maskormenacelogs | (no subject)

[ 'All ages' usually denotes the possibility of those not yet old enough to drink. It isn't necessarily meant to cover older gentlemen, who are perforce unwelcome in this revel of youth, this temple to the new. Yet for all that older men at hip concerts tend to rightfully come off as creepy, Wednesday's self-possession preempts most skeptical glances. He exudes the presumption of belonging, despite the staidness of his storm-grey suit.

It's not long before his long strides find him standing by Persephone and her plate of delicacies. ]

It's quintessentially American - take the product of time and care, craft and tradition, and fry it into oblivion. Nothing is enough on its own- the wheels of desire must be greased, and what better way than with actual grease?

[ He smiles a smile that is as bright as chilly as the gleaming silver tree pin that punctuates his lapel. ]

I haven't seen one of you in a long while. I thought you people had retreated into Latin classes, storybooks, and Renaissance paintings.

[ She tips her head back to get a good look at him. There's something wonderfully unpleasant in his smile, something wolfish. It prickles the insides her head- another god? Somehow, the lines across his face seem far too stark to have been carved in only one lifetime.

She returns his pleasantly unpleasant smile with the same, head still tilted back. The picture of careless confidence. ]

One of what, Olympians? Are you kidding? We've got brand recognition on lock.

So I see... [He scans the room with his pale gaze - the reflection of the stage lights reveals a slight mismatch there, like one of his eyes is false, though it's hard to tell which one. ]

When I saw the flyers, I thought it was a bad joke- like American cheese, a bland facsimile. I was ready to sneer. [His gaze returns to Persephone, to her youth and heedlessness.] I'm pleasantly surprised.

[ He extends a broad hand, rough-palmed but with neatly trimmed nails. ]

I'm Wednesday. More Baltic than Mediterranean, though we're all of us in the same boat, this side of the Atlantic.

[ The crowd is being warmed up well enough by her opener. A few are even pushing up against the stage. Some are still on their phones, or sitting at tables like she is. None the less, it is not an insignificant congregation that have come to worship her.

The name takes a moment to catch, he can probably see it play across her face- the briefest flicker of "not this shit again." But hey, she's queen here. No need to fret. Her head tips the other direction and she extends her own hand casually- the platinum bands and diamond-eyed skull on her fingers must have cost far more than the kind of money a venue like this would bring in. ]

Wednesday, huh? Glad you could make the show.

That's right. With children full of woe. [ He speaks in the cadence of quip as he takes her hand in his. His grip is firm, but restrained. One imagines he'd be putting the squeeze to her if she weren't a woman; old world sensibilities, unreconstructed.

He chuckles.]

I could do no other, m'dear. [ He takes a seat at her table, plucking a mozzarella stick from the plate and taking a bite. He chews, contemplative, for some seconds, swallowing before he speaks. ]

This is a novel solution. [A roll of the shoulder is now all he needs to indicate their surroundings. His eyes, false and real both, are fixed on her] I'm looking forward to seeing it - seeing you - in action.

The concerts? Thanks. Can't take credit, but it works out alright.

[ She'd protest but. Nah. ]

So are you new in town, Wednesday, or were you shy?

New- yes. A fresh start.

[ He looks rest of the looking out at the crowd, sensing that energy, the collective intensity of the crowd.

It makes him hungry. ]

Which means I'm as ignorant as a newborn babe.

[ Chomp. The rest of the stick is gone, consumed with relish, and chewed thoughtfully. ]

So tell me- whose clever idea was this? Another one of you- of us? How many are there?

Here? Not many.

But it was Baal back home. [ She puts the cheese stick in her hand down, half-eaten. Then specifies: ] Hadad.

Edited 2016-10-16 05:15 (UTC)

[ This earns a furrowing of his brow, a quick-passing cloud. ]

That graven image? You're older than you look.

[ Clear again. Wednesday inclines his head, looks straight at her. ]

If this isn't home, where would you say we are now?

[ That smile again. ]

Don't be afraid to get metaphysical.

[ Her look stays even- but perhaps a touch pleased at his estimation of her age. ]

A bad parody of a bad joke.

[ This makes Wednesday laugh, a wry rumble in his chest. ]

Better a comedy than a tragedy, hm?

[ A pause. ]

I'm not sure I mean that. Tragedies have a grim glory, at least. Fear and pity, right?

[ He spreads his hands before him, weighing the insubstantial, then shrugs. ]

But I suppose drama's not your arena.

