handsofwinter | All That Are Fallen (for coldsong)

All That Are Fallen (for coldsong)

They retreat through the storm, invisible. Engine noises deadened and buried beneath the howling gales; hulls silent in tell-tale wavelengths and shielded from prying radiation by their cloaks. For most anyone they’d be nigh-impossible to track, even with the most sophisticated and cunning of sensors.

But there’s always one, isn’t there?

Loki can follow the little fleet through the frenzied snow and the roar of wind, over the dim shadows of forests splashed dark over the terrain below, the thin ridgelines that merely hint at tricky crags and sheer precipices. They travel fast. It’s not long before they begin to descend into a shallow, snowbound valley.

They’ve been at work here for some time by the look of things. The valley is criss-crossed with long hills- no, they look more like barrows, all blanketed in a thick layer of snow and swarming with activity in and out of round doors. The transport ships join others circling above and begin to offload their passengers, adding to the general din. The three largest barrows form a great rough triangle with only a couple of smaller structures between them. There is the heart of the encampment – and the noise. Vandals and a few captains in particularly good armor move among the others, directing chaos into order. Shanks lift into the air and fly to one barrow in formation. The injured limp or are carried in one direction, some with seared and blackened limbs or armor spattered shiny with blood. A dreg shrieks as his companions try to lift his scorched armor to check the burns beneath. Other dregs are tasked with taking the dead away, laying them out under the supervision of a vandal with a different style of helm and clothing.

But others are simply packing up their weapons and gathering around the officers counting heads. And others- others who were already here, are clearly sorting booty. Beneath a rough tent crates are stacked high and others lie open as the dregs beside them lower inventory tablets and cheer for the returning army. Before them lie piles of blankets, computer parts, miscellaneous trinkets… and a lot of books.

The sorted crates are being picked up and taken to the biggest of the barrows. The one with the biggest banners hung before it, and the most disciplined and armored guards beside its door. And the one before which decorative poles have been driven into the ground. Atop them sit skulls. Most look human.

Here be monsters, then. But monsters with voices, and as their speech slowly resolves itself around him, as snarls become words and words become orders, questions, greetings-

Here, too, wait answers.

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They're so very, very corporeal. After all the mystery of the past weeks, that's the first thing that surprises Loki. He supposes it shouldn't. The dead may greatly outnumber the living in the universe, but there are still quite a lot of living, and they tend to want more things and show up to claim them more often. What these beings want, and who they have bargained with to get it, remains to be seen.

But this? This looks like a military camp, except for the objects they seem to have been collecting. So many books. Why so many books?

The barrows are interesting, and his first thought is to want a look inside one. Amidst this chaos may be a good time, but it would be reckless to just wander in without reconnoitering first. He circles for several long minutes, light in the air overhead, observing them treating their wounded. He feels no guilt for the shrieking injured dregs, but the fact that they are tended rather than put out of their misery summarily says something about these people.

(And they are people. They may also be monsters, but they're people.)

Jotun do not, as a rule, heal their wounded, in the world he comes from.

That observation, and the thoughts that follow, alter his approach. They have seen and clashed with armies this winter, but that does not mean there are only armies here. What if these are a nomadic people, and the barrows hold offspring? That would put a different spin on things.

He lands quietly near the biggest barrow, solid once again, but cloaked in an invisibility glamour. He'll see how long that's effective. In the meantime, he stands still and listens to the voices around him, alert in case he is spotted despite his magic.

There’s no gentleness on display here, even for the wounded, but nor does any seem to be expected. Each is inspected and helped or carried out of sight in turn. The clamor of voices hardly becomes less intense, but at least it’s intelligible…

“I fought both the beasts! Did our captain see?”

“-but there were two ghouls!”

“You dregs! Sheathe! Break the battle laws and I’ll dock every-“

“Nonsense. It was only one. The other-“

“Weskin’s crew lie slain in total-“

“-a victory then, yes? House Winter will have a new-“

“Why then did we come to this…” The Vandal speaking trails off as another shimmers into view atop the stack of crates beside him. This one is dressed like a vandal, but when he lands he’s clearly bigger than the others, his armor styled differently and his cape a different shade of blue. None of that stands out compared to his helm, though. Where the others have masks with two or more often four glowing blue eye slits, his eyes are obscured by a thin, v-shaped slit that glows brilliant white, set in a glossy helm of smooth dark metal.

The others back away a step, but he’s paying them no heed. His gaze sweeps over the apparent empty space where Loki stands. He doesn’t seem to know there’s an intruder there, but he senses something. And there’s a sense of distortion around him, as if time and space are warping, be it ever so gentle…

A victory? He hopes not. It's possible. If the convoy bearing the food has been stopped, the driver and escorts slain, that might indeed be a victory for these beings, devastating for the mortal inhabitants of the Nexus. There would seem to be no reason to spare the last handful of their forces on the ground, though, even if that's the case. And that was clearly the order that caused their withdrawal.

Perhaps there is something more important going on.

