13686/I should just go to Hel

I should just go to Hel
Date of Scene:	01 August 2021
Location:	Club Mjolnir, Hell's Kitchen
Synopsis:	Sinister checks out that odd club in Hell's kitchen and perhaps finds out why it is where it is. Co-opted names and all that jazz. Also Death is quite the conversationalist.
Cast of Characters:	Hela, Sinister

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Hela has posed:
There has been a direct purpose when Elle first had Wilson Fisk create Club Mjolnir for her, but in time, and through wearing the guise of Elle, she had come to learn there are other added benefits. Unexpected ones, and so, she had come in time to spend more time at the Club. Not only because the famed Miracle Elle draw more patrons, but because it allowed her to survey in person, test, measure, and find some hidden gems scattered about the largely disappointing multitudes of Midgardians.

Today was one of these days she choose to inhabit the club, sitting in the far side of the bar to allow a full view of the patrons. A drinking horn of mead in her left hand. But with her most recent sip, she felt a presence approaching, and her eyes shifted to the doorway. An interesting patron was about to set foot, she always took the time to introduce such guests in person to the club.

With little hesitation, she headed for the door, signaling to the hostess to let her greet the next arrival.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister could very easily be a goth. Hair cut to the collar and spiked up in a curtain over one eye, with black and blue streaks, long leather duster, boots, torn jeans, plain white tee, soul patch, non-descript aspect. He blends in with a million and one kids in Hell's kitchen, fighting a stereotype or just their very circumstance but...

There IS something about him. Looking, there's nothing to see that's striking, but how he walks, how he -moves- and occupies the space he's in, commands to be observed. Eyes track him past the entrance, by the seats, eyes travel to follow him briefly then go back to their conversation. His eyes, a dark blood red that is probably thanks to contacts, travel over the decor, the people, all seemingly nonchalantly. Unless you can see past what's on the surface that is.

Hela has posed:
There is something to be said about the wider scope of vision of an actual Goddess of Death, and the many deaths that one particular gentlemen had helped bring about, whether knowingly or not, there's a kind of aura that sticks to such individual. Hidden from most, but quite notable to Hela or the Valkyrior Host. Whatever the case, she has clearly set her eye on Sinster, unlike most who have set foot in the club today.

Nevermind her actual cover as Elle is one of an Oracle, a mysticly inclined woman who claims to have certain untold powers, some of which were seen when she helped cure people from the mysterious Black Sleep some years ago.

"Welcome to Club Mjolnir," Elle greets Sinister, her accent placing her somewhere abouts Norway to an educated ear, highlighted by her perfect actual pronounciation of 'Mjolnir', the club's namesake, whose replica hangs over the bar. "Have you come to simply imbibe, or does the setting stir your curiosity?"

Sinister has posed:
Auras of Death certainly must linger. And conversely the mind of a god, or any celestial for that matter, tend to feel significantly different than your average joe on the street. They tend to be busier for one, even if you're not listening in on what is said. A candle beside a lighthouse, to the astrally sensitive.

The kid that is Sinister pauses to stare up at the replica of that famous hammer and therefore is specifically still when Hela approaches. Even when addressed, the kid's eyes don't leave it until the full sentence has thusly been spoken. There is a non-commital kind of shrug from the young man. "Nobody does good mead any more, it's all watered down shit that ain't worth drinking," sounds like a local, but...

Behind the curtain of people generally looking the other way at one precise moment, he gives his hair a little shake, his shoulders a roll back and goes from scrawny kid to the same -basic- outfit and look, but now with his own face, albeit toned to human and with his own build, which makes the clothing considerably less baggy. "This place is strange. Part tourist trap, part cultural gimmick, overlaying a real Thing." It's how you say it, there's a capital letter there. "Mead," to the barkeep, he now turns to look at Ella and all but blinks like he hit a brick wall. "Whoa."

Hela has posed:
Elle turns to see the direct gaze the young man is placing on the main attraction and grins, "you've an eye for quality, Thor himself would be required to tell it's not the real deal," she sings the praises of the crafter of this replica. It's usually uncouth singing your own praises, but who else even knows.

