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epidemiology2016-08-27 04:19 pm
CLOSED.
DATE: August 25-ish
WARNINGS: Uh, all three of them have the potential for content warnings, so I'll update it if anything comes up.
SUMMARY: Some R&R with bugs. Loki has Asgardian mead.
[ no matter how many times Loki tires to rid the room of insects, they seem to be insistent on just coming back, much to Loki's chagrin. the knives are too messy, ending in rivets of exploding slime to seep from the bodies of the bug carcasses and onto the nice, clean floor; sorcery works partially, fire in particular, causing them to scatter when one of their kin falls victim to the flames. he employs runic barriers when it gets bad, scribbling neat concentric designs to keep the peace in the corner quarters.
when all is said and done he finds a chair to sink into, laying back like a cat trying to make himself larger.
the room is clear for now, tidy from Ahad, bits here and there that said Loki was here. the bed is made, pillows fluffed as if they had been pinched at the corners. Loki's jacket is hung in front of the armoire, and there's books here and there, open to various pages and stacked up in precarious piles here and there. on the side table is a dark amber bottle topped with a cork. Loki contemplates his position, and then reaches for it, playing with the neck between his long fingers.
the door is open a crack, as there's only one brass key for the room. somewhat inviting, and somewhat curious. ]
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While the insects are an annoyance, the true problem upon their return has been the breakdown in communication. While Ahad is loath to admit it, there is a part of him that misses being able to speak with the other recruits. He wouldn't go as far to say that he's lonely, but not being able to converse with anyone or read anything leaves him with little to do. While the ache of missing Glee had dulled a bit, trust ALASTAIR to drop them into a situation that would make it worse. At least he could have spoken to her, if she were here.
It's a quiet and pensive Ahad who slips back into the room he shares with Loki, raising an eyebrow more at the bottle than anything else. He's never one to turn down a drink, and it has been a rather frustrating return. ]
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She carries nothing with her now, her arm aching from the effort of the torch; only a book she had read with wine by candlelight, burrowed into her sheets to escape Oska's pervasive chill. She reads about war when she can, statesmanship elsewise, but there is something freeing about reading of handsome corsairs and swooning maidens, each story more unlikely (but more like to draw her giggles) than the last. Tales of this like are only told by sailors in her world, and oft delivered as personal boasts.
And so she's come to return it to its middleman. It's a queer thing for her to visit someone, rather than to summon them to her chambers (or have a handmaid carry the book for her). She does not intend to linger, but it will be sweet to see familiar faces all the same. The soft sound of brisk, dainty steps begins echoing off the walls in the corridor shortly after Ahad disappears past the door, leaving it partly ajar. She feels like a guard, or else a knight, but she raises a partially bandaged hand to rap her knuckles politely upon the wood as though the gesture is something she has always done (for she must never seem uncertain; never that). ]
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Loki's found small ways to have conversations with Ahad. aside from the obvious means through their bracelets, he's taken to small touches and finding ways to linger to get his attention; sometimes he demonstrates himself lavishly and dramatically, other times he pulls it back, making his movements more subtle. when Ahad was adept to it, he started teaching him words here and there in Old Norse, repeating something on both their communication devices and by mouth. whenever Ahad spoke, there was a little flicker of smug satisfaction on Loki's face that suited him well. ]
Mead? [ he says in Old Norse. ] From Asgardia. The nectar of the gods.
[ the accent washes over his words, making his vowels liquid and his fluctuations guttural. he tips up the glass, pouring it down the edge and into the cup, before offering it to him with a little smile. so maybe it's difficult to speak to one another, but booze is the universal language.
there's a pause in the pour as the knock comes. Loki doesn't bother to switch languages, it still comes out in Norse. ]
Someone always manages to show up when the mead's out. [ the cup goes to Ahad. ] Ah—Hello?
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Certain words were easy enough to pick up on. The words 'mead', 'Asgardia', and 'gods' made the context clear, and Ahad was never one to turn down alcohol. When the knock comes, he frowns both at the door and Loki's words, not understanding the meaning but clearly catching the intent.
He'll take the glass of mead and sigh, resigning himself to spectating during another exchange of words. At least the mead would keep him distracted. ]
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Composing her face to conceal how out of her own comfort she feels (she has visited no doors like this since Viserys' own, many years ago), she pushes the door open enough to step inside, and takes in the scene with a practiced eye. One half of the room is all too pleased with himself, looking undaunted despite the queer words that leave his mouth; the other half carries an air of great, heavy suffering, as though breathing drawn in his presence is another weight for his shoulders.