Loki eyes the newcomer that's appeared, then the reaction of the others to his presence. Ah. He's been made, then, even if the being can't pinpoint his exact location. And if the others are making space for him, that would seem to indicate he ranks high.

Norns, he doesn't want another fight. He wouldn't be able to hold the entire camp at bay, he's sure. Gathering his energies he takes half a second to think lend me your courage, Brother; Mother, lend me your wisdom, and then allows himself to shimmer into view, arms out and hands held palms up to show he's unarmed.

He's still in the Jotun form, towering over most of them, red-eyed and angular, without his cloak. And he smiles, projecting confidence, looking at the guard who seemed to have sensed him. "I certainly can't stop you from shooting, but I promise you, a talk will be much more interesting for all of us. Battle is glorious, indeed, but it gets very tedious after a while."

Alarm ripples out around them, exclamations and calls to arms. In a moment he has the attention of every Fallen in sight- and around him, spears and swords and rifles are leveled crackling at the strange intruder. Except for the one who detected him, that is. At a bit over seven feet, the vandal has to crane his head up at Loki, but he does so fearlessly, with something a little like curiosity and a little like vindication- until he turns his head, barks out a raspy, "Hold fire!" at those around him.

Nobody shoots. They don't look especially happy about it, though. The guards at the barrow entrance simply wait, eyes glittering. A couple of the captains have stormed their way to the front, though neither looks particularly familiar. The wind whistles about them yet, tugging at capes and cloaks and Loki's hair.

"What is this?" one asks, glowering wary over its heavy gun. Among themselves, their speech contains a greater share of inhuman clicks and hisses, but Loki's had time to adjust. "It fought with the humans on the field. Will we not kill it?"

"No. It was expected," says the vandal facing Loki. "Pelsor will speak with this one." He cocks his head up at the Jotun. "You will follow. And... talk."

Oh! Well, if he's going to die, at least he gets all eyes on him for a moment first. He stays very still, unwilling to give them an excuse, but there's a flicker of light in his eyes, the only sign he's preparing some sort of spell.

He's not sure what sort of spell, exactly, is the thing, so it's very heartening when the guard, or whatever rank he is, has them hold their fire. Slowly, he lowers his hands, clasping them in front of him where they're visible. His heart is going a thousand miles a minute, but his smile never falters.

His lips part as if to retort to the comment about fighting with the humans on the field, but in the end he holds his tongue for the moment. To hear that he was expected is much more interesting than announcing his claim over a handful of Nexus residents. Reynard? He wonders. How else would they know he was interested in them? Their own intel, perhaps, but they wouldn't necessarily be able to guess his motivations.

"I accept your gracious invitation," he says to the vandal, and gives a slight but elegant bow.

He was taught diplomacy. There may yet be a place for it here. And if not, he will sell his life as dearly as he can. If he dies, it won't be the first time, after all.

There's another little ripple when he bows: small hisses of surprise from the watching dregs, though the captains remain icily suspicious. The vandal is stock-still for a moment. Then he takes a couple of steps back, draws the two shock blades sheathed at his side- and bows in return, the blades flashing in a brief but elegant pattern before him. He sheathes them both in the same motion as he rises, completely ignoring the mutters from the crowd.

"I am called Lexoris," he says, and waits a moment for the Jotun to introduce himself before turning and leading the way up to that waiting door. The two big guard vandals stand aside, though they will fall in behind Loki as soon as the pair pass. Nor will they be the only escort: just within the gloom waits a captain wearing the more styled armor of the commander's elite guard.

He's surprised them by being polite? Perhaps a race of beings so prone to war and thievery rarely meets efforts at negotiation. He makes note; if he can catch flies with honey rather than vinegar, Loki will absolutely do so.

The blades being drawn makes him tense up warily, but when the motion drops into a graceful answering bow, he relaxes again, and smiles less like a sphinx and more like a diplomat grateful to be making inroads. (Also, really, if they haven't slaughtered all the mortals he likes, he could probably get to relate to beings that fight with dual blades. Been there, done that, still his favorite M.O.)

"Well met, Lexoris," he greets. "I am Loki, of Asgard and of Jotunheim."

He keeps his hands clasped peaceably in front of him as he follows. He has to assume one wrong move will mean violence, especially as the two large guards follow behind them, but he refrains from showing his apprehension, instead watching Lexoris for hints at proper protocol. He will give the elite guard a civil nod of greeting, if no further niceties seem expected.

Lexoris's greeting seems to cause consternation in itself, but by the time they pass through the door the captains are bellowing the others back to their tasks. Loki only has to stoop a little passing through the curved doorway, but inside the hall has a couple feet of clearance over his head. Inside...

It doesn't look so much like a barrow, from this angle. The walls are smooth dark metal, the floor one of hard deckplates, and dim lights glow above. Their path ramps upward, then twists left, then up and right and left and up again. The air isn't fetid, but there's an alien scent to it, and beneath it lies the same chemical scent that comes with Fallen blood. They cross side-passages and places where the walls have been opened, filled with containers bound in by heavy netting. They force aside vandals and dregs as they go, who duck into long alcoves and stare out from among the stacked crates with glowing eyes. There's a lot of walking. Perhaps it's a defensive style of architecture, or perhaps they're being very circumspect about what their guest sees.

