Fae Mead and Mjolnir

March 3, 2014: Some people gather at the Silveroak for fae mead and light discussion.

NYC ― The Silveroak Tavern

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.



  • Wassea (NPC)

Mood Music:

And, so it is. Another nice night in New York City, chilly but at the tail end of winter now, but patrons-in-the-know still huddle in their coats and push open the solid, red-painted door to the warmth and soft light of the Silveroak. Sitting at the bar in a very, very fancy dress, with crossed legs and a glass of Galadriel's Breath (a fae drink that is incredibly expensive, as it lifts spirits and calms nerves) in front of her, is one Emma Frost.

The soft sounds of people enjoying the peaceful atmosphere of the Silveroak fills the air, along with the crackling of wood from the fireplace. All is calm, considering.

Contrary to popular belief, Thor doesn't always arrive with a clap of thunder. It's a touch anticlimactic, but the God of Storms just opens the door and walks into the bar. With a flourish he undoes his cape and hangs it up, wearing the thick, sleeveless tunic he prefers when walking in Midgard.

"Barkeep!" he thunders. Ok, so, there is some thundering. "Six pints of your finest stout! And… oh, pardon, m'Lady," Thor says, bowing to the silver-haired bartender. He might have a few thousand years on her, but relative age is still something to be respected. "Six pints of oatmeal stout, ain' it please thee," he requests, speaking in his antiquated English that is precisely correct, as of roughly 1680. "And if it inconveniences you not, a serving of… 'fries'," he says, trying the word out cautiously.

He turns around the room, looking, then drops those blue eyes on Emma. "Madame, have you seen my brother? A stately rogue, a few inches less my height, with black hair?" he inquires of her. "Silver tongued, dressed in green, most likely?" he inquires of the psychic.

It's one of those places one catches by overhearing rumors then by following up with the appropriate amounts of legwork. It's in New York City, which..narrows it down, slightly. Fortunately, the Big Apple is Talia's current home. Hang out with enough drunk metal and rivetheads and secrets start to slip. Secrets like that of the Silveroak.

Some of the -other- drunken rumors were quite interesting as well, though she's going to assume most of them regarding this joint were nothing more than intoxicated delusions, such as the story about the white dog that looks at you like it understands what you're saying.

Talia's been dealing with the Bamfs on a daily basis. They could build an interociter out of common household appliances and -they- barely give her a look when she tries to talk to them.

Now stepping in from the chilly streets is one Wagnerette, her solid golden eyes cutting through any localized shadows. She may only be a quarter Neyaphem, though that one quarter is exceedingly obvious.

It's still very easily overshadowed by the entrance of the big blond man directly ahead of her. "Wow, got some pipes on ya there, big guy. Ever try singing with those bellows?"

The bartender, in this instance Wassea herself, gives Thor a small smile and a nod of her head that is as eloquent as any bow or curtsy she might make. Truthfully, the woman is older than the Thunderer, well over 3000 years of age. But, she'll not tell anyone how much older. She sets about filling the mugs as a young woman with burnished brown hair pushes through from the back kitchen. A large white dog — the one TJ has heard about, no doubt — slips around from behind her, pushing ahead and strolling over toward the fireplace like he owns the joint. With an unceremonious flop, he settles on the fur rug spread before the hearth and lets out a grumbly-groany sigh recognized the world over as the sound of a big dog finding contentment.

"Dana," Wassea calls lightly. "Would you mind? The Thunderer wants six pints of the stout. I shall fetch his food."

"You got it," Dana says, turning immediately to the landlady. As she slides behind the bar, she gives the Asgardian a nod in greeting. "Lord Thor," she says lightly. Her eyes flick toward Emma, as well, though more because of the expensive evening gown than anything else. That, and she's not seen the woman's face in here before — which doesn't mean much, necessarily. "Ma'am."

As she starts pulling the tap to finish filling the glasses, her eyes flick over to the blue woman with the glowing yellow eyes… and the tail. Beyond noting that, however, and how the woman greets Thor, she doesn't bat an eyelash. The Silveroak is host to many unusual patrons — Otherworldly, mutant, mundane, and more. It's a safe place, without judgment on such things, as long as the peace is kept.

