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The new year creeps over the horizon and settles in, awakening late over New York. Most of the Greenwich Village parties ended right before dawn, and the party people, musicians and artists alike, slouch home to their beds and will not rise until long after the sun crests the high point of its arc. Hangovers are sure to ensue, the liberal amounts of alcohol and drugs taken by many assuring the neighbourhood is eerily quiet.
Scarlett herself tends to maintain a rhythm that even holidays do not break. Forsaking the warmth of her bed, she ventures back up to the rooftop garden at an accountably early hour to perform her usual studies: yoga combined with research and study as demanded by the foremost seidr practitioner in Asgard. Adopting mind-melting complex asanas, she freezes in place while balanced on her fingers, legs bent and arching over her back, while reading pages of dense text in simplified terms. A textbook in Aesir is a place to start.
When that work is done, at least for now, she ventures back down into the apartment to see to the business of preparing a meal. She can move with stealth out of deference to her sleeping guest, floating lightly over the floor and pulling down tea from the cabinets, setting a kettle filled by water onto the stovetop and bidding it to heat. The pierced cap over the spout would normally whistle, but flipped up, it can no more than belch steam. So goes the routine of a continental breakfast, to her mores: bread sliced, yoghurt prepared, cheese and crackers laid out on a plate. Eggs will join it, soon enough, when she can be certain the sizzle of a skillet isn't likely to interrupt anyone.
*
But it is not meant for Blackagar to remain uninterrupted. Even in the depths of the night, or early morning as the case may have been, when they had finally snuck back down to the apartment after dancing until the hues of light hinted at the horizon, Blackagar did not truly sleep. The alcohol, the adventure, the blending of both were not what kept him awake but rather the permanent fear that exists within him. Rather than sleep, the man had simply laid down upon the couch and closed his eyes to let his mind fold in upon itself dozens then hundreds and finally thousands of times to enter a deep meditation.
The distance between sleep and where he was at was actually quite vast, for in his meditation he remained in complete control but yet rested, perhaps more fully than true sleep could ever bring. The early morning movements were left to be, as he did not wish to disrupt the woman's routine and a part of him considered a quiet escape out the door but that was pushed back down by curiosity. The same curiosity which now causes him to peek his eyelids open and sit up slowly under the guise of awakening, even going so far as to muster a tired looking smile as he looks to the kitchen to see what is transpiring.
*
Right to fear in this city, even nested in the middle of a mutant's warded home. Nothing is right, nothing to be trusted at the hour of the dark as trouble likes to stalk unmolested. Who polices the alleyways and the spaceways, the astral roads and the sewers when the lights dim, and everyone is abed? Scarlett nonetheless enjoys her privacy and the contemplative silence that sometimes survives after daybreak. Those misty moments as frost sublimates into a creeping haze are precious, especially when her breath fogs in silvered condensation. Inside her apartment, it is warm, doubly so when someone has a feather tick duvet to snuggle beneath or the promise of a warmed kitchen.
Another door creaks open and she pulls out the frying pan, setting it aside. A lick of butter prepares the surface for the eggs and a variety of herbs from her own gardens, the glance towards her dwindling stock of vegetables a reminder to hit the market at some point. She dances through the work, breaking the fridge's seal and plucking out the carton. Four eggs crack to surrender their yolks — she's no vegan, this one — and a whisk is ready to spin them to fine golden liqueur ready to be poured upon the skillet once it warms. It's not until he makes a clear sign of stirring that she will set it on, giving Blackagar a nod when he's up. "I hope you don't mind tea? Coffee I can make, but I haven't any ready for you."
He might note the pad of paper and pen set down on the coffee table beside him, among other books and a stack of coasters made from a wood no terrestrial forest ever gave up. A fair number of her curios are, in fact, otherworldly.
*
It is the table that does in fact initially pull his attention, hand coursing over it slowly as it makes its way to where the pad is at. Slow etching of words occurs, again with the illusion of exhaustion as he writes down the notation «Tea is fine, thank you.» As he finishes the writing the man slowly straightens up. It was warm in the apartment, at least for him and his usual accustomed resting state of frigid mountains. With the pad in hand, he slowly rises up from the couch and makes his way over towards the kitchen area to observe the woman's work.
