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Within the Asgardian Embassy, not much stirs. The sumptuous lengths of curtains hang with grace. The guards, an appropriate oddity by Midgardian standards, might be at their places or perhaps in the middle of rotational lunches or even absent entirely, given that this is a place of relative safety when the God of Thunder is in residence. Not many attempt to poke that ant's nest, for fear that if they survive it, anything metal they touch will shock them back for weeks on end.
Now, something stirs. Lady Stormrider, entering the large building with cloak's hood up against the worst of the rain, and even as she pulls it back to reveal that moon-pale hair still retaining its intricate crown of braids, she's also wearing a frown.
"My liege?" Her voice carries, interrupting the silence, even from the foyer. "I would have word with you!" Brash as Asgardian are, if he's not at home, she'll not be embarrassed about having yelled.
"Just one word?" Thor shouts back, from the balcony, around a corner, and in his sitting room. "Ambitious enough! Attend me in my quarters," he returns, putting a book aside. It's a primer on the elementary basics of the ABCs— Thor is learning to read! He lounges back in his chair comfortably, tossing back a gulp of honeyed mead as he waits for Kelda to arrive with whatever word she's bringing him.
Oh, there's a word, in old Slavic, but it's probably not appropriate in the end. She is, after all, Courtly bred despite being warrior-raised, she of the icy elemental magics.
Not long after the echoes of his voice die out, the brisk bootsteps of Kelda can be heard approaching and tah-dah — there she is in the doorway. An inclination of her head is respectful and then she walks over, curbing that intensity found earlier in her tone.
"More than a word, my liege. I require an explanation in regards to a Midgardian predilection or I may go mad." She does note the book in passing, but her concerns lie elsewhere at the moment.
Thor snorts at Kelda's statement, shaking his head ruefully. "And you come to me for aid in this matter? I think mortals barely understand /themselves/," he remarks to the fair-haired warrior. "I've spent a score of decades with them and they still elude me."
He then gets to his feet and moves to the keg of mead in the room, which is kept always filled, and pours Kelda a cup as if sensing her confused irritation.
"Come, drink with me and tell me what fills you with such quarrelsome madness, my friend."
"Yes, my liege," she replies, stepping back as to allow him his freedom to roam the room. The mug of mead is accepted with another polite nod of her head and she chooses to remain standing, at least for now. The hem of her cloak sheds little droplets of rain and one can see that her boots do have some splash on them from puddles. How delightful that the rest of her is dry and warm, though cold can mean little to her if indulging in a natural charm.
"I attempted to assuage my curiosity in the manner of Midgardian clothing. Our people appreciate comfort and luxury, yes, the lack of restraint because action cannot be withheld by fashion. I was told that if I continue to keep binding my chest, I will presumed a harlot and…'underwiring is the trend of the ages'. What in Hela's damned depths is this 'underwiring'? And why does not having it make me a thing of derision?" Her glacial-blues flash. "I did not have the rein of temper to explain that chest-binding is a choice stretching back to the harridan's ancestry."
Thor looks confused, his jaw rolling sideways so he can chew the inside of his cheek. He swirls his mead, giving Kelda's question serious thought. There's a long silence as Kelda stews and Thor mulls.
"AH!" he says, his entire body contributing to the snap of his fingers as he points at Kelda. Excitement dawns on his face. "Under-wire, it must be a form of armoring!" he tells her. "This is one of those strange mortal words that has too many meanings. You have seen the women, wearing the" he sucks in his gut and tries to roll a hip, his palm illustrating the sharp indent of a woman's waistline. " a lightweight splinted mail, covering their bellies, aye? The… corset, mayhaps there is some confusion there," he says. "Among the mortals, the warrior women wear the corseted splint armor, rather than binding themselves properly with a jerkin."
Light brows rise at the sudden elucidation, accompanied by its bright motions in body.
"Aye, my liege, I know of corsetry. Far too restraining. How is one expected to do much else but bend at the waist and rotate in a limited fashion? What on earth do these mortals fight that requires such thin armoring? I have seen these corsets at the places of high fashion. They are naught but boning and silk, with…ruffles — and ribboning. I suppose an enemy could laugh themselves to distraction while one…fired an arrow into their skull? I could not wield my Tear properly wearing as such." Tapping a nail sharply a few times on the mug makes a dull ringing. "Still. I dislike the derision in regards to wrapping. It is not archaic, it is convenient. Advantageous. If I wish it off, all I need do is untuck and release a knot, not fumble with some convultion of lacings." A snort and she takes a large sip at her mead.
"The mortals are peculiar lot," Thor reminds Kelda. "Many are so concerned with preventing injury that they take staggering lengths to avoid it. Mayhaps it's an ancient tradition, worn for decorative purposes rather than armor?" he suggests.