"What can I get you?" she calls to the blue girl.

Emma jolts in her seat at the bar when Thor bellows loudly from behind her. In the relative peace that had been in the area until his arrival, it's something akin to a car backfiring loudly near a microphone in a library. She almost knocks over the cup of mead that Loki bought for her. Shaking her head to clear her senses, she turns to look at the giant Asgardian in his tunic-what was it they said about a man in a tunic? Never trust a man in a tunic?

However, she can't help but grin as he corrects himself and reorders in a more polite way, adding on a side of fries. Now, when she met Loki, he didn't mention Thor. Neither did she. But, since she's met one Asgardian god, she figures…why not two? And, this one definitely smacks of Thor, from her recollections of mythology. Especially with Mjolnir in sight.

When Thor looks at her, finally, and asks after Loki, Emma smiles softly, "I did, indeed, Thor Odinson. I met him a couple of days ago, in this very tavern. Unfortunately, I haven't seen him since. He drank a glass of mead, spoke with me for a while, ordered a glass of mead for me, then took his leave through a portal of some kind," she explains. Very helpfully. She glances at Talia—oh, my, blue—when she addresses Thor and grins at the question.

At the greeting from Dana, Emma smiles politely and nods her head. "What a lovely dog," she comments to the younger lady, looking back in the direction of the white dog that galumphed down by the fire. "I imagine grooming time must be a chore." Wow, this drink really DOES make her friendlier. Then again, it's probably better to be polite to the establishment's owners and such.

Thor blinks at Talia just before he responds to her. "Sooth, thou ar't pert," he informs the diminutive Neyaphem halfling. "And aye, I sing, tho not as well as some," he offers with a grin. "Tavern songs and battle hymns. Singing is for women and skalds, for women have the gift of music and skalds have the talent of storytelling. I can but be boisterous, for aye, that is what I am made for."

He turns to Wassea and offers his most charming smile- boyish and broad. "And Lady, I apologize for my behaviour, rude as 'twere," he says. "Thou look quite fine this evening. I did not recognize thee at first. My mother, certainly, would bid me send regards." He turns the smile into a grin, then turns to Dana and bows slightly to her. "M'lady," he offers the girl. "I am Thor Odinson. An honor."

Finally, he turns back to Emma, and gives her a much more appraising look. "Well, his loss of your company is my gain!" Thor declares, grinning broadly at the blonde. "Midgard seldom sees your like here. Of what were you and my brother speaking?" he inquires curiously. "Loki has been quite busy of late. I am curious if he is enjoying his exploration of Midgard." The stout and fries arrive, and he promptly chugs half the stout with a contented sigh. "Civilization as old as some races, and my people not once considered the virtues of simple oatmeal stout," he declares, still a bit over-loud. "Truly, Midgard's finest contribution to the Nine Realms."

Talia's posture is similar to that of a curious cat eyeing something unfamiliar and new as she leeeans around to stare at Thor with those illuminated eyes. 'Pert?' Her stare is momentarily interrupted by a single blink, part of her wondering if she should be glancing down at herself… Instead, she pushes a toothy grin to full display. "Glad I have an excuse to be using the ol' vocal chords, then."

The connection is made with a snap of broad, chunky fingers. "Thunder God, no kidding! That is some -killer- cosplay, my man. Even got the personality spot on! Did I miss another convention in the area?"

She'll figure it out sooner or later. In the meantime, she's got someone taking her order. With a near silent series of hops she comes to perch along one of the barstools, just as quickly remembers that she's wearing boots that are somewhat less than clean and dry, then plops herself onto her keister proper. Maybe she's blue, but this other gal nearby looks like she's attempting to imitate a snowflake, both in design and in hue.

"I heard your 'house special' drink is something of a paragon," she replies while clearly being distracted by Thor off to the side. He's still in character. Pretty..darned good character, in fact… Even the detail on his hammer is impressive. Inclining her head slightly, she inquires "Mind if I get a look at that mole whacker?"

"Convey my greetings to thy Lady Mother in turn," Wassea says formally to Thor, giving an elegant smile. "And remind her I yet have a bottle of Elysian gold in my cellar, should she care to visit." With that, however, she slips out to conjure up some of the best damned fries in the city.