Almost all of the items are given an approving look, although he does seem a bit skeptical in regards to the eggs or other non-vegan foods, perhaps being one himself or simply not used to them from the monk's diet which has become his own. The sound of scratching comes as he works over the writing and holds it up so as to make it easier for the woman to read. «Sorry that I fell asleep on your furniture.»
*
She will have to depart from the kitchen to read whatever Blackagar writes, at least coming halfway. Scarlett brings over the skillet, the wisk used to neatly beat the eggs and the sprinklings of oregano and tarragon mixed through it. "Excellent. I have nearly every tea imaginable. Do you have a preference? Black, green? White?" The hiss of metal on cast iron creates an intriguing sound, and she retreats back into the kitchen to restore the skillet upon the burner turning a hot red thanks to a previous twist of a dial. With the kettle bubbling away, she switches it to the back burner to cease roiling within the burnt and scarred tin frame. Those gestures adjusting heat, turning off a burner, selecting another are performed with the skill of someone who cooks for herself often enough.
"Why are you apologizing? 'Twas a late hour and forgive me, I would not turn you out into the cold. It might seem forward, I understand, but you rested and came up unmolested." She continues her preparations, rinsing a bowl and tipping it upside down on the drying rack to be handled later. "You have been far more polite than, say, a cat. You were not sitting on the end of my bed, wailing at me for food, at the very edge of dawn. Go sit, I can bring out the croissants and jam. This is fairly light. Headache from the alcohol, or are you well?"
*
Writing, write write. «I do not get ill or feel off.» Blackagar explains via writing before looking at the offer of sitting and going to do so. While he does, he starts writing out on the note pad for several long moments so that when Scarlett arrives there'll be something for her to read.
«I was not fully upfront with you. I greatly enjoyed myself last night, it … was the first time I remember having fun. But I should let you know that I am not a normal person. Similar to the ones you may read about in the papers, but different. With this comes some danger.»
*
"Good. Aren't you the lucky one." Laughter shines in the air briefly as Scarlett replaces the wisk with a wooden spoon, working to set the eggs set before she scrambles them further. Hardly someone to be mistaken as a domestic soul, the bohemian nonetheless demonstrates a facility with food preparation. She carries the wooden platter out to the kitchen table just beyond the kitchen entrance, an octagonal wooden thing capable of holding quite a number of people. Placing it down, the smorgasbord of croissants, jam, cheese, yoghurt, and fruit at least offers something to appeal to most palates. If his is stranger, she can learn. Deal.
When he finishes writing and turns the pad, she can lean over to look while delivering a cup of tea. Quick reading, it takes her only a few moments to finish skimming. "You have seen the ice giants outside? The aliens falling from the sky? I was not teasing you yesterday when I said they fell on me. I've been there in the front lines for months, and the lesson of last year? None of us are entirely safe." The statement is made with a degree of levity, if not tinged in sadness. She rises slightly and runs her finger down her collar, losing herself to her thoughts for a moment or two. "If it makes you feel better, I am not normal either."
The point in truth? She floats back to fetch sugar and cream.
*
Floating. Well that is definitely something. Blackagar's eyebrow quirks up a bit at what Rogue does and then he returns to his writing, doing so for a bit again. «Mutant?» The first part is at the top, underlined for her before he continues. «My people are not known publicly. At least not yet. But I do not think we'll be hidden much longer, at least some of us if the conflict between the extraterrestrials continue.» He shows the pad then sets it down to rise again, stretching some as he does so and running a hand through his hair. He is patient, taking a small walk for a moment to look at a few of the books while waiting for her to return, only then moving to sit himself once more to begin. A quick jot being made, «Thank you. I normally do not eat this much. I am trying to work on my figure.» He grins a bit at the last part as he writes it out.
*
Floating marginally above the ground, no more than an inch of clearance, sends the redheaded bohemian comfortably wherever she wishes to go. Her fingers curl back along her hairline, tracing from temple to earlobe and down to nape, urging thin braids to settle more comfortably than where they stand now. "Mutant," agrees Scarlett. "Many possible things. That seems most likely. Let's see, that should be the eggs about done." Two small plates are soon enough given healthy portions of the fluffy goodness, and she piles these on in order for him to have more than a mouthful. Or not; everything has something of a help yourself vibe to it.
