7130/Thunder and Lightning, Very, Very...

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Thunder and Lightning, Very, Very...
Date of Scene: 02 April 2019
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Thor, Scarlet Witch




Thor has posed:
    The last of Winter clings to life with a tenacity that might be disturbing to most. With the brush of warm weather this last weekend the people of New York City had been ready to embrace Spring. Away went the winter clothes, people embarked on Spring cleaning, and it had been a lovely time for the most part.
    But then the cold came roaring back, casting the thermometers below freezing and causing people to rush during the weekday from place to place. It was even mentioned on the local news about the curious cold snap. And then it was said on the air,

    "Hah, maybe it's because of Thor flying around changing the weather?"

    And it was laughed off by the broadcast team. Yet then it began to trend. Social media picked it up and various people started to post about it. Memes were propagated showing photo-shopped images of a malicious looking Thor standing in the snow, pointing and laughing cruelly at some New Yorkers dressed for the summer and the beach.
    And it went from there. So much so that this day when Thor was stepping through the gate onto the mansion grounds, a group of men were hollaring, "Fix the weather, ya bum!"
    "Yeah, what's yer problem?"
    "Jerk! I had plans this weekend!"
    To which Thor, when confronted with such can be at times at a loss... his answer is found wanting. "I have done nothing, I assure you." He's in his civvies, walking through the gate backwards, arms spread in confused supplication perhaps.
    "Yeah but you could!"
    "That would be an abuse of my..."
    Only for the men to shout him down, and that is when Thor turns and moves up the walkway, footsteps determined as the wrought iron gate closes behind him and cutting him off from view of the world.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
Winter, as they like to call the end of March, hardly slinks out like an aged lion to be replaced by a fresh-faced golden cub of spring. New Yorkers endure their long blasts of wind and grey hours lasting interminable lengths. They want to wear their pretty new skirts and colourful trenches, their lighter polos and anything that won't be mired in the crust of salt spread over the roads like French fries of asphalt require such seasoning. The city past time, if not swearing, is undoubtedly complaining.

They have nothing to complain about at all, as far as some folk are concerned. The grumbling and shouting about the weather not favouring their plans would normally go unremarked by a daughter of the iciest reaches of Eastern Europe. Only Siberians and Svalbard's unfortunate denizens deserve more reason to scoff at the complaints, when heard. Alas, the brunette crossing the street from Central Park with a few actual snowflakes in her hair and icicle points rimed thinly over her heavy burgundy leather jacket has little reason to joke about such things.

She shakes out her loose curls and breaks away the thin patina to hit the ground, soon enough to be crushed by passing vehicle traffic. Fifth Avenue never really slows down even in the dead of night. She darts through the somewhat stalled cars, running against an unusually long red light. The steady amber on the other side flicks and the signal strikes green for the waiting vehicles about the same time she reaches the sidewalk, toe setting down just as the first vehicles in the column lurch into motion. Several more are caught where their drivers strive to see the cause of the commotion. Friction of honking horns and rude gestures go as much to the next car in line as Thor himself. Probably not the forgotten figure, though.

Forgotten only so long as she drifts behind the angry crowd. They block her from here to what counts as home to a rootless creature. She inclines her head. "Excuse me." The old request in accented English might not win her many points. It is polite, though. Whether the men shout /her/ down or not is irrelevant. The witch gives them that blank, intense stare mastered by a millennia-old mistress on her; she might have a half-chance of suggesting letting her through is important. "I have a package," she says simply, and nods at the gate. Or the Thor. He might not be visible conventionally but it's never certain what drives her perception at any moment.

Thor has posed:
    It is only a handful of people, perhaps only three rather animated about their sentiment about Thor's efforts. A few more are just watching, perhaps just amused at the tableau and pleased to see Thor. So when the young Avenger arrives their attention shift to her.
    She is a harder one to recognize for them. Thor is easy considering all he makes as an effort towards for subtlety is the wearing of a black baseball cap. But he's tall and blonde and well, the eyepatch stands out.
    But Wanda does get a curious look as people get out of the way. Then the gate opens from the other side and there's the Thunderer once again, "Ah!" His eyebrows lift as he's about to greet her, likely by name. But Thor takes a moment to consider and says, "Welcome, miss." To perhaps preserve anonymity as he steps back.
    "Please come in." And with that he gestures to the side, allowing her entrance but being sure to cut off any from the crowd that might intrude. The gate closes behind him and he says quieter with a smile, "Good day, Lady Maximoff."