When she hears the lament of watered down mead, she laughs, "funny to see such a young American lament such a thing, where have you sampled proper mead before, if I may ask...?" She is actually curious, most patrons need to be told what 'mead' is in the first place. "I trust you'll fine ours is some of the finest you've ever had...our recepie and mode of preparation is quite close to the original." Lies, it's more ancient than the original, some of the higher end on hand quite close to Asgardian quality itself. Nevermind the off the menu actual Asgardian fare on offer for special patrons in the know. Most mortals don't handle it too well.

Still holding her drinking horn, she offers to Sinister, "if you'd like a sample you can have a sip of mine, though I hear most people loathe to share of the same drinking vessel."

"Sharp eyed," she comments at the summary of place offered by Sinister, "Thor himself called it a fabrication of truth to entertain, made of truth itself. Very savvy perception."

When he exclaims upon looking at her, Elle considers Sinister in silence, arching a brow very slightly. He couldn't possibly see through her disguise...perhaps a fan of Miracle Elle? It's possible if he's heard of what she accomplished, curing the uncurable.

Sinister has posed:
"Lindesfarne. All kinds of history there, but they're apiarist have made their mead according to trappist techniques and Norse tradition since its inception, sacking by Ragnar and reinstating. I think it's probably safe to say the mead here is better..." though he tilts his head at the offer of a shared sample from the horn, inclining his head in a rather polite kind of gentility that doesn't match the look. "I think I would be rude to refuse a drink shared from a horn. Once upon a time, that would've been like a slap to the face, to NOT share a person's waters, when offered. Thank you," therefore, he does, tasting it and sucking high cheeks in, leaving no trace of black lipstick on the rim. He nods to it, waiting therefore to be served his own. An ID that looks a hundred percent genuine is held up to the barkeep before he's even asked, pocketted thereafter.

"I try and really look, when I walk through the world. If you go through life blind, you miss so very much. Plus, this place... I don't know. I've been passed it a lot of times and today, I decided to see what the hype was about. It's out of place, but entirely belongs, it seems like."

And because there is a look being shared, a lofted eyebrow "...As are you. I feel as if I've seen your face a thousand times and yet I've never met you."

Hela has posed:
"Lindesfarne...now there's a name," Elle says with a rather sweet, savoring smile on her lips, as if the name itself had a taste. "You've an awful lot of historical knowledge for one who appears so young," she remarks, an almost subtle emphasis on the word 'appears'.

Elle nods her head, a rather proud smile on her lips, and a look of approval on her visage. She felt a unique presence, and so far, this man has not been disappointing. Young, or not, or whatever else he was hiding. That he was remarkable was quite discernable. "A nod of respect to the Old Ways is rarely seen these days, you are most welcome, in my Great Hall," one of the rare occasions she did not refer to the place as a mere Club. Curious.

"To some, my face indeed kindles memories of something familiar, met by many, known by few...sit with me," she offers and gestures towards one of the secluded Faering Boat along the side wall, meant to sit more private parties compared to the long tables about the main area.

"Would you mind to share with me a little about yourself? Fascinating young man that you are...a profession perhaps? Or maybe, how you come about Lindesfarne, or actually knowing about the place more than the occasional tourist?"

Sinister has posed:
Sinister rakes his hand through the streaked curtain over his eye, setting it back enough that both eyes can now be seen, with their old-blood contacts. He smiles a wonky smile that's an illusion of self-effacing that has that grain of knowledge in the core of it. He knows it's unusual, that's for sure. But not so arrogant now that he lets it linger, bowing his head as he's served his horn, taking it up with a lift to the barman and another to the hammer. "I'd be honoured," he moves like a predator, that's what it is. A wolf in sheep's clothing that glides through the crowd and measures, padding along in a way that says 'I am not prey.' He does however, wait until she seats herself in the faering boat, before he settles himself, casting eyes over the crowd of young and not so young, drowning in a moment or all oblivious.