The books Blackagar can find attest to her as a student: fourth year by the looks of it, the topics largely varied around history, sociology, international relations. Many oddities can be found among it, from the hardy herbs and perennials for the Northeast, urban gardening, the castles of Scotland (and their proper clan owners), Eddas in Icelandic, further poetic readings from 11th century Sweden. If he thumbs over to one of the many bookshelves, it's even more diverse, art and occultism alongside diplomatic treatises and Indian holy texts from the Rig Veda to that other one with three hundred different forms.
"You have a lovely physique, and a fine figure. Stop making the rest of us worry about how we compare." Smirking, she settles down in a chair opposite him. "You are involved with the conflict, then? I am sorry. It seems to consume us all."
*
Taking a moment to study the yogurt before eating some of it, Blackagar tests and seems to approve before he pauses in eating to write. The difficulties of his situation usually around food time. So many of the civilized like to speak while eating, which means pausing to write while eating. But he does so out of courtesy and jots down several words before turning it to show to Scarlett and resume eating a bit.
«Not this conflict no. I have been involved in a civil war for a period of time and before that I was secluded into the mountains. I have only come to this city in the past months.»
*
Her own predilection sets her towards the croissant, and Scarlett tears the horn of the bread away, popping it into her mouth. Her manners are neat and precise, elegant in their fashion. No one is going to fault her for being messy, going so far as to use the aforementioned small plate. "A civil war?" The words follow in an air of surprise, and her posture straightens. "New York must have seemed quite the haven, but here you walk straight into… whatever we would call it, it's not a peace. Protracted independence struggles for a planet. Social unrest." Words selectively plucked from the lexicon wrapped up inside that head under its autumn coronet of long hair give rise to an adequate description. "Do you intend to move on?" It would be her luck. And she hasn't Marie's cards to divine true.
*
Having been able to eat a bit before the questioning, Blackagar seems to relax further, the natural result of eating having that effect. Turning over a croissant himself in his hand in contemplation, he sets it down in order to write some. «New York is a very difficult place to be in for me. The pollution is extremely harmful to my people and it is quite high here. It weakens me substantially so I have to consistently leave to cleaner places to recover before returning.» Turning it over he takes a bite of the breakfast bread before setting it down to write some more. «With that, I am planning on being around the city for awhile, visiting frequently even if I must go, for it is the center of events and being able to intercede if needed may be what is in store for me.»
*
The natural result of halfway nutritious food and enjoyable company is often helpful for a soul adrift. Scarlett shifts her attention to the eggs, and the wafting herbs and spices giving them some depth to the fluffy texture encourages a good poke with a fork. She takes a bite, using the moments when her guest writes to actually put food in her mouth. She is something like a cat, preferring not to be directly visible when eating, and happy to hide herself when necessary to see that is done. Between those moments, though, her animation is settled easily while she looks down. "Is there anything else you want aside from tea or the continental breakfast? I have a fairly good stock of food, though a trip to the supermarket isn't out of the question. Restaurants may not be open right now." Her gaze drops to the pad of paper, running over the handwritten declaration. "New York, polluted? Say it isn't so. I wonder if Long Island is any better, or if you need to escape to the countryside. The rich do all the time, they like the heat no better than we do." An amused smile is a short-lived, capturing the essence of cherry blossoms the Japanese love so. Passion and life pass away ever so quickly, thus they must be adored.
*
Blackagar shakes his head at the offer of alternatives before writing a bit. He is also rather diligent in being polite with his eating, not a normal 'male' who shovels and goes but shows a bit of decorum. «No thank you. I eat a simple diet most of the time, even this is a bit more than I normally would do.» Letting that finish he contemplates then writes further. «I usually retreat to higher altitudes, mountains and the like, as they are of the cleanest air. I spent the past several years in the Himalayas and it was quite refreshing.»
