A White Queen Meets an Asgardian Prince

March 2, 2014: After her experience at the St. Regis Hotel with the suicide bombers from Friends of Humanity, Emma decides to take a load off at the Silveroak. While there, she meets Loki, who holds her hand for an awfully long time.

The Silveroak

The Silveroak Tavern sits nestled off one of those side streets in New York no one ever quite thinks about until they happen to be there. It's like a hidden gem in the city, really. Red brick facade accented by green painted wood in an old English pub style. There's no writing over it to proclaim its name. There's just a wooden sign that hangs on a copper bracket over the street, painted with a silver tree, a tankard inscribed on its trunk.

Pushing inside the red-painted door leads one to the warm, golden tap room. A long bar sits against the far wall, the shelves behind it laden with popularly recognizable through to entirely obscure bottles of alcohol from all around the world. A full sized keg, the sort one might expect to see in a period movie, sits at the far end, an oak tree like the one on the hanging sign burnt into its face. It houses the local house mead, widely rumoured by those in the know to be the best in the city… if not the world. The smell of rich and homey foods can be detected wafting from the kitchen, though getting through to that kitchen is a challenge to any not part of the staff.

The place is owned and operated by a small, silver-haired woman apparently in her 60s with merry eyes and a tacit demeanor. She is at once everyone's kindly mother and fierce landlady, a genuine force of nature. Her name is Wassea and she is not lightly crossed in this place. This is a neutral meeting ground. Dark, light, or wild, it matters not. All that matters is that the peace is kept and food and respite are enjoyed to their fullest.



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Mood Music:

Emma Frost does not 'wander' into places. The places she goes, she walks with purpose, with decisive footsteps on very expensive heels. The time is night. There has just been an explosion or four in a very nice hotel not far from here, and mutant-haters are to blame.

Emma's beautiful face is dark, like a thundercloud, heavy and swollen with rain. Her pale blue eyes flash in the warm lighting of the Silveroak as she steps inside…dressed far too nicely to've just been out on the town. Her painfully white fur shawl is achingly expensive, and it protects her arms and back from the chill of the death of winter cool in New York. When she lowers it to hang on her arm, it's easy to see why she wore it—her shoulders, arms, back, and sides…are almost completely bare.

She settles on a stool—showing exquisite ladylike behavior and manners as she effortlessly sweeps the excess folds of her gown to one side as she does so—and requests a very special drink from Wassea. When it's brought to her, the liquid is translucent, but sparkling with rainbow-shimmering bubbles, fizzing like a liquid diamond in the sunlight. Emma closes her eyes, inhales the scent of her drink, and slowly takes a small sip. After the ruination of the Hellfire Club's fundraiser charity event, she knew there was only one place to go, and one drink to have—the Silveroak, for Galadriel's Breath. Whatever the hell it is, it's amazing and it can only be gotten here. So, here, she sits.

The places of the Mortal Realm are still new and unusual to the God of Chaos. Thousands of years ago, this area wasn't even known to 'his followers', such as it is, and only in their wildest dreams could the brutish Norse have invented such a thing that could even begin to rival the majesty that is the Eternal Realm. But, mankind has gone ever forward. And Loki finds himself once more in the City That Never Sleeps, and while not walking the streets, neither is the Prince of Asgard merely wandering. He stands across the street from the pub, hands deep in pockets of a woolen, mortal-looking coat that serves as nothing more but a way to remain unnoticed until he desires such a thing. Cloaked partially in shadow, blue eyes watch as a lady seemingly dressed in all white enters the pub.

Not long after, Loki crosses the street easily, unheeding of the traffic; he obviously cares not. With his hands still in pockets, the door opens easily without the touch of a warm hand. He enters, and the door obligingly closes behind him, sealing off the noise of the world to those patrons within.

Pausing, brows rise as Loki looks around the room; unexpected warmth. A feeling of familiarity, even if not 'familiar'. Slowly, he walks to the bar in measured steps, his hands coming from his pockets now, and he doesn't even bother to look at any menus, assuming there are any.


