1964-07-14 - Where the Wild Things Go
Summary: Plots are laid in the Asgardian embassy.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
amora thor rogue 

The classically accoutered Embassy for Asgard is a strange place; even Gods are not exempt from New York zoning laws, which protect these hallowed old halls from exterior remodelling or modifictions. But indoors, the soft yellow magics that cast Asgard into an amber hue abound; statues and sculptures of magical and mystical make abound, many of them interactive and animate in their own way. Magic is woven into every aspect of Asgardian life, and their Embassy reflects it.

THough he has quarters, Thor has no office; paperwork is a concept very foreign to Asgardians. So he sits in the dining hall amidst the ruins of a party from the night before, which silent attendants labor at cleaning. Some of them are busy sawing a table in half to take it away and mend it from where one rowdy Asgardian was thrown through it.

All in good fun, of course.

|ROLL| Rogue +rolls 1d100 for: 31

Scarlett knows a fair bit too much about zoning laws. She was here when the real estate agent dealt with her as an agent of Asgard, of a kind. Though to be fair, the poor man hadn't any idea then. Transferring the Wildenstein Mansion crash coursed her on the intricacies of zoning and renovation in ways never anticipated or duplicated since, though that knowledge lies somewhere in that pretty head. Magic here greets her as an old friend, enveloping her senses and remaining maddeningly, teasingly out of reach. She can taste its flavours without replicating the same cake easily, for all the mystical secrets whispering through her pretty skull. Still, the place has its charms, a home away from home, in some ways. She might never say she understands more here than her own culture, at times.

Slipping within noticed, for the servants assuredly have every idea of who the skald is, she raises her hand in greeting. The same means of inviting a greeting will be passed eventually to Thor, upon whom all roads apparently lead. Not the least of which is because she some how ends up carrying a bucket full of cleaning supplies she frankly isn't going to use for someone else to wash away stains with. The redhead arches her eyebrows slightly, amusement flickering into a smoldering green burn in her eyes.

The big blonde God of Thunder looks up at the sight of a flaming redhead entering; Scarlett is distinctive enough, but the saucy cut of her jib makes her stand out as a fluid bit of dance in a world full of shuffling slow-walkers.

"Scarlet! Taking a turn with the scullery maids, now?" he inquires of the skald, with a booming voice. He's noted the cleaning supplies in her hands, and flicks his wrist at her in greeting.

"Come, sit a while with me, my friend," he tells the ginger haired woman. "'tis been some days since last I saw you. How fare you of late? Fancy food? Mead, or victuals?" he inquires, turning to wave at one of the food servers standing dutiful watch near the kitchen.

The copper-tressed girl shakes those glorious locks, the summer leaving flaming trails brightly painted among their heavy mass. The snow white shock of her bangs is always hidden away by smart braids and an iota of dye, though nothing disguises the flames that chase their autumnal sister through the year. She opens her mouth and then thinks the better of it for a moment, glancing about at the maids. Loose lips, and all that, and who knows what word might reach Frigga about Thor encouraging mortals into questionable attire for his sheer amusement?
Setting down the bucket, she strides through the dining room in that long, easily measured stride to be nigh well swept up to the golden god's presence. Her gaze traces over the wreckage nearest, and she murmurs at a painfully soft volume, "Mead, as you prefer." Set the rumours running. Their conversation will, in one sense, be nigh confessional, the pact of conspirators afforded in a dusky purr rather than the full soprano octave that is her birthright.

The table shakes only a little when she speaks, barely that, but a chattering tremble of porcelain or metal is enough to rouse even a drunk mind to take stock. "I am wretched at cleaning. Better at wrestling bears."

"Aye, 'tis why some are suited more for one station than another," Thor agrees. Asgard doesn't have a rigid caste system, but there is something much similar to it; it's rare for anyone to depart their social level except through the grandest of efforts and heroic deeds.

"Mead, for the table, and a layout of meat and cheese," Thor tells the servant. They bustle off for food and the Prince casts a speculative eye at Scarlett, as if sensing the undercurrent of her thoughts.

"So my friend, I suspect you are not here on some idle visit. Is there something urgent afoot which needs immediate discussion?" he inquires, sounding concerned. "Or shall you take some repast and idle for a time, first?"

And perchance that social mobility to people from outside the system affords a reason why she is what she is. The redhead shakes her head slightly at the possibility of a 'snack' being a spread sufficient to feed an army. She slips into a seat with her customary grace, a knack of yoga that infuses every precise motion and controls her posture down to the slightest elegant gesture. "Thank you," she replies, so terribly quiet and ear bending.