To Emma's assessment of her hound, Dana chuckles. "Can be," she admits. "But he has a tendency to go right back out immediately thereafter and destroy all my work. So, I have to confess, I'm a little more lax about it than I could be." She listens to the woman tell Thor of Loki and how he'd ordered the mead for her. A critical eye goes to the glass she now holds, assessing its contents. All of the bartenders here will cut the stuff some when giving it to people they deem not to have the constitution for it. The house mead can set might Sidhe warriors on their ass… and put humans out for the count before a quarter of the glass is drunk. So, yes. It gets cut a lot. Doesn't diminish the taste terribly, but it does mitigate its effects.

She gives Thor a smile. "Aye. And how is your Lady?" she asks the Thunderer, setting the pints before him and picking up a cloth to give the counter a quick wipe down.

As the neyaphem girl orders the house mead, Dana gives her an appraising look. Her eyes squint faintly as she looks to assess the girl more closely, gaze flicking around the outside of her person before she settles on her face. "Let me see what I can do," she says lightly, grabbing a tankard and walking around to pull on the tap of the huge keg that stands along the wall.

Emma listens to Thor speak to Talia with a sort of fascination that can only be described as 'rapt.' The way he speaks is like something out of fairy tales. She can't help but grin into her cup as he makes a genial, but sexist comment about women having the gift of music. Not all of them, but it's nice to say, anyway.

At Thor's more intense look, Emma smiles softly and prepares herself for more flirting and flattery. It seems that's one thing Asgardian boys are taught as a regular part of schooling. "Oh, don't make me blush," she teases, laughing. "As for what we were discussing… Well, there was a little to-do, a couple of days ago. A charity event was being held for mutant-human relations, which featured mutant children, the mutant hero known as Mimic, and, apparently, suicide bombers who hate mutants. Loki told me he wasn't that knowledgeable about mutants, so I spoke with him about that a little," she says, lifting her glass, again.

To Dana's keen eye, she can clearly see that the glass is mostly full of Galadriel's Breath (marketed wisely by use of the popular Lord of the Rings Elf Queen Galadriel) which is a translucent, clear liquid, save for iridescent bubbles that constantly fizz in it, and it calms and uplifts. It tastes different to everyone who drinks it, it is a fae drink, as well, and must be drunk slowly, lest it become both addictive and incredibly dangerous.

"Ahh, I'm familiar with that. Some of the few fond memories I have of my childhood include our dogs. Insufferable little ratters, but I loved them," she sighs wistfully. She glances over at the dog for a moment before smiling at Dana, again. "My compliments to the house, this is such a lovely atmosphere."

Absently, Thor lifts Mjolnir into his hand- as effortlessly as if it were made of plastic- and drops it on the bar (careful not to dent the wood), where it sounds like it's made of lead. "By all means, inspect it. Drop it not on thy foot," he cautions the neyaphem, unable to hide a mischievous grin.

He sits at the bar between Talia and Emma, speaking with Rune who is serving drinks to all three. It's a quiet evening in the bar, made more disruptive by the way Thor speaks in a near bellow at all times.

Thor nods his thanks to the departing Wassea and takes another gulp of stout, this time savouring it a bit more. "My Lady?" Thor asks Dana, a bit confusedly. "The Queen Mother is quite well," he says, sounding a bit confused. He doesn't usually misunderstand English, but colloquialisms sometimes hang him up. "Perhaps I misunderstand- I am not currently attached," he says with a slight frown. "Fain tell me, if a lady is 'mine', doth that mean we are engaged?" he inquires, sounding puzzled (which is slightly comedic on his stern, lantern-jawed features).

"I am pleased he has left a pleasant wake in his departure," Thor informs Emma with a smile. "Oftimes my brother can be… problematic. He is a good man, I assure you all," he says, making a gesture at the bar in general, "but he has a penchant for jest that is offensive if taken incorrectly. I merely wish to ensure he left you thinking well of him. May I inquire as to what you told him of the mutants who dwell here?" he asks Emma, genuinely curious.

