|
  |
Evening in the East Village, New York City.
Noise. That is the first thing the Prince of Wolves noticed when he first appeared in New York a short time ago. So much noise. Compared to the music of sound weaving its way amid the spires and streets of Asgard, this place personified 'cacophony'.
It hurt his ears.
In addition, the conflicting scents in the air had left Hrimhari with a headache, so varied and… alien they had been to what he was used to. Nevertheless, through all these things he has persevered. Dressed in clothes befitting his new home, he walks through the streets of New York — looking quite the tourist — until he notices something familiar. A scent.
It leads him here, to East Village.
A… drinking establishment? The wiry, fair-skinned man tilts his head to one side, listening to the noise — rather, ''through'' the noise — for someone in particular. Golden eyes gleam as he walks closer…
Fandral is leaning against the bar at the East Village Tavern, flirting with a blonde in black dress and red stilettos who is going on and on about her ex-boyfriend. While Fandral was initially engaged, his body language indicates that he's considering his exits. He motions to the bartender to give him his tab as the woman drones on and his blue eyes are already seeking other quarry.
Hrimhari pauses at the entrance to the bar — although it is not really an entrance as such: the bar rather 'spills out' through open doors into an alfresco area in which people can congregate right up to the sidewalk.
And there are lots of people here.
Still, the bar itself is in-doors, and the Wolf Prince's golden eyes track across the place, his nostrils flaring. Then he frowns. He fidgets. Reaching up to his jacket, he tugs at it in discomfort. A look of consternation briefly crosses his features. "Never shall I grow accustomed to this," he murmurs to himself — and then he notices Fandral.
Fandral the Dashing.
Here, in Midgard. In New York City. In a bar. Flirting with a woman. Rather, he is trying to escape a woman with whom he has finished flirting. Instantly, the prince wrinkles his nose. Such perfume the woman wears. It almost makes his eyes water. Attempting a smile, Hrimhari approaches and remarks:
"Your pardon, but I believe your wife awaits you in the… vehicle."
"Wife?" The blonde's smile turns to a frown as the playboy is caught with his hand in the candy jar, "You jerk!" She then throws her drink in Fandral's face, "Freddie, I just told you that my boyfriend was married and here you go trying to play the same game on me!" She bursts into tears and then stomps to the ladies room as a few other ladies in the nearby glare at the horrid womanizer who's been identified.
"No! Candy…I am…" Fandral is just too surprised at first to do anything more than be the recipient of said woman's drink and rant. He looks over at his friend and tells him softly, "Thank you, I was contemplating nawing my arm off but you saved me the trouble." And then with as much composure as he can, takes a few napkins on the bar to clean off the cosmo from his face, "That's going to be sticky."
Regardless of the Hrimhari's entrance, he can't help but smile at his old friend, "And you…you old wolf. Whatever are you doing in New York…in the East Village no less?" He ignores the glares from the females around him, choosing to focus on his friend instead.
"She did not… smell right, for you, my friend."
The Wolf-Prince glances after the departing woman, his nose wrinkling again at the lingering scent of 'too much perfume', grateful for the fact that his eyes are no longer threatening to shed tears. He looks aside at Fandral and arches an eyebrow.
"Freddie?" he asks, then shakes his head. "I… need time away," says he in answer to Fandral's question. "There are few places more 'away' than Midgard. What of you? This… establishment I understand, but…" He leaves the sentence hanging.
"She did not smell right in general but sadly I didn't bother to notice that because I was too looking at those legs and red heels," Fandral admits to him and finishes up wiping off the drink. At his friend's question about the name, "Freddie Moyer…" He pulls out his wallet that includes a New York driver's license with Fandral's picture on it and address of a small flat just around the corner, "Is my name when I'm visiting New York."
While many Asgardians might struggle with 'fitting in' with Midgard customs, Fandral has always managed to find a way through the morass of social nuisances, even if it does put him in positions like with the lady at the bar, "And I'm here on…personal reasons." Not Thor, not the Warrior's Three, not by Odin's order, "And I might be here a while so I made some preparations for a decent stay. If you need papers…" Not doggie papers but a driver's license, "I can make arrangements."
Hrimhari lifts a hand to lightly grasp the wallet while he peers at the driver's licence within. A frown creases his brow. "Curious. This is what is required to… live here?" He sniffs at it — hopefully inconspicuously — and shakes his head. "You cannot eat — ah." And he nods his head a few times.
"Certificate of safe passage. No doubt bearing the seal of the lord of New York. I understand." The expression on his face would suggest that while he 'gets it', the necessity for such things still… baffles him somewhat. "Aye. I should acquire this lord's seal also."
Having spoken, the wolfman's voice trails off. It would seem that he is not the only one sojourning in Midgard for 'personal reasons' — not that the practice is so uncommon. It is merely uncommon for him. He fidgets again, tugging at the collar of his shirt.
"Is this — " and he motions to the bar. " — where you live?"
"It's a driver's license…for driving one of those metal contraptions you see out on the streets," Fandral tells him with a laugh, loving how other Asgardians interpret the strange Migard customs, "And you need one if you even hope to buy a drink." He points to the sign over the bard that says, 'Notice All Patrons Must Have Valid Photo ID'. "So…if you don't have one, we'll have to get you one." He takes his wallet back and puts it away.
"And no, I don't 'live' at the bar but it was one of my favorite places to drink…" Fandral glances about and there's still a few glaring females present, "But I might be changing that considering you've turned me from single wealthy business owner to dirty low down womanizer who's cheating on his poor wife." He gives a laugh and then pulls out a credit card to pay for the drink, no gold, but a card, "And you'll need a credit card too if you hope to get around or just hang out with me and I'll make sure you get what you need." He motions to the exit, "If you want we can head on over there and I'll show you my shop and my apartment." He then takes a moment and adds, "My living quarters."
"Such curious customs…" the Wolf Prince murmurs, still listening to Fandral while at the same time trying to wrap his head around the eccentricities of Midgardian life.
He had not prepared himself for this.
"This one appreciates it," says he after a few moments of quiet contemplation. As he comes to realise just how… alien life on Midgard is to him (at least here in one of its largest cities), he finds himself glad to have tracked down one of his friends.
"Lies come reluctantly to Hrimhari, if they come at all," he remarks to Fandral, referring to his little 'save' a few moments ago. "But this one has watched you more than once. And listened." He frowns, hesitating a little.
"You lie… well," he adds, his face contorted in befuddlement at himself.
"I lie very well," Fandral agrees with him, "Because it's necessary sometimes and sometimes because it's fun." He gives a wink, "Although, I do not claim to have Loki's silver tongue, I do well enough on occassion." He nods to his friend with an understanding look, "And you wouldn't my friend. You are too much the wolf and they live with a brand of honesty that I am entirely too jealous of." He signs the bill and is clearly now ready to go, "Come…let's go back to my place, I'll give you a run down on how to navigate the culture here and maybe…we can help each other with our personal agendas."
"You have the gratitude of Hrimhari… Freddie?" the wolfman replies, smiling. It is no imposition upon him to admit the need for assistance, even being royalty. It is a 'pack thing'. Wolves are not meant to be alone. As the two Asgardians turn to leave, Hrimhari glances aside at Fandral and sniffs again.
"You still smell of her, you know."
"Oh I know…her wretched perfume and cosmo…I need a shower," Fandral agrees as he takes his friend outside the bar to head off to his apartment, "Just hold your breath…it's only a few blocks. You can do that right?" His blue eyes are twinkling with mirth as he challenges his friend.