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…somewhere..
Dreams have a funny way of feeling like reality. Reality sometimes has a funny way of feeling like dreams. Wherever the dividing line is remains a hot topic for psychologists and sleep therapists, a field in its infancy.
No part of the brain immediately screams 'this is impossible.' It feels perfectly normal to find oneself at the opening of an opulent tent. Each champion selected by celestial lottery begins such in the thick of activity, peering out at the most noteworthy landmark for miles around: a silvery palace bathed in the light of the moon.
It is time.
That knowledge is profoundly embedded in the mind, in the way that dream logic works. Intuition, perhaps, applies here, time to venture along a path limned in countless hundreds of violet-flamed witchlights all the way up to the mount where the collection of breathtakingly high spires awaits. Others have gone ahead, mostly humanoid, some with fantastical feather crests, others green or blue or pink, men and women with facial markings and strange clothes, and salt of the Earth humans who might just not quite be right; scales on hands, curved talons, tentacles instead of hair. The mood is bright and excited, and where each champion walks, the crowd parts.
Doesn't matter what and how, for they're headed to the same place, a grand entrance flanked by fluid sculpture that change when watched. What doesn't change are the projected lights, a little like the ticker signs in Times Square, announcing Tournament of Nevers in every language that ever was, is, and can be.
What a wonderous dream — and for once, she's not the odd one out. The beautiful werelights reflect from the plumage in azurine that exists as naturally as possible upon Rosemarie's form. Flaring crests in gently-arcing lengths angle nearly horizontal, one behind each ear, and they showcase a neutral position betraying her Otherness and its thoughts on the matter: little and a decided lack of concern. If the Shi'ar battle-blood cares not, neither shall she. Flexing her fledgling wings out and flapping them once, the librarian is certian to tuck them in tight about her arms as she travels along the pathway. Golden eyes, bright as an owl's in the low light, take in her surroundings with a sense of muted awe.
Tentative and yet stalwart steps bring her to that grand entrance, shimmering in their mutable manner, and into the main chamber. Her mouth hangs open in silent awe as she reads the tournie's title.
"Tournament of Nevers…?" She hugs herself in silent uncertain, slowly rubbing at her bicep as she looks around the room. Any familiar faces?
Peggy comes out of her tent, a bit confused. "What in the world?" Getting a look at the castle, there's a sort of nod. "Oh, a dream." She's dressed in her classic Agent Carter apparel, and looks about. "Well, no more late-night scones." But, given that there's signage and the like, she'll head on her way to follow it.
Champion, eh? He's got a whole cheering section that thinks he's the Champion of the Motherland. No matter that an amnesiac, amputee American veteran is about as likely to be the paladin of Mother Russia as he is to be elected President of Paraguay. Buck's in his own fighting gear - black fatigues, black leather, the arm in no wise concealed, all gleaming alloy and red enamel. It's the Winter Soldier the Widow knew so well.
And inthat dreamlike calm and dreamlike certainty, he's heading through the crowds towards that gleaming palace, expressionless.
To many, this no doubt feels as real as most dreams do, where one takes a long while to realize they are in a dream, if in fact they ever do. To one as sharp in attention to details as Natasha, this reality is immediately flagged as odd by two very notable discrepencies with reality as she recalls it. For one, she's not in a SHIELD prison cell. A tremendous boon, no doubt, but still something that is quite inexplicable.
Add to that the fact that Natasha is currently dressed in the fully geared Black Widow suit that was confiscated from her upon her arrest, and it's a surefire sign that she's not in Kansas anymore. Still, true to her training, Natasha isn't about to lose her mind. She studies, she assesses and then she acts. The only course of action that makes sense at the moment, is walk the path she is given, because it doesn't seem like there are any other options.
Only walking the path proves even more puzzling. Peggy Carter, is one alarming presence, but more so is the Winter Soldier. Not Bucky Barnes, that red star is a sure sign of that, and this is also what draws Natasha to pick up her pace and try to catch up to him «Soldier…is that truly you?» She asks in Russian as she hurries towards him.
Mental note for Natasha: check if her food is being meddled with.
A stream of people flow behind and after each contestant. The chatter doesn't clash with the atmosphere heavy with anticipation and fanfare. When they reach the entrance, they split off along mica-flecked paths that float midair, whisking them away on a slipstream of glittering particles. Imagine following a comet's tail to be whisked to some destination.