"I've toured europe. The world, really. You could call me an anthropologist, I've been at a lot of digs where there's been a lot of death. Battlefields all across britain, from Hastings to Bosworth field. You never know what got left behind and I've done a lot of lab work on sequencing samples taken from those places. My name's Nate, by the by. Lindesfarne's great, in that they've kept a lot of the records, even dating back to the time of the slaughter, what was not lost in the sacking. Novices fleeing and hiding with their arms full of parchment. You have to give it to the fanatic, doesn't matter what the religion."

Hela has posed:
As she settles in one rowing seat on the boat, it's authenticity broken by the offer of proper padding for the modern patrons, she looks on and waits for Sinister to sit himself in turn. "Manners, a sign of proper upbringing," she muses, while listening to what he is willing to share.

When he mentions the word 'death', he can almost feel her surreal green eyes, surrounding by her haunting violet shadow and blood red liner, settling not just on him, but almost through him. There's a quality to her unnerving touch that makes it seems like she can see one's secrets, piercing all made up facade. It may not be true, but to say her gaze is piercing at the moment is an understatement. It's as if the attention of something primordial has been swayed. "...you do not find that feeling of lingering death unsettling...?" She muses, smiling rather warmly at the man. "You seek its presence? Is it the history behind it? The bravery? The sacrifice? The cruelity...many things cause death, and most change history itself."

"I will tell you this much, a man who has died to uplift a cause, be it martial or scholastic, is similarly honored in death. It is a great virtue to sacrifice for a cause, even if the cause may not be of similar lofty ideals some as it is to others...that you can value their sacrifice, is touching, and suggest not all is lost in this modern world of ours..."

Sinister has posed:
Sinister tilts his head to her last, musing on the rest of it as he settles, resting elbows on knees, the horn held in fingers loosely hovered between the two. Hunkered, providing an intimate space for a morbid discussion. He seems to chew on the topic though, rolling it around in his mind. A sip of mead is taken before he replies, not seeming to be disturbed by the penetrating regard and the eerie feeling that the shadow of his father's fathers on into history, is being weighed and measured.

"Why would I fear death? We are born. We live. We die. THe manner of our death is the only thing that is uncertain in that; good death or bad death, judged worthy or not. Every faith has an aspect of the afterlife that handles that... because we all need that Story to live well by, for fear of what comes after. Given modern events on the world and the fact we've got so-called gods walking amongst us, kind of puts a spotlight on all of that." He shrugs lightly, tipping his head with it.

"But honestly? It's what is left behind. A life gone is gone, but sometimes things much more precious that tell you about life itself, get left behind... forgotten where they died, discovered when Jack the Jute is found off of the beaten track in Umberland; his bones tell you his origins in Jutland. The isotopes tell you what area he drew his water from, where he grew his food. Scars on his skeleton and the pattern on his teeth tell you how hard a life he had, when he fell from that horse at a young age, before the bones had fully formed. The axe wound in his chest that he survived somehow. Stories remain and sometimes, you can take from the root of a tooth and find the code of life itself and find out what he looked like even. If he was gifted with good genes, good looks... cranial topology. It's morbid, I guess, but it's not about that."

Hela has posed:
"Spoken like a scholar," Elle notes, before having a sip of her mead, "or one of great experience. Quite astute." She seems to enjoy his words as one would remarkable piece of music, it is certainly rare to hear such views offered across Midgard.

"Not just a scholar," she notes as Sinister elaborates on what he first offered, "a genius at that. A toast to your intellect then," she praises and raises her drinking horn, before sipping yet again. "Do you, in your choosen life path, come across death often...? Be it served or observed?" Tricky little phrasing that could be taken any which way, but one would suspect that the last thing this woman could possibly be, is an undercover cop. Not with her mannerism, and peculiar oddities.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister bows his head, holding it bowed a little longer than strictly necessary, in honour of the words and to aknowledge their weight. He sips mead again, lifting it in silent toast to her and again to the hammer. That's how you stop yourself getting /totally/ hammered after all. Funny little traditions of the Middle earth. ANother sip, this one longer and a sigh at the flavour afterwards, smacking lips and pulling them thin with it. "I could drink this until the cows come home," apparently finished, he raises the horn to try and gain attention which he does with reasonable skill, nodding to the barkeep and getting a nod in return to the silent request, he looks back at her, head tilted and hiding the one eye once again. Interestingly, it's the same eye that's hidden in the old images of her, the hooded cowl half in light, half in shadow. Interesting.