*
One hates to be the bearer of bad news, though Scarlett has a record for good counsel and harbinger status. "You might be disappointed to know the highest peaks nearby are Iceland, Mount Washington, or the Rockies." Poor man, hope he can fly without terribly much restriction. She offers a rueful smile on that front, and then tears another morsel of the croissant to pair with a bite of the eggs, savouring the lost memories of a distant, happier summer. Her dark red lashes tilt down, blunting her gaze from view, and for a moment nothing but her own thoughts captivate her. It might be easier that way. "You find the Himalayan air refreshing, your people were in a civil war, and you have never danced with a girl on New Year's? What epic saga is yours?" In case he takes offense, perhaps she quietly mollifies him in a sense. "Some call me a poet, so stories are something of my stock in trade."
*
His saga. What an interesting concept, enough of a concept that he smiles a bit and leans back with his pad to begin writing. «The shortened version: I was in line to be ruler of my people until I was betrayed and exiled by my brother. For ten years I wandered this planet trying to find myself and understand just what my lot was to be. A month ago, I was found by other exiles and convinced to shake loose the hold my brother held over the Kingdom, which we did. Now, my people are free and I am as well, thus I am choosing my own course. I lived a life of exile, of isolation because of what I am and who I am. Thus my exposure to people has been very limited.»
*
Possibly he is lying. Blackagar could be a bullshit artist of the highest calibre, and he might just earn a laugh from the marijuana or LSD junkies in the Village, or a passing smile from the folk singers. Not quite this bohemian, who reads over the lines carefully, at speed and then deeper. Her winter fair gaze ticks up to him, and she sits back for a moment in her chair. It barely creaks, on account of her floating just above its surface. "A prince in exile who wanders the world at his own whims," she repeats, her voice vibrating with a shaken note. "You survived a civil war and… now… History is repeating itself." She settles back with a barely audible thump. "Would you mock me if I said this is a story I have heard before? Change a few details and…" Her fingers rake through her braids. "Except both sides. I've met the equivalent of your brother's role and your own. The Norns…"
The seat shifts. She rises to her feet and circles the room, the excess energy begging to be burnt off in some means other than laughing to the goddesses of fate or sobbing into her hands, or something equally extreme, colourful, and likely to make herself seem insane. "An exiled prince, a lost people. You're of the Kingdom of Attilan, are you not?"
*
His hand twitches at the name, Blackagar pausing momentarily before biting before he sets down the spoon of yogurt and quirks an eyebrow. To his knowledge those in the aware of the existence of Attilan are in short supply, thus he cannot help but write out quickly and hold it towards Rogue, two phrases. «Yes. How do you know that name?»
His eyes are a bit suspicious, not overly so but enough that the itch of assassins creep up his back and along his spine to cause neck hairs to rise. Is this the trap that has been sprung on him?
*
"I was the handmaiden to one of your princesses in Asgard. I heard the promise sworn by /another/ crown prince in exile," Scarlett murmurs, her words scorching a trail between them as she turns, looking back over her shoulder towards Blackagar. He might be twitching, patience at an end, and her expression is a shattered mask of composure over the turbulent reel of knowledge. Cataloguing what she knows requires several moments, her breaths drawn in increasingly shallow darts of oxygen.
Leaning against the wall, her slump drags a half inch or so, no more. "But they never rode to your aid, such as I know, did they?" Long fingers sweep over her brow and down the curving arc over her ear, spilling down her throat and her shoulder. Pursing her lips, she watches him with wide, luminous eyes. "The fates are twisting my threads. Oh gods…"
*
The revelations of the crossing paths hit them both. It does not take Blackagar long to piece together a few details with his mind of whom Rogue is speaking of. He writes on the pad after a moment, larger writing so it is easier to see. «I did not want their aid. It was an internal matter.» He holds it up so she can see it before going and sitting down on the arm rest edge of a chair to contemplate himself. «This is unexpected.»
*
"I do not blame you. Some matters ought to be handled without outside interference, if possible. Previously it was reckoned a wise political gesture, though the reasoning behind it collapsed," murmurs the redhead, still watching Blackagar as intently as a deer considers a hungry wildcat in its midst. "Accepting such a gesture might not be deemed a poor diplomatic move, but there are strings attached. Coming out of exile, no doubt you opted not to have accusations hurled at you or exploited by your enemies. Hell's bells, forgive me. I have dabbled at the edge of politics too long." She forces herself from the wall, edging towards him. "I do not wish to make you uncomfortable. I am sorry, truly. The tangled lines of my history apparently run deeper parallel yours than we thought, though I swear on the Norns, I had no idea whom you were until now. Not in this… sense. And should you be one of those damnable shape-shifting aliens, I suppose I deserve what I get, no?"