Scarlet Witch has posed:
The brunette with the olive complexion is much like any number of women in the city. She could be a Latina from the Bronx, an immigrant from Brazil in Queens, possibly one of a dozen different angles. Mediterranean? Egyptian? The keen obliteration of features distinguishing her immediately helps Wanda blend in to New York society as much as it would have sent her to a death camp a few decades before the fall of the Wall. No eye patch there, only the steadiness of a look blunted, scarred, frosted by war and trauma. When it sometimes falls to her to encourage people along. Crowd control doesn't mean much except for that blank, tired look of someone clearly just trying to do their job. And she truly does have a package! It happens to be a rather oblong box with a telltale smile on it. The Lex Luthor lookalike company of goods.

Should they be at a remove, she offers the trio that tired nod. "Fifteen dollars an hour. It is not worth this." With the grumble of workers everywhere, she slides through the space to bestow the package upon the master of Asgard. The contents barely rattle. It isn't heavy even for her, but substantial enough there might be more than one item, possibly a book or something else. "Thank you," she says. "I will need you to state your name," she adds in her accented tone. Not English once they are through; she shifts into German for the simplicity and ease given it's far closer to her native tongue than anything else. When the gate clinks shut, she glances over it and her fingertips rub together. She considers the lock a little longer than necessary and then shrugs in an infinitesimal adjustment. The kind that signals nothing exciting.

Though anyone in the next few minutes won't find the lock willing to budge for them, thanks to a small twist of fate. A lot of rattling will signal attention, but hopefully Tony doesn't decide to make a running leap at the gate or anything too mad.

"Good day, your highness." A beat. She inclines her head. "Majesty? I am not sure the proper nomenclature."

Thor has posed:
    A glance is spared for those beyond the door, but then his attention is drawn back towards the other Avenger. He makes a small exhale of breath that might be akin to a laugh as he offers a half-smile.
    "Thor," The tall blonde man says with a wry look as he moves across the back yard, strolling along the sidewalk and past the large ornate fountain with its statuary. "Thor is good enough between teammates."
    That decided he slips his umbrella under one arm and extends a hand towards her as he asks, "Shall I relieve you of your burden, Lady Maximoff?" He asks so terribly polite but there is a hint of curiousity as they walk. Though once they reach that back double door upon the elevated porch area, he'll extend a hand to open the door for her and hold it til she's passed.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
As long as he is content with the title, so be it. "Thor." There's a certainty to the way the name lands on the tongue, the way it robs the palate of any doubt. Lips conform to the shape, tongue curling back from the teeth and rounding out the syllable before it takes flight. Hers is a grace attained linguistically with practice.

"Tear it open if you should wish. I have given it to you, haven't I?" The package isn't going to be one that causes much difficulty for someone to carry it. She shakes out her wrist, working a small bracelet from sliding under her sleeve. Excitement to be had there; it's a simple enough band studded by small beads, a ring for a narrow golden wrist. One light step after another carries them both through the cool backyard, the grass still dead and thatched in misery unless some magic otherwise recovers its state before its time of awakening in detail. The glance upward to the state of the sky is habit; entering buildings always brings a trace of wariness.

But this is nearly home. A shrug of her shoulders allows the coat to start spilling off them, revealing the conviction of midnight draped round her. The dark bordeaux leather slips down her arms, pinning them open. "Thank you." This is English, not German. Practice counts; Jarvis can translate, probably, anyhow. One more turn and she's still forced to extract her arms from the sleeves. "What made all that happen?" A nod to the gate. "I hope they will not trouble you much. If so then I might need to find ways to make them leave. You need your peace."