The wood thrums under her palm and she strokes the grain, as one might hum a cat. His worry for urgency nets Thor a shake of her head, though she smiles in spite of herself. Modulating her timbre takes time, though volume seems to be a matter covered. "A little difficult to speak without shaking the house." Even worse if she laughs, which is confined solely to the expressive glimmer of those vast auroral green eyes. "I've found adventure, a noble quest. Speak of your joys first."

"A noble quest?" Thor's brows perk, but he realizes that no basso thrum of music makes the table dance; it's Scarlett's very -voice- that is making the wood resonate.

This is new.

He peers at her with curiousity writ large on his blunt, honest features. "Of joy? My life is battle and feating and friends, what more joy is there?" he inquires, laughing jovially. "Amora and I are in detente once more, and a pleasant accord exists between us for the time being. I know not what the future may bring, but we have at least abandoned the story of disharmony. For now," he adds, grinning wide. "And find each other's company most pleasantly suitable."

Indeed, the very nature of the description bespeaks a certain hook to capture the Asgardian imagination, doesn't it? She nods in agreement, naturally, but withholds her response not from the need to entice Thor so much as offer him leave to speak. She sought a question of him; she won't interrupt the narrative.
Besides. The table really is quivering and the delivered mead will ripple in time to her touch, such as it is. That she lifts in a graceful toast of sorts to his happy state of affairs, a salutation.

"To happiness," she confirms in her whisper, and takes a hearty draught of the mead. A keg wouldn't put her under the table, its blissful notes a promise beyond words. With a smile to back up that wholesome quaff, she sets the cup down in earnest. "A quest. One where your noble aid may be welcome," she begins, choosing her words carefully in that soft blush of thought. "A chance for alliance with warriors, too. A race of aliens once enslaved humans on earth. They were driven back, but left behind ancient treasures in now ruined sites. Guarded ones, at that. Those who meddled in Earth's affairs once seem set to do so again. "

"Treasures?" Thor perks. "The ancient forgotten coin of realms long dead is a fascination all share, I suspect," he tells Rogue. "Not for greed— Asgard glitters with the wealth of the Nine Realms. But to see that which other lands held most precious. Which they sequestered away with their honored dead, or hid from the predations of ravaging invaders."

"Aye, you need but ask and my hammer is at thy side, my friend," he tells Rogue, with his endless self-assurance. "To aid humanity against meddlesome threats is a burden I will always welcome."

Amora poofed into being well within sight of the two. Glittery smoke and extravagant swirls of arcane power danced around her in the sunlight. Her hand swept through her golden locks and she rolled her shoulders back with a great sigh pulling from her lips. Her green eyed gaze swung around the room and settled with Scarlett and Thor in turn. She came sauntering up, hips swinging, high heels clicking with the power of her personage as she stepped up to Thor and promptly leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Kai and company say hello, darlings." She smelled lightly of mead already and she flashed a smile toward the red head apprentice of her's that stood there.

"Darling, we really need to comission your portrait with Kai. Now that he is no longer in danger." She tilted her head to the side, "It has been so long, tell me, are you hale? Is all well?"

"Quite so. Not gold, though." Harmonics cannot be flattened; they are a byproduct whenever Scarlett utters a sound beyond a sigh, and she strives to suppress that. The liquid comes to her lips again, a honey kiss of sunlight spilling over her palate. "Mayhap I ought to draw the details for you. Though I would also ask to refine my defensive techniques with you." The shimmering melodies of protesting wood and floor and metal cup are all fairly contained to right in front of her, and she near as must be mildly bemused by the effect. Such is her silence fallen into place as the curtain of light shimmers into being. Mead it is, and a few slices of cheese to fuel the rather considerable energy demand on her at the moment.

"Portrait?" The question is quite literally at the softest of murmurs there is. Presumption tumbles to Thor. His portrait? Eyebrows lift slightly; the bohemienne possessess absolutely no qualms about appearance, naturally. But she may well shoot sympathy for portrait sitting for the man, assumed, as the target for Kai's brushes. Mischief then, the faintest crook of a smile. "Pray it take not too many hours. Quite well."

Aside from the fact she can probably shake the shelves down if she really tried.

Thor returns the kiss to Amora's cheek, entirely chaste save for the subtle lingering caresses she puts to his shoulder and he leaves on her trim waistline.

"Welcome back, Amora. Bid Kai and his friends my fond hellos and well wishes for their happiness," Thor instructs the blonde enchantress. He gestures at a chair for her to take a seat, if she so wishes, and reaches for his own mead for a long, heavy sip of the honeyed beverage.

"I think she regards you as a candidate for a portrait, friend Scarlett; be wary, as she posed for hers wearing nothing but a suggestive array of silk," he says, teasing Amora with a sideglance. "I'm sure she'd arrange much the same for yourself. Me, I wish only to be venerated in image with a statue when I leave to serve among the Einherjar; golden stone in Asgard's hallowed halls to mark me forever."

