarks in farewell just as the trays for his meal (and his wolves) arrive. "Hunt well."


Hrimhari leaves, heading towards Albert Chambers - Flat 906 [out].


Hrimhari has left.


If the god of mischief weren't languishing in his father's dungeon, he might be rocking forward with laughter at his brother's antics. Does Thor know what he does, baiting Scarlett so? Like as much, yes. Perhaps not.

The smooth arc of a smile touches her lips, and her demure gaze lowered takes the instruction at face value. "Of course. Riding with the Princess and sharing our wonder together at this place she may, Allfather willing, come to rule is a perfect diversion. I will be glad to bundle her off to the stables and discover the terrain for ourselves." A candor to the high-powered wattage of her smile echoes the sunlight, bright and serene. "Of course we won't wander so far as to fail to hear any call. We might be snug against the very foundations of the palace, peering up in awe." Leaving the mental image of the pair of Midgardners looking up, way up, she returns to the task of a meal broken, hospitality assured. Cup brought to her lips, she takes a long, deep sip of the mead with what civility she can muster. Anyone peering her way and afraid she might simply taste the honeyed distillation will be sorely disappointed.

Then she lowers it, and murmurs to the Wolf Prince, "Soft shadows and moon's fair light guide thee, and thy kin."


"Until the moon's rise, Nephew," Thor nods in acknowledgment of the departure of the Prince of Wolves before he settles in easily upon the seat by the table. As he does so, another server is certain to be sure that the Crown Prince's hand holds a proper sized glass of mead before curtseying and moving off once more.

It's good to be the Prince?

Thor takes a long draught of the honey'd drink, and exhales in an audible breath before, "There are no ladders affixed to the outside of the palace. So while looking up, recall there are doors through which you may regain entrance," he teases. "If you forget this most basic of things, I will not hesitate to send out guards to search for you and lead you back safely." A laugh exits the man before he leans forward in his seat. If his brother were here, he'd probably be laughing, yes… and there will be stories of this later, told at feasts and gatherings. All in fun, of course.

"I understand you have found the library."


Sif returns not too long after she's mentioned. Garb different now, the thick burlap cloth form fitting with loincloth and boots high enough to cut a leg. Leather vambraces that seem almost a little too war torn were affixed to her wrist as she approaches the two with a little heft of a sigh and a ponytail haphazardly tugged towards the back worn.

"He left?" Sif asks of Hrimhari. She still had some tussling to do. The teasing to Scarlett was lost upon her, though she does note that the air was light. Light enough for her to reach for the mead that once belonged to her dear friend as a seat was had and a sip of the drink soon taken.


"Ladders? You mean I am not to set your princess with a task to weave the longest of ropes for us to climb? We might even return to the balcony by dusk." A bold estimate considering the hour is hardly that late, such as they might be registered here. For all Scarlett knows, though she tends to measure such, the day could be ninety Terran hours long. She lowers her cup, swirling the mead within. Treacle legs gather in dark, lustrous drops back into the body of the drink. "I wonder if she cares much for climbing?"

Mischief is as mischief does, and for the moment, nothing but a few gentle words tease at misbehaviour. Her heel rolls lightly against the ground, metal shining over a body of deep, oiled leather.

"Do not fear too much for my lady's safety." Her gaze checks Sif's return, armed and prepared for an assault of more wolves or something profound; probably a Howitzer or a rogue Panzer brigade. "I have indeed located the library, and Lord Fandral offered translations at least to find my bearings. The librarians tolerated me hidden away in the corner, peering into every last tome I could set my hands upon." Poor warrior, he probably had his hands full, given her spellcraft isn't up to the task of osmosis or translation… Yet. "Tasty, isn't it?"


Of course Thor notices when Sif enters the Feast Hall. Most do, after all, and this.. this is what Thor is much more used to in terms of his childhood friend. Another swallow of mead is taken and he sets the glass on the table beside him even as he rises. "Aye. I think it was just to be sure his wolves didn't receive treats mixed in with their lunch. He spoke of a hunt later, and I thought the ladies might enjoy the ride outside." He twists around to make sure that Rogue is included in that before he continues, his smile brightening and turning lopsided. "I see you are ready." And he's not.. not yet, anyway. Easy fix, however.

"I don't fear for her safety in the least. Not here. The worst she may endure are looks by some of the other ladies, but I am certain she can weather them gracefully." Thor does chuckle, the sound deep in his chest, "If you look closely at some of the shelves, you may find some scratchings done by my brother in his youth." Of course Thor wouldn't dream of being in the library!


Confusion. It was clear with this one. Whatever conversation she happened upon seemed interesting so she was set to listening. Quiet as ever. "Now that is a name I haven't heard in forevers time." Fandral. The third of the Warrior's Three. There was something of a need for the young man, a quick scout about. But she was sure she'd run into him soon. "Though, it is glad that you have seem to made your home here, Scarlett. As my friends and family seem to your Midgard. I will admit, the interest that The Odinson's carry for that place intrigues me. As well as their fancy for those who are born from it."

She faces forward, there were many milling about yet carefully avoiding that particular area; come when called is heavily enforced it seems. And that mostly doesn't bother her an inch. "Suppose I'll tread on those lands at my own time." A little smile was given, however.. as Thor speaks of Hrim.

"And you will not be attending the hunt?" She asks curiously.

Though with a shake head, she finishes off the drink in one fell swoop, a hand lifted to wiggle the tankard towards one of the servants for a refill as she leans her back against the table at a slight stretch. "I am ready. Always. Though I see that it is fear that causes you to be not." She glances towards Scarlett. "You may also find a dent. The size of a childs noggin etched into the delicate woods."


The bohemian spreads her mailed, gloved hands. "The welcome offered by those of your family and friends is without parallel. I am glad for the camaraderie and grateful." Scarlett's caution prevails everywhere, especially as two such luminaries as these will no doubt attract attention. Still, she can lean back slightly and plant her elbow upon the table (!) and adopt a more sinuous curve to her form for a moment. "Of course, ask me whatever questions you might have and a satiate your curiosity, my lady. I will answer as best I can, without prejudice. No doubt Lord Fandral's patience suffered somewhat by proximity to me."

Scarlett cannot help but smile, for all that the mead does nothing to go to her head, the oddities of her altered physiology a blessing. Mayhap a curse, too. She ticks her gaze up mildly to Thor when he goes speaking of his brother's childish scribblings. "Do they have drawings in the margins, too? I find a terrible number of those in textbooks owned by others. You've set me on a scavenger hunt to find proof of early wit and intellect, then. And this surreptitious dent. I shall be hunting a great many things, it seems."

If Scarlett is the protege, unwittingly or not, to the Half-Blood Prince, does this make her surname Potter?


Thor laughs at the mention of a dent. "Mine," the blond brother admits slowly. "Shelves are not the best for hiding in, lying in wait for a bookish brother." He glances at Sif and barks a laugh, "And there are many other dents formed over the years. And pages scribbled upon." In Aesir, of course.

The Thunderer is on his feet at the very least, and he reaches to drain his glass of mead, to the last drop. It is heady stuff for mortals, and Scarlett may count herself lucky that it doesn't affect her greatly; in that she can enjoy the flavor. "And Sif.. I am not afraid." Here, his smile turns lopsided, "Just out of practice and very aware of exactly what can occur in the training hall. But, I shall meet you there." It's one of the reasons why he so enjoys sparring with his friends; they don't pull their punches because of 'who' he is. Bruises are all part of it!

Thor inclines his head to the ladies, "Lady Scarlett, when you wish to return, there will be an escort. Sif.." and he turns about to head from the Hall.

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