1963-09-27 - Sifting Through Memories
Summary: Lady Sif comes to town for real, this time.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: N/A
rogue sif 

The redheaded young woman last seen in the company of various Asgardian nobility evidently made her way from the blessed realm, shuttled by Heimdall down the Bifrost back to New York. The week spent away from the city no doubt comes as an oddity; the seasons already begin to change, crisping leaves gold and brown at the fringes. Nights finally stop being humid as a sauna. Students still follow their humdrum rhythms on campus, businessmen grind out the 9-to-5, and life rumbles onwards. It has scarcely been hours in her own building, a reappearance in Columbia University for that anticipated, short-term absence, and now to… Sif.

The hunter goddess might be a strange choice to make a visit to, but assuming some means of contacting her extends beyond asking a local raven or squirrel, then so be it. She comes bearing a hostess gift, no less, a basket filled by varied goodies: coffee, tea, honey, other nosh-worthy things.


The departure itself was quiet. Sif did what was necessary, such as leaving a message to Fandral that she was just now leaving Asgard. Giving a goodbye to her brother after sharing a tankard of mead on the rainbow passageway that would allow her a safe travel home. There was a longing look, one that tells that she just may never see her again and then she was off..

..And tossed right into hell. The servant gave her the coordinates. Which was relayed to Heimdall. In which she was transported to and slept there after. The morning comes, and Sif sits in the middle of the floor. Row upon row of boxes that have her almost bewildered as Scarlett comes upon her. Which has her shouting out from the middle of the empty place.. "ENTER!"

Please let this be an intruder. So they could take her life. Because she does -not- know what she is doing. And it shows by the way she pouts in the middle of the floor like a petulant child.


An intruder by way of handmaid to an Inhuman Princess or a sorcerer supreme is unlikely to do much remotely threatening, and nothing that would prevent the goddess from pulling out a sword and handily reducing the interloper to fine julienne ribbons.

Scarlett peers over the basket, the crumple of cellophane and ribbons making a distinctive and strange noise. "My lady? I came to deliver you a gift and welcome you to Midgard?" Her voice gives her away, English rounded off in its lyrical depths. She walks lightly. There is no telling if Cerberus might jump out.

She will not stare and look all over. Oh no.


Nope. Do not stare.

There were boxes upon boxes. It was no telling what Frigga nor Heimdall had put upon them, nor the many handmaidens or servants that thought that Sif.. Sif needed this statuesque mini-bronze of Adonis! Aphrodite could fit here! What about this fine silk from Alfheim! Or the crude painting of three lovers entwined in the flesh dedicated to the Lady Sif! That one of the elven happily drew after their three way tryst in which he wishes Sif to remember him by..

Maybe it was the apples for the horses.. or the mirrors..

Either way, Sif was in a landfill of items that weren't even touched but those boxes looked incredibly frightening to anyone who has to suffer with a grand move such as hers.

"Gifts.." Sif sorrowfully mourns. "I do not need more gifts.." Her nightgown, possibly from the aforementioned Alfheim, allowed her to look like a dream. A dream in a cream colored, silk mass. Dark hair that seemed mattered and bruised by the softness of a pillow.. "Oh.. why.. why did I ever dream of such a thing to do.." She sniffles heavily. "..I almost want to go home.. but I cannot go back to.." She was about to start bawling. "..who.. why.. this is squalor!"


Unwed Sif, a fornicator of the Nine Realms! Unattached Sif, Fairest of the Fair, beset by gifts from suitors. Shocking signs of Asgardian licentiousness ought to cause her to drop her basket, and faint in a horrified blush.

If she were anyone but Scarlett of Midgard, resident bohemian well steeped in the rising counterculture movements of the United States. Dancing in the rain naked, smudging ceremonies, wafting crystals or singing about freedom in love and souls are part of her memory, her collective culture. Maybe the sketch of the elves is going to stop her cold, but only for a moment; the flickering of an eyelash, the curve of a smile rising. "You know, with all the attention paid to the shadowing there, you think he would have spent the same amount of effort depicting hands in a lifelike manner," she says dryly. Her luminous green eyes flick up to the distraught figure. "Did you accidentally receive a shipment intended for the Lady Amora, or is this an autumn cleaning I have stepped unwitting into? I shall wander off, if that eases your mind."

