Summary:Darcy officially moves into the Asgardian Embassy with Sif's help, and Ambrose drops in to startle them both. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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The Asgardians in the know were informed that His Highness hired a new mortal to help with those things that mortals can do for an embassy. One Darcy Lewis. To end her interview, the mortal had stated she was going to get her belongings and would start work right away. And then she left.
Three hours later, dressed now in shortshorts, a t-shirt surgeried top, and army surplus combat boots that are missing the laces, Darcy's hiking her way from the nearest subway entrance toward the Asgardian Embassy.
A body duffle is strapped to her back like a backpack. An athletic bag is against her stomach, it's long strap around the back of her shoulders. An over large and over-stuffed purse clings crosswise over her chest, digging in. A line of sweat from the journey, carrying literally everything she owns, sits on her brow and the bridge of her nose and her upper lip. And still, the mortal makes it to the embassy doors, managing a puff of a thanks to the member of the Einhenjar who got the door for her.
Standing in the lobby, Sif was unaware of the newly hired Midgardian. Well, she's aware NOW, when said Midgardian enters from the outside bearing far more than one might have thought possible. She blinks in momentary surprise, but then steps forward hastily. "Allow me to assist you." She reaches to take… which of the over-filled bags would be simplest to remove from the Midgardian's burdens?
The purse and the atheletic bag would be easiest, but when Sif makes her offer, Darcy smiles and shakes her head at Sif.
"Oh, fuck. Thanks, gorgeous, but I got this. Long as I keep leaning forward and you know, don't try to sit down. Do you know who I ask to find out which room is mine, though?" rambles the mortal with the green eyes and glasses.
She doesn't, but Sif can ask quickly enough. Which she does. While unloading the purse than the front duffle, then all but picking up Darcy WITH the large duffel/backpack.
The answer arrives quickly enough, in time for Sif to have laid claim to the largest of the bags. "Shall we, then?" She leads the way through the converted brownstone and up the back set of stairs, narrower and steeper than the ones at the front of the house. Clearly an area that used to be servants' quarters but has been updated as much as the building can handle.
.~{:--------------:}~.
"Wha? Wait. I . ACK!" Darcy isn't completely ready for Sif to unload her of her things, so she's off balance but the Asgardian is persistant and almost picking her up off her own feet. Whoa! Once the baggage is situated, Darcy follows along after Sif, to the room that is being given to her and she lets out a long low whistle.
The 'servants quarters' room is likely smaller and more simply decorated than the main rooms reserved for the Aesir, but it's by no means plain. The remodel clearly included updating all electrical as there are plenty of wall sockets, and even an Ethernet jack set into the wall behind the desk tucked in one corner. And yes, it has an attached bathroom. The closet space, however, leaves much to be desired. Likely why there's a free-standing wardrobe against one wall.
Sif sets the huge army-like duffel gently on the floor at the foot of the bed. "You are certain there is nothing else you need assistance with?"
"No. Not really. Though, is there like a dress code for day to day?" Darcy asks, having taken in the room. She had moved to the window, opening it to look out, but then turned her back to it as she addressed the Lady Sif.
Sif herself isn't difficult to follow. Very few women on this Earth have a warrior's physique like hers, eschew modern fashion, and…well…have that particular sway to her hips. That being said, at a distance, Ambrose in human form has followed and lingered and observed the going-ons of the Asgardian's afternoon. It looks like…someone's moving in? Hmm. Curious.
Let's go see.
The master-thief slips onto the grounds without much difficult and after he's figured out which window the voices are coming from — thank you, Darcy — he's up the drainpipe like an intrepid raccoon. He might not be noticed immediately when he decides he's going to recline on the windowsill, back to the frame, with one booted leg drawn up and the other hanging freely into the air. The brunet wears black fatigue pants and a comfortable long-sleeved cotton shirt in a grey that brings out the blue of his eyes.
He waits to be noticed, sporting a coy smile.
The question has Sif considering. "I am honestly unsure. Though I would expect that as this would be your employment and you are acting as a Midgardian representative to the Aesir, your attire should reflect as much. She herself is dressed in Midgardian clothing, casual enough but still 'better put together' than the average non-business person on the street.
"Formal occasions perhaps would require more formal attire." But then, she has no clue what would be considered formal attire on Midgard. Would that horribly restrictive garment Loki magicked onto her qualify? She sincerely hopes not. "Oth—"
Something clearly startles her, as she goes instantly alert and brandishes a small (for her) but wicked looking knife from seemingly nowhere (the sheath is hidden up her jacket's sleeve). Another second after her reaction she relaxes again, eyebrows drawn together in a frown as she looks at the man suddenly perched in the window.
Be glad she was across the room from the window, Lieutenant Atherton.
Darcy regards Sif's dress as the example, making a note to go shopping soon for busniess attire. Still checking Sif out - her clothes!! - Darcy purse sher lips at the idea of formal wear, when Sif suddenly has a knife draw at her. (She has not idea there's anyone inthe window behind her)
"Whoa hey! Sorry! I wasn't checking you out. I was looking at the clothes." Darcy is quick to say and quicker to word-vomit. "Not that you're not hot as fuck and totally check-out material, but I really was just looking at the clothing this time and… this is where you kill me and tell His Highness it was an accident?"
"You know who I am, milady Sif," says Ambrose reprovingly from in the windowsill, appearing only mildly perturbed by the display of weaponry towards him. "My apologies. I should have made more noise." By his tone, he's actually not sorry one little bit — the curl of the smile deepens to accent this. "I was uncertain if knocking on the front door below would earn me ire. This is far more comfortable."
His eyes flick to Darcy and he gives her a little nod. "And a pleasure to meet you too, whomever you are." His accent is cut-glass British and his smile grows more, until it's something nearly Cheshire.
"Holy fucking ninja SHIT!" Darcy exclamins as the voice sounds from behind her. She jumps, flails her arms, like she's trying to do really bad karate or something. There's even a kick that puts her off balance and staggering back a few steps. Freak out complete, she looks at Sif for direction.
Sif tucks the knife away in her sleeve again. "You should have knocked, Lieutenant." She pronounced that rank the way she first heard it from Ambrose, which is NOT a modern pronunciation. "You are fortunate that none of the Einherjar noticed you, or they'd have run you through and THEN asked your purpose here."
She takes a breath, then gestures, making the introductions for the cheeky man sitting in the window. "Lieutenant Atherton, this is…" Her voice trails off as she realizes she never asked Darcy for her name.
Awkward.
"Darcy Lewis." is the squeaked name supplied by the mortal woman.
The Jackal laughs to himself behind his teeth, the sound rolling in the back of his throat almost as a warm growl. He sighs, allowing his head to lean now against the windowsill's edging. His eyes lazily rove from Darcy in her stuttery state and over to Sif again.
"Your Einherjar are terrifying, milady, but I am an old hand at my trade." He means sneaking about, clearly. "Well met then, Miss Lewis. As milady Sif mentioned, I am Lieutenant Atheron, though, please…do call me Ambrose." His charm is old-fashioned and still edged in its way, almost as if he might toy with his target just as soon as soothe.
"Ambrose, we need to note that you're here in the building before someone takes offense and you're thrown out. Quite possibly in the most literal sense." Sif offers Darcy a small but polite bow. "We'll leave you to settle in to your quarters, Miss Lewis."
Then she's stepping past the flustered young Midgardian woman, snagging Ambrose by one arm, and tugging him all the way into the building and across the room to leave through the door.
Like a normal person.