Log:Feasting in Eliudnir

Moonfall 2019/10/29 Sinmore Portennant

1

Following the wonderful neuroleptic shocking in the alley, Sinmore has enjoyed ... well, unconsciousness, mostly. Perhaps some pleasant dreams and lucid periods, even. These are interrupted by occassional resumed shocks now an any to discourage too much consciousness. A lady needs her beauty sleep, yes? Not the most pleasant of processes, but a reasonably effective form of subdual.

The first thing that Sinmore notices is that she's still Sinmore. She isn't quite fully awake yet, but she is increasingly aware of her physicality and the intense weight that accompanies being a fire giantess. As time passes, Sinmore flutters her dark eyes, which causes the emerald flames in her obsidian eyes to flicker as her body recovers. Her recovery is almost supernaturally swift as she gains consciousness.

As her senses re-open to the physical, several things are noted: scents of machinery, ozone, and greenery; a low underlying hum of machinery or other equipment; and, finally the space she occupies.

The room is, not surprisingly, rather large, perhaps 20 meters in all dimensions. The contruction is primarily metallic, thought the walls bear and expanded or honycombed format in many places, the voids filled with what appear to be woody, vine-line organic matter.

The cool of metal is also felt upon her stony hide, as she is bound: hands, arms, legs, feet, and body in copious layers involving a number of lengths of large chain woven through with similar vine-like material. They feel cooler than the surroundings and not just due to conduction, as they seem to pulse with a low level of power.

There is also a man standing before her, a few meters distant, wearing a finely tailored suit and wearing a exceedingly smug smile... though he seems to be standing on the ceiling that's barely over her head?

Ah, no. It's Sinmore who is upside-down, the binding chains also extended to the ceiling and supporting her, leaving her dangling just above the floor.

"What? No scrambled eggs and salami? No coffee? Not even a fruit cup?"

Sinmore purses her stony lips and shakes her head a little bit at Portennant. Her hair is still on fire, but Sinmore can't quite decide if she's still venting heat or not. The shake of her head and the shift of her body in her bonds doesn't tell her nearly as much as she'd like, in spite of the faint pulsation of power running through the metal and vegetation wrapped around her.

"I'm insulted. I know you're a vil, but I thought you at least had some semblance of humanity to you. Etiquette, at the very least."

He arches a brow, smile broadening. "I would not wish to be so presumptuous as to offer breakfast in bed without your request, my dear. After all, we have only just met. Your wishes will be met." He gestures to a plant-alien standing in the wings and eagerly watching: one whose woody hide bears scorch marks. The alien looks from Sinmore to Portennant with some incredulity, though a narrowing of Portennant's eyes causes the other to turn sharply and move off before another gesture is required.

"Now, then," as he turns back to Sinmore. "Whilst we await your repast, we can have a pleasant conversation. I expect that you might have a great many questions."

"It's only polite to provide breakfast in bed to a lady you've got tied up in your dungeon," replies Sinmore with a small scoff. Rolling her shoulders, Sinmore remains largely immobile in the chains and vines that have her entangled and suspended from the ceiling. She idly licks her lips and narrows her eyes as she regards Portennant with those green flames that demarcate her pupils.

"Hm. Well, I suppose I am rather curious why you're planning on destroying a planet that you just demanded surrender to your control. Especially since, from all appearances, you could functionally just buy the planet. The subtle game not worth your investments?"

Portennant snaps his fingers with an almost-look of dismay. "Of course! How foolish of me! I could have simply referenced the UEG's listing in Greg's List: one Earth, heavily used..." The intentionally exagerrated sarcasm relents. "Point of fact: I do not wish it destroyed; it is far more valuable to me intact, obviously. On the other hand, what credibility would I have were I to renege on every ultimatum I placed? I would lose the respect of trillions."

Sinmore stares blankly back at the suddenly sarcastic Portennant. There are several seconds of silence before Sinmore shrugs her shoulders at him.

"Suit yourself. I mean, it's not like scientists, economists, a few "news corporations", and a couple of world governments have partnered at various points to estimate the value of all natural resources on the planet."

"They would be only slightly more inclined to sell the planet than to offer it freely. In either case, motivation would be required. Why increase the amount invested unnecessarily?" He makes a mildly dismissive gesture with one hand.