They do pass through a wide open room then, and have to descend some steps into the lowered central section that takes up most of this space of brown and red-painted metal. There are working terminals here with holographic displays watched and tended to by caped vandals. A couple of the little shank robots fly above the Fallen themselves... and lower down float two darker presences- machines like eyeballs of black metal, with glowing purple irises that twitch and turn to process the new arrivals.

Loki's guards lead him past them all, the flickering holos, the tap of many hands on controls, the slurred electronic mutterings of the machines, the hiss of breath behind masks. They wear those in here, too, though otherwise the Fallen aren't so heavily bundled up, and it's possible to see a couple of stubby appendages jutting out from the dregs' lower torsos- where their second pair of arms would be.

But up more steps they go, and down another hall, never stopping to ask or answer questions. And at last a door slides open before them, and on the other side is a long, high room. It stands high enough to be airy even at Loki's new stature, and the walls are draped with battle banners. Directly in front is a step up to the main part of the room- one Loki can navigate with ease, but the elite captain and the others have to jump or scramble up around him. Smaller folk presumably have to use the steps to either side.

To either side of the main room are low wells housing more Fallen workstations, more screens dancing with images and glyphs. And at the end of the room, on yet another raised section, beneath a low spotlight and framed by a wide sail of cloth in Winter blue... is unmistakably a throne.

The Fallen commander sits upon it, apparently at ease, lower hands resting on the arms. There's a long spear resting idly in one upper hand now, the tip sparking a little as the Fallen lord watches Loki. To either side are a couple of the elite guard. Lexoris turns and halts Loki when they're close enough, at the bottom of the steps up to the throne.

"Pelsor, Baroness of Winter," he announces, "I bring Lo-ki of Askar and... Yo-tuhn-hiim."

Edited 2019-04-04 22:59 (UTC)

He has created a stir, then. Or rather, their leaders’ decision not to attempt to annihilate him on sight has. Diplomatic relations may not be the norm with these beings. And yet, he doesn’t think he’s being captured, entrapped or led to his death. As he follows, he looks around as subtly as he can, taking stock of everything. It reminds him of the inside of the Statesman, all metal plating and dimly-glowing synthetic lighting. The chemical smell registers, but doesn’t bother him in particular.

He’s sure, despite his care not to gawk or hesitate, that they anticipate he will be interested in everything he can see as they pass.

The larger open room looks like a hub of activity in comparison to the halls, and while his steps do not slow, he eyes the shanks thoughtfully, and then the larger robots with a flicker of curiosity. They look back, and for the first time he gets the impression the metal companions to the Fallen may not be mere programmed tools.
By the time they arrive at their destination, they’re so deep within the structure he’s not sure he could find his way out alone, at least not by walking. They are quite secure with him here, he thinks. Any move he could make would be suicidal. Even if he succeeded in harming one, he would not live to harm another.

His spine straightens as they enter the throne room. Clearly work is going on here, as well, but it’s a far cry from the courtly pleasantries and discussion of Asgard’s royal court. More a command center than a display of royal power. There’s a practicality to that that appeals. For a fleeting moment, he remembers his youth, visiting principalities of Alfheim and Vanaheim with Frigga; the negotiations were rarely important, but the protocol was vital. And he was good at it, elegant and intuitive, able to balance royal pride with polite humility.

If only Frigga were here now, he’d be a bit more comfortable.

He looks at the commander—the Baroness, is it? Better yet---with the mild, attentive civility trained into him at a tender age. Red eyes tranquil but unflinching, face relaxed and neutral, head up, shoulders back. There will be no cringing, but neither will he challenge her.

After Lexoris gives his name, he gives the Baroness a bow, deeper and more formal than he did to his guide. “You do me honor by permitting me to appear before you, Baroness. I am told I was expected. I hope to live up to the expectation.”

The mix of faded grandeur and practical accommodation is all over the ship, once one begins to look. Tattered war banners hung with respectful care over patched-together cables, high ceilings and rooms that dwarf the clutter and workstations within them- proud titles and strict formalities amid squabbling unruly dregs. Nobility without polish, splendor replaced by raw necessity.

Which aspect dominates here remains to be seen. The guards flanking the throne remain quiet, unobtrusive in the shadows as the Baroness takes Loki's measure.

"Rehnarr speaks of you." She speaks in English, or something very close: it's hard to tell if it's her dialect that throws off the words, or the uneasy way they sit on a Fallen tongue. Her deep voice resounds through the room. "He names you lost kin of his House. We watch if you come to us. But..." Her left upper hand turns, claws uncurled to spread a palm upward. "Twice you take the field with his foes. Against my Eliksni. So. Have you come now to speak for them, or for you alone?"