The appraising look is met with one more of those blank yellow stares. Talia's about to reach for some ID, age verification can be a real pain sometimes. She's not the Asgardian sort. Nor the Fae. Really, she's just of the German persuasion.

Better cut the stuff.

WHUMP. TJ's eyes widen a bit further. Sure, this Thor guy has some solid muscle to him. She has no doubt that the man could carry a -prop.- Most Cons tend to frown upon anything that could possibly be seen as a weapon, however. So, using her excellent powers of deduction, she can start drawing further assumptions as she reaches for the handle—

The moment is only made that much more surreal by the micro-suction discs in her palm, it's as though her very hand is glued to the hammer as the hammer itself appears to be glued to the countertop.

Blink. "..Holy hell, I'm sharing a drink with Thor. Today just got eight hundred percent more awesome."

The remark made about Mimic, and Thor's interest in the matter, has TJ leeeeeaning back to look around the Asgardian to Emma, herself. Mjolnir now serves as an anchor, she's got one hand yet stuck to the handle to keep herself from spilling out onto the floor as she tilts backward. "Yeah, what's going on with that now..? Suicide bombers sounds..bad."

Pushing open the door of the Silveroak and stepping in off the street, Logan is wearing a red and white flannel shirt with jeans, cowboy boots and hat. The sleeves of the shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and the man pauses a few steps inside to look around.

…Huh. The old man grunts upon noting a few familiar figures at the bar together. "$!@(!*# strangest trio I think I've ever seen," the canuck grunts quietly to himself in an amused tone while lifting a hand in greeting should the bartending Dana or one of the group look his way. Wandering closer, the feral reaches up to take off his cowboy hat and tries to plop it on Talia's head as he claims the open spot next to her and he's peering over at Emma.

"What's shakin', TJ? Nice toy there. Don't hurt yourself." Leaning forearms on the bar, Logan grunts as he realizes what they're talking about and mutters under his breath, "&$@!@*! bombs." Aside to Emma, he wonders, "We ever get an injury report on that, blondie?

"The Shieldmaiden?" Dana says to Thor, clarifying. She chuckles softly. "My error," she says flipping a hand dismissively. "Forgive me." About then, Wassea slips out with the plate of fries for Thor, each one crisp, golden, and flavourful. (On a scale of 1-10, Wassea's cooking usually clocks in at 11+.) She sets them down, gives the Asgardian a light smile, and retreats back to the kitchen to allow Dana to tend the bar for a while, while she preps the bread for the overnight baking.

"Thank you," Dana says to Emma. "Wassea is very particular about it, and, to me, it's home." No word of a lie, given she actually lives in a suite up the back stairs.

She glances to TJ's ID before she places the cut tankard of mead before her. She stands back a moment, however, and watches the girl struggle with the legendary artifact. An amused grin touches her lips, hazel eyes dancing.

When the door opens and a familiar hairy Canuck ambles in, Dana's dog lifts his head from the rug and chuffs a light greeting. The woman turns her head and smiles, raising her own hand in greeting. "Jack's or House, Logan?" she asks, reaching for a clean cup for the man.

"Oh, I told him how I detest the word mutant, because it's really more of an evolution. And, that's why humans hate mutants. Though, of course, some mutants have mutations that are harder to conceal, which makes them bigger targets…" Emma replies, casting a surreptitious glance at Talia, who is one of those very mutants, from all appearances. "He stated he was surprised to find such remarkable humans in Midgard, which told me that he was Norse and also more than human," she laughs softly. "I showed him one of my gifts, and he was very interested," she offers. "Outside of flattery, he caused no trouble, at all," Emma laughs.

As Logan makes his entrance and asks about injury reports, Emma scowls at the nickname, "I have a name and it is Emma Frost. I'd prefer not to be called 'blondie,' even if it is meant affectionately. Emma will do, if you must be familiar." She exhales and squeezes her eyes shut, "Insofar as I know, the only two casualties were the suicide bombers, thanks to Mimic's quick thinking. I heard you got blown up in the kitchen, but that's as much as I've heard. Mimic asked me to look deeper, which I will, when I've had a chance." She looks down at her drink and nurses it a bit more.

