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The Asgardian Embassy. That final destination on the itinerary for Kevin Masterson's Great New York Adventure. Or maybe just a stop along the way. Either way, he has at last found his way to this very spot; bag on his back, artifact of serious power held within, along with a change of clothes and the remains of his lunch (when you're travelling on a budget, you save your sandwich for later). Taking a deep breath, he steps up to the entrance to announce himself. Knock knock?
When you knock, a god listens. And sometimes he opens a door.
Sometimes a door gets violently blown open. Fortunately, it's not the one Kevin's standing in front of. A rowdy chorus of laughs echoes from the interior of the Embassyt, which is lit by some steady illumination precisely the color of firelight but glows everywhere from no discernable source.
Thor bangs his mead glass on the table as a lean woman with a single braid of blonde hair clambers onto the table and flexes her bare arms. Apparently, she had just thrown the fellow out into the street over some slight.
"Perhaps someday the men in this hall will learn to guard their words when a woman speaks softly," Thor booms, lurching to his feet. "The habit of millennia must be difficult to break, for as many times as we've replaced these doors!"
He looks to the exit, and spots Kevin peeping inside. "Hoh there! A newcomer to our halls," he says. He's not yelling— he's just very loud. "Enter, stranger, and make yourself known to us! There is no need to loiter on the step, all are welcome in the hall when we feast!" he declares, beckoning Keith in.
Kevin is taken back *just a little* by the door opening so suddenly, and takes a step back to avoid whatever may be coming out. Steadying himself again, the young man steps inside, letting his backpack fall from his shoulders to be caught on his arm. "Uh, hi," he says, nowhere near matching the volume of the blond Thunder god. There may have even been a little demure kind of wave. "I'm, uh, Kevin?" He clears his throat, deciding that maybe a bit more assertiveness is in order here. "Kevin Masterson. I'm looking for Thor." Beat. "And.. I could eat." Never turn down free food. Rule Number One.
Thor throws back his mead as he rises and walks towards Kevin with an easy step. He wears clothing that is simple, but finely made— a sleeveless tunic in deep royal blue and dark brown trousers, with a silver-engraved belt that matches the leather of his low-ankle boots.
He tosses his empty cup over his shoulder and it clatters across the floor, and he walks towards Kevin with a heavy, easy step. "Then you are in the correct place, my friend— as you seek Thor, you have found him. Food! Victuals for the young mortal," Thor booms, waving at several servants. He looks back at Kevin. "I sense you bring a weapon into my hall," he tells Kevin, as food is summoned to an empty seat. He claps the young man heavily on the shoulder. "Tradition is that we hang our weapons at the door when attending upon a host— though if you seek a duel, it shall have to wait until we have eaten," he tells the fellow, with a candid grin. "One should have a full meal in their belly before meeting their doom, no?"
Kevin stands his ground as Thor walks toward him, eyes up to the taller man. He's not afraid, necessarily, but one doesn't at least feel the twinge of nerves when approached by those who, until recently, have been the stuff of myth and legend. Especially when they tower over you and look like they could bench press you with a pinky. He definitely didn't come here to pick a fight.
"A weapon?" He's momentarily confused, because he's a silly mortal who walked into a hall full of literal gods. "Oh! Yeah, but it's not.. I mean, I didn't come here to fight you or anything. I woke up one morning and it was sitting next to my bed? No note or anything, but.." He draws the hammer partway from his bag to show it, and then apparently reconsiders taking it out, and just moves to hang his whole pack instead. "After the, uh, feast? Was hoping you'd be able to tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do with it?" Besides hit nails and bad people really hard, which so far seem to be its primary purpose.
"One uses weapons to smite their foes, my young friend. Come, though! Eat, and break bread with us," Thor invites Kevin, escorting him to the table with all the irresistable force of a landslide. "And might we know our guest's name?"
He seats Kevin at the open chair on his right hand, and food— more food than anyone could eat in one sitting— is brought to the table. It's uncomplicated fare, delicious but prepared quite simply. Much meat and bread, and plenty of mead, though there are few vegetables and even fewer fruits. It's the sort of hearty food that sustained many people through many long, cold winters.
"So, friend," Thor says, after most of the meal is done and at least one more good natured brawl has concluded. "Tell me of this weapon you have brought. Some relic of a lost age?" he inquires, kicking one foot up on the table and slurping down more mead. "A weapon of thy forebears, or some modern devilry?"
Kevin eats. He eats a lot, in fact. He's no Volstagg, mind, but for his size he can pack away meat and bread with the best of them. Mead is taken in moderation; not a drink he's had a lot of familiarity with, and though his heritage lets him imbibe quite a bit more than the average mortal, it's not like he's immune. Besides that, this is Asgardian mead, right? Probably sterner stuff than American beer. He may not say a lot throughout the meal, but will certainly answer questions asked of him; his name, at the very least, perhaps some of the story which brought him here, if there are interested ears to listen.