A gesture follows. "Is the mess the squalor, or is Midgard so terrible compared to the realm you know? I grant you there are differences, but also beautiful sights to be appreciated. Not all is as you surely imagine? I am tasked to find you a place better than some, for the court and my lord to conduct their business. I shall be no doubt doing that for the next few days."


Yes, there was freedom with ones own self. If there is a need to squander the bodily liberties to the elves in Alfheim they would be sure to keep it respectable. Though, in the case of the painting, perhaps one was put down and made to squeal like a pig, for now he was the one to be enchanted, Sif not.

But the painting itself was slightly joked at, Sif takes a moment between her quiet bitching to actually tilt her head a fashion. "Oh.." Yes. The fingers. "..that is highly accurate.." Sif explains. "The mending and melding of the fingers is something that one particular Alfheim suitor performed during the 'dance..'." There was a far away look. "..like a joining of the flesh as you will through magic.. the enthralling of the spirit.. becoming.. one. Hard to look at, yes. But to experience?"

So, at least talking about that perked up the spirits, for she does rise upon her feet, tall the lady was, to greet Lady Scarlett with a light and non-touch of the shoulder. Not that she was aware of Scarlett's affliction, Sif had her own afflictions when it came to .. well.. Midgardians. So far."

"No.. please. Remain. Midgard itself is not terrible but the state that I have been left in. I imagine it's a ploy. From child to now whenever I hath found new quarters I…" She gestures around. "..am left with chaos and uncare." Hearing of Scarlett's task causes her to slowly frown, "..Lady Scarlett, you do not hold yourself to me. I am sure my own way will be found.. this.. is just a minor upset."


Alfheim and its many oddities will not be considered. This is, after all, a girl who just spent a week cramming her skull full of information on the realms, and that one no less than most of the others. Let her lament for the illustrated guides and wish for more time, though time moves at a parallel rate and she cannot account for six months in Asgard compressed to a week of Midgard's time.

So drifts the girl back a few steps, bringing her palms up freely, offering to take anything that Sif might set into her grasp. Let her carry whatever need be carried, it will be done without complaint. "The situation still seems less than dire. What help do you wish, or is it merely the point of transition? This at least has the bare bones to be interesting."

She glances askance. "But where did everything come from?" For this, Scarlett is at a loss.


Sif wasn't ready to grasp anything, but once she sees the open arms, the first lightest box was grasped and soon placed within her hands. Inside, could be a few figurines, a few decorations, or possibly a few hooks in which to decorate the barn in the back. Sif did not know, and this was going to be a shared adventure of discovery between the two of them. "Transition.." Sif murmurs. "Though Fandral has been tasked by Loki Odinson to find me an.. identity so that I can freely move through Midgard.." This was all murmured, her own hands gripping the box to settle into the middle of the floor, kneeling and using the tips of her fingernails to peel open the box.

Where did everything come from?

"I've tasked servants, and others to acquire a place befitting of a Lady. Those who have traveled to midgard has seen fit to give me everything that I may or may not require apparently. I am unsure of what is in store, but I did specify that items were needed for the corral in the ba.." She pauses. "The mage in the court. I do require his assistance. I wish to get into contact with him at once." Which means.. Make it so. Number one!


"An identity. Interesting; it would seem that you need such a thing rather immediately, if you are to move freely among the others in the city. Have you any idea of what you wish to be, if you were to tell him your interests?" Scarlett alights upon that rather safe conversational topic, her fingertips skimming along the edges of the light coat she wears, and then she assuredly will take whatever box is given to her without the least hint of difficulty. So she's somewhat strong—the Asgardians to a man have no idea how, likely, and the only one who might speak of it is currently in Karnilla, the Norn Queen's care.

A pause there on corrals in the back and mage in the court leaves very little disputable evidence. The redhead laughs softly. "You make it sound as though you intend to bind up that mage and bring out a saddle, my lady, which I am fairly sure is not what you intend. I shall make sure he receives word of your request, and whether or not he sees fit to come in a timely manner, I give you what help I can. You were kind to me when in Asgard, aiding me to know my surroundings, and I shall be delighted to do the same for you here if you permit me the opportunity. At the very least, I need to introduce you to proper hamburgers. They are a ground beef food, served on soft bread we call buns. Have you not had them? You are missing out."

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