"But I am admittedly merely an expert amateur when it comes to the nuances of wrappings," he tells Kelda with a saucy grin. "I know not why the mortals prefer this 'underwire' armoring to clad themselves. They are so terribly fragile, mayhaps it corrects some deleterious iniquity of their biology?" he says, tilting a brow. "Customs seem to vary largely by region, as well. What is proper here in the New city of York might be mocked in the lands furthur west."
The pale smile Kelda finds on her lips gets bigger by increments even as she considers her reflection in the honey-gold surface of the mead, dappled with white foam as it is.
"Likely you are correct, my liege. I wonder that this may be a standard found in the more clustered collections of Midgardians, in cities such as this. Still…" She shakes her head. "They are indeed fragile and unbearably presumptive at times. I find that I wish one minute to gather them up in reassurance that naught will harm them and then shake them the next until their teeth play tunes for me."
The warrior-mage glides to the nearby window and parts the curtaining. Still raining, given the silvery runnels down the glass, and she briefly draws a fingertip down to tease a flickering of frost onto it. It begins to melt almost immediately. Her seasonal time has yet to come, though she can feel it in the wind and taste it in the cooling earth.
"Humble, my liege, to call yourself amateur in the ways of chest-binding. You would need a great number more lengths of fabric to bind yourself. Have you not spoken to a royal clothier in regards to this manner? I can in your stead. I have, after all, many centuries of practice in such a thing." Thor gets a sly little pursing of her lips along with a slant-wise look back over her shoulder. Ohhhh…this may be a prank in the making.
"As I said, I am an expert amateur," Thor rebuts, grinning at Kelda's fetching glance. "I am more familiar with the art of /undoing/ than of /doing/ such bindings; as such, my knowledge is incomplete. I can hardly call myself an expert in such a field with only half the knowledge necessary, aye?"
He drops sideways into a chair, kicking one leg up over the armrest. "You might have better luck with Loki. He's always had curious taste in clothing, and he's idled more than once in the guise of a comely lass. I'm sure at some point he had to learn at least /something/ on the topic."
Fingertips over her lips help to retain the audible mirth; it twinkles in her eyes otherwise, betraying her utterly. Another sip of her mead then, and she turns to pace back into the room centrally.
"I would not encourage me to entertain this manner in tandem with your younger brother, my liege. His monicker should give you pause in suggesting such a thing." Trickster God and all. "Have you never been subject to such a shifing? Surely, in your fraternal interactions, he has attempted an enspelling?"
Thor snorts and shakes his head. "Nay, most fortunately. I am quite happy with my form and cannot imagine discarding it so readily. Loki, meanwhile ,has never been happy with himself in ANY guise. His magics are substantial, but illusions and misdirection, mostly. I think even my Queen mother would struggle to inflict such an enchantment on me involuntarily," Thor remarks.
Kelda nods.
"I can't imagine that it takes anything but a vast amount of willpower and an insistence that it must be, the change. I have not been subject to myself either. I cannot…imagine it. As you may know, I was the only daughter born to my parents. I have no siblings in which to see a mirroring of myself." She tilts her head minutely, considering the indolent slouch in his chair, charmingly comfortable in his own skin. "No, I can barely bring to mind your form as feminine, my liege. You are all your own." And then the smile returns. "I would ask the royal clothier for a skein of silk in the hues of azurine. Such a wrapping would compliment your eyes."
Utterly self-possed and at ease as a great cat. With his shaggy blonde hair, Thor looks positively leonine. "I envy you at times, not having the trials of siblings," Thor says, wryly. "Loki's capricious nature waxes and wanes with the moons at times, it seems. Intemperate and fickle."
He gives Kelda's lanky form a raking review with his eyes. "A skein of silk for wrapping me? I have little need for such a thing," he tells Kelda. "Or is the skein for your use, and you calculate the color best suited for concert with me?" he says, grinning at the Shield-Maiden with a bantering tone.
"That our natural inclinations towards the oceanic hues align have naught to do with my suggestion, my liege," replies Lady Stormrider in that delicate manner nearly as aloof as a cat on a fenceline, speaking of feline tendencies. "I would have the Court know that my suggestions in regards to your chest-wrapping had at least some manner of enhancing effect to your personage. I could have suggested a color in alliance with the lurid vests worn by the Midgardians who fix the potholes in the roads found beyond. That yellow. It is abhorrant. You would make quite the sight then, running into combat wielding your Hammer and sporting a wrapping of such shade. The enemy would know you were there or else be plagued with blindness in turn."
She laughs into her mug even as she makes half of it disappear, happy to be bantering instead of worrying over some oddity of Midgardian speech.
"As you say, Lady Stormrider," Thor replies to Kelda, in a tone that suggests he doesn't believe her demure evasion in the slightest. He throws back a gulp of mead and laughs merrily at her suggestion regarding that honeybee color yellow, almost unversally a sign of caution and impossible to miss.