[ She considers it a moment, lips quirked ]

They can both get tedious if you ask me. Thought you'd prefer tragedy for sure though.

Tragedies are a fine and bloody thing to witness. Not so much to play a part in.

[ His hands folds before him, fingers forming first a steeple, before collapsing into a low dome. ]

I agree though- tedious business. You always know how they will end, every time.

[ He leans forward in his chair, resting his grizzled chin on his broad, interlocking fingers. ]

I'm tired of inevitabilities. As least as they apply to myself.

[ snorts ]

I'll drink to that.

Will you? Drink with me? Honor me?

[ There's something of a goad to his voice, brought through by the quality of his smile, that expression of artifice, the least human thing about him. ]

Share a portion of what's to come?

[ While the fact that he's been saying four words to her every one doesn't bother her, it hadn't escaped her notice either. Plenty of old men like the sound of their own voice, but for Wednesday there's been a certain sharp precision to his words. That precision makes her wary. But, that smile was almost a challenge, and never let it be said that she is a goddess who has ever backed down from anything, no matter how terrible an idea.

It's almost an internal impasse, but- well, playing stupid doesn't normally suit her, but it can be handy sometimes. Especially when you're actually stupid. ]

Share a portion?

Wednesday, that's gotta be the single monst pretentious way anyone's ever asked to get on my tab.

What does someone like us have when down-at-heel, besides our pretensions?

[ It's true- verbose as he is, he's not filling the air for it's own sake. He's capable of long silences, when the mood takes him or the circumstances demand. If he's expansive now, he has his reasons. Charm, perhaps? A smoke-screen? But surely tricks like that work better on mortals.

Then again, easy victories earn paltry rewards. ]

I could offer a boon in exchange. I keep my oaths- all of them. But isn't splitting the check the worst way to end an otherwise pleasant evening?

Generosity becomes the prosperous.

[ She gives him a long, appraising look. Truth be told, she's plenty intrigued. So he's charming and flattering her? She likes being charmed, and she likes being flattered.

But she's also a long way from the swooning groupie she used to be, impressed by every spark of power that touched her and ready to jump at any invitation. She might be eager, but she's not easy, and she knows well enough that one shouldn't trust an All-Father all that much further than one can throw him. Whatever, exactly, he's asking for, he certainly seems to want it.

Finally, she leans back in her seat again, flagging down a server without taking her eyes off him. ]

Let's just say you owe me one.

[ What is a god but a will, a hunger, a pact that must keep itself? What could it desire, but everything- or at least some symbolic substitute. Wednesday meets her gaze, holds it, real eye and false both touched by his smile, creasing at the corners. ]

An ill-defined favor? For someone like us?

[ The shake of his head is a nearly imperceptible oscillation. ]

I'd be an idiot to accept.

[ Then his shoulders tilt, and roll- a shrug. ]

But one needs to be idiotic once in a while.

Promise me one thing?

[Persephine, for one, is pleased as punch to be playing in the big leagues with someone who has lived long enough to complete puberty. ]

Oh yeah? What would that be?

Edited 2016-10-30 05:14 (UTC)

[ From the roughness of his features and the set of his jaw, it is hard to imagine Wednesday as having ever been a teenager. He is old, yes- and has spent most of that time being old. Age is part of his imago.

Not to mention that 'Allfather' would be an awkward title for a young adult.

Wednesday takes a moment to ask the server for a Jack Daniels, neat, before he answers: ]

Make it interesting.

[ She doesn't know yet what her third mass will yield, not that young blood will be spilled on her dance floor, or that a grow ass mass murderer will weep and flee.

But she's nothing at all if not sure of her showmanship. ]

Fucking always.

[ And for the main act's table, the server is back post haste with his whiskey and her gin-and-pomegranate. ]

What were we drinking to again? Freedom from the inevitability?

[ If Wednesday has divined the events to come, discerns with his Urd-bound eye the coming flow of blood, of power, he says nothing. Instead he chuckles and takes his drink. ]

Very good.

[ He raises the glass, two fingers full of amber liquid, regarding her over its clear circumference. ]

Nothing so fruitless. Rather, we drink to inevitability acting in our interest.

It always pays to be on the right side of fate.

[ His toast gives her pause- she'd taken it almost as a given that fate would be against her. Her shoulders relax a fraction even thinking about it.

She holds up her own tumbler. The juice inside is a striking shade of red, even in the dim light. ]

To inevitability acting in our favor. Cheers.

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just got back from traveling - sorry for the delay!

Welcome back!

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