At Hero's Bay

Among the Nine Realms

𝐑𝐞𝐝 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝

𓄹 𝐘/𝐍 𓄼

Y/N Skaraeith is many things, but a traitor is not one of them.

At least, that's what she hears.

Here, she does not hear those exact words—not here, not yet, she thinks. She finds it particularly difficult picking out the multitude of jaundiced stares in the crowd before her as she weaves her way through Asgard's royal banquet hall. Among her acute senses, are the semblances of hushed gossip and questions like, 'why is she allowed in here?' or 'did the princes invite her?'.

Yet again, Y/N does her best to dwell in the light and is still seen as a questionable entity, where her loyalties lie in whoever dares to hand her a mug of ale. She has lost her taste in Asgard's alcohol, but she hopes that the dull burn induces a trip of nostalgia that will whisk away this already awful night. She seats herself in the western-most corner of the room; hiding from the prying eyes.

She knows she is not particularly welcome here, but it was upon Frigga's suggestion that she would make herself acquainted with what she had been deprived of for thousands of years; entertainment away from home. It's been too long since she's basked in Asgard's radiance, Y/N remembers Frigga's proclaims, but the Amisian finds no amount of trust to spare within her that things would go accordingly. The phosphenes of candle-light drown into shadows as her nose sticks in the bottom of her drink—trying to omit from mulling over the fact that she had to get it herself—and spent a few minutes in a lonesome haze before another jostling cheer resounded at one of the central round tables. The table rocks with every rhythmic step of the dancers in the near distance, busying themselves in a song that Y/N doesn't seem to hear yet.

Liquid gold and chunks of nearly burnt mutton rise in the air and fall to the floor—a regular Asgardian custom—where Y/N discerns that she wasn't particularly enjoying her share unlike the rest of them. A hound that Y/N often saw—affectionately naming the shaggy beast, Garmr—and her grey dove to devour the scraps, also eager for her attention as they clamored and whined near her legs. However, Y/N yearns meagerly for someone else, anyone to pass off the slightest hint of an insult; giving her an excuse to just snap and throw them out the window. But clenching the handle of her mug into splinters had to suffice for now. Y/N withdraws her attention from the crowd and onto the scurrying children whose giggles floated into her ears, somehow calming some increment of her ire.

She missed home, to some extent. Y/N missed her siblings above all else throughout her journey to the other planets but knew that she shouldn't interfere with the aftermath of what she caused. Her mouth tightens and thinly grins.

They're growing up a little too fast, she thinks. But they were, in the end, Gardenia's children; they weren't like her. A half-breed, a bastard of some unknown and most likely scandalous heritage. Her irritation returns in the form of a liquid sphere that dances and rolls across her knuckles. The ale from her cup had become a plaything to pass the time, and Y/N did not mind the childish and fizzing comfort it brought until she was finally approached by someone bold enough to offer another cup of ale.

Someone large, and burly awaited to be acknowledged; Thor. He was smiling, something he rarely ever did in her presence nowadays. And Y/N sucked in a quiet, tight breath through her teeth before giving a haphazard nod. In his one hand were two mugs of ale, while the other had been held out to her expectantly—her expression twists and furrows from acrimony then.