Summary:Wanda and Fandral meet at Marie's Crisis and discuss measures and explorations. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Seated in a red leather chair, Fandral is dressed in his Midgardian clothing for the evening, a smartly pressed navy blue suit with shined black shoes, a white shirt, and seems to have cleaned up neatly for a night out. There's no doubt a knife or two on him somewhere. He rarely goes out entirely unarmed, but there is no sword strapped to his waist for the time being. Instead, there's a glass of bourbon in one hand, which he sips from as he listens to the music of the piano bar.
This place might not summon the luminaries like other high priced clubs on the fringes of Central Park, but it has authenticity going for it. That and reduced prices, at least on a New York scale. Not that money matters much for a woman who conjures it. Slender and very much on her lonesome, that scarlet figure in her lovely spectral presence darkens the doorstep with a momentary hint of hesitation. Darkness drinks her in and he in turn reflects a curious, guarded look around her. Doors, people, pianist. The music swirling through the air summons her with a slow, certain pace that speaks to anyone who isn't a regular. Pushing through the clinging crowd where it pools closer to the entrance, Wanda slides onward in search of a seat, whatever form that takes. Sometimes throwing herself to the currents of fate provides a better outcome than wedging herself among them, though the reality-twisting nature of things might send her where she wants. Eyes heavy-lidded, her expression caught in the faintest balance of smirk and smile, she isn't intrusive. Far from it. Inobtrusive might be a better description, a ghost of self-belief dropping her into the midst of trouble.
"I will have that." She points to Fandral's drink as a bartender might find the young woman singled out. Her accent defines her as faraway from this place, but whatever else is new? It's New York. No one is native unless they are.
"Bourbon, rocks," Fandral supplies, for her or for the bartender nearby is unclear. There's a seat empty next to him, no one having settled into it, and he nods toward it in invitation. When he speaks, his accent is British, though he's certainly not from there originally. The accent has remained, from the lifetime or two he spent in that area. He glances back toward the piano then, to listen to the performer, allowing her to join or not as she pleases. He lifts his glass and a small sip is taken, nursing the alchohol for the taste moreso than the buzz. It would take him far too much Midgardian liquor to even summon up a buzz.
No doubt there about the liquor, the decision already made by the time the slender young woman alights upon the seat. She halfway pours herself onto the chair, halfway falls into it as though someone pulled the rug from under her feet. One leg crosses the other, a glimmering of a casual position held in contrast to the straighter line drawn by her spine. The corset common to her attire allows very little yielding on that front, or she simply doesn't know how to let her hair proverbially down and cut herself free of whatever tethers her to the world's cares. No sweet dream present in her; Wanda reaches out to pin down a square drink serviette. Sliding it back closer to her, it blots up the ring of water left by a complacent patron gone ten minutes or an hour ago. Who knows in this particular venue, full of shadows and twinkling notes dueling for attention. Her eyes go unfocused as she listens to the sound, forced to align herself to the melodies stirred in rhythmic waves. "Thank you. These places have no space, most often." Hidden Asgardian blessings unknown to her are what they are; there might be one person who can actually converse with her outside English or pluck the occasional diction and vocabulary abuses out as an issue with native translation instead of a function of intellectual failure.
Fandral's attention drifts back to the woman as she waterfalls into the chair next to him, taking her in for a moment or two, a small smile touching his lips. "This place is quite popular," he agrees. "There are too few seats for the number of people who wish to occupy them on any given night. Though, once the performance is over, I'm sure a few more will clear up before the Broadway crowd make their way in." He rests his elbow on the arm of the seat, swirling the glass just a little, icecubes clinking within the glass. "Fandral, of Asgard," he introduces himself, no surname, just the designation of his home. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Drifting focus swirls back around the arrival of the bourbon, the drink produced after a timely pause due to an acquired list of drink requests with money backing them up. When they're delivered in kind, she murmurs her thanks to the server and takes a moment to procure a few folded bills from the tight pocket of her pants. Women's trousers, leggings, and skirts never come with appropriately large pockets, not even for sorceresses of her ilk. She waves off any change, allowing a peaceful settlement of silence hard to pierce in the initial moments. Blooming into a quiet punctuated by the clink of ice inside the tumbler, she takes a sip to taste the flavour. It sings on the palate, dimming other impressions that clamour for attention and generally ignored. Slanting gaze in amber tracing a path from the piano back through unfamiliar faces to Fandral, Wanda manages not to choke on the drink when it burns or he mentions Asgard. Her hand lifts to her brow, pushing back a scorched mahogany tress that insists on falling right back in place. "There is a time when the music stops and people from the Broadway come in?" Yes, imperfect English, the bane of everyone ever forced to leap from a Slavic or Romantic language into that bastard who waits down dark alleys to relieve other tongues of their rules and words. She doesn't stumble through. Easier for her to tumble sideways into German, which is a far more accomplished language and one probably more commonplace. Old Norse has at least a kissing cousin on the tree. "Wanda." A pause stretches. "Maximoff. Delighted to meet you. What brings a man of Asgard here? You have a fondness for tragic piano concertos?"