Not so for the mortal champions. When they reach the main hall, a roughly humanoid woman gestures. Dusky-skinned, her attire is beyond anything seen on Earth, all jagged edges and glistening strange materials. Her hands are semi-translucent, arms wreathed in the same violet glow as the witchlights. She sketches out a wave. "You've come! I deliver the Queen of Nevers' warmest of greetings and offer her hospitality here for the tournament. This way, then." Hear her as one would; All-Speak makes her instantly understandable. A path opens up to the side, another trail alight in shifting bands of purple across the spectrum.
Standing off to one side, Rosemarie continues scanning the crowd. Oh, that individual has four wings, all bat-like. Is that actually gills on another being's neck? This one appears to have only one eye and the librarian is surpised that she's not jumping three feet into the air like a scalded cat this relevation. Dreams are the oddest things — or perhaps the Shi'ar Warbird has seen this before, hence its continued lack of concern. Oh, but that face! Oh, it's…it's the bouncer from Lux.
"J —" Even as she starts his name, the approach of the guide in her fantastic clothing and phantasmal arms interrupts. Rosemarie drops her hand, tipped in the short and sharp talons of the Shi'ar, and immediately follows directions. She's very biddable when it comes down to things, though she does look back at Barnes and the other two humans — at least, she assumes these two women are human beings. No one is showcasing antennae or extra limbs in their case.
Peggy looks about, checking out her surroundings. "CLEARLY not enough sleep." She says when she looks over to Bucky and Natasha. She'll consider the purple glowing woman, and then looks back at the others. She gives a shrug and will move to follow the woman.
Rose does know him as Jack, Lucian's bartender and bouncer and general lackey. Hell, the Widow's seen him in that persona, too. He's identifably Bucky, too, to Peggy. Poor Peggy. She doesn't know the betrayals he's been forced to, of late, in the waking world. That reckoning will have to come later.
Natasha's question has him looking to her, unsurprised - but she can see the copper-green flash of reflective retinas even in that little movement of his eyes: a beast's gaze. As if he expected to see her here, with him. «It's me,» he tells Natasha, in that flawless Russian. ANd it is. Here, there's no fissure or disconnect. He's all the things he's been in the past fraught year: assassin, prisoner, beast, god, somehow in balance, for now. Then he's glancing past her to Peggy, and there's a rueful little smile, before he turns to follow their guide, with neither protest nor question.
Natasha is in a point of her life where the world is crumbling, for the first time in her life she truly failed. But it's also the first time in her life she tried to analyze a sequence countless times in her head, and never found the mistake. What did she do wrong? Why did she wind up in a cell? The question has been rattling her resolve, leaving her in worse for wear condition, compared to her usual meticulous nature. So seeing Peggy, a symbol of her present failure, and the Winter Soldier, a symbol of her glorious past, is quite a clash. She's at a loss. In fact, she's nearing the point where she might just admit to being rattled, perhaps even scared.
But then comes the Winter Soldier's reply, and all is well in the world. For a brief moment, everything is alright. The Winter Soldier is here, she's by his side, it's like the good all days. All that's left is being deployed on a mission, and she doesn't need a genie anymore, because her wish had been granted.
She stops with the questions once they meet their guide, however, following the direction and filing the tidbit about Queen of Nevers, quite a title.
Embra laughs. "Are you not well-rested, Lady Carter? I can see to invigorating you, so you are at your best. We'd have you want for nothing as the Lady's guests."
She gestures and steps into the stream of light, the particles diverted around her as they stream off elsewhere. "No doubt you are curious and have many questions. You're all quite safe. Hold on just a moment, and all will be made clear. Conversations in the meeting hall are so tawdry."
When they are all trailing after her like magnificent ducklings, the spot of transition happens at supraluminal speeds. No jolt signals the end of movement other than a faint tingle to the fingers. They no longer wait in the grand hall, they stand somewhere totally different. Different is a round chamber bathed in silver light, juxtaposing classic archways with a beaten, pearly metal veneer. Jacaranda-like flowers bloom here, the same intense lilac and violet shades preferred all along. Blooms tumble out of boxes under the ground domed ceiling.