"All the time. A hell of a lot more than most do anyway, but then..." he shrugs "...I recently got to do a dig in Dachau. So much was lost there and cannot be retrieved, no matter how clever you are. Huge funeral pyres do that. Everything is gone and the flames warp the bones. But we still find new cases, which deserve their burials. Occasionally, you can even manage to match a warped set of remains to a known indivual that was slaughtered there. It's hard work, that." He pauses, thinks about this a while. "And I do occasionally get called for the really weird ones. You know? The ones nobody can quite figure out how the heck this happened an what the sequence was. The puzzling ones."

Hela has posed:
Elle seems very attentive to each minute gesture Sinister makes, and as such, the perceived honor given the hammer or that for which it stands is noted. Judging by the smile on her lips, she is quite pleased with it as well. "You have a habit of reading the room quite well, don't you? Perceptive and sharp, a good combination."

Taking note of the hidden eye, she asks rather boldly, "...have you an eye injury or deformity you wish to hide...? I never judge based on looks, you can be well at ease in my club..." she offers, slowly sipping the last of her own mead.

"Ahhh..." Elle remarks, for a moment closing her eyes, atrocities have often yielded boons to her dominion. But rarely has entire rituals been done at such a level since the old days. "The commonality of death, is that it does not prejudice against rich or poor, high or low, all may receive it's blessing. Some deservingly, some not, but all...eventually, will," that last bit of promise lingers in the air as she sets her eerie gaze directly on Sinister. As if she's talking on another level beyond just their conversation at the here and now. "Is death itself a puzzle you seek to solve...?" She leaves a loaded question in the air.

Sinister has posed:
Sinister considers the inquiry as to his eye, the grey eye that's visible not narrowing, but there's a measure of tension around it. He lifts one hand to the flop of fringe and moves it aside, tucking it behind his ear. The right is very red, which is odd to say the least, almost ruby coloured. "It freaks some people out, other people find it curious. Yet more think it's a contact lens, but it's not. I have an abnormal amount of blood vessels in my iris." Yeah, right. But it sounds genuine and it looks well... very much like a peculiar contact, that's truthful enough. A refresher mead horn is brought over and he hands his empty back at this point, nodding to the barman with a little sloppy salute, be'ringed and bangled in leather thong as it is. Now at least, both eyes flit back to Elle and he shrugs lightly, the turn of his lips just a little wry.

"As they say, we each owe a death. It's the one certainty in life--" but he considers her question deeply. "--I would be lying if I said it wasn't a fascination. The process is sometimes short and swift, othertimes long and protracted. Cultures have always placed different weight on it all but I think the modern West is probably the only one that seeks to actively hide from it most of the time. It fascinates us all, to the point of morbid curiosity and rubbernecking at accidents... nothing stops the flow of traffic in places where it's an accepted part of living. But here? If there's a crash on the interestate, we all want to see. What happens afterwards? Well." Here he shrugs again, the nonchalance of youth. "Next great adventure, or a long, black sleep. Nobody really knows the answer, do they? Or even if they do, I bet they're believed only a fraction of the time. MOre things to what of, than are dreamed of in the minds of men, right?"

Hela has posed:
"An indeligble mark...?" Elle offers, clearly, she isn't in the camp that buys into the contact story, and is far too removed from science to buy the very plausible access of blood vessel variant as well. "Forgive my ignorance in the ways of science, as an Oracle, I came from older ways, and am more accustomed to different things..." leaning into the table, her elbows resting upon it, she somehow appears to gaze deeper into Sinister's eyes. Or rather the one in particular. "Usually, in a more mystical sense, certain actions leave a mark..."

Her hands shift to clasp together, finger interlocking as she nods at the words about death. "Precisely so, astute once again." The smile soon returns to her visage when Sinister admits a fascination with the puzzle of death, nodding her head in approval. The truth spoken, most appreciated. "In dreams, possibilities are endless, in faith, everything is absolute...but what is the reality? Yes, that is knowledge worthy struggling to attain...few ever do. But you somehow seem to me a man who has already gathered more knowledge than most. I am intrigued by you."