Thor laughs at Talia and just for fun, moves Mjolnir an inch with his fingertip, sliding it along the bar as if it weighed nothing. He nods at Logan affably as the man joins the bar, and reaches around TJ to offer him a handshake. "Thor Odinson," he explains. "And aye, that Thor," he grins at Talia. "The Lord of Thunder, the Oncoming Storm."

He nods again at Wassea as the Fae returns, accepting his fries with an eager grin. "I am sorry to hear of the attack on your people," he offers Emma consolingly. "To have thy people threatened sets any leader at ill ease." He finishes his stout, then beckons Wassea politely. "A tankard of thy mead, please?" he requests of the woman.

Suddenly: Hat. "Why does everyone assume I'm going to hurt myself with a six hundred pound hammer? Give or take fifteen tons," Talia asks while swiveling her attention around to follow that of the newly arrived Logan. "People of little faith…" It's not like she'll get the thing to budge, anyway. Unlike its owner! Though, while she releases her hold of Thor's silent and otherwise unmoveable companion, part of her's already pondering if she might be able to move the legendary hammer if she first possessed the Thunder God, himself. Not that she's about to -try,- but…

It's a valid question!

Now, the matter of suicide bombers is serious. She's really trying to -be serious- during the discussion. Problem is, there's so many distractions already. Good distractions. Happy distractions. Distractions such as the best-smelling fries she has -ever- encountered in any fashion. She'll just..tilt the brim of Logan's hat further up away from her eyes with the pointed tip of her tail.

Teej's mind is kind of a bouncy place. 'Dude..it's THOR.' 'God those fries smell good, wonder if he'd notice if—no, no, don't gank Thor's fries.' 'It's really nice having a Logan in this reality that can still walk on his own.' 'I wonder if—waitasec.'

Here she slooowly leans around the Asgardian once more, peering at Emma with one eye notably wider than the other. It's conveniently well timed with when Emma happens to be passing a look her way in return, though Emma would know better. Talia noticed the other mutant's surface scan, -just- enough. That, and word that Logan got himself blown up in a kitchen. She can't help but glance his way, next. "Keeping out of trouble, I see," she teases with a smirk.

"I'll do a mug of the house mead," Logan answers the baretender with a smile for the half-fae woman, "How you doin' this evening, Dana? This lot treating you right? TJ in particular gives you any flak, let me know." He turns a grin on the blue mutant for a brief moment before takes Thor's jumbo-sized hand in his own not so massive hand to shake, "Good to see you again, thunder god."

Looking back aside to Emma, the canucklehead snorts, "Alright, alright. Wouldn't want to hurt your image or nothin', Emma. And yeah. I ate a bomb. Don't think that one hurt anybody, thankfully." Well, besides him, anyways. He got better, though. "Good to hear. Could've been a lot worse, after all."

"I dunno, maybe because it's magic," the old X-Man answers TJ in wry amusement while leaning on the bar and looking down the length of it at her and the others. "And yeah, you know me. Bombs for breakfast. Bullets for lunch. Blades for dinner. Burns for dessert. I gotta get my daily intake of trouble and painful B's or I start getting soft."

Dana falls silent, simply listening to the conversation among Emma and Logan. Her thoughts, of a habit, really, remain superficial, focused on the task before her, keeping an eye on other patrons at the bar. This doesn't, however, mean the girl doesn't have a sense of insight and attention about her. There are layers there that remain quite hidden beneath that easy surface.

Wassea nods lightly to Thor, but glances to Dana, who nods to Wassea in turn. She reaches up to grab another tankard from the rack overhead, and a second at Logan's request, and moves around to tap that keg once more. And this time, there's no cutting involved. She knows Logan can handle it. And Thor. Indeed, let them land on their asses, if they will. There's no guarantee. She returns and sets the mug down beside each of them, smiling. "Enjoy."

