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"What do you mean, you do not have mead?"
Anduvin Eitrison, Runesmith and Prince of Nidavellir, is to be without mead? Clearly when he planned this little excursion to Midgard he had not taken this into account. Still, it disturbs him, quite clearly. He's wearing a suit, a new, fairly nice suit, black over a shirt of white and a blue tie. The problem is, the tie is just hanging around his neck: he couldn't figure out how to get any further then that, and he needed mead.
"Then what do you have? Some dark ale? Bah. Bring me one of each." He fishes into his pocket pulls out his wallet, and from it the money: besides the suit this entire day had been wasted in him trying to turn dwarf-mined gold into cash. It was a great deal more complicated then he had imagined, and even know, he shuffles through the bills uncertainly.
*
There is a woman at the bar, icy pale, tall and hunched enough it might not be immediately clear she's a woman except her hair is too long to be a man this day and age. She's leaning over her own beer, the stout they have on draught, and the man's question of mead just makes a white-blonde brow arch. She turns her pale features in the strangely handsome man's direction, trying to figure out just how crazy or drunk he might be. Finally, she settles on, "What the f*ck is mead?" Her voice is a rasp of sound with just a touch of a Bronx accent. She's either sick, a heavy smoker, or spends a lot of time screaming. Probably all three.
Whether the answer is actually of interest to Hilde or not isn't clear because, a heartbeat later, she goes back to taking another long gulp of her drink. It's probably the same dark beer they are serving him because, really, it's a cop bar, they only have one one dark and one light on tap. "…the light beer is piss water here… Only day shift drinks it. Stick with the stout." She chimes in a moment later again. So maybe she wasn't totally ignoring him.
*
"How can you not know this?" Anduvin's voice is a little to loud, a little booming, but he doesn't really seem to quite be aware that it's somewhat making a scene. As for his accent, he sounds as if he's lived his whole life in this very neighborhood, "It is honey wine. Fermented honey and water, with some other things depending on the fame and greatness of the brewer. There is no other more sacred drink.
That said, he inclines his head, moving forward to take a seat at the bar, "No light beers. One of each of these stouts." he corrects his previous order to the skeptical bartender, then turning his attention upon the woman. His voice still a bit loud, he inclines his head, "My thanks for your assistance. It has been a long and tiring day, full of fruitless endeavors. A proper drink is much needed. Will you allow me to gift you the next of your drinks?" So his accent sounds local, but his wording is… off."
*
The lanky woman coughs out just a bit of a laugh, shaking her head slowly. All kinds of crazies in New York and it seems half of them are drawn to her. "…Cops don't exactly drink honey wine… I ain't ever heard of it before. Iron City, maybe… some fancy ass Lambec something if you need somethin' sweet, but they mainly carry that shit in the village." She's got a mouth on her like a cop, but the sense of humor behind her words is a bit more wry (and a touch more dark). She takes another sip of her stout.
Then he's sitting next to her and Hilde gives him full on the skeptical ice stare. Both brows loft, her thin frame turning to face him. With that, he might note the more formal patches on her uniform — and the smatters of dried blood over them. She probably didn't bother to do laundry since her last shift. There's blood and shit on her boots too, but those are nicely hidden beneath the bar. "Uh…I ain't ever going to turn down a drink but… you keep talking like that and you're libel to cause trouble. They're gonna think you're some actor or somethin'."
*
"Ah, despite how it may appear, mead is not actually sweet unless one attempts to make it so. When you ferment the honey the sweetness is lost, and the depth of the other flavors are what remains. It depends a great deal on the type of honey it is made with: the flowers that the bees sip from determine the flavor of the honey, especially once the sweetness is fermented into alcohol." Anduvin inclines his head as he explains this mot serious of subjects.
Then he blinks, "Talking like what? I am speaking not truly differently then you are." He says this with complete confidence, because he believes in his Allspeak, even though he's almost never used it. "I am Anduvin Eitrison, a blacksmith from Norway." Pause, "You are a warrior?" He gestures to one of the bloody splotches.
*
"Ah. Norway. Maybe that explains it. I… don't think I've ever met someone from Norway before." Which is a little funny, considering she LOOKS like she's just walked straight off a ship straight from Norway herself. The hair, the eyes, those aren't much seen on this continent. Her thin lips still keep a wry smile as he describes booze like one woul their lover or mistress. She'd seen less amusing drunks before. A small huff of breath is given in consideration. "Mead. I'll have to try it next time I find a rich guy to take me to dinner."
Then the question is on to being a warrior. She tilts her eyes sideways, looking down at that splotch with a slight crinkling to her freckled nose. "…shit. Probably shoulda thrown this in the wash. Hell, no one'll notice." She doesn't really seem bothered. Instead, she just digs a thin hand into her back pocket, pulling out a severely crumpled pack of Lucky Strikes. "I'm no warrior…god no… medic. I clean up after whatever the fuck these street warriors do when they try to murder each other out there. Lots of cartin' around the dead pretending they ain't yet."