"On the topic, I will be so bold as to presume that you might be curious as to mine where -you- are concerned. While so occupied with an entire world, what possible interest could have in single, rather insiginificant individual? In comparison, of course; I intend no personal offense."

"No offense taken. My mother tries to keep me humble with much harsher language," replies Sinmore.

Sinmore tips her head slightly to one side as she regards Portennant from her upside down position. Her hair twists and braids itself as the flames ripple with the motions of the air currents and her own body intersecting. Or maybe it's just some sort of innate effect of her fiery hair?

"If I were to guess, I'd say that you either have a thing about giant women or you took offense at how easily I was dealing with your anthropomorphic plant troopers. Though to be fair, I wasn't the one that turned the sharp, angry one into a tree. Pretty sure that was one of the other magic people in the depot."

Portennant looses a chuckle. "A temperament to match your...temperature. You are also correct ...to a degree. Your presence did gain the acute attention of my allies. They hold an exceedingly deep dislike and resentment towards fire. As to the angry one, she is now doubly so following those events..." He holds up a hand to his face to "block" his slightly leaning stage-whisper to Sinmore. "Should she happen to visit you here, I suggest you remain on your best behavior..."He straightens, then, smoothing his suit. "As for myself, it was one far more familiar who brought my focus to you..." A gesture triggers a holo projection behind and above him, large for Sinmore's ease of viewing.

The display is of a smaller room, construction not dissimilar to this one, bearing himself and Artemis. Their intention is focused on a projection within that room (yes, a hologram of a hologram). It is evenly split three ways, bearing zoomed images from Hawaii of Voyager, Victory, and Sinmore.

"That trio is deemed to be of significant interest to the Asrani," holo-Portennant explains rather nonchalantly, "and targetted for elimination. Those whom you choose shall be spared from that focus. I will not guarantee that they will not happen upon some unfortunate fate at some point in the immediate or distant future, but I will not actively seek it for the moment."

With a great and weighty sigh, holo-Artemis' head lifts up to look Portennant in the eye. "I choose Victory and Voyager, my Liege." No hesitation in calling him that title in her plea.

Sinmore watches the hologram intently for as long as it lasts. Although she seems nonplussed by the playback, Sinmore also doesn't seem terribly surprised or even shocked by Artemis' swift and seemingly effortless choice. There's a faint shrug as Sinmore regards Portennant curiously.

"O... Kay... ?"

Briefly, Sinmore pauses while she tries to figure out the significance of Portennant's play here. No pressure. No time limit. Sinmore looks away from Portennant and looks up toward the ceiling, considering her bindings for a few seconds before her attention drifts back toward Portennant.

"I'm sorry. I'm afraid I don't understand what you're trying to accomplish here. Am I supposed to be surprised? Angry? Were you hoping I'd try to test my powers against these chains that are pulsating with energy?"

The rather blase' reaction does garner arched brows from him. Interesting. "Perhaps she proved to be as irritating to you as she was to me?" He exhales a sigh. "A shame. I had hoped you might be at least slightly annoyed. It would have allowed me to grant you some solace in the fact that no argument nor vengeance would be necessary. Though, perhaps, if you are so unsurprised by her malice, you will still gain some satisfaction: Artemis is dead, so will be troubling neither of us any further."

"Quite the opposite. I was as irritating to Artemis as I have been for you," replies Sinmore in a dry, tired tone.

There's a shrug from Sinmore as she regards Portennant, blandly waiting for the other shoe to fall. Perhaps Portennant will take solace in the reaction bubbling up out of Sinmore's face as she seems to grasp the words that are about to come out of his mouth a few seconds before he utters them. Her orange-red fire-hair abruptly flares to a brilliant emerald blaze as her eyes lock onto his face.

"NO! I refuse to believe you. Why would you kill her?! HOW?! HOW could you possibly kill her?"

One brow arches at the sudden... flare up. While it may appear he's struck a nerve, his demeanor maintains, perhaps even increases, its mild sense of casual boredom. He takes a moment to inspect the fingernails of one hand. "While I found her brash challenge amusing, at first, and hoped that her service would prove useful... she demonstrated that she was willing to hypocritically twist her own claims of honor and oaths to great lengths in defiance of me. In the end, she proved more troublesome than any value she could provide."