Thor has posed:
    Carrying the package within, Thor holds the door long enough for her to make that entrance needed then he sweeps in after her, letting it close with a faint whisper of air and the automatic lock clicking into plac. Hidden security systems reengage once they are both within the confines of the mansion, yet no outward signal is offered as to that fact.
    Thor, however, sets the package down upon the long table nearby but eyes her sidelong when she brings up the idea that it is meant for him. Another look is had for the package then he merrily sets about opening it, reaching for the corner bindings and tearing carefully as he has had problems with packages in the past. Black Widow's torn jacket serves testament to that fact.
    But then he says sidelong with a smile, "I know naught." An easy enough answer, then he adds. "Though in the past I have accepted the ill will for the weather. This, however, is not mine efforts."

Scarlet Witch has posed:
That box isn't particularly large. Large enough perhaps to carry a single woman's high heel, not weighty enough to be full of banned substances. The scent might be a giveaway until opened, something delicate to it, almost faintly earthy and hinting at a trace of orange. All those systems float around the mansion, and she waits for any tinge of power to pluck her identity out of a matrix. Fortunately -- and frustratingly -- she's a rather singular individual. Trying to recompose her genetic structure with its divine warpage is no easy thing to do.

Her fingertips extracted through a sleeve and she finds another ounce of freedom. Wanda drags her arms out and flips the coat over her shoulder, pinned in place by a light grip. Ripping the box open seems to be marvelously amusing more than not for the dark-eyed witch. She watches Thor obliquely until he shall find its contents: tea, a bag of fifty satchels. A row of beads of the like similar to her bracelet in a bag sits next to an array of three very thin, very delicate throwing knives to prove anything can be bought online. And there's a slim book tucked at one end: how to make small batch cider. Indeed, it's slim because it all boils down to being delicious.

"I do not blame you." This much is said dryly, though she leans against the counter to help put things away. "Is it natural? I do not feel anything too strange. I could try if it is not right." Her hand lifts, drawing a little circle to indicate a rising angle.

Thor has posed:
    "I fear it is natural, but last time I spoke to the weather in some capacity I was called all sorts of foul words by people I had never met." Thor still seems confused as to the entire concept of social media, he just knows that apparently people didn't like him for some reason.
    Flaring his hands he smiles as he ponders the contents. Thor lightly touches a fingertip to each as if they were not real until physical contact was made, then he tilts his head sidelong towards Wanda, "It was e'er so, however. During the first war with the Svartalfar. Was bidden by my father to freeze the surface of a lake. I did so, and e'er after all foul weather was held as to be my fault."
    He casually lifts one of the small throwing blades from its sheath and twirls it on a fingertip. He tilts a smile Wanda's way and then pronounces judgement on the phenomenon with a single word and a slight shake of his head, "Mortals."

Scarlet Witch has posed:
"Fear of the unknown. The unfamiliar." Wanda gives her fingertips a look over and then back up to Thor. "They are afraid of the things that fall outside the familiar. We like people to blame. It is easier than saying you know nothing about it." Working her way around the rough edges of English, she has to shrug her shoulders slightly.

The blades are fine. The charms for her bracelet all have a singular theme, stars and planetary alignments, one a tiny band of fixed orbits like an armillary sphere. The tea bags have the scent of earth and flower and citrus, bend together, weightless in their foil pillow. That she might be given to take, reaching for it. "This is very good. Try it brewed if you like, and it will banish the cold day, the wet and the mist." Her words are certain on that point while listening to the melodies of Thor's explanation and she inclines her head back. The blade transferred into his hands she isn't remotely afraid of, not truly. But the sparks in her eyes gather like mulberry fireflies upon a gilded-green pool, and hint to the targeted attention on the warrior. Their force to her very glass cannon, then.

"Yes." She briefly smiles at him; lightning in the blue. It's not often that anyone wrests the expression from her, and there it is, incandescent and gone. "Some of us are. One of the robots they call the Sentinel hunted me. We had Janet back when they called me. I decided maybe I need something to deal with them." She nods at the blade. "A very small scrap of metal. They are larger than both of us if I stood on your shoulders. But maybe something small in a joint will do the right thing to slow them. Destroy them. I never want to see the like around me again."