"Nay, my friend— I need no wrap. If I am to battle best I do it in armor, but if I have not armor, I have the ease of going bare-chested. Let my enemies tremble at the sight of my form," he remarks, curling his thick biceps towards each other. "I have nothing to hide and no shame to speak of. At least, that last part according to the hangers-on of the court."
Kelda does this little twist of a grin instead of a polite shade in pink. Cat in the cream, and proof that indeed, she's naught as innocent as her words may imply.
"I can assure you that you are correct, my liege. The cloak-clingers indulge themselves in your lack of shame. It is to be admired." His flexing is cause for a faint rill of laughter. Hey, she can admire musculature. So sue her. "Yes, you are warrior through and through. I can imagine the effect of your bared torso upon the enemies. In the winters, they may greatly fear the result of chill upon your pectorals."
Yep. Wee bit nippy there, your highness.
"A burden heavy to bear, but 'tis mine to bear and so I will stoutly carry it, in sun or shade, winter or summer," Thor remarks. He grins at Kelda. "Fortunately, in whatever season, my anatomy does not require anything beyond the eminently practical. Perhaps you should return to the mortals and investigate this 'under-wire', however it is worn. They might impart some knowledge to you that even Asgardian immortality overlooked."
Another snort, decidedly unladylike for the Lady Stormrider, and she throws back the rest of the mead. The mug ends up on some table within the room and she takes up her consideration of the elements by the window again, arms tightly folded beneath her wrapped chest beneath its cover of ephemeral silks and sleek long tunic overtop.
"Nay, I have no interest in further discussion with Midgardians who know no better than to force their opinions upon another. I envy your ease in things at times, my liege, though I grant I have little interest in the highest of your burdens rooted in your royal lineage. That you may have fully and alone," and Kelda does this flippity dismissive handgesture to one side, small flakes of rapidly-sublimating ice disappearing in its wake. "I shall simply keep an eye on you as your Shield-Maiden and seek to curtail your more impulsive actions with cool logic." She turns and sits on the windowsill in a proper alignment of spine and lengthy leg settled overtop her knee. A pretty picture in the low light of the afternoon that plays in her hair and along the silvery filigree found in her clothing. "You have been thoughtful as of late. My compliments in this." Another pert little rosebud smile while her eyes twinkle.
"'tis my perogative, as heir apparent," Thor informs Kelda. "To periodically maintain a time of contemplation. The revels cannot persist eternally, much to Volstagg's disappointment," he says, with a wry grin. "I must become the King before I am crowned, else there will be dangerous times when I am learning lessons I should already have firmly in hand."
"But always, the advice and speculation of my Shield-Maiden is welcome. I might not always /heed/ it," he says, eyes twinkling. "But it is welcome nonetheless."
Kelda seems pleased by his reminder as to her periodic offerings of wisdom and even drops her chin to hide the worst of the outward display. Can't miss that big grin though, for all of a second, flashing teeth and perking up her cheeks in their pale blush.
"You will be a good king, my liege." Looking up at him again, she regains that sense of propriety. Still, a great measure of her overall expression is friendliness. "I would be content to continue my advising even after the weight of the crown rests upon your brow and shoulders. It is an honor."
"My brother has taught me many lessons, some painfully," Thor admits. "But among the best of them is that an advisor who tells you only what you wish to hear is an advisor who conceals the truth from you. So, if you wish to remain in my company as the voice of doubt, I will welcome it," he tells Kelda, bowing his head with a mark of subtle gratitude for her offer. "In that regard, the honor is mine."
A shadow of sympathy crosses Kelda's face. Yes, she's heard tales of mischief gone awry and canted towards selfish ends rather than general hilarity. The expression is smoothed away at receiving his little nod and the blush deepens noticeably, rose petals rather than peony.
"I think we would argue over whose honor it remains until the sun sets, my liege. Still, my thanks. I would indeed be the voice of caution. 'Tis easy enough when one's charge is impetuous." She rises to her feet and brushes at some gathering of dust along the line of her skirting that may or may not exist. "Though I wager as such: meet me on the practice grounds and whomever ends up on their back in the muck may have the honor of wearing such a wrapping in that hideous shade of yellow. Naught but for a day, mind, but…it will be noticeable, that." She glances over his shoulder at Thor, the arch of her brows a silent come-hither in challenge. "Unless my liege would rather defer in this instance that it would not be his color." Smirky smirk smirk, small as it is.
Thor laughs at Kelda— the sound rich and ribald, amused at her presumption. "You have a strange fascination with attempting to garb me in uncustomary ways, my friend," he tells the flaxen-haired woman. "Perhaps your infatuation with the mortals is more pronounced than you suspect! They spend endless hours decorating themselves. You have more in common with them than you think!"
He gets to his feet as Kelda waits by the door and moves to join her. "Come, my friend— off to the practice field, and let us see who falls when we tilt!"