Honours (Brand)

[aa_valkyrie]

There are many agents of SHIELD, and indeed, of SWORD, whose work hours are irregular; whose duties, more often than not, send them far afield, to ride the helicarrier, to sneak up on unsuspecting superheroes and threaten them with tasers, to shoot at people with high-tech arrows, or to ... whatever it is one does in Budapest.

While there are days and times that put Abigail Brand into similar shoes (boots) (combat boots), for the most part, the small office in HQ harbors her adequately. Like many desk pilots, the primary weapons in her arsenal are not the guns she totes at her hips, or the figurative ones reflected in her tattooed biceps.

Forms.

In triplicate.

"Just make sure you have eyes on him when he reports in," she tells whoever it is who is giving her excuses over her earpiece, as she rolls a dart between her fingertips, glaring malignantly at the much-battered image that hangs in her dartboard on the back of the door. "If we lose our tracker, you look like an idiot, and that makes me look like an idiot for employing you. And I'm inclined to make myself look like less of an idiot, are we clear? Don't tell me it's a big planet. It's not that big a planet. And it's only one planet and he's a goddamned blind guy--"

The door to Abigail's office cracks opens, leaving her glaring not at the attractive face of a surely maligned Asgardian Prince but at a very large blonde. A Valkyrie, to be specific. It is hard to say how long it has been since she has returned to Earth, but she stands in her battered leather jacket with Dragonfang slung between her broad shoulders. There was no call up from the desk. No warning to make Brand aware of her coming.

Surprise?

Valkyrie's fair brows arch slightly as Brand's voice reaches an increasing level of zest -- bad time?

"--life or death," Brand spits out, and then stops in mid thought to stare, a little blankly, at the woman who steps into her office. She blinks, and says, "Yeah, whatever. You get me whereabouts better than last knowns or we'll start talking severance. If you're lucky, you can guess the package I mean." Then she rips her earpiece out and throws it onto the desk with an air of some disgust.

She drags her hand back through her hair, green-polished nails scraping along her scalp and loosing her bound locks from their tail; as she looks up at Valkyrie, she twists her hair back into a new tail, adjusting the set of the black band that holds it in place.

The slant of her gaze is a little uncertain; the set of her jaw is a little tense. But her greeting, now that she gets around to the greeting, is not unfriendly.

"Hi," she says. "Can I help you?"

"Good eve. You cannot," Valkyrie answers amiably, hard features warming slightly at the greeting as she sweeps into Brand's office in two long strides. "I have just come to deliver a mark of a valour, some months late," she admits, tone cutting wry. "There was a war I needed to attend." Lifting a scared and coarse knuckled hand, she fishes around in her pocket to the clink and rattle of the objects within.

Finally, she draws out a small hide bag that is bound with cords of leather. Leaning forward, she places it on Brand's desk. There. Present.

The bag is mildly heavy; the objects within densely weighted and slight sharp, although they do not piece the fabric hide. Valkryie's lift of brow is slighter in reply, harsh features pleasant as places her weight on the back of her heel. Watching.

Brand blinks.

She reaches out in another flash of green nails to collect the bag, dragging her fingertips over the cords of leather as she lets the bag drop into the palm of her other hand. "A mark of--" she starts to say, and pauses, looking up at the taller alien woman with a high sweep of her green eyebrows. She opens the bag.

Long with a deadly curve and an interior ridge like the cut of a key, are a half dozen polar bear claws. They gleam black and almost alien in their own right. Their size echoing of the great bears that were fought on the brutal arctic plains of Svalbard where the fjord broke close.

"You well earned them. I regret not being able to deliver them sooner," Valkyrie admits, words crisp and formal.

Brand scatters them over the surface of her desk, gleaming harsh black and vicious in the flat, utilitarian lighting of her office. She draws a fingertip along the curve of a talon, shadowing its arc. Her glance lifts toward the Valkyrie, a glint of old battle light reflected amidst the sharp green of her eyes through her lashes.

Cool formality is a rarity from Brand, whose methods range from the blunt instrument to the bloody scythe without much heed to what might be gentler or cleaner. But perhaps she rises to the occasion, rising from her seat to let her fingertips rest lightly on the surface of the desk, chin lifting. "I'm honored," she says. No bluff, no spit or vinegar or idiot careless humor.

From one warrior to another.

The slightest edge of a curve marks Valkyrie's mouth, meeting the glinting battle light in Brand's gaze with ageless passion branded in her icy blue, cut from the same cloth. One warrior to another. She marks the spread of the claws over the desk with approval. It is only appropriate to display them, to see them and to know the blood you have marked with your hands.