Amora smiled toward Thor and promptly took a seat as indicated. She snagged a slice of cheese from a plate, and leaned back in her chair, her shapely legs crossing as her shoulders settled back and her chin lifted. "Oh Scarlett, darling. I mean for you. I think it would be most pleasing to see you in a field of flowers or some such. Or perhaps fall leaves." She offered lightly, tilting her head.

And then a laugh escaped her as she eyed Thor, "Kai is going to paint me properly soon. A lifesize portrait. Tis why I was over, speaking with him about the details." She grinned, and by properly she meant that she was not going to be wearing anything this time.

It's all fun and games when the assumed seated figure of the portrait isn't oneself. Mind you, Scarlett is normally the one behind the camera or the easel, as her living art gallery of a home reveals. All those shots captured in moody evocation are her own work, minus one. Thus the artist in her takes pause, whilst she inclines her head to the clarification. A nod confirms the understand whilst the warning Thor conveys she receives with the merest sweep of her hand. "Seen and untouchable." The whisper, largely into the mead, sends the liquid ruffling away as she tilts it back to rush over her palate in that sweetest infusion.

"What would I do with it?" The question is a legitimate one, all things said and done. Her thumb trails around the edge of the goblet, and she sets it upon the table rather than continue to shake dust free in a trickle from the floorboards. Oh well, the cleaning will be extra thorough.

"Perhaps the two of you should render yourself subject," Thor tells Amora, giving her knee a jostle under the table with his shin. "Clad in nothing but leaves and smiles? Scandalize all of the Nine Realms by committing it eternal to the stroke of canvas," he says, before laughing merrily and sipping more of his ale.

"You could put it up on your wall, friend Scarlett," he tells her. "Or, leave it here! We'll hang it in the Embassy as testament to the beauteous union of Midgard and Asgard, joined as allies for centuries to come. Many will come and tour the building and speculate upon the beauties who must have dwelled here in aeons past."

Amora sent Thor a lingering look as he jostled her knee, a flutter of eyelashes following before her gaze swung back to Scarlett. "Why so soft, apprentice? You never spoke so demurely before." She asked, glancing around with a hooked eyebrow at the dust. Then returned her gaze to Thor with a smirk. She reached for a goblet, sipping at mead.

"Well, that is certainly one way to demonstrate an alliance." She smirked, "You can hang it in your bedroom Scarlett, or perhaps even here in the hall." She waited until Thor was taking a sip of his ale.

"I've already comissioned Kai to paint me without such scraps, so I would not mind leaves and silks." She offered lightly, with a smile.

"In Asgard, I was far from loud." At least where manners were required, that long ago memory surfacing from the depths and evaporating with a silent pop. How different all are then, risen and fallen through the endless turns of fate's wheel. Something for the prodigal daughter of the stars to consider in her own time, scarcely at the moment. Nonetheless, she dips her head. "I will speak with Kai." Maybe that's to assuage the egos of those involved or a way of saying thank you one way or the other for the suggestion of decorating the hall, albeit she may be the one person in proximity not particularly bothered by the visions of perfection and glory. They are the fiery high noon sun on a summer's day; she has the fiery descent of the autumn hour into midnight, and the very notion colours a palpable mirth 'round her.

"What do you two have planned for today, then?" The vibrating murmur cannot be supressed; the better for her to turn the conversational tables than be under the spotlight, and besides, she shares freely of the world.

Thor blurbles in his mead with a small cough as Amora flings fact against his speculation— he narrows his eyes at her, but smiles tolerantly despite himself.

"I have little planned; save for merrymaking and drinking. No nations yet place obligations upon me, save for that which I volunteer, so for now we project an air of ready steadfastness to the world," Thor tells Scarlett. "So, cheers to harmony!" he says, hoisting his flagon to the table and throwing back a sturdy gulp.

Amora looked well and truly pleased as she could possbily be when Thor coughed into his mead, a twinkle in her eye as he shoots her a look. She fluffed her hair with a hand, smiling broadly. "T'would be a gift, my Prince." She murmured, fluttering her eyelashes in his way.

Then of course the subject matter changed and she glanced back to Rogue. "I have no plans darling, I was thinking of finding something to occupy my attention. I was rather bored." She offered up a raising of her cup toward Thor as he cheered toward harmony and she sipped at her mead most delicately.

A gift to him, one may hope. Scarlett holds her counsel behind her closed mouth, her emptied goblet left on the table and the camaraderie of the general atmosphere. Company never goes wholly amiss. With an easy nod to the offering, she rises from her seat and brushes off her long tunic. For summer, that either serves as a shockingly short dress or a particularly colourful shirt of longer than usual length. Chances are fair she can manage both. "May I use the library?" Cue the odd murmur and complaint of the dishes. The reason is plain.

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