Neither manner is particularly unfamiliar.
She has no need of communication for the book: the bared chest on the pirate and the heaving of the woman's bodice shall tell them all they might need to know. ]
This is no book of mine, [ she says all too sweetly, indicating it. The Common Tongue is not unlike English, for those who understand. So saying, she promptly crosses to the nearest hoard of tomes, and places the book atop the pile to join its fellows in unholy unity.
She makes no mention of the fact that she read it. ]
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where she's disquieted, Loki seems to take everything in stride, emitting enough comfort for both parties. he doubts that she's come just to return it (he had left it forgotten in favor of a few insects that had enflamed his irritation, and following his whims lead him elsewhere, still), and that enough seems to please him.
his voice switches, though still accented more heavily. ] I was wondering where that went. [ it comes out shamelessly as he pours another glass of dark golden liquid, thick as amber syrup, from the bottle and into another glass. luckily for Ahad, the mead is very good. ] We're having a little bit of trouble, erm ... I thought we'd try to solve it for some mead.
How about it? You did take some time out to watch over my salacious fiction. [ and he's pouring another glass anyway.
there's a look up at Ahad, partially curious and partially inquiring to his own comforts, more telling than words. where Loki generally finds a cloak for his own emotions, he seems to have lifted a veil or two in favor of communication. having a little more company might be good, serving as a little beacon in the ocean of temporal insects and malfunctioning magitek. ]
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He'll meet Loki's eyes, when he intercepts the look that Loki sends him. The shrug is perhaps not as eloquent as it could be, but he doesn't look unhappy at the prospect of a guest.
He may not be able to speak and be understood, but there's something comforting about having both of them here. ]
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Ah. Her hand drops gently from the pile of books. For more than a year, she had endured Ghiscari growls, but she had always had Missandei to explain. Valyrian, when it pleased her. ]
Mead? [ She looks curious, holding a hand out for the glass. ] That cannot be of your own world's make.
[ But it's more a question than a statement. Where else might he have found a drink he cared enough to try? Without his magic, he had partaken of her crab ale and become nearly as affected as she had, but with his godhood returned, she's certain the experience would have gone much otherwise. She assumes Ahad is the same. ]
I may sip, perhaps, [ she decides, sniffing at the fumes. The smell is strong enough to fill the room. I will have only a taste, she tells herself. But she is sinking into a chair all the same, wondering at how animated her gestures must become. Smiling faintly, she gives them a nod and adds, ] Kirimvos.
[ Thank you. A word neither of them will know, though they may glean its meaning from her gesture. It's said partly in play, and partly to acknowledge their predicament. ]
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[ it comes out both haughtily pleased and smugly foreboding. ]
Skål!
[ it's a glass lift in a toast as well as the word, one that rolls easily off of his tongue. it was one of the first that he had taught Ahad: Cheers. the northerners had used it freely in nights meant for celebration, and mornings meant for battle. it was a declaration of many things, and he leaves it hanging between the three of them and moves to drink freely.
the mead is thick and buttery, semi-sweet and smokey. it's good—too good, actually. taste after taste, one coming after the other, as if they were linked together by words. where it's a drink, it's also alive, sentient enough to breathe. it's an endless ash tree, reaching into the cosmos; it's Idunn's fingertips against golden apples, and the song of her beauty; the bees taking flight from flower to flower, returning to their queen with pollen of divine blossoms; it's the liquid left to ferment in caskets made from ships that had been broken on the northern ice, kissed by the frost of hundreds of winters. it's all those things, lost somewhere in the bowels of time.
Loki moves his finger to flicker the last bit from the corner of his lips, a little smirk curling there. as much as he didn't want to go home, it was nice to remember parts of it. ]
I asked for it, and I was lucky enough that they received my request.
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Drinking the mead is something like seeing into a soul. Ahad will allow his eyes to drift shut, savoring the taste on his tongue. It feels like an intimate moment, despite (or perhaps because of) the audience. ]
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Even still, there seems nothing amiss with the mead. Ahad gives his own toast, seeming to sink into his glass with an otherworldly elegance that even Loki does not possess. What might she see? She hesitates, taking the moment to cast an eye to her surroundings--the tidiness of the room that is clearly not by Loki's hand, the easy way it molds to them both--and suddenly, it dawns on her precisely why she has felt intrusive. It is not because she is a guest, not when she had sheltered in manses before she became a queen.
Feeling strange, Dany sips.