*
A small smirk touches Blackagar's lips and he shakes his head, «Were I one of the Skrulls, I myself would be quite disappointed. No, I believe rather certainly I am not.» He turns the pad around in his hands to write on the back side while holding up the first. «I had no idea of crossing paths either, but do know that the life of Attilan is behind me. I have been set aside by the leadership council after restoring power to them and am simply a man whom is trying to figure out what to do with himself in this world.»
*
"Then I suppose the Norns guided you here to meet the resident expert in aiding people or directing them, for that appears a role I am set to play again and anew." Truly she is. Team redhead does this on such common occasion, they ought to start a company for it. Maybe the 'lost supernatural network' or something of that sort. Scarlett plucks one of the berries from the platter, considering the little gem between her fingertips. "Suppose you have any thoughts to the direction you wish to go? What moves you, at this point, or are you merely going with the flow?" The sonnet of voices in the oubliette of her psyche sing their lamentations and inquiries, and she presses the fruit to her lips, silencing herself by the treasure of a blackberry. So it goes.
*
Blackagar's eyebrow quirks up and after a long time of silence, well written silence, from the man he jots something down and holds it out to Rogue. His eyes are studying her rather intently to watch her reaction after she reads. «Who is to say that the path to you wasn't because I was drawn to you, for you? Why must it be to move on further?»
*
Is he *trying* to make her blush? A pity; for all she's a redhead, Scarlett rarely turns pink. Glorious cream skin touched by the sun to a pale, fair gold — proof of her mutation, she doesn't burn like a normal redhead — stubbornly refuses to give up that heady hue. Instead, she continues to cycle her breathing on a rhythmic scale, two seconds in, held for three, two seconds of exhalation. Repeating this ten times proves her to be an undoubted practitioner of meditation and yoga, so rare in this period that the oversight is likely to stand out in a fashion. The heavy oxygenation of her blood helps reduce to the fuzziness in her brain, and she takes the pad of well-marked paper to see what he writes, though her fingers stay south of his. He might yet seek to touch her, such is his life. She reads it, and looks up, jade eyes stricken, curious, carrying an immense burden of emotional tides. He knows the tip of that berg; it might well be easily explained.
Teeth catch the membrane of her lower lip, marring the smooth rose arc. A vector from past to future stands before her, penned perhaps, and she lifts her gaze to him. "No one is to say." Truth, her indelible sword, forever remains in hand, giving no quarter to ignorance. Mercy might be found somewhere else. "I assume — an occurrence I should prevent, it's a plague, no? — that you have some direction, some notion that carries you on. I sound nonsensical. What do you want?" It's not a rush, not unkind, lacking any sort of demand. It's genuine as a question to him; what he wants. Seeks. Desires. So many verbs, a fundamental question.
*
Blackagar grins a bit and writes some. «So many people ask me that. What I want. I think that maybe I want to just not worry about what I want. To just see what happens with life for a bit. To go where I go, to let things be as they're going to be. Is it necessary to have a plan? Right now, what I want, is to be where I am, doing what I'm doing.» To emphasize, he smiles at Rogue and picks up a croissant to take a bite.
*
Gods above and below, he's a damn tease. She arches an eyebrow at Blackagar, and then heads back over to the table, picking up a slice of orange. Hard to avoid orange, in this season. Joie de vivre is a powerful thing as she steps forward and bends over it, stretching out to press the citrus sweet slice to his mouth. After he's swallowed the croissant, at least. "Try it. Fresh from Florida, you will learn what superb flavour is, if you have never tried such a thing wherever you lived." Nothing at all separates them except the wedge of juicy navel orange and dappled rind, the finest America has to offer. It may be a bold stroke, but so be it.
*
Blackagar's eyes look at the orange, then past it up to Scarlett and then back to the orange. An eyebrow quirks upwards but then with a small shrug he leans forward to try the fruit; both the citrus and the other. Pulling back some after having brushed lips over her fingers, he nods in approval, reaching for his pad and writing. «Very good. The best I've ever had.» A pause and then he adds, « Is it only fair to ask, what it is you seek?»