Thor has posed:
    Thor's features take on a hint of a pained look as he says, "I don't..." His good eye scrunches up a little and then he goes on, "Really drink. Tea." He offers with a light smile as if knowing that it is a statement many greet with a measure of shock or dismay.
    But he then nods as he listens to her relate her experiences with the sentinel as he starts to step around the room, moving to the control panel that resides in the wall and serves as a gateway to interaction with the house AI. In times past it was this concise and ergonomic data display with a small keypad and some options that lit upon the screen to match the needs of the Avengers.
    But for Thor... Tony ended up installing a single rather large red button that became known as the Thor Button.
    It is this unfortunate thing that he hits lightly with the bottom of his fist and he addresses the speaker, "We require turkey. And ale." To which the small monitor changes its display to simple proclaim, 'AYE!' and then it flickers back to its default display.
    Rounding back towards Wanda, Thor looks at her curiously, "Wise thinking, tis better to have more arrows in the quiver and not need them than to be without."

Scarlet Witch has posed:
Not drinking tea doesn't seem to startle Wanda. Neither is she profoundly struck by horror. "Mead, cider, cyser, more? What do you prefer?" She holds onto the tea with ease, not quite up to vanishing it into a pocket dimension where all her things and the kitchen sink go. What a use of magic, alas. Her smile following after is faint but present. Her gaze follows Thor as he orders turkey and ale, the red Thor button -- oh goodness. There's a sight. Watching him smack it is enough to leave her mildly bemused. She does not laugh at him behind his back. Truth told, that's Pietro's job. And Pietro cannot outrun lightning, apparently.

"If they can reflect our talents then it is not safe for me to use all the weapons I have. Better to be prepared with magic and stay out of the way. I do not like being at a disadvantage with them. More training is necessary, I think." Her fingertip lifts up, a bloom of scarlet forming. "But not this. I cannot trust them with it, what it means. I have never met anyone who does exactly the same thing I do. If they did, a machine, it would be a terrible thing. I at least have a conscience."

Thor has posed:
    Standing with his back to the panel, Thor gives a nod to her as he says, "Indeed. We should..." He folds his arms over his chest and looks thoughtful for a moment, "We should find ourselves a servant, provide someone with a livelihood and tend to the matters that are needed." He nods to himself as he gets more and more behind his own idea.
    Then his eyes widen, "Ah! That reminds me." He steps away and nods towards Wanda, "I have a friend that has returned to me, and he assuredly would like to meet the Avengers. Perhaps not all at once, but in small groups, he can at times be horribly timid."
    But then he striaghtens up, "But that is for another time." He rests a hand on her shoulder and gives a companionable squeeze before he turns. "I am to retire to my quarters, once I have recovered we shall have dinner?" He asks her with a quirk of an eyebrow, likely meaning the turkey and ale he ordered.
    Stepping to the doorway he calls over his shoulder, "Perhaps the others will join us. That would be a fine thing."

Scarlet Witch has posed:
The idea of a servant brings her arched brows rising slightly higher. Wanda considers Thor with this thoughtful look and she inclines her head slightly. "A friend who returned? Your brother was also looking for you. I may have sought to call you and found him. Or he found the call and came here for me."

And lo, did the heavens resonate with a truth profound, the lurking admission flickering around her gilt-limned eyes turned upon the prince of thunder and storms. The witch casts that faint smile. "I am always told to meet more is good for me. The better thing to do. So yes, I will meet them. Go with you if you open that door, that is."

Leave Tony to figure out the business of servants. The last thing anyone needs from her is deciphering the ethics of the situation. With Thor retreating, she whisks her package shut, mangled box and all, hugging it to her chest through the cradle of her leather coat. The embrace is a light and gentle balancing act, especially the moment he squeezes her shoulder. Meeting Thor's gaze, her quick nod answers in detail. So much more isn't spoken at all.

"Let's. I think it would be good to try that ale and see if it matches the flavours I have found in Brooklyn. They have very good kinds, you might want to sample many of them. Imagine a whole row," accompanied by a long sweep of her free hand, "and you to decide the very best. Maybe a prize for them, in a game they didn't know they played." Her full mouth rounds, full of promise, and she dips her head. "Friends and a meal would be a fine thing. You are a good man to think of us."