She inclines her chin as Brand rises, the edges of her smile smoothing -- as a whet stone might for a sword -- into whole-hearted pleasure. "It was an honour and a joy to hunt with you. I would do so again," Valkyrie replies. "A sorrow that they were so controlled, but that does not diminish your kill."

Hands curling into fists, Brand braces them against the surface of her desk, behind the shining scatter of black claws, and answers the Valkyrie's smile with one of her own, bladed sharp and bright. She says, "Thanks," with a light, easy, near-play in her tone. She cants her head to the side.

"Lately, though," she says, "I'm playing watchdog more than hunting hound."

"Ah." The shifting angle of Valkyrie's chin is slight, tipping to briefly regard the open door at her back. "Those incidents involving Stark and his people is under your watch, is it not? You watch anything long enough, you will get your chance to strike." There is a shade to her features that might be sympathy. "It is not a pleasant position."

"Yes," Brand says. There is more growl in her affirmative than coolness or simplicity, her fists tightening as her jaw sets, but the hint of smile is not wholly banished from her mouth or eyes. "On defense rarely is. Particularly since, apparently, we don't get a simple answer."

"What is your complicated answer? I am perhaps not as..." Valkyrie pauses, considering her words for a moment before dryly offering, "Up. On any of it. My work kept me apart for some time."

"Illusions and magic and amnesia and who knows what," Brand says. "I'd just say hang 'em all, but some of them are gods, and some of them have already demonstrated the ability to crack me like an egg without particular effort. Have to be smart." You wouldn't think that being smart would be bad, but frustration drives her to a sharp, dismissive gesture in the flick of her wrist.

"These will make a wild necklace," she says, dragging one green-polished fingertip along the desk behind the scattered claws. "Particularly if I ever need to make a really glaring statement in dress formal."

"Asgardians, if there be any involved, do not hang very well. A beheading is far more conclusive to death," Valkyrie offers congenially. Helpfully. Probably from experience. "It is hard to get your blade on the throat of a trickster of any race, should you...you had best draw quick." It is easier just to kill them. "Smarter or more dexterous to slip their noose."

"And put it around their throat," she adds, making a gesture at her own. This is a woman who probably has a lot of inspirational speeches involving death.

Valkyrie glances back down at the scattered claws, nodding approvingly at the thought. "Although a true one. They are a little too delicate for proper knives, but excellent for ornament."

"Really," Brand says with a remarkably bright smile. She does not quite laugh, but there is the suggestion of it in her aspect, mirth swallowed and contained as she straightens. "Thanks for the tip; I'll have to bear that in mind." Her eyes flick to the dartboard behind Valkyrie's head, and her breath escapes her in the scoffed puff of a near-snort.

Cool as a sphinx, humor hard to catch in its play in the fierce angles of her face, Valkyrie nods. At least, until she follows the flick of Brand's gaze to the hole ridden dartboard behind her head. She makes no effort to hold back at the rasp of a surprised laugh that escapes. "I suppose that is more practical than throwing them at your underlings," she notes.

"They're good guys," Brand answers with a brash near-cheer in her tone. "Don't want 'em full of holes."

Valkyrie frowns at the piles of white on Brand's desk. In triplicate. "I suppose those are ranked unfit if covered in blood," she muses dryly, sounding amused at Brand's cheer. Paperwork.

"It depends on the form," Brand says. She tilts her head slightly to one side, consideringly, and adds, as she begins to gather the shiny claws back together in the curl of her fingers to tuck into the bag so that she can hoard them off somewhere and turn them into jewelry: "It depends on whose blood."

There is a dark cant to Vaklyrie's smile. "Fascinating." That some blood is worth more than others, even dousing documents, is of no surprise to her. "I ought let you return to your threats of castration and effective rounding of subordinates," she offers briefly, straightening in place. "I had not meant to interrupt overmuch."

"Well," Brand says, and she tips her head a little with a narrowing of her eyes, humor reflected in their green gleam. She hefts the bag on the flat of her palm, and says, "Thank you."

Valkyrie slips her hands into her pockets, smile brief. "You are very welcome. I am certain that you will wear them well." That is enough of a farewell it seems, she turns on her heel in a short motion and strides out the door. Her heavy boots sound on the carpet, making for an amusing image as she shifts, near unnoticed, through the bodies that fill the office space beyond. She forgets to shut the door.