Ref: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/99/bc/89/99bc89d6f42855203e6302976ba96f88.jpg
Peggy looks back. "Oh, for a dream, it's absolutely spectacular. Mind don't generally lend quite so much to the fan" And then they get blipped off elsewhere. "tastic. I'm…yes. I'd say I was drunk, but this is a bit ludicrous even for me being drunk.
Blinking at the sudden shift in their surroundings, Rosemarie pauses in place and hugs herself a little more tightly. A good portion of her is longing for some familiarity and the uncertainty shows in the collapse of feathery crests to thin layerings of plumage. Wishing that Lucian was here comprises part of her wishing, since he seems to have an answer for everything, whether she likes it or not. The point of familiarity lies in Jack, the bouncer, dressed oddly as he is and sporting a…shiny metal arm. She minces over to the group and offers a hesitant smile.
"So…w-w-we're n-not all d-d-drunk then? Is this r-really a d-d-dream?" Mind, the question's up for anyone to answer if her raptor-gold gaze slips back to their guide with her fantastic garb. At least the air is clean and smells lightly of the flowers that bloom in beautiful profusion.
HE seems to've accepted this as one of his cryodreams. Because Buck has no problem at all with just rolling with this, it seems. He looks around the chamber with a kind of solemn curiosity, but asks no questions. Not aloud, anyway. Peggy gets a little smile, but he actually reaches for Natasha's hand, to walk beside him .Two children lost in a forest. Rose isn't the only one wishing Lucian were here. What kind of life do you have when you find Lucifer's presence reassuring?
Needless to say, Natasha is impressed not only by the regal if not outright fantastic setting, but also the rapid pace of travel, as one room blends into another without too much actual physical walking. At least not much that she's aware of. "I suspect drinking has nothing to do with this shared…dream…" Natasha puts it cautiously as if she's not entirely certain it is a dream at all. Hey, she answered Rosemarie's question, and didn't ignore her one bit. Must be a dream, right? Right?
When Winter Soldier reaches to hold her hand, Natasha is unable to keep her professional unfeeling visage, a naughty little smile sneaks on her lips. A certain glimmer in her blue eyes. She seems happy.
Embra looks aside at Rosemarie, and shakes her head. "Afraid not. Dreams are such fleeting, nebulous things. This is all real, as much as real can be," she says, clasping her glowing hands together. The auroral striations over her forearms gleam on the hardened chest armour, and her fingers wiggle cheerfully as she gestures to the globe. In an era when pictures of the Earth tend to be fuzzy black and white, few people paint the planet with clouds, this is a revelation in blue oceans shining under the sun and temperate forests etched in sylvan greens. Home, if they know where to look for it, lies under shadow where every city is a spangled cobweb of light.
She stands off to the side. "Let's see how I can do for an introduction before the Lady arrives." Her fingers spread, catching tendrils of geometric wildfire. "Here is the Court of Nevers. The Queen of Nevers dwells within. She doesn't have a country or a people as such. Instead she embodies a concept." Her expression brightens, animated by sheer brilliance, and her angular hair sweeps over an eye. Pushing it back, she continues, "The concept of concepts, actually. I could get a whole lot more detailed, but let's stick with that."
Her thumb hooks back to the planet rotating on its 23.5 degree axis. "The Lady elects to hold a tournament every so often. About ten of your sidereal years, but not always. A kind person from your planet once did a great service for her." Embra grins, showing even white teeth. "She honours this act by bestowing a gift in return upon his people. Like the Dutch send over thousands and thousands of tulip bulbs to the Canadians or you get those cherry trees from Japan in Washington, D.C. So here you are, chosen from among your peers. You'll have to ask her exactly why yourself but each of you has a particularly heavy mark of possibility about you, so that's probably in your favour."
Peggy frowns, at some of the commentary, and looks back to Embra. "If this is no dream, then what is the nature of this tournament?" She's looking at the others, and she doesn't much like her odds if she has to come into conflict with some of them. "And the nature of this gift?"
Rosemarie nods in a solemn silence that has much to do with a slow acceptance that…things have gotten weird once more. Then again, when someone knows of archangels and the touch of influence from beyond Earth proper, the skewing of 'normalcy' is thrown off by a good number of degrees.
The Queen of Nevers? The librarian is properly awed by the perfect reconstruction of the planet before her, even tempted by the rock forwards of an aborted step to get closer to it, but it seems foolhardy to do such a thing. It might be bad manners and she wouldn't want to annoy her host. Hostess. Oh good, the royal hostess, even. Thus, she simply folds her hands as best she can before her waist and continues standing with the group. Peggy asks sensible questions and she looks to Embra again for possible answers.