"Definitely not modern," he says in answer to Thor's question. "It's a.. big hammer." Not to put too fine a point on it. "And when I hold it, I feel *really* strong. And it's got this writing on it," he says; in the time he had been speaking, Kevin scrawls the runic symbols on the table, using the whitespace between crumbs (of which there are no doubt plenty), which spell out the weapons's inscription and name. "I'm not sure how I know this, but it says 'Thunderstrike'?" Which Thor may have heard of; Kevin's father wasn't the biggest deal in Asgard, but he was a warrior of some renown. "Does any of that sound familiar to you?"
Thor's brow furrows mightily at Kevin's explanation. He looks down in surprise as the young man traces out a crude rune in the language of Asgard. He mouths it out once, then looks to Kevin.
"Thunderstrike. Thunderstrike?" He reaches out and grabs Kevin's shirtfront, hauling him half across the table. It's not done out of anger— but there is some significant alarm on his features. "You speak of a weapon forged in the heart of Nidavelir," he booms. The entire hall goes silent. "A weapon gifted by my father to a warrior of reknown storied enough to be a legend in his own right— a god of Asgard, my immortal kin!"
"How is it this sparse, watered mortal blood can command a gift of the dwarven smiths themselves? Uru is metal more precious than any alloy in the universe— and a craven mortal bears it?!" he demands, incredulously. He releases Kevin, perhaps realizing he's half lifting the kid off his feet. "Call the weapon to you, if you are its true master!" he demands, flinging a hand to point at the pack.
Call it? Like.. here, hammer hammer hammer? Kevin looks perplexed for a moment, but it soon dawns on him what Thor might mean. He holds out a hand, and thinks. There is a rumbling in the pack hanging off the wall, a fact which doesn't escape Kevin's notice. He had no idea he could do that. He takes in a breath and closes his eyes, only to open them a moment later. All of a sudden, the hammer tears its way through the bag's canvas construction and flies across the hall into Kevin's waiting hand. The surge of power no doubt can be felt by Thor at the very least, if not the others present. A smile crawls onto Kevin's face, and he looks to the Thunderer for some kind of approval. "I have no idea. Like I said, it just kind of.. showed up." It is pretty effing cool though, right?
Thor looks a little shocked. Most of the Asgardians do. Probably why he reaches over and gives Kevin's arm a hard pinch. Without the hammer in the boy's hands, it would likely have left a bruise the size of a softball. Instead, it just merely stings.
"Magic courses through your veins, boy— and blood of our cher cousin," he adds. "Last 'twas known of that weapon, it was in the hands of Eric Masterson, a warrior of no small reknown himself," he says, speaking to the hall of warriors and receving nods of acknowledgement. "The blood in your veins carries a spark of the Golden City, though diluted by mortal woes and weariness," he tells Kevin. "Thunderstrike is a weapon known well in the halls of Asgard, and it would allow itself to be carried only by one who is worthy. There can be no better test than the All-Father's will," he says. Few would willingly contend that point— there are few beings in all the universe who can hoist Thor's hammer, afer all.
Kevin winces just slightly at Thor's pinch. It doesn't hurt exactly, but it can certainly be felt. He doesn't let the hammer go, but he does lower it to his side as he listens to Thor's words. There's still just a little bit of a hesitation. This all seems very surreal, still. "So, I'm.. one of you?" That seems a bit far fetched, doesn't it? He's a dumb kid from Nebraska, not an Asgardian. "My father was an Asgardian?" That actually explains a lot, like why there were no letters. "Do you know him? Is he..?" Dead, is the unspoken final word on that question. If this was his weapon, there aren't many other reasons it would have passed down to Kevin, but after a lifetime of wondering what ever happened to his father, he needs to hear it.
Thor's face falls and he gives Kevin's shoulder a squeeze, then clasps the back of his neck with a firm reassurance, looking down at the young man. "Aye, cousin," he says, with real mourning in his voice. "We celebrate his life and his death in the same breath— a warrior of great renown, and who fell to the blades of his enemies in an end /most/ glorious."
"BUT!" he roars, turning to the assembly. "We have cause not just to celebrate a death, but a life! Fetch a brace of horns!" he orders a servant. "For how often is an immortal born to our kin? When last was a mewling babe born of Asgard?" he asks. Kevin receives a few ugly looks— clearly, halfbreeds are not all welcomed unconditionally— but no one remotely seems willing to challenge Thor's approval.
"Young as he is, we can celebrate a lifetime of battle— centuries spent in glorious combat, earning himself a seat in the halls of Valhalla."
Two heavy horns— hollowed horns for drinking, filled to the brim with golden mead— are delivered and he offers one to Kevin by dint of pushing it into his chest. "Come, my cousin! Drink with us, then, as we toast your return to the Halls of Asgard!"
"To Kevin, son of Eric, of the house of Masterson!" he roars— and the response to his booming voice is deafening approbation as the half a hundred warriors shout a welcome that makes the windowpanes rattle, and throw back their own drinks.