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Winter bears no particular danger for the prodigal daughter of the Norns, those weavers of fate above all mortal cares. Their weavings throw interesting threads among the lives of the Asgardian court, and certainly for one mortal touched by the influence of the Golden City. She rests in the heart of a seidr garden, every last herb and plant chosen for its correspondences in Asgardian magic. Patterns emerge to someone wise to the art, and such a rare trove might not exist elsewhere in New York.
Fire-brindled hair washes around her in a copper bath of elaborately woven braids, and her body is curled around the spilled book formerly attended upon. The text is written in a language forgotten in this city, for the most part, the dull green cloth cover very little help in identifying the contents. One decorative pillow cushions her head, but she lacks for a blanket or a coat. There's simply no need; the lingering chill of winter's dregs, though not terribly cold, cannot really do harm despite her apparently fair skin. To the contrary, not much in the standard police arsenal can.
*
She dreams of books. Rows and rows of tall, golden shelves, full of countless tomes. There is a futility in it, because just looking at them, the sheer amount of their combined knowledge, will absolutely never be known to any human. Its too much. Its centuries of reading. There is no hope. Yet, there it all is, if only she could. Slowly, though, the golden shelves turn dark and the ones further out start crumbling and falling into an abyss. The loss, the desolation, the culling continues, surrounding her, threatening her, until all that is left is one book, bound in black leather, held in her hands. And she tries to open the cover…and can't. "Lady Rogue." comes a voice, elegant, polite, accented like his, but not his. No touch to wake her though, the guard knows better than that. She already knows what the man is going to tell her though. He's gone.
*
Tomes upon tomes mock the bohemian floating in space. Lifetimes of lore, and yet, the means to obtain them is no secret to her. A single golden apple from Idunn, goddess of youth, would grant Immortality such as Asgard reckons. A single bite, a lifespan into millennia. Of course, that requires citizenship, and for that… For that, so much hinges on the slender thread of hope. Her fingertips brush along the book's spine, a caress teaching her the runes, if any, printed by touch and familiarity. Thorns and acid would sting less than memory manifested, the silken voice branding her thoughts. This is not the first dream. It is certainly among the most vivid.
Her eyes narrow, striving for the glimpse of him in the peripheral vision. Two people know her true name, such as she chose for herself — Autumn. He is one. They call her Lady Scarlett of Midgard, among the court. Hearing the title mixed, her expression becomes a mask, and she flips the book over, if she can, to perceive the edges.
*
"Lady Scarlett." The voice comes again, trying to dislodge her from the dream. Again, no hand to try to wake her. "My lady." The real world beckons, and the book almost aggressively…stays shut.
*
Awakening takes but a moment, the transition of spirit to flesh finalised in a heartbeat. Scarlett slowly opens her eyes, pupils blasted wide around her surreal emerald-green irises. Her palm rests down upon the bricks and the supine line of her body yet rests upon the ground. A subtle shift of her knees downwards indicates her rotation and rise, a sudden transition to standing made breathtakingly quick. Jonquils and snowdrops woven into her air mingle with the neroli scent of her skin, and she throws a veiled look around her. For the disruption is enough to alert her. But silent she remains, watchful.
*
Standing there, a couple feet away, is a man she has never seen before. Ever. He is completely out of place. A sweeping helmet sits on his head and he is armed with a sword. His outfit is some polished golden metal, and there is the feeling of it being almost one with his body. He lives in this uniform. Otherwise, he is a typical example of Asgardian male, with tanned skin, dark eyes, and a thick neck that tells a tale of that armor covering up muscles. "Lady Scarlett." he addresses again. "I am Bov, of Asgard, a member of the Royal Guard." He dips his head.
*
Scarlett may not stand as tall as the typical Asgardian, for all that she stands inches above most Midgardner women. Not that she acts it, faced down by Bov of Asgard, her shoulders straight and chin lifting to meet his gaze. Announcing himself transforms her bearing from guarded to cautiously polite, her hands coming together and a curt nod indicative to his rank performed curtly, exacting by any standard of etiquette. "Be welcome here, my lord." It's in his own tongue, rather than English, that she offers a response, a language dead on Earth for a millennium and more. "I offer you the hospitality of this place, as I may. What brings you to Midgard?"
So many questions press upon her tongue, and surely she burns with curiosity, but manners trump such cares. Always. Not for nothing has she studied every interaction and observed, to be prepared. To know. The bohemian inclines her head yet.
*
"I cannot stay." The guard answers in polite and simple Asgardian, unwilling to be misunderstood in any way. "I am the bearer of news. Loki is dead." no 'I'm sorry', or other explanation, simply the fact that he came to deliver.
*
The bohemian offers him no outcry of denial. Emotion watercolours the moon-pale oval of her face with the lightest brushstrokes, capturing the tightening of her mouth and plasma brightness in her eyes. "My condolences to the Queen and the All-Father." Those words delivered in the smooth, liquid gold of her dulcet soprano prove startlingly even. A pause. "How?"
*
The guard draws in a deep breath. "We are not sure. Some sort of…great spell, is all that is known to men like me. The All-Father knew of your attachment, and sent me to convey this news."
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 97
*
Indeed, what doesn't the All-Father know when he takes his place on the High Seat and looks far and wide? The redhead doesn't give him the satisfaction of swooning away or tearing up. The advantage she holds in defying gravity is not visibly drawn on, and Scarlett folds her hands together behind her. Fine posture grows the more immaculate, shoulders squared under the weight left upon her. "A spell," she confirms, the cadence of her voice still precise, measured in its inflection. "Midgard thanks the All-Father for his consideration and the knowledge. The accord between us will be honoured."
*
The guard dips his head again. "I will convey the message." No mention of a mourning ceremony, or anything that might honor the memory, because right now, most of Asgard just wants to forget the man. No invitation for her, either. Burned from a lot of tragedy in a row, maybe its just keeping to itself for the moment.
*
Mayhap the snub is intentional or the matter of grief for a traitor, a native son, something else. Scarlett thins her gaze slightly, the line of her jaw firm and every inch of her as stoic, if not regal, as one can possibly be. Thoughts whirl in that skull, memory of a piece of the shattered Bifrost, a bloody god carried through a now empty estate, and chasing through the sky to capture globes of the rainbow bridge as they rained down on Midgard. "May the Norns look upon your skein," she offers, a formal response. What else is there to say? How can one woman rage against the heavens?
*
A flash of light from the heavens sucks the guard back home, leaving a little imprint to sizzle there, until a rain washes away the sooty sigil.