*
The first of the stouts arrives for Anduvin, and he lifts it to take a sniff, and then a long, long, long drink. In fact, he drinks half of it down with one go, and when it sets back down, he burps. The building doesn't shake. Just so.
"Medic." Anduvin inclines his head a moment, thoughtful, "That is an honorable profession." Well, its not a warrior and not a blacksmith, but it's the next best thing. "It is busy work you have, then? I had thought this realm to be civilized and relatively safe?"
*
"…realm? Just where *do* you think you are, buddy? This is New York City. We're lucky if we have a night without half a dozen murders, much less rioting as of late. And gang activity only died down the last few days because it got too fucking cold to go wondering the streets looking for trouble because you're bored. It'll kick up again once everyone adjusts to the weather." As he downs the booze that fast AND that easy, the woman gives him a longer side eye, specifically studying his pupils to see how many sheets to the wind he might actually already be. It's both a bit concerned and curious, the medic in her not ever really able to shut off.
Not that she has any room to speak, considering she's on her second and about to drive a massively heavy medical bus through the streets all night. She motions over the bartender for one more. It'll keep her warm. "Can't say it's as good as the mead, but the stout'll do. Gets the blood going, at least."
*
"I am on.." Anduvin manages not to say Midgard, butonly so, "..the United States of America, North America." Because you're on countries. But he shakes his head slowly, "We…" That almost was another word, a 'you'. Just for a syllable though. "…live such short lives to be embroiled in pointless violence against our own people. It is one thing if there is a noble war, a great cause, an enemy that is dire… but to slay more then five thousand in a year in only one city? It is madness. You did not mention your name." And with that, he finishes his entire first glass of stout: this time he doesn't burp. His pupils don't look dialated oddly at all: he seems quite perfectly sober. Maybe that was his first drink? Then again he seems quite set on adding a lot more.
*
There is just something odd about him, like a weird scratching in the back of her head. It's not just his language, but that's certainly a part of it. She tilts her head a bit more, eyes narrowing at him like he was some interesting sort of science experiment, especially as she sees those totally steady pupils. "You can hold your booze, can'tca?" She rumbles out. She *isn't* quite so steel livered as him, a faint rose lifting beneath her freckled cheeks, even as she reaches for her third beer.
She does pause, though, as he asks about her name. A slight shrug and she stretches one of those too-thin, almost spidery hands in his direction. There's still some blood caked beneath her fingernails. She never gets it all out. "Hilde. Hilde Norris… And yeah, it seems sorta stupid. But you grow up poor in a city like this, sometimes it feels like that one square block you call yours is worth fightin' for. Worth dyin' for. Same with the blacks… They keep fighting just to get the same fucking thing everyone else already has. You get angry long enough… maybe it's worth it." She half shrugs, her rasping voice mainly tired. So damn tired of seeing it all, even if she understands. With that, she DOES take an abruptly deep drink of her beer.
*
"My family weens our babes on mead when the mother's milk is no longer enough to strengthen him, and we are known almost as much for our mead as we are smithing." Anduvin inclines his head, showing pride in this fact. "Well met and honors to you, Hilde Norris."
Then Anduvin lifts up his other glass, and takes a nice, heavy gulp again. Half of it, gone. "And does not your ki— President— put a stop to such chaos? Such territorialism? I do not mind a man protecting his home from invasion, surely that is every man's right, but to war upon your neighbors for a line in the street…"
He blinks a moment, "It does seem that these blacks you speak of have cause to fight, though once a people are placed below, those who stand above are rarely willing to relinquish to them any honors. It is the way of the worlds."
*
"Norway must be some hellofa place…" Hilde mutters to the comment about weening babes on mead. She's still more amused than anything. But it doesn't last. Not as he talks about territorialism, and the fact that the blacks really do have a case. She has too much Bronx in her voice, and blood on her hands, to really be bitter over any of it. SHe just drinks hard and fast, halfway through this next beer which is damn quick for a woman her build.
"I don't really think the president gives a damn. He's got bigger things. Though… I do think he's trying to do right by the blacks and the mutants… He's trying, at least. There's just a lot of pissed and scared people out there. And it's gonna get a lot worse before it gets any better…" Her eyes almost seem to pale out a bit more, but maybe it's just a reflection of the streetlight as she stares out the closest window, into the night beyond. She looks old, sad, and ever so tired for a moment. And not like she's looking at a city street at all. "Gonna be a lot of dead before this is all over…"
*
"Ah. Nidavellir is not perhaps like most other … villages in Norway." admits Anduvin with a nod and a wry grin, before his expression gets more serious. "If not the President, then either the chief or champion of this city. Surely someone must care. All people are ruled, and it is the duty of the rulers to ensure reasonable… peace." Not that the Norse Realms are without war. Quite the contray. "There is someone who is surely responsible for good order of the city who is failing in their duties. Does no one challenge him?"