It tells a story, indeed. A people in exile? Perhaps. Given a few years in space, he imagines the Statesman could look like this. That would certainly be a preferable outcome to Thanos' attack.

The Baroness' switch to English catches his attention at once, and he blinks at her mildly, head tilting as if to catch the nuance of the words better. He swears he can feel the resonance of her voice in his chest, deep as it is. Under other circumstances he'd enjoy the sensation.

"Lost kin, he says?" There's a little flare of emotion in Loki's heart that even he can't identify. He's not sure whether he likes that or if what he feels is anger. "Well, I require no further adoptions. But that is a matter for myself and Reynard to discuss, I imagine."

I need no more false fathers, is what he screamed at the Black Order when they called him a Child of Thanos. This is different, but just reminiscent enough to darken his mood.

He shakes his head. "The Nexus is not so simple as friend and foe. Winter's might has forced them to draw together, but they are not all the same beings. When hunger and cold are not paramount in their minds, they're far more interesting, and far more unruly."

"That said, I would not attempt to speak for them. Some think on me fondly, others would rather I were dead, and if I tried to make peace, not all would accept the terms I brought back, and many would laugh in my face. There would be no point."

"But a few of them are mine, and those few I will defend if the need arises."

He folds his hands behind his back, deliberately casual, and shifts his weight side to side lazily, wanting to pace but suspecting too much movement won't go over well. "I had thought to seek you out, at first, I admit. Biologically, I think you are more like my species than most I have met. Perhaps there are cultural parallels, as well. I have not had the chance to learn yet. But I got distracted, you see, searching for myself. And then the battle caught my attention."

"It's as simple as that, I'm afraid. But I stand before you now with no intention either to die or to kill, so we may as well make what we can of this. I will talk, but ultimately I am here to listen."

Pelsor lets him speak his piece without interruption, though something in his words about the Nexus denizens has her outer eyes narrowing. Something about their disunity, perhaps. Or hunger. Lexoris stands to one side, the glimmering band of his eye-slit locked on Loki, save for the smallest turn of his head one side to the other, as if tracking something just behind their guest.

It's hard to guess exactly what the Baroness makes of his words; one gets the impression it would still be hard without that mask. On the other hand, there's a sense that were she displeased he'd find out immediately. All things considered, she seems satisfied enough with how he answers for himself.

"Listen, then," she rumbles, "and you shall learn, Loki of Askaar. But there is a price. When our talking is done, when this storm withers, you take my terms to them. To the humans and these others... these House-less. I do not ask you make peace for them. Only... talk."

For the first time, Loki wonders what Reynard has told these beings--Eliksni?--about the mortal beings around them. If this is all some tremendous misunderstanding, he's going to be impressed. He also notes the way Lexoris seems to be looking at something Loki himself cannot see, and that makes the back of his neck prickle.

For all he knows, Reynard could be right behind him, making faces as he talks, but there's nothing for it. The Baroness is the one he is speaking to now, and focusing elsewhere will do no good.

Her terms are more than fair; they're very much to his liking. They may not be able to read his body language well, but his smile is in no way faked, and he answers with a little bow of his head. "With pleasure, Baroness. I dare not promise myself as peacemaker, but messenger? That is a role I can play."

Wouldn't be the first time, really, although he hasn't always been known for being a truthful messenger. "Is a cease-fire even something you seek? Tolerance in return for tolerance? Or do your priorities lie elsewhere?"

There's a small shift in the atmosphere when he agrees: a soft hiss like a sigh from Lexoris, a straightening of one guard's shoulders. It's hard to say if they approve or they're just relieved to have decided what he is. They're too disciplined to give much away - or to lower their guard.

“Cease-fire,” echoes the Baroness, rolling the strange syllables over thoughtfully. There’s a rumble- it almost sounds amused – before she says, “Yes. Tell them I offer this. Their…” and she shifts into Eliksni for a moment, snarls a word Loki hears as something like light-thief,” …the ghoul that serves them lies defeated. My House stands strong. For now we keep Rehnarr’s laws. We fight with honor. But this... strength-time of Rehnarr ends soon. There will be no more torches. No law to keep Eliksni from humans. The gates of space will open again. Other ghouls will come to fight. More aliens. More beasts.”

Her lower hands tighten on the arms of her throne as she leans forward into the shadows, eyes burning cold and blue, those arching horns on her helm catching the golden light from above. The spear in her right upper hand crackles softly. “Let them all be bound to this peace. If they make war against House Winter, if they trespass on our territory, we will come for them.”

Such a small collection of words and phrases, some of them ambiguous, and yet as they drop to the chilly floor between him and the Baroness, Loki feels the world spin upside-down on its access around him. Another paradigm shift, much like within the heart of the ice-caves at the start of the season, but this. This is not personal, nor internal.

His heart is hammering wildly again. His expression gives nothing away.

"Light-thief," he murmurs, and guesses. "You mean Blaze." He saw her in the battle, heard the rumors and saw the signs that she was familiar with these beings. She lies defeated? Dead, or immobilized? Will anyone believe him if he tells them so?