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 91
*
A moment hangs in the balance, a glittering bead caught on the precipice of falling into the void of the past. His bite of the wedge of orange goes without comment, but kissing her juice-stained fingertips brings out a look of intense focus from the young woman, her pupils springing to narrow pinpoints in a sea of azure-foam green. Her eyes are at once the shade of the dynamic auroras over the polar regions and the surreal shade of a tropical sea, fragments of ice swallowed in a rush of heat. Every atomic shred of darkness inked into her genetic code aligns to the taste of life, and threatens to pull that energy into herself the way a black hole in an hour glass silhouette would devour the light of stars and galaxies. It yearns, an essential craving, the barrier that separates her from all else. The soul thief bites her lip hard enough to almost break the surface, her breath stilled, the initial panic attack and shock of revelations earlier quelled sufficiently for having a smidgen of restraint now. Mindfulness is as rare a treasure as a fresh orange in the Himalayas. So close. So very, very close.
Blackagar probably doesn't even know the peril, only the zinging thrill of his nerves, energy dancing to the warmth of her skin. "The first bite is always the most telling," she says, "but you should always try it twice to be sure." Wise knowledge from a bohemian but so slanted, plausibly. His question is left tilted on the page, and she takes another piece of orange for herself, biting into it for a distraction. What she seeks? "Reason. Knowledge of life, what to do with myself. I thought I knew, but was proven wrong. Make an impact on a world so afraid of us and itself. Be good. Love. Learn."
*
Listening to the response, Blackagar contemplates before slowly pressing up from where he is seated and writing for a few moments then taking a step towards Rogue to show her the words. «That sounds reasonable. Perhaps sometime we can get together again to discuss just how that might be done?» A second meeting? One with purpose at that. He reaches up and absently tucks at his hair a bit, a nervous gesture considering the forwardness, at least to him, of the request.
*
"You may realize you were seated at my table and not finished your breakfast. I do believe that sounds a second time, unless you want to go stand outside and knock on the door to be let in?" She does have a sense of humour, though it's somewhat slant and mellow for the moment. The careful consideration on Scarlett's part is not the same as his calculated caution, though he may well have received two plausible opportunities in the same breath. In this they are so different, so alike at disparity: he is governed by care for the uncertain and she flings herself into the eye of the hurricane, absolved of certain laws and social pressures. It goes with the bohemian label, one that will fast become hippie, slightly out of the spin of social expectation. It also calls for tea, but she gives a glance to the teacups and back to Blackagar again, waiting upon his lead. Waiting to see whether he wants to fly or perch or stoop to strike her to ground.
*
Blackagar looks first at Rogue then his eyes drift over to the table of food and the tea cups then back to her. A slow nod is given and he writes on the pad. «Well put.» Then, tucking the pad under his hand, he holds out a hand in offer to 'escort' back to where the unfinished breakfast awaits. So he wears a sly smile, it fits him quite well like a glove at that moment. Only upon reaching the destination does he produce the pad from under his arm to wire again. «Tea would be lovely.» It is a difficult read; one that he is presuming to mean she would rather keep his company for the time.
*
The moment he reaches for her hand is telling. Scarlett almost shies, but slowly extends her fingers to him. "You mustn't surprise me, Blackagar… Black Bolt." Correction number one, engaged. The pause is met with the very gravest of looks, those luminous eyes gems as bright as stars in their way. "I am cursed such that if I'm not careful, I could seriously harm you. Render you unconscious or worse." Her voice is soft, skating above a murmur, and not much higher. This is not a happy subject, any more than he feels comfortable admitting to being a former monarch in exile, and hunted by his brother's people. Though still, she smiles a fraction. "Usually I wear gloves or meditate. It's safe now though if I'm upset? No."
*
Blackagar writes upon his pad after listening to her concerns for him, which he acknowledges with a nod. As he finishes he hands it to her, somber look on his face. «My own power is much the same. A whisper from my voice is enough to level a mountain. A word could shatter the world. I must never speak, for the safety of all. I do not sleep, I do not rest my mind for if I slip, even a hair…» He doesn't even finish writing the thought, leaving the unspoken part of it plainly for her. Blue eyes look up and he manages a small, sheepish grin.