Sinister has posed:
"Why, thank you," genuine words, Sinister studies the whole of the package infront of him, the way she looks, the keen and penetrating regard and more importantly, the absolute ownership of personal space that he's come to recognize in a select few that walk the earth. Oh, sure, there's confident individuals, cock-sure ones also, but there's a certain 'way' to some individuals. She has that and he writes it down behind his ear, smiles in the aftermath of graciousness. "Oracles are always a bit interesting. I once decided to go to a psychic fair in Camden town and found that a great many of them were superlatively skilled at reading people. Not so much the future. Psychometry and clairvoyance is extraordinarily rare, and true prescience? Even rarer still. Do you find you end up with playing Cassandra, often? Or do people actually -listen- to you?" he asks, quite boldly.

A glance is shot across the bar then and he narrows his eyes at a couple of daydrinkers that are perhaps getting a little rowdy. But following that, he glances at the hammer again, a measure of moments longer than strictly necessary, back to the pair, then back to her. There might be a punch thrown over there any moment, but who knows? It might turn into a backslap, another round of alcohol and an arm wrestle.

Hela has posed:
"Indeed, interesting, different, there used to be a time Oracles were well regarded or even feared...these days," she muses, before nodding at his own words, "indeed. Hard to tell apart from exceptional readers of people..." she laughs when asked if she often finds herself playing Cassandra. Genuine amusement in her laughter, no derision or scoffing there. "One can try and warn, one can try and guide, but men who think themselves great are oft deaf to truth and blind to intent."

Gesturing at the club around them, Elle offers, "enough listened that I wound up with this boon...and I dare say I struck a bit of difference. That Black Sleep I cured was more than it seemed. It baffled modern age doctors because it source was beset in magic."

Following Sinister's gaze, she smirks, "curious how the very same room can hold a conversation worthwhile, and tomfoolery of absolutely no value."

Sinister has posed:
"Oh?" Sometimes the best response to something that intrigues you is to simply invite elaboration. Monosyllabic though that invite to more might be. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around magic," well, at least there's a little more in the aftermath. He looks over at the pair once again, tilting his head to the side. This time, the hair falls over his left eye, the ruby red one fixing on the pair.

"To them, it's worthwhile. Dexter has had one too many, Sinister not nearly as much. And as is the case with so many, the tension is over a woman. Dexter made a comment about the girl that Sinister's rather fond of, but he's thinking a good deal more than just commentary on her assets. I /swear/ the minds of young men are absolutely deplorable so much of the time..." he shakes his head, slow. "And Sinister's pondering whether bro's go before ho's and whether it's just the alcohol talking. Trust me, buddy, it's not."

Hela has posed:
"I think the difficulty for men of science in grasping magic may come from overlooking the basis, that is, much like science magic is a system of cause and effect. Physics from a different realm, if you will, or otherwise differently experienced." She seems pleased at the lack of an utter rejection of magic, it shows an open mind, and a thirst for understanding. Truly understanding, rather than merely dismissing one thing to empower the one he believes in.

Turning to look their way, Elle rolls her eyes, "dreadful that one should hold any importance to such...empty things in the grand scheme." Not that love hasn't sparked wars all on its own, she should know from Amora alone. "I take it you distance yourself from such meaningless feuds?"

Sinister has posed:
"Generally speaking, yes. But the little things dominate so very much, in this world. But now I suspect, you know why I prefer the company of the dead to the living so much of the time. The living are a heck of a lot noisier." He tips his mead up, drinks it down in one long pull with only a little quaff to it, sets it down upon the table and rises, seemingly unaffected by the strength of the brew and rolls into a bow, with a roll of hand and wrist besides. "I think I shall come back here sometime, miss Elle. And next time, I may grace my palm with silver. Do have a good day..."

He smiles, backs up with a click of the heels and makes his way toward the exit, with only a single glance back and that one red eye glowing oh-so-brief. Then he's gone.