His nail appear satisfactory and he brushes them lightly against the thigh of his suit as his attention returns to Sinmore. "As to the how, I drove her sword through her hearts. A warrior's death, is it not? Live by the sword, die by the sword and so on? I must admit that I find it more irony than creed..."

Sinmore simmers and stews, suspended by chains and by vegetation from the ceiling of the room. Her fingers flex and curl somewhere underneath the bindings as her rage boils toward the surface.

"Artemis was a hero. She was true to her word. You beat her at whatever challenge you agreed upon and she aided you. That doesn't mean she wouldn't try to use her access to trip you up if she could."

It sounds like Sinmore is trying to rationalize for her own sake. Or maybe she's just trying to talk things out. Could she be trying to calm herself? Sinmore narrows her eyes as she reaches inside of herself to touch the fire boiling through her bloodstream, gripping it with her fury and indignation and hate.

Heat starts to coalesce around Sinmore's body as she tries to concentrate on the fire. She focuses intently, letting her rage guide her through the steps as much as it will fuel the flames she's trying to summon up.

... and at a point, that is when her bindings react. The already cool metal chills further, sharply, in direct defiance of the building heat. As well, her struggling garners a physical reaction as the vines, and thus the chains, contract, negating most any gained modicum of freedom and tightening further beyond that.

"I do not tolerate defiance," he notes, eyeing her cooly, though not quite as frigidly as the bindings. "A point you should take heed of. As I noted, my Asrani allies hold quite the ire for you, and what you represent. They seek vengeance, an example, and, I receive the impression, a great deal of pleasure in their plans for you. Where her end was swift, I expect that yours may take quite some time. Perhaps decades?" A light shrug is offered before the chill in his visage is almost broken by a smile.

"Fortunately for you, there is an alternative. Your former ally's departure has left a vacancy that could be filled. You might still well fall, but I can assure that it would be far less uncomfortable that what you would otherwise experience."

The cold pierces Sinmore's stony skin and lances her to the very marrow of her bones. She shudders violently as the cold saps all of the heat that she was building up around the roiling ball of rage inside of her heart. A long, uncomfortable scream wrenches itself from Sinmore's throat as her eyes momentarily flicker out. Her hair sputters and sinks in hue, turning back to a warm orange-red that threatens to go to a dull cherry red as her heat is sapped.

"Ha. Ha. Ha."

Sinmore's eyes open again, fires still green as they steady again. Fixing her gaze on Portennant, Sinmore smiles crookedly at him. Her nostrils seem to flare as she draws in a deep, ragged breath as she tries to relax. Relax her muscles. Ease her rage. Let go of the signs of her building temperature. Maybe that will release the icy chill emanating from her bindings. Even so, Sinmore hocks a flaming loogie at Portennant's feet.

"I'm going to enjoy beating that smile off of your face, Jamie boy."

Pause.

"You know," growls a voice that doesn't entirely sound like Sinmore, "When I'm done burning your plant troopers to the ground like Surtr taking hold of Yggdrasil. I look forward to beating you into the fire-bathed soil of Idavoll."

A lessening of her efforts, physical or thermal, brooks an almost-commensurate lessing in the response. The temperature and tension is less comfortable than before, but not excessively so. She may also find some satisfaction that the phlaming phlegm pro-hocktile does make Portennant swiftly step back, if only to preserve the fine leather of his shoes.

It is then that the dismissed, scorched trooper returns, bearing a large tray filled with...food? There is no sausage, eggs, bacon or other similar animal products, but several large piles of what look to be fruit. One might be a vegetable.

Portennant exhales a sigh. "I shall take that as a rejection. Very well. I did make the offer, at the least." He then gestures to the returned trooper and then indicates a panel on the corner said trooper just stepped around. This time, there is no hesitation and the trooper drops the tray to move to the panel which what could only be described as glee.

A press to the panel wakens the just recently-relaxed bindings into a writhing mass of coils that drop to far sub-zero levels. As if Jrmungandr itself wrapped around her whilst belching Hel's breath. Not that it would kill her: the trooper will stop short of that. Though not far.