"That's a pity," he says with a fussy little click of his tongue. "She owed me a favor. I was really prepared to enjoy watching her squirm about it. Ah, well."

And Reynard. It's starting to sound as though his agreement with the Eliksni is very nearly the opposite of what most of the Nexus was inclined to believe. Loki included. The torches. The gates of space. Did he freeze the portals to keep humans trapped ans starving, or did he freeze them to keep more of the Fallen from coming in, to keep out a war in no way native to the Nexus itself?

He needs to talk to him. He really needs to talk to him. But there may be no point. Whether the Spirit's motives are cruel or benevolent or neither, there's only a slim chance at a straight answer.

"Well, then." His face lights up in a smile again, one that doesn't reach his eyes because the brain behind them is firing on all cylinders, lost in thought. "That's a straightforward enough message, I think. What territory do you claim? The topography of the Nexus tends to shift; boundaries may in fact become a problem through no deliberate action on anyone's part."

"...and should rivals of your House emerge from the portals, will the poor mortals here know, or will they merely be trapped between the hammer and the anvil with no warning?"

Leviathan pouring out of the rip in the sky over Manhattan. Screaming. Laser fire. It's too late. It's too late to stop it. He bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to leave marks from his teeth. The Norns have a remarkable sense of humor, don't they?

It's Lexoris who bobs his head ever-so-little at the Guardian's name, gaze turning to Pelsor a moment. The Baroness merely gives a satisfied-sounding growl, her eyes staying on Loki. The fine details of such a creature are perhaps beneath her consideration. It's the alien before her that requires attention, and her great helm tilts a little bit when he breaks into a smile.

"My people will mark our bounds before the storm ends." At their own discretion. Her tone dismisses the notion that anyone will have any business contesting their choice. But there's a throaty rumble from her then, one that turns into a deep, guttural chortle. "No fear to the Houseless. We leave their village to them."

As for the other matter... The Baroness gives him another look, and there's something of an explanation in her tone then. "Only light-thieves and my Eliksni know the way. Ghouls fight for humans; let the humans command them. If others of our time-space come, they will destroy them all."

That doesn't sound like an instruction, or one of her terms. That's just a statement of fact.

She clicks rapidly to herself then, shifts her weight on the throne. "There is this also. I offer the Houseless-" and there's another Eliksni word before she translates: "a gift."

Which is technically correct, though to Loki the original word sounds more like gift-that-binds.

Edited 2019-04-10 23:08 (UTC)

"I see," he says, and his smile widens briefly. This is not a negotiation, he remembers. This is a message to be delivered. Evidently they have no interest in the Nexus proper, then, but some portion of what inhabitants know as the Wilds is to be theirs.

That isn't an entirely inequitable solution, really, if it were trustworthy. He's not sure it is, not sure it will last, and strongly suspects it will be rejected by at least half of the mortal Nexusites, but...well, that's a problem for Future Loki, or maybe no Loki at all, to concern himself with.

"Then if others of your kind, who are not of your House, arrive here, you're not concerned about what happens to them. That's good to know."

He brings his left hand up to his chin, looking pensive despite the racing of his brain and heart. "I cannot accept anything on their behalf. Will you tell me what it is you offer, that I may report it to them?"

The Baroness may observe some courtesies, and she may be reasonable enough to offer terms... but she did not, after all, make any promises about the generosity of said terms. He does seem to have inferred correctly their view on other Eliksni, however. The Baroness's helm inclines a little.

"All Houses stand alone." Her voice rolls out a little slower on those words. Lexoris stirs a little, but says nothing. Something of far more import is at hand, and the vandal, like the guard, keeps his attention on Loki as the Baroness shifts position, reaches a lower hand into the shadows behind her throne, and raises something for Loki to see. It's a box - no, a cage: the top and bottom are dark metal, but the four sides are shimmering blue force-fields.

Trapped within them, floating helplessly, is Ghost.

The little bot has to catch himself as the box is lifted so abruptly, looking around in silent, frightened bewilderment, his single optic a dot of blue light in the gloom. It widens when he focuses on Loki, but then he's jolted again, Pelsor setting the box on the arm of her throne and planting her hand atop it. Out of her sight, Ghost startles downward a little, his optic turned up to the giant Fallen he can't see looming above him.

"This is what I offer. Accept my terms, and they have their ghoul again." She looks down at the cage, all her eyes narrowing in contempt. "I do not know if dead things keep honor. But this peace buys life for many Houseless... and the Light-thief."

They are watching for his reaction. Even with the alien body language, Loki can tell that much, and braces himself accordingly. If they're expecting an emotional response, they may be disappointed. He's only met Ghost twice, and while he rather liked both him and Blaze, he's not about to weep and beg them to spare them.