Emma's eyes roll closed in complete enjoyment—like the moment one slides into a very hot bath after a very long day—as she sips slowly at her drink. Though it is, by no means, a small glass, the drink is exorbitantly expensive. There is, of course, a reason for this—fae magic is imbued in it, and it is, in fact, a drink meant for the fae. However, the price does not cause Emma to shy away, oh, no. That makes it all the more desirable. Unfortunately, Wassea refuses to sell her bottles, which forces her to come into the Silveroak whenever she has a real need for such a drink.

With a protracted exhale, her muscles begin to relax and her head stops humming with irritation. That is when a rather handsome, dark-haired man steps up to the bar near her…and orders a mead. Emma, in a far better mood than when she first sat down, peeks at Loki from where she sits, admiring his jawline, and the way his hair is tucked behind his ear. "Is mead sweet?" she asks impulsively. "I've never had mead, but I've always thought it must be sweet, though I'm not sure why." Her smile, though gentle, is dazzling. Achingly beautiful, this woman.

Blue eyes drift towards the drink first- magic draws those magically inclined, after all. A brow lifts in curiosity before the line is followed- glass, shapely arm to a lovely lady. Mortal? More's the pity. Letting that thought shift into the back of his head, the initial impulse thus resisted, Loki leans upon the bar as the cup is placed before him.

A nod of acknowledgment is given, and a gold coin pulled from a pocket in payment is placed upon the grand wooden bar top. First, a swallow to taste is taken, and then a response is formed to the bewitching form beside him.

"Honey wine. Made of cinnamon, nutmeg, and just a hint clove. A attempt, and a worthy one."

Now, the magical concoction that Emma drinks is questioned, and it's with a gentle gesture towards the glass itself. "Often?" As in, is that a 'usual' for you?. Already, there behind those eyes is the running of potentials… for him.

Emma leans to one side slightly, as if to better sideways-face the man beside her without actually turning. Her eyes skitter over his features as he leans forward, reaching for the glass set in front of him. Her initial attempt to read his mind having met resistance—a sign of a strong mind, a strong will, which is ever so attractive—she pushes a wee bit harder and…finds chaos. Thoughts of Asgard. His armour. Thor… a black box. Mystique. The need for an army.. Dark worlds. Creatures not seen on 'Midgard'. Frost Giant. It's somewhat difficult to discern if it's 'today' or a thousand years ago.. or two.

Her eyes widen slightly at the flickering madness of the thoughts that speed and wriggle through Loki's mind, like a writhing mass of things, all struggling to be free of the heap, or at least, on top… She withdraws her senses as he swallows his first taste of the mead and her smile is slightly less easy, but no less entrancing. "It does sound rather delightful," she nods, taking another sip of her drink to calm her nerves, which snap and pop with unease after the experience of just the top layer of Loki's mind.

As the handsome man gestures toward her glass—still mostly full, thankfully—Emma laughs softly. "I wouldn't say often. It's a special occasion sort of drink—only for the very worst or very best kinds of days. If I were to drink too often, I fear it would lose its shine or I would," she says with a fond look at the liquid still bubbling iridescently in the glass. "But, it is a favorite," she says, her eyes sliding back to his, and her smile easy, once more.

"When one is used to a cold climate, there is little room for a vineyard. Much easier, bees." Loki's expression holds a ghost of a smile in that 'secret kept' fashion. Asgardian bees? Juuuust a little different than those found on Midgard. "And it can be heated for a warm drink on bitter nights for a lovely time."

Loki turns about to Emma's shift, and he regards her fully. "For only the best or the worst of days. I can only imagine that it's been…" Here, he pauses, his head quirking as brows rise. He's looking into her eyes, searching her face before the smile returns, his lips in a fine line. "'One of those days', I believe it's said?"

