1964-06-30 - Act XIII: Loki Bound
Summary: In which Heimdall eats lunch most fowl and advises Thor Odinson on affairs of the realm.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
thor rogue 

LOG NOTE: Heimdall brought to you by Rogue.

Though Thor's hammer needs little maintenance, his armor does periodically require inspection and service. The broad-shouldered God of Thunder works with the fine tools of the armorer's trade, mending broken scales and reattaching damaged parts. It looks more magic than labor to a human eye; glowing runes, subtle flares of light, and the energies of armor and plate intertangling.

To an Asgardian, of course, it's as mundane as the lights that illuminate the castle.

He works in the Warrior's Suites; shared with his royal entourage, the warriors who protect Thor while he's on missions for Asgard. Their own gear decorates the room along with trophies earned by the Warriors Three and various other royal guards down through the ages, including the oldest retinue that once served Buri the First in a time almost before history.

One of those guards comes rather promptly down the hallway and nods smartly. His heavy gilt-hued helm conceals part of his face, the noseguard and his rather impressive muttonchops identifying him among the rest of his peers. His passage is likely not to be barred at the suites, though he has to clarify three times before entering the presence of the prince. His gauntleted fist strikes his breastplate. He leans forward in a curt bow, the kind that displace the fewest weapons and causes the least chafing. "Your Highness." A curt greeting comes forth, salutory and direct. "Your presence is requested."

The faintest shimmer plays off him in mandarin orange and bronze, traces of light. He grimaces. Though Andvar the Fleet is quickest among the regular gods, he cannot beat a damn rainbow.

Thor looks up at Andvar, and the glimmerings of multichronal light do not escape him. Odin sends his own messengers; Heimdall his. Few people in Asgard can summon Thor thusly; and a summons it is, however politely it is phrased.

The security of the borders outweighs Princely convenience, and so Thor nods at Andvall. "Aye. I'll be along presently," he assures him.

Moments later, Thor flings himself from the balconies of the suite and flies with hammer in hand towards the end of the Bifrost, and lands near the entrance in mere minutes. He strides towards the Keeper of the Gate's position, looking around for him.

"Heimdall? You asked for me?"

It at least may be said Heimdall has the presence of mind and respect for position not to randomly seize people about their tasks, even in Asgard. Nothing might prevent him from tapping into the multihued spectral byways at his leisure, though one drunken evening calling down Odin after a certain festival when they were both young and the Aesir-Vanir War not so long forgotten set clear boundaries. Particularly when the ravens ended up as technicolour corvids belching rainbows for days.

The long span of the physical Bifrost Bridge shoots arrowstraight out of Asgard to the furthest promontory of the realm. Here demarcates the extent of Odin's power, directly, the temporal boundary. The great golden observatory has stood unimpeded as long as there has been Heimdall, brought from the Vanir even before the birth of his once fair-haired, formidable huntress of a sister. He stands in vigil as he always does, an unending duty commanded by the All-father and relieved by the All-father, and no other. It is lonely and not.

The walls are largely closed but for a thin aperture on some reddish vista speckled by stars. What his grave eyes see, none know; none say. He is standing in awaiting for the Prince, hands both mounted on the crossguard of his great golden keystone sword.

"Blessings upon the House of Bors," he intones in his gravelly, deep pitch. "With gladness I see you once more returned to your proper place, Thor."

Thor bows for no man, but the nod of respect Heimdall gets is long and deep. "Heimdall, old friend," he tells the man, and offers him a warrior's clasp of the wrist. "As always, I'm glad to see none more reliable than you guarding the Bifrost," he tells the warrior, clasping his shoulder.

"Come, let us sit for a moment. I'll keep you company on your vigil." He digs in the slingpouch on his shoulders and comes up with a roast breast of some foul and a tankard of good mead, unspilled and still cold. "And I brought you some hot food and cold mead from the kitchens," he grins at the man. "In case your hunger was making needles at your patience."

Heimdall briefly releases the crossguard to allow that clasp, his own dark hand solid and firm. The years of service have not abated its strength. "I would stand, for there remains a battle to disturb the peace. It bleeds over to the fringes of three realms."

His regret is plain in that, but he does stand shoulder to shoulder with Thor. Temptation of proper roast chicken will not go without a white grin widened under the helm. "I still must obey your father. Do not imagine slipping past tonight to some mischief." Those uncanny citrine eyes miss so little. They slowly pass over the prince, hale and golden.

"Have you visited your mother?"