This has Bucky puzzled….and Buck is a transparent soul at the best of times. "…..what Miss Carter said," he says, a little flatly. She's asked the necessary questions. "This doesn't have to do with the whole Champion of the Motherland thing, does it?" Because that's already freaking him out as it is.
Natasha remains silent, still holding on to Bucky's hand so long as he doesn't force it free from her grasp. She observes, she listens, she understands she is way out of her comfort zone, but she figures if it's a tournament, rules will shortly follow. She only hope it's marksmanship, because then she can at least be confident in her abilities.
Looking aside at Bucky, she grins, "so you own to the title still?" If it's not a dream, he's not the Winter Soldier, and yet…? She is confused.
"Stories," says Embra, her eyes crinkled at the corners with the force of her smile. "The Lady loves to hear about other people's lives, their victories and their needs. The gentleman who helped her had stories and she told him before he left she would give a kindness back to your people when she could." There lies a distinct seriousness in her answer about that, but it passes back to cheer again.
"A good yarn is like gold. Don't get me started on hamburgers. We were talking about nothing but hamburgers forever and trying to make them is pretty hard without the concept of a cow." The wistful sigh implies the galactic soda jerk perfected it eventually.
She reaches one of the trees, and runs her fingers over the purple blooms. "Sorry, Sir Barnes, but I can't answer rightly yes or no. I'm her herald and I don't see the wholecloth of your life like her. But the tournament really is a simple thing. She gives you the floor and you can share whatever you like. We had a champion one year tell us about the best hamburger he'd ever eaten when he went back to his bombed out hometown. It was the bright spot in a pretty bad day, and he left lighter in his heart. He remembered things grow and heal and change. Nice chap, I hope he made his restaurants."
Hmm. Stories are something Peggy has plenty of. She's been part of some interesting things. "And if one doesn't "win"?" Peggy asks Embra. "Is there a penalty for not being the victor."
The dusky-skinned woman shakes her head, her wrists shining as bright as the petals on the tree. "Oh no, never! A penalty wouldn't be kind at all." Embra frowns. "Not at all. You can enjoy the hospitality of the tourney and go on your merry way with the Lady's gratitude. She bestows her blessing on a victor. She doesn't believe in harm."
"St-tories?" Rosemarie echoes their guide sotto-voce to herself before frowning in concern. Public speaking was never her forte. After all, she works in a library where if one projects, one is projected outside and onto their keister before you can say 'Toastmasters'. Still, she pipes up and tries to control that stutter as best she can.
"How c-can y-you choose the b-best story? Everyone has g-good stories about their l-lives. Fairy t-tales? W-What d-defines the winner?"
He gives Natasha a rueful look. "I don't ever recall being called that before I found the other guys, the clones. Some of 'em are pretty sure that's who or what I am, but I'm not really clear on what that entails. Is that what they've called me in Russia? How does that work - I'm an American vet. Surely the Motherland's champion would be someone born there, wouldn't he? I mean, yeah, I'm still the Winter Soldier, he's still in there…." Then he brightens, suddenly. This could be the help he needs for the kids.
"What is this blessing that a victor can expect…?" Natasha asks, most intrigued by the notion. Is there a key somewhere in this realm of dream that is no dream that can grant her some answers? Give her what she wants? Does she even know what she wants? She looks intently at Embra, glad to hear there's no penalty, because whatever the tournament…she very much doubts she could best Peggy in anything at the moment.
"I knew you as the Winter Soldier, you were a mentor, a teacher and a champion to me…perhaps it is how they were taught?" Natasha offers to Bucky, before adding, "I'm sorry I didn't promise you to look after them. I was only interested in revenge at the time…"
Peggy is silent, listening. Now that she knows it's not a dream, and a contest, she's moved into "Director Carter" mode. The brunette is considering her surroundings, Embra, the other contestants. Everything now is planning and tactics, as she waits to hear what the reward is going to be.