One more swallow is given his mead before he sets it down upon the top of the bar once again. If he were his brother, the glass would be smashed upon the floor and 'Another!' would be bellowed through the hall. The younger brother has a little more courtesy; at least in that regard. He does chuckle, the sound light and genuine for the moment, but there's just something in the back of those eyes, "Oh, I dare say you couldn't lose your shine. Care to tell me about it?"

Bees? Emma is reminded of one of her Oscar Wilde plays. "'Were I fortunate enough to be Miss Prism's pupil, I would hang upon her lips…'," she quotes the reverend Doctor Chasuble, "'I spoke metaphorically… My metaphor was drawn from…bees.'" She laughs in remembrance of the moment in the play The Importance of Being Earnest, and nods at his words. "I do like something that affords flexibility. Good to drink cold when it is warm, and to drink warm when it is cold. A bonus," she affords, looking mildly interested at the cup holding the liquid.

"Oh, yes. One of those days, exactly," she groans lightly. She's somewhat relieved to be on a topic which brings her out of the warm caress of his gaze, something to put her feet back on the ground, so to speak. She smiles wryly at his comment about never losing her shine, but the expression is also one of delicate preening, as well. "Ohhh, if I must," she exhales, taking another sip of her drink before sitting it on the bar. "I was at a charity benefit for human and mutant relations.

In fact, it was a very lovely socialite event, despite the topic of conversation, but it got quite ruined. I'd introduced the key speaker for the evening, made my way down the stairs, and then two suicide bombers came wheeling into the room with a tacky projector, which began playing some strange man's manifesto. About how mutants are abominations and so forth. Then, the suicide bombers began blowing themselves up," she sighs. "Got the children out okay, and some mutants were there for just such an occasion… For people against mutants, I mean. So, I don't think there were any deaths but the suicide bombers, but it was all very hectic and messy," she makes a pouty face, with her nose wrinkled. How could someone do that to her event?

Loki makes a subtle gesture, one known to those who tend bars world over; another of the same. His attention isn't on the request, however, but instead upon the intriguing storyteller. "I've only recently heard tell of mutants, much less their difficulties." It's an admission that does no harm to him, and can only encourage more discussion on the matter. Leaning forward, his tones turn a whisper, meant only for her ears, even if it is done somewhat theatrically.

"Are you one, then?"

Straightening once again, there's something of a boyish curiosity that plays upon his face, his head quirked and questioning; as if to meet yet another one is a treat usually given for special occasions. He's met one before, a known… Mystique. Ravishing in blue. Literally.

"Surely they will pay for such an attempt."

"One can't blame you for not knowing much of mutants. Why should one care about anything called a mutant? It's such an ugly word," Emma Frost says airily. "They're the next step in evolution. Just because they're more evolved doesn't mean they're mutants," she says with a visible distaste for the word. "Well," she pauses, her brows lifted in a thoughtful manner, "I suppose some of them look like mutants, grotesque and not fit for public viewing, but they can hardly help that and the rest of the evolved shouldn't suffer such an ugly, slur-like term."

At the question, Emma laughs. "Am I one, what? A hideous mutant? No. I don't like, nor do I accept that terminology. However, I am evolved," she smiles, lifting a hand and letting it shift to organic diamond form, sparkling in the soft light of the tavern. "Some of us have multiple skills," she says cryptically.

"Oh, I'm certain they will pay, eventually. These people.. Humanity First or some such nonsense. The 'mutant,'" and here she makes air-quotes around the word, "population will get very riled up. I've been asked to look into it in my special way, and I've said I would, but only as long as it does not further involve me. While I'm not fond of humans taking umbrage against those who have evolved past them, I also don't have time to start a war over this mess," she sighs and waves a hand vaguely. Another sip of her drink.

[OOC Note: The group to whom Emma is referring is the Friends of Humanity, but I felt it was more appropriate for her to misremember the name of the group.]

"Well, they certainly don't make themselves known," Loki shrugs, finding that bit of equilibrium again. "I was more than a little surprised to find that Midgard holds such remarkable creatures." There is a note of almost wistfulness. Of, if not approval, certainly easy acceptance. Here, then, he'll be choosing his army from this small handful of remarkable mortals.