The scalding strength of it takes her at once, hard and biting in places, but just sweet enough to leave her head tingling. She feels as though she is touching a surface and watching the ripples move, but there are other things, as well. Fields of song drift around her like curtains, flimsy and billowing. Where she stands is not a floor, but a pulse: the heart here is not grotesque and blue and swollen; it is unseen, but felt all the same in the way it moves with her breath, weaving her into its fabric.
Astonished, she lowers the drink. ] I ... it is lovely, [ she confesses graciously, needing to pause before she takes another sip. The barest hint of breathlessness is audible in her voice. ]
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It's part of Odin's reserve. They drink it in Valhalla, the halls of the dead warriors. [ there's a little smirk, and to himself, he says: ] It's all they drink in Valhalla.
[ the feeling that comes with it is not the heaviness or the lightheadedness that is usually associated with intoxication. instead it's like a little reminder of feelings associated with a good day. Loki lets the little taste of home roll off his tongue and then he leans back pleasantly.
unfortunately, that doesn't make it any less what it is; Loki already seems to be swaying a little, taken with it. there's a glance at Ahad as if in affirmation. ]
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There's a certain amount of irony in the fact that 'drink' is one of the few verbs he recognizes in what probably amounts to hundreds of languages. Beyond that, Odin and Valhalla are easily remembered and identifiable. There's almost something he prefers about conversing like this; there's something to be said for narrowing speech down to only the most important words and focusing almost entirely on tone.
At Loki's glace, Ahad raises an eyebrow. There's a moment of deliberation, before he perches himself on the arm of Loki's chair. There shouldn't be enough room for it, but Ahad makes it look natural. What it does do is leave a variety of seating options open for Dany. ]
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She stares, swirling the amber hues in her cup. They are not men, but she had known that all along. She had suspected before now, in the way that she had known that Jorah had wanted her for his woman long before he told her she reminded him of his Lady Lynesse. She had known, in the way that she had suspected Xaro's desires before she'd noticed which dancers his eyes had followed. She is well observant enough to have seen the signs, though she had not cared in the hot springs.
But to see it before her, exposed so openly, is another matter. There is nothing sweet about the flush rising into her face. She must be certain of what she wants to do; she does nothing without conviction, and it is too easy to distrust the drink. ]
They drink mead in a hall of heroes, [ she repeats, her gaze boldly deliberate as it shifts from one god to the next. ] What else do they do in Valhalla? [ Her tone is a few octaves lower, but for the moment, she remains in her chair--as if she scarce believes what she thinks she is noticing. ]
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the book had been returned, and it felt like an insult not to at least invite her in to share a drink that they both were having. now she looks like a snake has found its way over her shoulders, and she's learning how to adjust to find comfort.
where Loki generally seems put-off by closer proximities, he doesn't seem to flinch when Ahad finds a spot next to him. the fingers at his side twitch, but instead of giving in, he leans on his elbow, hand to his chin. the other brings the glass to his lips as he pauses at her question.
he lowers it, rolling his tongue in his mouth. ]
Well—they fight until the death, die in glory, then do it all again. They feast and drink late into the night, and not just on the spread provided to them.
[ that's clear enough. he looks at her while he drinks.
Loki knows that Ahad doesn't need words to know what's going on. ]
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It's an effort not to roll his eyes at both of them. He'll content himself to murmur something that sounds mildly disparaging into his glass, the language falling discordantly from his lips. ]
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When she turns back to them, no single beat of her heart goes unheard in her ears. There is a pelt of white lion fur wrapped closely about her shoulders and her sides, guarding her against Oska's chill, but she is soon to have no need of it. She clutches it with one hand, then allows it to fall away into her chair, where it lands with a soft thud.
Once, twice more she sips, and then she is setting her glass onto the table between them all. Let them have the rest, if that is what they wish. A hand is trailed deliberately across Ahad's legs as she passes, her head half-turning in search of dark eyes. She halts before him a moment, the look she wears openly wanting as it roves him. She is quietly avaricious even as her thoughts pray she does not tremble, almost playfully considering her wealth of options. If Loki did not know before, perhaps he will suspect now.
But not being possessed of his same gifts Ahad has to perch upon the arm of a chair, she turns to Loki next, her gaze heatedly seeking the bright green of his eyes as she sinks onto his lap. She is turned so that her back is to the door and her eyes can easily turn to either of them, her legs drawn up loosely to the side--and then she is reaching for one of Ahad's hands to kiss, her free hand moving to wander the now-familiar line of Loki's shoulder toward his neck. One of them, at least, will no longer be drinking for now. ]