*
Rules for the witty: if succumbing to the curse, do not open her mouth. Her expression changes slightly and the look of dumbfounded shock vanishes rapidly into a faint crack of.. hope? Someone else who has the least understanding of what it is?
It's almost too much to process. She reaches for a cloth napkin as a precaution and curls it around her fingers, then slowly, carefully sets her hand on his. "Not even in the highest reaches of the atmosphere or space? I suppose you are my lessons from the Norns." Someone always has it harder. Her fingers lie atop his, and if he's sheepish, then she is calm enough.
*
Brow furrows in thought and Blackagar writes out after a moment, «I do not know about space, I have never been there. But I suppose it would be interesting to find out.» He finishes the thought and then eyes the yogurt again before eating some and settling back to lean in his seat. The time taken gives him opportunity to collect his mind and he composes, «How am I a lesson?»
*
How can one be that explicit with a total stranger? A mostly stranger, even if the fold of stiff cotton napkin is the only thing briefly separating Scarlett from plundering all those hidden secrets of a man's mind for her own. She retracts her hand, however, and goes to sit in the chair she previously occupied before getting up and pacing around the room, bending over the table, and shoving an orange in Blackagar's mouth. The chair squeaks when she lands, and she hooks her heels against the bottom rung, her knees tapped forward. She has to lean over to see the pad of paper, and her idle tearing of a croissant, the one she was already dismembering, mostly leaves a pile of golden flakes on a plate. "I have not been either. Close, though I never go past the point I stop breathing." More golden snowfall piles up in little dunes and heaps, and she barely seems to notice. "Try the yoghurt if you want it. The taste is not sour, but mild. Spoon?" Such is offered to him, if he chooses to take it. "You demonstrate there are always challenges in life, and someone can overcome any hardship if they set their mind to it."
*
Blackagar accepts the orange, more carefully than the last time before indeed sampling the yogurt after retrieving a spoon to do so. He takes a moment to contemplate it, having had yogurt before but at that time it was the thicker Egyptian style; much like the last time he had coffee. The sort which was filled with Nile River mud at the bottom it was so thick. He writes a bit down on his pad to show the woman as is his way, the style of writing changing a bit from a formal print to a more fluid casual, as if it was a shifting of tone. «Good Yogurt. Reminds me of Greece but without the honey.» A bit further down he adds, «All have struggles and hardships. It is part of life. Without them, what is the benefit of life?»
*
She truly ought to be eating the croissant, but at this point, it's only worthy of the ducks in Central Park. Catching herself, Scarlett instead flips her braids off her shoulder by giving the joint a profound shrug, and pursues another of the berries instead. They are not perfectly ripe; most markets do not carry them, and those which are carried derive directly from California and those cross-country trips have a toll on food. Nonetheless, she pays the price simply for the pleasure. "My preference in the morning would be yoghurt. Something of a boost of energy, and it mixes well with nearly everything. Honey included." A glance towards the cabinets indicates where the golden syrup likely resides. "You are travelled to Greece, then?" Another berry she crushes against her lips, releasing the juice in a bloom that's soon enough swallowed. "Hardship defines life, though some receive a tougher lot than others. Do you find it difficult sometimes to be deprived of something others take for granted? I empathize with the blind or the deaf, very much. In my own way I too am held back by a barrier I cannot overcome, at least not yet."
*
Thought lingers, drawing his brow into an etch of thought before Gabriel nods in affirmation to Rogue's words and starts his usual writing routine with the newer casual style. «Yes, before settling in the mountains I traveled many of the more ancient sites of the world to investigate incidents of the Inhuman culture and our creation. It was a needed journey.» He leans to pick at a berry himself, her movements having pulled his attention there and he takes one as well, writing after a time. «It is a burden but it has taught me the importance of choosing words carefully. Knowing the meaning of what I need to communicate and also the importance of listening. There is so much noise in the world when you stop an listen.»