What he does, is look extremely thoughtful, red eyes sharp and bright in the low light around them. Again, he smiles, and makes a soft little tsk, tsk sound. "I can promise no particular outcome, but they will be interested in your offer. That I can say with certainty. Do try not to damage him in the interim, if you don't mind? I have no idea whether they could repair him."

He can tell from Ghost's reaction that he recognizes Loki, but not whether he can hear him through the walls of his prison. It matters little right now; it might matter a lot later.

"This is going to be fascinating," he says, suddenly animated. "What a magnificent little psychodrama."

His hands clasp briefly in front of his chest, a pleased gesture, and he hums softly, then gives the Baroness light salute. "I am impressed. I wish I had known your House sooner. But I feel compelled to remind you I am not entirely trusted by the others. Maybe...60% trusted? On a good day. Can you give me anything to take to them as proof?"

They relax a bit when he continues to be unfazed: perhaps they were worried about a violent reaction after all. Ghost continues to peer out at him, silent and wary, the points of his shell all drawn in close around the little robot. They do spin around him when Loki speaks - back and forward a little at the request not to damage him, a sharper spin when he speaks with such entertainment at the situation.

The Eliksni pay him absolutely no attention. The Baroness considers Loki's request for a minute. Then she lifts the long spear and raps the butt against the deck below, a sharp, hard sound. Her head turns left to one of the vandals standing guard, and she growls in Eliksni, "Bring the battle-honor prize to me."

The Vandal drops to all sixes as they scurry into a side door. The Baroness makes a gesture at Loki, likely indicating to wait. Presently the vandal returns walking upright, a metal pole a four or five feet long propped over their shoulder. They bow before their lord as they offer it up, and Pelsor takes it, lifts it in one hand. She takes a last long look at the trophy fixed to one end, delayed by reluctance for a couple of moments. But then she hisses beneath her mask, and tosses the whole thing down to Loki.

It's Blaze's head on the end. That may be no surprise. The Exo's optics are dark and empty, a scorched hole punched clean through her metal skull, occipital to front, dead and burned circuitry showing in between.

"When the storm ends, take this to them," rumbles the Baroness, oblivious to the way Ghost flares bright for a second, drawn to the wall of his tiny prison.

Ghost can hear him somehow, he thinks, based on that reaction. He can spare no look of pity or word of reassurance, his focus never straying from the Baroness, his smile unfaltering. He would spare the little robot torture, if indeed these beings are the type to even bother with such a thing, but 'don't damage the goods' may be the best he can do.

He almost twitches at the rap of the spear on the floor, but doesn't quite. A bit too much like Gungnir, but he is not now beholden to that courtly nicety. The parallel, though--that's not entirely pleasant to consider. Especially when the Vandal returns with Blaze's head on a pike, effectively. Loki's expression sobers, but he doesn't flinch. Would the Aesir have made an example of their enemies like this, far far back in time? It would take Hela to answer that question.

Loki catches the entire thing, then bows, lower this time, sensing this trophy is hard to let go. His heart twists a little in his chest at the thought of the skulls outside the barrows here. Were he in a strong position to bargain, he would demand them, as well, for burial. He probably carried some of the corpses that they were attached to.

(And now I am to go to the Nexus proper, with a hero's head on a pike. This really is going to be a spectacular psychodrama. He tells himself, eyeing the hole.)

"Back to front," he says softly. "How peculiar."

He doesn't know Blaze well, but he imagines she is not the type to turn her back on enemies, and the Eliksni don't seem the type to shoot an enemy point-blank, execution-style, from the back. Could this have been a trap? Friendly fire?

That's not a nice thought. Who in the Nexus would do such a thing?

He catches the little flare from Ghost out of the corner of his eye, but doesn't dare look at him, unwilling to draw attention his way. "When the storm ends," he tells the Baroness. "I will do so. And I will return to you with their answer."

He smirks. "Mind you, they may also wish return to you with their answer, but I'll try to pre-empt any foolishness on their part."

"If they are fools, the Light-thief dies forever." Her claws close meaningfully over Ghost's tiny prison. The bot jumps back a little from where he had the tips of his shell pressed against the transparent wall. "If they break their word... next time, I win that prize by my hand."

She sits back on her throne, with the air of one well-satisfied. "Have you listened enough, Loki of Askaar?"

Pelsor makes it all sound very straightforward. She is so very confident. There's no particular reason she should not be, he supposes. From what he's seen here, she has the forces to overrun the exhausted Nexusites, if she wanted. Surround the torches, if they truly cannot go past them, and the moment the magic fades at Winter's end...

And she is confident enough to be certain of her victory against Blaze should she return to life to face them again. Loki stares into the dead optics pensively, breathing in deep of the air around him, senses unfurled and alert for the scent or taste of a lie of any kind. There is much he does not know here.

"My curiosity will never be sated, Baroness," he tells her. "I have never listened enough. It is not in my nature."

He pulls the pike free with a fluid twist and tucks the disembodied head under his arm. "I assume I will be permitted into your territory at least once more, to return with word from the Nexus?"

