asgardeventide

[ He's calm. Perfectly serene, simple as a kettle of fish. To anyone who's spoken to Albus, that shouldn't be particularly surprising.

But it is a bit at odds with the rest of the higgledy-piggledy, ridiculous scene. Scarves, caps, and little knitted cozies litter every visible surface, falling as he reaches up to adjust the (yarn-covered) stems of his spectacles. Thick marker covers his face in three different colours, smudged where it's rubbed off against the desk. The mustache and unibrow are quite traditional, less so, the extensive sequence of elvish poetry.

It's been a long two weeks. ]

Hello, Asgard.

[ He sounds rather cheerful for it all. It's not immediately clear whether he's even noticed anything out of the ordinary. ]

I seem to have rather lost track of the time -- dreadfully sorry if I've missed an engagement in the past, ah. However long it's been. Could anyone perhaps fill me in? I see there's been a spot of trouble with the cold.

[ He tips his head to the side, and two puffy hats fall to the floor. ]

I do hope that you're all quite well, and I cannot understate how positively thrilled I am to find our wonderful school still standing. On that note, if those remaining members of the board might contact me, I feel a small discussion may be in order, regarding future plans and purpose.

[ Considering the bracelet for a moment, Albus seems to come to a decision. Letting out a short, warbling shriek, he then smiles, and cuts the feed. Those familiar may recognize the utterly delightful, melodic strains of Mermish: I received your message.

Well. Nothing out of the ordinary, there. ]

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Well now, it seems someone finally stirs. We were beginning to worry about you my friend.

It's not really meant to be spoken above water, is it?

Good morning.

[Even before meeting Mr. Dumbledore, Roland had a little experience with conversations like these. After meeting him, Roland started getting a lot more experience with it. The key is to focus on the most important matters, and let the rest - like that last noise he'd made, and the unfamiliar language scrawled across his face - work itself out. Roland's frowning a little, looking just a little bit concerned, but for the most part that's just what he does.]

Thiazi's army attacked. She still wants us all dead. [He shrugs. Just another day in Asgard, really.] She claims to have spies. Anything in particular you needed to know?

Were you, sir? I must admit myself touched, [ A pause, as Albus rather deliberately wipes a nice stanza about leaves from his forehead. ] Perhaps by more than just sentiment. What does it say, if I may?

Thank you.

[ With a short sigh, he straightens his sleeves and peers over Roland. It's a rare thing that the gunslinger's expression ever much shifts, like trying to spot a chip in cement. ]

Thiazi has always been fond of talk. By what method did she reach the city's ears?

No, quite not. Something of a taboo in the Atlantic tribes, from what I understand.

Where did you learn?

Is that so? I didn't know that.

My father, more or less. He had an affinity for languages. I thought to impress him for a while and then I just aimed to not be lesser.

I don't know about her voice, but I saw her face in windows, patches of ice. I think it was meant for mirrors, though I didn't find any of those before she stopped. It didn't look like she could see through them, though I wouldn't be surprised to be proven wrong.

The city has some new defenses too, did some good when her constructs attacked. Not too hard to spot if you take a walk around the city's walls - though you may want to, ah, wash a little first.

[Roland gestures to his upper lip, as if all the 'art' on Dumbledore's face is just a crumb that's been accidentally spilled there. The moustache is the least of it, probably, but losing it would probably improve the whole look considerably.]

Such a shame, to have lost track of something so very useful. I trust you've found it again.

[As for the shriek, he's not about to talk about it, although given the set of rather feline ears sitting atop his head it probably wasn't the most comfortable of things to have coming at him through the watches.]

Oh tis a long woodelf poem about, what else? The turning of the forest through the seasons. A young princeling wrote it, I believe, as a challenge for his friend. It is long and lovely and well composed, but his friend won their challenge, for his was deemed the better - although I had always thought that both captured the spirit of those two friends truly.

( Well she recognises the name, first and foremost, but it does not match the face that she remembers. This is not Albus Dumbledore, respected headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, but a younger Dumbledore - she's so used to the long silver beard that she can't even place his approximate age right now.

Just as Hermione is from Luna's future, this Dumbledore must be from her past. The past.

There's so much she wants to say, but that last part gets her attention. )

Ooh, is that Mermish?

Professor Dumbledore.

[ She breathes out. She isn't sure what to say, really, not when so many people are gone. She manages, though. ]

I can fill you in on things -- um. Do you know how many of us have left?

im not seeing how that last bit was necessary
unless youre trying to cash in on your weird points before they expire

[Castle's not on the board, but he responds to Dumbledore's message, mostly because it's so bizarre. Not that he should be surprised by anything at this point.]

Did you get attacked by a horde of 4-year-olds?

We're actually all right for the most part, I think. Thiazi's using her touch.

Were I to go out on a limb, [ Ba dum tish. ] I'd almost venture you knew the two.

Do you believe that you succeeded?

[ Blunt, but he's tired of trying to be subtle. They both know that he doesn't know a damn thing about the situation ahead. ]

Some sort of inverted method of scrying, perhaps. If you knew how to manage it, I suppose it wouldn't be too difficult to invert; the sheer power required to maintain it, however...

[ He trails off, fingers idly tapping at what appears to be Will Graham's signature on his temple. ]

Forgive me, please, it's a distracting little puzzle. [ A rueful smile. ] I thought I might keep the additions, creativity being spare enough in these times. D'you think I could find a tattoo artist, here?

[ It's probably a joke. Albus waves it aside. ]

You've been volunteering with the Patrol, yes?

Considering I ended life at 34 and spent most of adulthood in captivity, I don't really believe much of my life can be objectively called a success. Even compared to his.

Also, he knew over 200 languages and I never got that far.

Oh, but it's a flighty thing, time -- don't you think? Everyone's always telling me how it soars, but it's capricious enough to crawl when in a mood.

[ He beams at Chessur. This kind of bullshit, this he could talk in his sleep. It's pleasant. ]

I'm certain it'll wander off when least expected. We might put it on a tighter leash, but not letting it stretch wings seems cruel. And where do you find yourself just now? Chronologically, or otherwise.

You can't help but be a biased observer, so you might as well give it a subjective look.

Ultimately I've kept him from his aspirations and mostly fulfilled mine, so under that light... Go me.

Oh, quite! Afraid it's a little hoarse for the vowels just now, it really does work much better with gills.

[ He peers over Luna with restrained curiousity. She British, recognizes Mermish, wears clothing not so different from Hermione's, and sprouts the Lovegood family name -- it doesn't take much to begin to guess at an association. End of the century Hogwarts student, he'd bank on it. ]

Forgive me, but I don't believe we've yet had the pleasure of a proper introduction.

I wouldn't stake your galleons on accolades in the history books, but if you had to do it all, I suppose it's better to have honestly believed in what you did.

[ He's guessed perfectly well that Barty can't have been much of a fanatic for purebloods. He's just being a dick. ]

Spite is such a small thing.

[ Irony. ]

Not a small thing at all. Merely personal.

It's all a matter of one's point of view. Those matters close to the heart tend to look bigger.

[There is more to it of course, there always is. But, no, the pureblood agenda never has been much of a goal for him. Even if it would have been a nice rhetoric in theory, he has simply met too many purebloods.]

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