Embra knocks on the pillar. The planet keeps rotating, moon swinging in slow orbits around it. "The Lady lets us give our opinions, but at the end of the day, it's up to her. Whatever she likes best. I mean, it would be the same in any storytelling competition. She is the mistress of all that could be, all that ever might, every speck of imagination and possibility that happens in the multiverse. The seed of it all begins with her, and she governs that. So you really see, anything is worthy. You can open your heart. Tell her about what you wish you could do or the most important decision you make. Trust me, there is no limit, that would defy the essence of what she is. I might refrain from chanting the same word over and over, but whatever floats your boat."
The wave of her hand produces four benches curving around the floating globe, an obvious place for them to sit. "I think she's about ready to come down. Everyone gets so excited for a tournament. Your people are interesting and we always look forward to having you as guests. The blessings she gives depends on what is appropriate to the story. She gifted the man with the hamburgers hope to help him upon his purpose, despite the rough patch he found himself in. Like I said, she's the Queen of Nevers. You find something she cannot do, it's probably just rewritten itself as a can."
Nodding to herself, Rosemarie's eyes slant to one side. What on earth to share with someone who is the essence of literally anything in existence? What tale of hers could reach the lofty heights of royal interest?
The production of benches is enough to make her start a little in place, but not enough to jostle anyone. Her wings shiver softly about her arms as she's the first to find a place to settle on the bench. It seems a logical enough thing to do, after all.
He actually pats Natasha gently on the arm. "It's not your fault, Natasha," he says. "YOu couldn't protect them. Hell, I can't, not really. I'm just trying. I wish Winter were the thing you think he is, the thing they seem to think he is."
The mention of the Queen's appearance has him brushing uselessly at his fatigues. But there's a hopefulness to him. Maybe she can help him. ….if he only had a heart.
"But I have lived my life," Natasha says to Bucky, looking once again deadpan, now that she's reoriented herself and gotten a better hold with an impending tournament, "it was real. Even if there was more than what I knew, to me, the Winter Soldier was the best thing. I am sure they hold you in similar if not higher regard…" and then she quiets down, she's not sure who this Queen is, but from experience, regal types demand absolute respect. She will not risk offending her.
Peggy moves to take her seat on the offered bench, moving there and crossing her legs. She waits for the arrival of their hostess, and looks over to her two agents. "Be cautious." she warns both, as she looks over at them.
Embra stays by one of the purple flowering trees, hands clasped. She does a halfway decent job of looking attentive, though she sighs to herself when not everyone sits. At least the feathery librarian and the suited lady did.
The domed room has adjacent romanesque archways and they do a poor job of concealing anyone approaching. Neither does the sound of rushing water and shivering leaves, crackling flames and singing stars conceal her. Unlike the quasi-futuristic interior, the woman is decidedly a bit more medieval. Her colour is green, from the damask gown embroidered with abstract stars and galaxies, to the appropriately peaked crown heavy on her head. Each of those gems isn't an emerald but an entire universe, or a window thereof. The fabric changes, too. Only those dark eyes aren't quite right: brown, but textured oddly. Once human, then planetary surfaces, quasars and back to different textures.
She admires the room, the people, and disregards her sleeves no matter how fascinating they might be in their draping. "Our champions." Her voice is mild, a sonnet, rather than a skull-crushing, soul-rattling presence. "How very good." She starts at the nearest bench, coming closer in a cloud of bergamot oil and soft jasine and juniper, sparkling heights soothed into a dreamlike calm. Rosemarie, first, she inquires of. "Has my herald explained everything well?"
Next, onto Peggy. "Is there anything that is left to me to explain?"
REF: https://i.pinimg.com/564x/4c/f3/4a/4cf34a04c0f76a0b21cbbb9aeee2cf3d.jpg
Rather bowled over by the appearance of the Queen of Nevers and more than a little besotted by her, let's be honest, Rosemarie simply nods at first. It takes her another few seconds to find her voice and her cheeks color beneath her freckles.
"Y-Y-Yes, y-your m-majesty, she did." Even as the Queen moves on, the librarian only has eyes for her. The Shi'ar crests perk up and spread, not too unlike a small fan in oceanic hues. She even smells lovely. How on earth is the brunette supposed to tell a tale when she's too enamored with her audience? This could be an issue.
No Oz jokes. No Oz jokes. No Oz jokes. No offending this monarch, even if that's entirely counter to his religion as a Brooklynite. So Buck is more than a little po'-faced as the Queen enters, and it ends with him looking nervous. Once upon a time he was smooth with women, but apparently the Russians took that out when they installed the robot arm. He's bewildered, it's clear.