The word 'mutant' brings Anduvin pause, "What is a 'mutant'?" His intelligence on Midgard is a bit on the old side. "There may be many dead, but perhaps many less because of your efforts. That is honorable, Hilde Norris."
*
"Nidavellir…" The word rolls of Hilde's tongue with a touch too easy a taste. Like familiar, old music that she cannot quite hear but is right on the edge of her mind. Her eyes narrow a touch, looking from the window back over to him. What was she missing? She stares hard for a heartbeat or two before shaking her head clear, the commentary about the people being ruled making her smirk all the more. "It really doesn't work like that in the US. Gotta wait for an election, gotta have enough money to run… and people gotta care enough to vote. What happens up in all those ivory towers don't make a damn bit of difference to us on the strets, normally."
His lacking understanding of what a mutant is makes her blink also, "…You really don't get around much, do you? Mutants… genetically… mutated people. Most of'em got some sort of power. Reading minds, setting things on fire. Weird things. Some of them look real different to. Lots of people are scared of them. It… it's getting messy." Her wary gaze softens a bit as he comments on her efforts. She might even be blushing just a touch more. Not often handsome men in half loose ties talk to her. Especially not in a bar like this. "…dunno if I'd say that… But… I do what I can."
*
Brunnhilde says, "Uh…You got my name, but..I never got yours, buddy?"
*
"I am Anduvin Eitrison. My father is — chief — of the province of Nidavellir. In Norway." That last bit? He's not really even very good at making it sound not like bullshit. "I am not going to say that men do not drink too much…" He finishes his second beer, "…and brawl in the meadhouses. They do. But only so far, before either the chief or the chief's men put a stop to it and ensure that it does not spread into a riot. Thus, Nidavellir is kept in peace— relatively— and the other provinces need not worry over our affairs. Perhaps supervision has been too… lax, here."
There is open surprise on Anduvin's face at mentioning of all of these powers, "The human race is growing into its own, then. It has been long in the coming, do you not think? For the world to change and its people to change with it. I am surprised by such…. variety. But they are beings of power, and new powers always threaten old powers: fear is natural. This is another area in which leadership would be of use."
*
Anduvin Airtrison… it's a pleasure." Hilde echoes. And much like the name of his village, the proper pronunciation of his name simply rolls just a hint too easily off her tongue. Like she's always said it that way. But conversation moves on too quickly for probably either of them to think anything about it. Maybe she travelled to Norway once. She finishes the last, deep sip of her beer, her pale face well and truly rosy now. She'll have to try and sober up on the commute into the station. "Well…your dad seems a lot more in touch with people than most politicians here. So… lucky Norway." He's getting a narrowing of her eyes there again. She's so not buying that story now.
"…the…human race? What other race *is* there?" The way he said that it's like their aliens or something. "I mean, I guess… Humans and mutants, now. But it's… weird. Most people are scared. Being a mutant is a good way to get shanked or worse… if you're all alone on a street." She can't quite meet his eyes there. After all, she has her own weirdness. Maybe she was a mutant. Could he tell? Would he know? Suddenly, she gets up from the barstool, long, thin body unfolding as she fumbles out a few ones from her pocket to pay for her beers. "I…I should go. get to work."
*
"It is his duty. But in truth that is what the king's men are for: Father can only reliably be in four meadhouses in a night before even his famous constitution fails him." Anduvin says this all with complete seriousness. The question of what other races? He shrugs, adding, "Once, long ago, we believed in many races of beings. Were they the imaginings of youth or did they go away? Or hide away? Who can say." He nods, and lifts up his third beer, offering it in a toast towards Hilde, "Fairwell and safe travels, Hilde Norris. May you find your hearth warm before the oncoming of day."
*
Whether it's his discussion of other races and imaginings, or mutants, or the fact that is genuinely about ten minutes from her shift that scares her away, it's not totally clear. But Hilde is definitely moving a bit quicker than her beer-soaked mine would like. Three ones are put down on the bar, more than enough money for beer and a good tip. He gets one of those draw, cool smirks from her as he gives that warm farewell. "Not likely. My footwarmer went out of town for a while and breakin' into his apartment without him ain't the same. But I'll keep it in mind. Uh… enjoy your visit, Anduvin… from 'Norway'." That last word is said sarcastically enough it's doubtful she believes him, but maybe he doesn't know sarcasm. Then the tall, spidery woman turns on the ball of her foot and ducks out into the chilly autumn evening.
*
The burp that follows the downing of the next mug of beer does shake the glasses. Brunnhilde escaped just in time.
*