Blue eyes watch as the hand turns to virtually flawless diamond, and there's a ghost of a smile that reappears from that briefest flicker of disappointment at being corrected. Still, he's not above learning. "So I see." Loki reaches out to touch the hand, a polite, "May I?" falling from his lips.

"Humanity First," is repeated, before he acknowledges the second glass of mead set before him. Without looking at the glass, it begins to slide past him and in front of Emma as if in offerance. "For you to try. If you don't like it, I promise I won't be offended."

Loki chuckles, and he looks down briefly before returning his attention up. Albeit slowly. "And I don't even know your name."

"If you were remarkable in a sea of unremarkable beings and your remarkable nature brought you more trouble than it did benefits, perhaps even leading to your being attacked with the intent to be killed, would you let your little light shine?" Emma asks, grinning a bit. "You are…certainly something special. The mention of Midgard tells me Norse. The way you speak of humans as being 'remarkable,' tells me you are something more than mortal," she says as she gives Loki her hand in its absolutely flawless (for her flaw does not exist in her hand) diamond form, allowing him to examine it to his heart's content. It feels…warm, like her body temperature, but it is smooth to the touch. To squeeze it is to grip something incredibly hard, though she can easily flex and move her hand as though it were still flesh.

Emma accepts the cup of mead with a smile, lifting it to drink a small taste, at first, and a deeper one when she discovers it to be very good. She sets the cup down and her eyes sparkle as she smiles, "Thank you, Asgardian. I do like it, so you may feel appropriately proud. And, I'll give you my name if you give me yours." She grins broadly, now. "I am Emma Frost, sometimes known as the White Queen, but at my core and in my heart and soul, I will always and ever be Emma Frost," she introduces herself with an air of dignity and pride, for she has much refinement and a lot to be proud of, if she may say so herself.

Loki considers the question before a soft chuff of air passes in a chuckle and he shakes his head. "I concede." So says the Frost Giant in the form of an Asgardian. Though, it is hard to say exactly what is his true form.

That hand, however, and his attention doesn't move from it. His touch is light, his fingers long.. and gently testing. Nothing that could hurt, even in flesh form, but he is prodding. "And you can feel." It's more a statement than a question, though he is trying to fill in gaps of his knowledge there.

Finally, his gaze rises to the lady before him, and his smile creeps even further across his face. "Yes," is stated. "I am of Asgard." He's toying, however, and he shifts his position even as she tries the cup of offered mead. "Loki Odinson. Prince of Asgard." Here, Loki pauses, his tones questioning, "The White Queen?"

Intrigued once again, the chair behind him finally moves towards him and he can take his rest. "It's a title that most don't claim, you see. 'Queen'." A soft chuckle sounds and with an inclination of his head, there's a quirked bit of mirth that hangs beneath light tones. He's teasing, "Your Majesty."

Emma's hand rests in Loki's grasp for as long as he wishes, and she allows him to examine it without reproach. Perhaps it is interesting to note that, on the hand she's offered, she is wearing a ring—the ring is now also organic diamond. At the question, she nods her head, "Well, I can feel that you're holding my hand, you sly one." At that she grins playfully. "But, if you wonder whether or not I can feel pain? I do not, not as such. It slightly numbs everything, but pain is not felt much at all, save perhaps for pressure," she explains.

When Loki's eyes rise to hers and his smile broadens, her heart does a little flippy flop, but she very quickly pulls the reigns tight on her emotions—nooooo, no. No, ma'am. Mmm mm. Emma Frost does NOT lose her head over a handsome face and twinkly, mischievous eyes, no. She clears her throat, "Well, then. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Loki Odinson, Prince of Asgard." She takes another sip of her drink—nerves, you know—and grins at the question. "White Queen, yes. It is something after the chess piece, though I do believe I am quite regal in bearing, tastes, and personality," she allows, being ever so modest. "Not everyone, it is true, can claim such a title and wear it with such ease," she says with even MORE humility. She grins, then, and winks. "Your highness."