She listens to TJ chatter at Logan, and watches her steal the hat. That the hair mutant appears to trust her is telling for the Sidhe woman. Still, she starts clearing the empties scattered variously around — like Thor's 6 pints of stout — and collects them in a basket to be carted to the kitchen by and by. "Not bad, Logan," she replies to the Canuck. "Exciting enough evening, but nothing quite like your adventures in bomb diffusing, it sounds like…"

"Aye, 'tis magic," Thor explains with a nod at Mjolnir. "Crafted by the dwarves, empowered by Odin Allfather, made of refined Uru. There is nothing like it in the universe. By no means can it be sundered, nor can the unworthy lift it. Only one who is noble of heart, stern of spirit, and worthy of the mantle of bearer may lift Mjolnir," he explains, without any sign of hubris or pride. He speaks perfectly matter of fact. "And where it rests, it cannot be moved."

He smiles and accepts the mead from Wassea and knocks back a healthy chug of it. Asgard does many things well, but it is hard to beat real Sidhe mead. "This is worth traversing the worlds themselves, lady," he tells Wassea. "Sooth, but I wish thou dwelt in Asgard. Thy mead would flow like the rivers themselves."

"I think you're misunderstanding what a B12 supplement is," Talia flatly replies to Logan. Here she coils that tail around his hat and pops it off of her head, turning it this way and that as she searches for bulletholes, shrapnel, or any unidentifiable scorch marks. It's like a relic of a shipwreck, so many glimpses into so many stories all in one tidy package of questionable fashionable presence.

"And I am inclined to believe anything that you say," she replies to Thor with a sheepish grin. When he mentions that it cannot be moved once it is left to rest, she grins and states "Sounds like my father."

She's gotten a late start on tackling her own drink. Not for lack of interest! Now that she gets around to trying it she falls silent and blinks a few more times, swallowing then whistling low. "Okay, that guy was talking some sense, after all. -Wow.-"

And hers is watered down!

Wolverine most definitely does not have the sudden urge to poke at Mjolnir with a claw. No way. He's not that crazy, is he? Anyone able to hear the old canuck's head might know different. It's a quick, fleeting thought, though. An idle idea gone as quick as it's conjured. With an audible snort. Shaking his head, he looks back to Dana with a chuckle, "Yeah. I defused the bomb with my burned body. Hurt for a few seconds."

The cowboy hat is indeed a bit of a book, bearing a number of small scratches, holes and other such marks. It's not completely demolished, but they're there. Only some of it is obvious upon a bystander's idle glance, and most people's first thought at seeing a hole in such a thing isn't 'that guy got shot in the head while wearing that'.

Reaching for his mead with a smile for Dana, he lifts it to take a drink, "Thanks, Dana." He takes a full drink, but not as quick as he might chug a beer or shot of something natural. There's a laugh for TJ, "Don't hurt yourself, TJ. Stronger than you think, ain't it?" Blue eyes drifting back to the bartender, the canuck muses, "You really do get all sorts in here, eh?"

Oh, it's Dana that deposits Thor's mead, not Wassea. But, the girl grins at the god's comments, nonetheless. "I suspect Wassea did sojourn there for a time," she says. "Though, she's never mentioned it specifically. But, I know she's travelled all over to master the fine arts of brewing and cooking."

"Glad you're still in one piece," the bartender tells the Canuck. And then she chuckles. "But, yes. We do. All sorts, and all welcome." Until they break the rules.

Emma nods vaguely at Thor, though she's not sure what led him to believe she's a leader among mutants. Whatever the case, she's tired of the subject-mutants and their issues. It's just.. It's too depressing. She exhales a sigh. Then, as she's casually scanning the people around her, she notices Talia looking at her as she's scanning the blue girl. She meets her yellow-eyed gaze head on with icy blue eyes. There is no threat in those eyes, but a sort of temptation-a dare, if you will, to say something, as the beautiful, overdressed woman raises a perfect eyebrow.

She just nods at Logan's comment that it's good no one got hurt, outside of the bombers who were going to get hurt, regardless. Sure. Not to mention all the damage to the property. She sighs, again, her eyes wandering over Dana in a thoughtful fashion. She echoes Logan's comment, "All sorts, indeed." She looks down at her glass of Galadriel's Breath and notes it's half empty. She's done well to drink it so slowly because it is so delicious. If only she could convince the kindly Wassea to sell her a bottle or two… But, it's probably too dangerous, even if she could afford it.