Natasha is studying this Queen of Nevers very closely once she makes her appearance, if anything, Natasha covets this tremendous otherworldly fabric of her dress. Something so elusive could certainly have its uses in undercover jobs, particularly if there was a way to control it's shifty nature. She will make no claim to it though. This realm is a bit beyond her usual field work. In leiu of any worldly request, she answers the question that was aimed at Peggy, "am I to understand we are each to tell a tale, and if it captured the hearts of the judges, we win some sort of yet to be revealed reward…? Why us?" She specifically points at Peggy, Bucky and herself, not having any true knowledge of Rosemarie, "we are no storytellers by trade, you would know that…why then?"
Peggy's impressed by the woman's nature, but she's met gods before. One of the keys is to never look like you're rattled, even if you are. Honestly, that's a good strategy for life in general. "I think we could waste a lifetime working out the specifics of minor rules. And given that, I suspect it's better to move onto the purpose of our event." Cultured, composed, and oh-so-British. Peggy's had to explain SHIELD's actions to skeptical politicians for a decade. She most certainly /is/ a storyteller.
Distrusting monarchs is an American pastime, but the medieval vision hardly counts as a sovereign. Her self-declared kingdom is nothing but ideas. Might as well set herself up as the Papess of Possibilities, the Gambling Serenity. "Very good. Questions of course are welcome. What point is there leaving you in ignorance?" she says to Rosemarie. The Queen of Nevers emulates a human very well, right down to the little mannerisms. She pinches her skirt up to avoid tripping on the hem, jade-embroidered slippers crowned in a pair of horned metal crescent moons on the toes. Embra beams.
The flame-haired woman clasps her hands under her sleeves. "Would you like to sit down?" A question asked of Bucky and Natasha equally. The two empty benches are flashed over by a look. Questions give her pause for only a moment. "You speak correctly of the tournament, but not of your abilities. Every adult has a story; they live and as they live, they accumulate experiences, thoughts, dreams. Even failures offer something worthwhile to share. None other beholds life the way you do, even were you to walk the self-same path through existence." Her smile deepens fractionally, and she gazes upon the turning planet. "Why? I propose why not. The woven cords of your life should be the source of inspiration for the greatest taleweaver about the matter: yourself. I would know of you, however you should care to spin such a story. Allow me the privilege to listen, that is all I ask. When all four have shared, I shall gauge the winner. You may partake of the tournament for the night if you wish. Thus shall you return home, safe and sound, sure of rest and clear of eye."
There's literally nothing to lose, here. Buck sits, carefully, as if he'd break the bench by sheer accident. He nods at her. "There's no catch?" he asks, softly. IT's hard to believe, but he manages to keep the skepticism from his tone. Mostly, anyhow.
Natasha soon joins Bucky in finally sitting down, looking at him, and then back at the Queen of Nevers. "When we return…'home', do we return to the very same place we left…?" Apparently Natasha is of a mind to test an unforeseen way out of her cell.
|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d4 for: 1
Embra tries not to put her fist in her mouth. Bucky's question warrants a lot of throat clearing and coughing. While the herald tries to cover up shock, the lady in green evinces no particular concern about human etiquette. Easy when one is literally the abstraction from near the start of the universe.
"Yes. You shall return to the exact point you were upon your departure," the Queen says. "No time shall pass during your stay at the tourney. Simply, time does not rule here." Sorry, Eternity-smoochums, her court, her laws.
The spiralling galaxies in a collision on the front of her dress extend their dusty arms wide across the emerald damask, a churning sea of dark matter cast off by the brilliant halo. "Let's begin, shall we? All are free to take refreshments as they like in the meantime." She opens her palm, and where nothing was before, she produces an indigo globule of the infinite night sky. That's outstretched to the librarian.
All around them, walls fall away and the jacaranda flowers dust the starlit sky. Petals land on pillars that resemble the Globe Theatre, albeit if it were outdoors rather than crammed into London. No Marlowe or Shakespeare prowl those boards. Rosemarie stands in the middle of it all, warm amber light from the lanterns directed to her. The Queen of Nevers drops into a seat. "Our first champion, Rosemarie Falcroft! Be welcome, and tell your story."
IC order: Rosemarie (1), Natasha (2), Bucky (3), Peggy (4) - log order.