Loki actually laughs, a soft sound, at her teasing about holding her hand. He catches the explanation and nods, expression thoughtful. Setting her hand 'free', as it were, Loki retakes his glass, and what little is left, finishes it off with a final swallow, the glass replaced. He'll not order another… not tonight, anyway.

"Ah.." and the sound is a long one, with understanding now lying beneath the tones. "I see. So, is there a 'White King' that sits upon the throne of your fiefdom, Emma Frost? Or do you hold the keys to your own Kingdom?" It's an innocent question wrapped in a 'need to know' for so very many reasons.

This is probably one of the few times, however, that someone has not asked after his brother after an introduction. That… that in itself is a positive thing in his book, which puts him in a better mood. "But you do wear it with some ease. I've seen many princesses that haven't the skill, or the beauty to begin to claim such a title, much less Queen. Though," and here his voice lowers, "there are none that can compare to my Queen. A lady of infinite grace and kindness."

Loki words linger in the air briefly before he looks a little .. embarrassed, and a low, self-deprecating laugh sounds. "I should go. Now that I know this is here, I wonder if I shall run into you again?"

With her hand back, Emma finally returns to fully flesh and lifts her glass of Galadriel's Breath, her diamond ring sparkling once more in the warm light. "Well, there has been, from time to time, someone who wished to fill the position and was given an opportunity, but it seems there are few men who have the stamina to sit upon a throne beside one as…formidable as me," she says with a gentle smile. "At the moment, I hold all the keys to my kingdom and the land is ruled by a Queen. I am, though, ever on the look out for potential leadership qualities in those I meet," she offers, perhaps hinting at something, though her tone nor expression says anything clearly.

At the compliment, followed by an earnest, almost worshipful acknowledgement of another queen, Emma smiles lightly, "I appreciate your recognizing the ease with which I bear my duties. It is the role for which I was born." Then, "I do hope you'll give my respects to your Queen, a lady, as you say, of infinite grace and kindness. I fear that I may not be viewed so similarly, as a Queen in my position hasn't the luxury of kindness to one and all. Grace, on the other hand, is a natural talent."

Sipping at her drink, she nods her head, "I'm sure that we will meet, again. As things go, with people who have responsibilities that rest on higher planes… I only hope we are on the same side, when next we meet." She smiles warmly and offers her hand by way of saying goodbye.

"You will fail in your quest, Emma Frost, if you are seeking to raise a man up to be your King. They are born, not made."

Loki slides off his seat gracefully, and standing straight, inclines his head once again in a hint of a bow. The hand that is offered is taken lightly, supported by fingers before he leans to touch his lips to skin there. "It would be unfortunate if we were to meet again, only to find ourselves at odds." It's a polite lament.

Releasing her hand gently so as not to jar her, Loki takes a step back. "I will give your regards to the Queen of Asgard," and his lips quirk in a lopsided smile, "And I'm certain she bears your concerns regarding kindness. But, to her credit, the Nine Realms still bask in it."

Turning about now, the Asgardian prince starts towards the door, and within a few steps of it, the portal opens with no hand upon it, and closes gently behind him as he passes through.

"Ohhh, I don't hope to make one. I agree with you, there. Kings are born, not made. But, I can keep an eye out for one with the king inside locked away, unrealized," Emma smiles wickedly. "Sometimes, all one needs is a little push in the right direction to see what they're meant to be."

At the kiss, Emma nods her head in acknowledgement of the gesture and in her own manner of bidding the handsome Asgardian farewell. "Once again, we are in agreement. Let us do our best not to be at odds, for it's so pleasant when we're not," she laughs lightly. She politely ignores the comment that hints at the idea that she might, in some way, be lesser than this other queen. "Be well," is all she says as Loki walks through the portal and it closes behind him. She turns back to her drink and sighs softly, sipping it, once more. Well. That was nice. She may have made a new friend. She smiles at Wassea and lifts her glass to the bartendress.

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