"I would have brought more mead," Thor assures Heimdall with a dry humor belied by a wide grin.

"I have seen my mother quite recently, Heimdall," Thor replies politely, setting the meal on the table. Fowl, rolls, mead, and some vegetables are in place. "Why do you ask? What crisis threatens a full three worlds upon the branching limbs of the Ancient Tree?" he inquires, foldingf his arms across his chest.

Now never ask if rainbows play in the windows of the kitchens or dance along the cellars where brass and gold shimmer. A stray speck of iridescence and poof, keg gone.

"Since your restoration, the queen has been well and hale. Yet in her heart lies great worry for her son." Heimdall's lingering look holds a weight of care to it. He certainly won't be tearing open that roll just yet. Soon. "The All-father will say nothing. You are nigh the greatest of your generation, her very pride. But a loyal subject to him and his wife would note the enduring strength of a mother's love can be cut deepest by fear of loss and enduring fears." Yes, he's fearlessly telling Thor to go give Frigga due attention. Possibly a hug. Maybe another cat.

The gears in the observatory turn according to precise rhythms. The generator whirls softly beneath the floor. "The unfolding trouble is still nascent. I have no cause yet to warn Odin. I see disruptions in Svartalfheim where came none before. Where quiet lingered until days prior, now there is disruption."

Thor frowns, deeply. "Of late, all roads lead to the elves," he muses. "Loki is so enamoured of one such that he might drag all the realms into endless war like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum."

"Amora claims 'tis because of our temperate, long-eyed nature; I suspect 'tis more because Loki and Amora share a brat's petulance in common when the least obstacle is encountered."

|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d20 for: 5

Heimdall reaches for one of the roasted pieces of meat. Rarely does he receive it in a timely fashion, as much fault of his own engrossed work. Eating is a pleasure but rarely given time to be a luxury. He doesn't make that mistake now. He can chew slower and savor the blend of spices and roasted crispness. "The Prince neglects his duty to your honoured lady mother. She worries for you for reasons differing from he." Grim reflection there. Light shines off his helm.

"Svartalfheim did not spread war past its branch. Conflict-ridden corner as ever, but the dark queen holds to her agreements with the All-father. Something changed. The dvergr grow restless. The svartalfjar mobilize in places," he explains. "They need a spark to start the fire, but I see no cause for such. Someone kicked a nest of hornets."

"I… will speak with my mother as soon as possible," Thor concedes, brow furrowing at Heimdall.

"You mix metaphors and make merry with words as easily as a poet; come, old friend, out with it!" Thor tells Heimdall. "I can do little to aid the elfkin if I know not the cause or nature of such a problem. To say they are merely incholate is as useful as remarking that the Norns are fickle. Is there a threat I can strike out at, or are you simply keeping me apprised of the gossip of the Realms?"

"That be the problem, Thor Odinson. Someone is hiding what they do knowing full well I would see." HHeimdall curls his lip at the admission. It's not something he takes pleasure in seeing. "And it be not the usual sources of trouble. The dwarf king and his princes nor the dark elf queen call for war. Jotunheim is same as ever. Muspelheim smolders, nothing there. Yet why now are there pockets of unrest in Svartalfheim? Who bothers the dwarves? Someone I know not yet is trying to bring down the peace. Who can conceal themselves from us?"

"A… grim question," Thor concedes, uneased. "And one I shall consider most prudently. We find ourselves staring at murky waters, Heimdall. I have no answers for you," he apologizes. "These machinations are ever more transparent to one such as myself. As you say," he remarks, rising, "I'll speak to my mother and see what maternal insights she can offer."

He extends a clasp of the wrist to Heimdall. "My thanks, old friend, for your wisdom— and your insights."

|ROLL| Thor +rolls 1d20 for: 17

A faint glimmer of fire rolls over those sun-gold eyes. "Thor." A name exchanged in passing. "It would be terrible if your father were to be goaded to war against the dark elf queen because of one of her most troubling subjects. He has done nothing but toast and feast with his new bride for a week."

"So… the one man most likely to be moving pieces on the board, has been deep in his cups and revels." Thor frowns thoughtfully at Heimdall, and nods. "My thanks, friend Heimdall. I'll take your words to heart," he promises the man, before tkaing his leave.

"Things I would not care to watch if not for the fact I must." Now Heimdall is tearing into that roll and cramming it in his mouth. He chews heavily, his brow heavy. "Peace is Asgard's great strength. Let it endure."

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