Thor gulps down the mead and sets it on the counter, tapping the rim once for a refill. "I am remiss- my lady, I have conversed with thee for some minutes without asking thy name. You well know mine by now- might I inquire as to yours?" he inquires of the mortal woman sitting at his side, wearing an evening gown better suited for a black tie affair than a homey bar such as the Silveroak. "I do not wish to seem impropritous," he offers apologetically, his voice a bit more subdued than normal. "Thy manner of dress well becomes thee but is not one I have seen much of in my time here in Midgard- art thou a queen, or some other lordly position?" he hazards, having no idea of what a 'socialite' is.

With the telepath's return stare, Talia points two chunky blue fingers at her own eyes then turns to point toward Emma's. 'I'm watching you…' For what good it might do. Emma may well pick up the 'well, that was kinda creepy' thought that follows as she leaves the matter to rest.

Next, it's a sheepish grin being back at Logan with his question. "It's what separates the props from the relics. It's also a much more subtle way of proving that he's legit rather than calling in a lightning strike." She had asked! And now she knows. This guy with the hammer: Totally legit.

The tattered hat still isn't fitting her head quite so well, though it may appear that she's drinking in the hopes that it will help it to size itself better to her noggin. It's then that Thor's question to Emma makes her subtly facepalm. -Introductions.- Granted, she's one of..oh, -two- creatures on the known planet that looks anything like she does, but she completely dropped the ball in offering her name.

"Long day," she mutters beneath her breath in a tone low enough that Logan may be the only one that catches it. And maybe that white dog by the fireplace.

Three broad fingers drum once along the counter, then the Wagnerette checks the time. In the same motion she's pulling money out for her drink and tail-transferring the hat back onto Logan's head. "I should foomp. Great to see you again, Mister Logan. And Thor, you're such a rockstar," she offers with a pointy grin.

"It'll take more than a bomb to get rid of me," Logan answers the half-fae woman with a grin, "And good to see. You got a bouncer or something? What do you do if folks get out of hand?"

Looking aside to the blonde woman, Logan can't resist the urge to chime in in response to Thor's question, his tone dry and a grin on his lips, "That's Her Iciness, Queen Emma Frost, the coldest fish on this side of Hades." So he's got his mythology mixed up. Sue him.

Hatted once again, Logan reaches up to adjust it before nodding to TJ, "Alright, Talia. I'll see you at home, I figure. Stay out of trouble. And keep those little pudgy friends of yours outta my room, eh?"

Dana slips away from the bar to serve a couple of others who enter and take up a window seat. She returns briefly to fetch their drinks and return them to them, pausing by the kitchen on her return to pass on their food order to Wassea.

Returning to the small group around the bar in time for Logan's question. "After a fashion," she replies, as to the bouncer. "When people get out of hand, we have several ways of dealing with them, depending on who — and what — they are, though. Not to worry." She arches a brow, though, at the description of Emma. Her eyes squint some, flicking to the woman's aura and studying her face. Her conclusion, finally, is that Logan's sobriquet for Emma is just that — a descriptive nickname. Because, she's met the Ice Queen. Emma ain't her.

Emma had, in fact, surmised and called Thor by name before he had introduced himself, having deduced who he was by personality, looks, and the fact that he was asking after Loki. So, when he asks her her name, she realizes that, no, she hadn't told him her name, as of yet. "Ahh, my manners, Mr. Odinson," she smiles lightly. "My name is Emma Frost," she says, echoing what she told Logan only moments ago. "I am dressed this way because I was at a benefit only a short while ago, as I mentioned…which is a sort of fancy dress occasion," she clears her throat, trying to think of how to explain this to Thor without being patronizing. "That said, I am known to hold the title of White Queen, after the fashion of chess pieces, so to speak," she continues. "And, some have called me the Ice Queen of the business world, due to my…oh, so chilly…disposition," she winks a bit.

At Talia's 'I'm watching you…' gesture, Emma's voice filters into her head effortlessly, her tone is teasing, {Oh, I'm sure you are. Very few don't, when I'm in their presence.} There is a soft laugh that follows that as she takes a sip of her drink, her eyes meeting Talia's and sparkling. Then, Logan's running his mouth. She glares, "How about you snap that trap shut, Lord of the Fleas?" She gives him a mental jab, akin to an elbow in the ribs or an Indian burn on the wrist—something like sibling violence, though nothing of the sibling sentimentality exists between them. To Thor, she smiles thinly, "I don't always get along with people who are uncouth and have a tendency to loudly pass foul wind and scratch their smelly, hairy rumps in public."

