Thor Odinson, God of Thunder, King of Asgard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
pirateangelbaby) wrote2023-08-17 04:39 pm
pirateangelbaby) wrote2023-08-17 04:39 pm
Ex Marks the Spot [for rogueinladysclothing]
The summer sun is high in the sky when the little rental car turns the corner around the coast and up the narrow bridge onto the islands of Asvera. The rainbow paint on the concrete has been refreshed and augmented with something that makes it shimmer, though it's still a pale comparison to the rainbow bridge of Asgard. The driver has little room to contemplate that however, instead inching forward at a snail's pace while they stare around at the sleepy little fishing village.
There have been significant modifications made since Asgard's arrival, of course. Several of the outlying islands have been terraformed into housing, and towers of Wakandan and Asgardian design make up much of the new buildings. Handpainted signs point toward the administrative center, still based in an overhauled church, though symbols of Asgardian make have replaced all the existing iconography. It's no gleaming golden palace, and now that they've thought of it, they notice there hasn't been a single figure in armor guarding anything that looks important.
Is this the right place? It has to be, right?
The clothes on the villagers, at least, looks familiar. Fancy robes and dresses, embroidered tunics and embossed belts, though the styles are sometimes an odd mishmash with Earth dress. The hairstyles, too, are another reassurance. Few people on Earth have the time for this level of braiding for casualwear, and enough people are going about their daily trades that it's clear this isn't a special occasion, either.
It's the right place indeed. But the wrong time.
The young man at the reception desk in the admin center helpfully reveals that Thor is not currently in town. The visitor's shoulders slump, and they leave the rental car behind as they wander down the road, contemplating their next move. Wait for him to arrive, knowing that it could be hours? Even days? Leave a note, 'sorry I missed you,' and continue embodying those ships that pass in the night?
The sound of clanging metal and grunts of effort echo down the street, drawing their attention. There's little open land available in Asvera, but the Asgardians have made good use of what they have. A training ring has been established along the northern waterfront, large enough for several dozen people to run drills and skirmish with each other, separated from the main walkway by a split-rail fence. The trainees are lightly armored in leather, armed with carved wooden swords and shields, men and women and children alike. The woman at the head of the class has clearly done this a time or two; her armor is battleworn and well fitted, and her blade moves like an extension of her own arm.
Jane Foster leans against the fence to watch, the memory of Asgard in its glory fresh in her mind as she struggles to process what she's seeing now.
There have been significant modifications made since Asgard's arrival, of course. Several of the outlying islands have been terraformed into housing, and towers of Wakandan and Asgardian design make up much of the new buildings. Handpainted signs point toward the administrative center, still based in an overhauled church, though symbols of Asgardian make have replaced all the existing iconography. It's no gleaming golden palace, and now that they've thought of it, they notice there hasn't been a single figure in armor guarding anything that looks important.
Is this the right place? It has to be, right?
The clothes on the villagers, at least, looks familiar. Fancy robes and dresses, embroidered tunics and embossed belts, though the styles are sometimes an odd mishmash with Earth dress. The hairstyles, too, are another reassurance. Few people on Earth have the time for this level of braiding for casualwear, and enough people are going about their daily trades that it's clear this isn't a special occasion, either.
It's the right place indeed. But the wrong time.
The young man at the reception desk in the admin center helpfully reveals that Thor is not currently in town. The visitor's shoulders slump, and they leave the rental car behind as they wander down the road, contemplating their next move. Wait for him to arrive, knowing that it could be hours? Even days? Leave a note, 'sorry I missed you,' and continue embodying those ships that pass in the night?
The sound of clanging metal and grunts of effort echo down the street, drawing their attention. There's little open land available in Asvera, but the Asgardians have made good use of what they have. A training ring has been established along the northern waterfront, large enough for several dozen people to run drills and skirmish with each other, separated from the main walkway by a split-rail fence. The trainees are lightly armored in leather, armed with carved wooden swords and shields, men and women and children alike. The woman at the head of the class has clearly done this a time or two; her armor is battleworn and well fitted, and her blade moves like an extension of her own arm.
Jane Foster leans against the fence to watch, the memory of Asgard in its glory fresh in her mind as she struggles to process what she's seeing now.