Pelsor's words are genuine enough. But perhaps there's a hint of weary certainty to it rather than eager boasting. She is confident they have the strength. She's very sure she can slay Blaze again - and is keen on the idea. But even in saying so, there's no triumph in it. It's not the victory she intends, or she knows the cost will be great?

Others will come, she said.

"Rehnarr named you an ally," she says now, and waves a hand as if to brush aside any quibble he might have with that specific word. "You may walk the storm among us. And after, yes. Come with your message."

Trapped and silent, Ghost's pale blue gaze follows his Guardian's head. He's so close, so close, cut off from the steady ember of Light he can still detect in there. If he could just reach it...

But the Fallen are watching, and there's no chance of that.

'Ally' is not a word he has an issue with. Familial relations are the only terms that raise his hackles, and he has his reasons. "And Reynard is your ally," he says softly, mildly, as if considering. Alas, that alliance will win them no friends in the Nexus at this point. The public-relations deck is very thoroughly stacked against them, but they seem not to care about such things. They don't want human friends.

They just want to be left alone. That their approach to achieving that goal is so harsh is unfortunate. It may win them the opposite of what they desire, in the long term. Time will tell.

"What you ask is not unreasonable, though I am not sure why you have chosen to come and settle in this place. It's a shame the anti-violence field has failed us all. Had no fatal blows been struck between you and the mortals, this would be easier. Were there some kind of central authority in the Nexus that anyone truly recognized, this would be easier-but then it would not be the place it is."

There is much at stake here, far more than the life of Blaze and her Ghost. More than a momentary peace between hostile groups, neither of which really own the land they live on. There is a precedent to be set here.

"I will raise no hand to your House save in self-defense, or in defense of the few people I claim. I would learn more about you, should your terms be accepted and a truce succeed, but perhaps that is a matter for later discussion."

"In any case, I thank you, for a window into what will prove to be an interesting discussion, and possibly a monumental change in the Nexus itself."

"Death would always come," Pelsor says, with a huff of air. She sounds like she wants to laugh again. "It came before us, and it waits behind." But then, Loki does not know the universe they left, and her eyes have narrowed a little as she considers that. "Ask the light-thieves what is left for Eliksni to claim."

Her scorn is momentary. The Baroness is not inclined to give much away of her intentions, besides what she demands of the Nexus denizens. Why should she, after all? As well announce her plans to the Guardians. She rumbles acceptance of his promise, inclines her great helm a very little. "My Eliksni will let you pass. Let the Houseless squabble until they decide. Return with their answer. Then... we will talk again."

Edited 2019-04-14 20:38 (UTC)

"Well, I don't think she's going to be answering right now," Loki says, glancing at the head tucked under his arm, brow quirking at his own grim joke. "But I'll certainly keep the question in mind."

"I suppose Death is prepared for us all," he adds mildly, though he's not sure Pelsor is being quite that philosophical. "Even the gods perish, at the end of things."

The Nexus is a kind of insane quantum-mechanical singularity. People from thousands of adjoining universes come here and dwell and play, sometimes set down the squabbles and vengeance they bring from their own worlds, sometimes carry them at their sides despite the change of venue, but in the end no one knows what created this place, what power sustains it, or why it is the way it is. A year from now, a minute from now, the whole place might go unstable and collapse, might decide to become hostile to all carbon-based beings, might become a lake of magma rather than a chilly winter world. But living things are reckless, and they will stay here, and build lives here, regardless.

None of them should be taking the place for granted. It's stupid, really. He likes that about it.

He has so many more questions for Pelsor, but to linger now would be to court failure. He can be annoying later, if it seems like an effective tactic. He is playing diplomat now, and he bows to her once more. "For now, then, I take my leave, Baroness. But I look forward to speaking with you once more."

She laughs, deep and not entirely pleasant, and he can't be entirely sure it's at his joke. Lexoris tilts his head again, but if there is more to be said on that subject, the Eliksni seem content to let Blaze and her kindred explain it. If and when the opportunity arises.

Meantime, she lifts a hand, gestures for him to go. She does rumble a farewell, of a sort: "Until then, Loki of Askaar." One gets the impression anyway that her English fluency isn't suitable for poetic courtesies, if this is that kind of court.

Lexoris moves back to lead the way again. The guard follows again, and they're still keeping watch, but things seem subtly less tense when they head back the same winding route they came. Loki's still going to draw just as many stares and startled hisses from the Eliksni they pass, however.

Loki keeps both the head and pole it was mounted on close at his side, as he goes. His body language is no less princely and controlled than before, but the questing looks from his red eyes are subtler and less devouring. He is still looking and learning, but he has other things to focus on than the immediate tableau of the work going on around him. He listens for stray words, but now that the Baroness no longer commands his attention, Lexoris has it.

"You're different," he murmurs in one of the quieter corridors. "I wonder what it is you see when you look through someone, or something, as you do."

He doubts he'll get an answer, but maybe he'll get a reaction, and it might tell him something new.