*
Log edit: Gabriel -> Blackagar
*
If that's a warning she talks too much and contributes heavily to the noise, she already knows. The redhead plants her elbows upon the tabletop, hands clasped into an arch of fair, sun-gilded skin. It takes her but a moment to lower her chin upon that arc, surveying Blackagar through her lashes rather than directly on. Might as watch how the man moves and carries himself, as though she did not already assess that through the depths of a dance on a rooftop or the jazz club, and how all those unspoken elements add up to a complete picture of the total man. "Where did you like traveling best? I have studied a fair bit of history and archaeology. Ruins are absolutely thrilling, especially when you can turn over a leaf to find proof for how they lived in that era." A hint of the passion for life flickers and takes, though it wavers. "Tell me, then, did any of those places inspire you? Was there something you might pursue now?" He wanted to speak of futures, she'll speak of futures.
*
Realizing that there was an error in his own communication, a habit that Blackagar has discovered more and more in himself he begins to write, hastily at that. «My own communication is still poor. I cannot inflect words or deliver meaning with them. Your voice is pleasant to hear. I was meaning as I walk the streets of this city, I hear so many people that speak but have nothing true to say.» He slides that one to her first, the look of apology present before he starts on the new sheet of paper. «My mountains brought me peace. Egypt brought me excitement and adventure. The Andes held struggle and Greece thought. Every place I have gone to has been a movement within myself, a different part of my development . Were I to choose which one I miss the most, it is the mountains for the peace. But where I was inspired the most? That would depend on my mood I suspect. What of yourself? Where do you seek to go?»
*
He's going to need another block of paper at this rate. Luckily, a Columbia student will always have notebooks, and fetching one means literally leaning back in her chair until Scarlett can reach a spiral-bound exercise book. She thumbs the spiral and then pinches it, dragging it out from among several textbooks piled neatly upon the shelf. The seat's legs bang upon the floor, and she offers the additional writing pad up to him just in case. "The Andes? I suppose they might, a good number of countries down there dislike outsiders. Peru and Bolivia aren't precisely stable." Geopolitics forever shows up, but then she is one well accustomed for what goes on. "Egypt sounds rather promising. Adventure of what sort?" Get him writing, or talking, and the world might open a little wider on Blackagar. Though she still has to answer his question.
"The rest of the Nine Realms. I have seen a good number of them, though never Alfheim. On the other hand, the ljosalfar — light elves — have the most peculiar names, and I would be hard put not to laugh. Lady Peaseblossom?" Her mouth twinges up dimly. "Here? Antarctica, penguins are delightful. The great monuments of the past in places hard to reach, like the Taj Mahal; Angkor Wat; Egyptian temples like Abu Simbel."
*
«Many places deemed difficult to reach are worth much more to go to, for they present the obstacle to overcome. Angkor Wat in fact was a place I had to travel to due to it being one of the sites where my people were created. Many of those ancient locations have ties to the past and intersect with the Inhumans.» Blackagar accepts the new book and immediately gets to work writing on it, telling some tales here and there. «I assume the Nine Realms refers to elements of the Asgardians?»
*
"There are multiple dimensions connected to ours. Far more than I can name or easily reach. The Nine Realms is a term used by the Asgardians, but it does speak well to the adjacent layers of reality near ours. They are unique worlds unto themselves, bound together by pathways in space, but there are faster ways to get about. Or there were." She raises her hands slightly, shaking her head. "Reaching them is not easy for those who are simply mortal. As I am." Her tongue flicks against her lips and she laughs softly. "Your people were behind so many of the ancient monuments? Are they your creation or merely places that you walked? I imagine Machu Picchu is another place well worth the visiting, for similar reasons as you say. So you have found New York, and are you planning to work? Study? Dance with random women?" Not that she is random.
*
«I think I've reached my quota of random woman dancing for a short time.» Blackagar writes out for the woman, managing a smile when doing so before shifting the paper around and writing more. «As for being here in New York City, I want to see that the Inhumans that are to remain here are set up well and established, have what they need. Then I will most likely look into some of the … issues… that are surrounding. Perhaps see if there is a way to subtly assist.»
*
"A short time?" Ooh, might have found a thorn of that rose, though she rises to pinch a cup of tea for herself. Nothing quite like having a proper drink. "I imagine your assistance will be welcome, however it comes. There is a certain breed and taste of madness, all considered. Do we follow the path laid out for us, the one that skims entering a conflict or do we try to hold ourselves in isolation? I doubt isolation is even possible. Too many forces want to return attention elsewhere, and here we are, lost in a sea of uncertainty. For so many the mere idea there is anything more than humanity is inconceivable."