Thor does the courtly thing- he rises, takes Emma's hand, and very chastely kisses the back of her knuckles with a short bow. "Queen Frost, it is my honor to meet you. As a Prince of Asgard, I hail you and offer due respect to your kingdom." He straightens and smiles, then turns to the bar as a whole.

"If thou wilt excuse me, however, pressing matters do call. I must find my brother, and soon. Issues of court," he explains to Dana and Emma, who likely understand the matters of noblesse oblige.

"Farewell, Logan, young Lady." Thor puts a hand out and brings Mjolnir winging to his hand, hanging it from his waist, and paying his tab (with real gold), takes his leave of the party.

Logan bobs his head in a nod at the fae bartender's response about bouncing before he grunts at the 'jab' from Emma and squints over at the blonde woman before snorting at her comments, "Now you're just makin' things up to hurt my feelings. Just because I don't run around in diamond-studded underwear like yourself don't mean I'm some savage. I took a bath just the other week." The last bit is added dryly before the old canuck lifts a hand in farewell to Thor, "Another time, thunder god."

Lifting his mug, Wolverine takes a long drink of the uncut mead and letting it go to war with his physiology. Setting it back on the bar, he grunts and tells Emma, "No hard feelings, blondie." Looking to Dana, the old mutant wonders, "So, your faerie folks friends with Odin and the valkyries and what have you?"

Dana smoothly sweeps the golden coin from the countertop, depositing it into a sturdy strongbox under the counter and cash. She gives the Norse god a light nod. "Regards to your court, Thunderer," the bartender says simply in farewell. She gives Logan a light nod. "There's some truck between the courts, yes," she admits. "Once upon a time, they were often mistaken for one another in human legend." She glances to Emma now, "Anything else I can get you, Ms Frost?"

Emma smiles politely as Thor kisses her hand—the opposite hand from the one that Loki kissed—and nods her head to him in a similar fashion. "Of course. Duty can be tedious, but heavy is the head… We're born to such responsibilities," she smiles and, when Thor is looking away, she glares at Logan, daring him to say something. When Thor takes his leave, she inhales deeply and narrows her eyes at Logan, "For the second time, it's Emma. Not 'blondie.' 'Blondie' is Dagwood's wife and I would never marry someone by the unfortunate name of Dagwood." When he mentions the hope of no hard feelings, she simply inhales and turns away—which is about as close as she's going to come to saying 'truce.'

When Dana addresses her, asking if she needs anything else, she smiles warmly and shakes her head. "Thank you, but no. This drink is exquisite and I will definitely be back to drink it, again," she says in a soft voice. Her drink is almost gone and, by the time it is, she will probably take her leave, as well.

Old Logan is shaking with restrained laughter at Emma's response to the thunder god wherein she equates them to having similar responsibilities and duties. He grins wide at the blonde woman and shakes his head, "Dagwood is a pretty unfortunate name, it's true. Then again, Frost is a pretty ironic name, ain't it?" The grin remains in place while the blonde telepath answers Dana and Logan lifts a hand, "Have a good evenin', Emma. Be seeing you around too, I'm sure."

Looking back to Dana, the savage old feral looks down at himself, chuckling and shaking his head, "Hell, the way everybody disappeared, maybe I do smell."

Dana gives Emma a light nod and glances over to Logan. She just flashes a grin, and chuckles. "Remind me to take you to Market, sometime," she tells the feral mutant. "There are things there…" She doesn't bother to describe the smell. "Just watch out for the skunk apes."

She picks up a cloth once more and takes it to the sink to rinse it out, leaving it afterward to soak in a bucket of cleaning fluid and water.

Emma drains the last of her drink, "Thank you very much," she says, paying the very expensive price for her new drink of choice. She slides off of her stool, puts her fur coat back on and gathers her things in hand as she heads toward the door, "See you later, Lord of the Fleas." She flashes a small grin as she steps out, so brief it could've been imagined. Maybe.

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