The vandal's head turns, a flash of that glimmering visor in the gloom as he glances up over his shoulder. Surprised to be addressed, but not terribly shocked to be called out. He must be weighing his words then, for he's not too hasty to speak.

"Sometimes much. Sometimes little." He stops before a side door, a second before it opens to admit a servitor and its attendants. Lexoris waits respectfully for the machine to glide off down another corridor before he looks up at Loki.

"You are..." and he's not sure of this word, now, not sure it carries the correct weight in this alien tongue, "undecided."

Well, that only serves to interest Loki further. People (of any species) who consider their words and speak deliberately are more difficult to glean information from than the sort who will babble, but what they have to be gleaned is so much more valuable.

He watches the servitor glide by curiously, having no clear idea what the significance of this machine might be to the Eliksni, but certain that it is, to them, vitally important. Another item on the mental list of things to inquire about that he's creating. Too much inquiry would be pushing his luck right now, but if a truce can be established, maybe later there will be time for more. Time to study, for lack of a better term.

"Undecided?" He repeats. "Do you mean that you are uncertain what you see in me, or that you sense that I am undecided about something?"

In fairness, if it's the latter, Loki wouldn't be able to deny that.

"Both are true." Lexoris resumes their march, their footsteps echoing through and from the metal floor. The guard at their back are no doubt listening, though he doesn't seem concerned about that.

"You look... like a human. Like Reef-dwellers. It is strange. But that is just shape, yes? You are more. Like Rehnarr. Like... ghouls, another way."

How oddly charming, to find him so open about his thoughts. Loki really expected a denial, or a 'mind-your-own-business'. Instead, it seems as though this one is nearly as curious about him as he is about the Eliksni. Not all people play things as close to the chest as Loki is wont to do, though. Perhaps that's a cultural difference, or maybe it's just something about Lexoris himself.

"I am a shape-changer. I can look more like a human and less like one, should the mood take me. My birth form was like this, though. Blue, with red eyes. Smaller, of course."

"Do your people have no concept of gods, or immortal spirits?"

There is plenty that Lexoris is withholding, by choice or because of his difficulties with the language. But he does want to know things, and one must risk giving away a little if they wish to learn a little in return. One of the captains behind gives away something himself: a hiss at the word 'gods', and Loki knows that word is both recognized and not especially respected. At least when an outsider invokes it. Lexoris is just quiet for another moment or two, tracing out implications.

"We know gods," he says slowly. "Machine gods of Eliksni. Gods of Hive. The Great Machine. All different. Whose god are you?"

"The highest bidder," Loki says with a burst of false cheer. Connecting himself blithely to humanity seems unwise just now. "The species I am born of are known as Frost Giants. Or Jotun. The realm of Jotunheim is always frozen, always winter."

"I suppose that's why Reynard described me as kin. But I was raised by the Aesir, who you might mistake as human at a glance. But they are not. They are longer lived, far more physically powerful, and many are sorcerers."

"Frost... giants. Your kindred did not choose this name?" Why would they? Loki isn't even that big. Another long, pensive moment. Lexoris is taking his time, but now he's gotten over the initial hurdle of speaking with the alien, he seems to be warming up to the task a little. Enough to make a chuffing sound at Loki's description of yet another species with sorcery and strength beyond their size.

"These Ay-siirr... were human, once?"

"Actually, I think the Aesir chose the name 'Frost Giants'. Some are a bit more giant than I am just now, but rarely more than another head or two higher." He looks thoughtful. "Jotun is the more proper term."

Surtur was far, far bigger than any Jotun, but no one called him a 'fire giant'. It is a bit peculiar now that Loki thinks of it.

"No. No, they were never human, but the superficial resemblance is undeniable. There are a number of beings like that here, you'll find, I think. Not everything that looks human is human, and there's a variety of types of humans as well, because so many worlds meet here."

"As to why Aesir and human look identical at a glance...well, their stories, human stories, claim the first two humans were created by Aesir. But the Aesir claim no such thing."

Lexoris gives a growl as if disgruntled by that answer, though he's far from the first to be surprised by the curious resemblance between humans and so many disparate species. For now, he seems to accept that 'stories' are the best answer he's likely to get. He quiets long enough that Loki might think the vandal is done talking, but then:

"You say they do not trust you. Why?"

"I have a theory," he says. "That while infinite worlds may well meet in a single Nexus, there also exist infinite versions of a Nexus, with all the implied variations in environment and inhabitants. It's possible that we've simply all landed in one where the pink-and-brown bipedal body type is the most prevalent, but there are others where that would be an oddity, and we might instead find more beings with six limbs and four eyes, or even creatures without form or fixed body type."

That's unrelated to anything Lexoris has been asking him, of course, but maybe Loki just felt like talking to fill the silence.

He laughs softly when asked why he's mistrusted. "I have a checkered past. I am known as the god of lies, or the god of mischief. Most of the humans here that know me know me as the person who attempted to conquer their planet, at the head of the Chitauri army."

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All That Are Fallen (for coldsong)

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