"Eventually, the pianist will finish for the evening, and the shows will let out. Then some of the performers will come here, for drinks, and sometimes to play the piano and sing, and the crowd will join in," Fandral explains when she inquires, gesturing a little bit with his glass in the general direction of the door, tracing a path down toward the piano. He then takes another sip from it. He doesnt seem to notice the slight choke, either that, or he chooses to politely ignore it. He does offer, however, "If there is another tongue with which you are more comfortable, feel free to use it. I'm comfortable with the languages of Midgard." There's a glance from her toward the pianist, a faint flicker of a smile touching his ilps, and then his gaze returns to her features. "I have a fondness for Midngard. And I'm here as a part of the Asgardian diplomatic contingent at the Embassy. I've spent a lifetime or two here, but not yet in New York."
"They sing together?" This takes her aback for a moment, an unknown facet in a stirred up milieu full of unfamiliar features. Wanda raises the bourbon to her lips, enough to wet them and not a great deal more. The burning flame belongs elsewhere, a crackling singe to the night, to the palate. "How very…" Unamerican? Coy? Quaint? "Creative. A good use of their time, to engage with the public and stoke the passions for the arts." Settling upon that works well enough for the somewhat taciturn auburnette, her loose hair tumbling wherever it well. A thicket of lustrous promises melts into the rubicund leathers she favours otherwise, tapping her fingertip against the glass. Her smile is a ghostly construct that has a half-life shorter than a toddler's attention, but it exists when he gives her such an out linguistically. Socially. "I had not known what to expect from Asgardian etiquette. Yours is a culture less familiar to me. A strong focus upon martial achievements, is it not?" A window opened and pried, as it were. "Diplomacy takes many forms."
As she is part of that counter-contingent, albeit of a kind that involves a red cloak and a formidable orange shield-barrier.
"They do," Fandral confirms as he watches Wanda take this in. "I've been here to witness it on a few occasions, even to take part in the songs that I've managed to learn. Not unilke a good drinking song in a pub, even if this is.. less.. publike, and the drinking a little less rowdy." He chuckles just a little bit. "Well, etiquette varies depending on whom you encounter, I suppose." There's a slight lift to his free hand and a bit of a wobble back and forth. "Though, yes, we do tend to be a proud and martial people, among us the Valkyrie, and many great warriors. The nine realms are filled with a variety of peoples." He then admits, "I, myself, am merely a swordsman."
"Not a pub." That much she seems to hold familiarity with, the stress of Wanda's voice indicative of its use even as her German probably earns a few curious looks here and there. Spoken by a non-native, coloured by the suggestions of her Transian accent that stands on the confluence of European highways, it's as much music as harsh edges, a strange balance that in turn could be used to describe her. "Merely a swordsman. This term, merely, seems a very strange thing to apply to a people who have lived human lifetimes, and have crossed many realms. By what standard are you measured?" Surprise perhaps, a glimpse of the deeper reflection. "I shall remember bourbon is a good choice of a drink and you know much of our singing and performances."
He dips his head just a little bit and smiles, "Against the likes of Thor, with his Thunder, Loki with his Magic, Baldur with his Light? I'm not so humble as to say that I am not a great swordsman, skilled at my craft, and with blades in general — but when one's companions are even greater still, one has quite long shadows to walk within." Not that he seems to mind or thinks himself any less because of it, but admittedly, among his companions — he has not the breadth of powers that others possess. "I know a little from the time I've spent here so far. I've been making it a point to explore the city, and take in whatever I might find."
"They are all profound in their talents. But it is no mean feat. Swords may be forgotten but not their effect," murmurs Wanda. She raises the glass to her lips again, any hint of her opinions further separated from that. Even greater, long shadows bring a knowing glimmer to those amber eyes stricken by a faint spark that flowers and washes away. "I am well-acquainted with the challenge. There are many gifted in their arts who seem impossible to keep up with. Take pleasure in what you do well, no?" An understatement and downplaying of what she is, but given that arc of power at its pinnacle lives in the same house, under the same roof, it's a reality. "I like this idea of yours. To travel. Explore. See and experience. I should do more, given the opportunity. You inspire me, so that is no small thing, Fandral of Asgard."
No doubt the Doctor is going to have a headache to deal with once she starts taking /that/ to heart.
Fandral inclines his head and smiles, "There are few who have tasted my blades who have forgotten their effects." Some due to simply ceasing to breathe, putting a halt to any potential for forgetting, but that's neither here nor there. He takes another sip from his glass and says, "Oh, I take many pleasures, but they are not in competing with my compatriots. I take pleasure in aiding them in their goals, in exploring this world and others, in meeting people and learning their stories, and in the pure act of living, alone. This is where I take my joy." He smiles when she says that she is inspired, and raises his glass to her, "Well, then you should come visit the Embassy sometime, and if you'd like some company in your explorations, feel free to inquire there for me. I'd be happy to show you some of the places I've discovered, or to visit new ones."
No question comes of Fandral's capacity, only the slight nod of a very keen mind. "I shall come by and ask you what you find as your favourite stories." Wanda raises her brows. "This 'pure act of living.' What it means to you, that I would like to know." A warning or an offering, but either way, it might come to pass. It might not. Her smile lifts up faintly, a shy alpine flower meeting the sun, so brief it may be overlooked in its absence. The music is coming to an end, the evening with it. "Thank you for the diversion. It is good. Should you want a companion before I find you, seek 177A Bleecker Street. It is the second Victorian mansion in Greenwich Village."