1536/War and Chaos

From United Heroes MUSH
Jump to navigation Jump to search
War and Chaos
Date of Scene: 18 July 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Ares, Loki




Ares has posed:
    The end of a shift at the Godsend is almost traditional for the Local 477. It's a towny bar, one that during the week is where the locals go to, spend their time, get their drink and enjoy the baseball game or the basketball game. It's a small place, barely able to contain two rows of booths in the back, but that's mainly because it has a large pool area and a circle around the music/video machine that tosses out random songs while the LCD monitor on the top shows the winning numbers for KENO.
    On the weekends it's overrun with tourists that are looking to experience a genuine dive bar. But the weekdays, those belong to these men who are there enjoying the end of another job and another paycheck.
    It just so happens that one of those men in the Godsend is John Aaron. A small time celebrity in the union, ever since he apparently did... something that prevented some gunmen from making off with the payroll. So he rarely pays for his drinks and tonight... it's no exception.
    "So what's next?" A man pipes up.
    "Somebody was talking about that Lexcorp thing."
    "It's already late and overbudget, they lookin' for more crew?"
    "Probably."
    "I'm thinkin' the Stark Tower rejuvenation thing."
    "Nah, besides he's got robots and crap."
    "Oh right. What do you think, John."
    "No idea, guys." John Aaron rises to his feet, slapping one of the men on the back. "Be right back, gonna get something to eat."
    And with that he starts to move back towards the bar to place his order.

Loki has posed:
The Upper West Side may be a place of sky-high rent and exorbitantly fancy individuals, full of entitled self-importance. None of them quite hold a candle to the god of chaos, trickery, mischief, and stories. But this story isn't about him.

It's about the young man calling himself Liam Serrure, a particularly seasoned art appraiser consulting with Christie's and Sotheby's. It's about someone who dresses in a stripped down manner no different than anyone else who works and doesn't /live/ here, a loose shirt and a pair of jeans about as fancy as he's going to get. Someone who, unfairly, can drink every other last sot under the table and still give that inestimable English smirk to back it up.
     A glimpse of twining tattoos lace up one wrist. His stride carries a certain middle finger to the world, and the way he enters is someone familiar with pubs of all stripes and sorts in the old country. Good enough for here. Pretension isn't wanted; not welcome. He carelessly winds past drinkers and diners without a care, and flicks a look to the Keno game. Promising, but too easy. He'll end up at a stool, anyways, staking out territory. For most he's just a man. Another God surely knows one of their own, when he allows the lantern fire to burn through.

Ares has posed:
    Brushes with divinity are rarely positive moments, even for other divine beings. They are brief windows given to the fates from which they can ply their shears and laugh at even the most smug and confident of such beings. But since Clotho had passed some two hundred years ago, and since the world had taken on such staggering changes, the world weaves itself in curious patterns. And so it is that now in a world full of such variety, two beings of such rare lineage find themselves there.
    "Chili fries." The tall man says as he reaches the bar, space opening for him by other patrons slipping to the side, leaning over it with his bottle clinking glass on the glass surface. He tilts his head to the side slightly, features shifting as he glances one way down the bar, then back the other way.
    A heavy gaze falls upon this Liam Serrure. Long enough for eyes to narrow and expression to sharpen. He straightens up and tilts his head slightly. "Hm. Were I a prophet how would I scry this?"

Loki has posed:
     Divinity gives a hint of the painful, the furious, the despairing. Time bends and spins in the worst of ways where the respective pantheons interact. On the other hand, Liam can wear the shades of countless other lives. Their hues and sparks wrap around him, vanished away. The Moirai may be dead; the Norns aren't, and Loki carries the oddest of skeins touched by their hands.
     "Goes decent with the darkest stout they've got," he says almost lazily. The dark-haired Englishman in New York hooks his elbow against the rail anchoring the corner of the bar. He doesn't bother to hide the ghost of a smile or smirk. Choose your own outcome on that. Neither holds an echo of hostility for John Aaron. "Two. For each of us. It may take a while."

Ares has posed:
    A short bark of a laugh slips from him, barely heard in the white noise of the bar beyond the handful of feet around them. But he shakes his head and pats one of the men on the bar on the shoulder, urging him to the side to free up the seats nearest to Loki. He slides his half-empty bottle along the bar, the glass scraping faint on the glass as he nods to the tender.
    The large man turns his back to the room in general, and curiously enough that provides them a modicum of privacy, considering the broadness of his shoulders. He rests a hand on the bar around the base of the bottle and gives a nod, "I would place you at Coyote, Anasazi, Trickster, and Loki." Such names have weight and a modicum of power, though for now they are tossed here before them like the first few steps of a ritual. Terms declared, parties interested, peaceful meeting it is to be? For his part it is so and his manner conveys such.
    "I am the exiled, known as kinslayer." A title that would mean more only to such beings as they, in the know of the flow of the worlds beyond and who would sense the passing of the only one they could consider kin. For it was Phobos' soul that fled so recent and that left him as none other than the slayer. A name that had been vilified of late amongst the Olympians at the least. Ares.

Loki has posed:
     Loki is ever a bit edge on, no matter where they sit. It can be in the middle of a room and he's going to treat anything behind him as a matter of interest, using reflective surfaces and a healthy dose of suspicion to keep his surroundings under watch. It goes with his territory, as much as reading a room's mood probably goes to Ares, if not his elder brother. Whatever the bartender feels like, two more drinks doubled means a good profit, even if one half the party probably won't pay. The Englishman waits until he has his securely in hand before committing to saying much.

Though it's doubtful those green eyes focused on the large Olympian miss anything at all. Truth told, it's better not to ask what they /do/ see, for he probably holds much more in common with Hades and Hecate on that front. His foaming mug goes to his lips; he drinks deep enough to satisfy his tastes. "Accurate. On this corner of the continent, anyways. Others could be applied liberally. Raven. The Mayans had a motherlode of outstanding ideas, though the Nahuatl and the Aztecs... I'm sure you know your counterparts dancing on a field of stone and a dusty plain, in the clashing sonnet of tempered steel and the retort of wet gunpowder under broken pine branches. We are what we are, regardless where we roam. Though, it's Liam."

Good English names never go out of style, particularly when the version of a Norman conquerer. Norman, Norsemen, the circle shuts. "If only things were so black and white, mm?"

Ares has posed:
    "John," He offers in way of identification, his bottle touching his chest lightly in a gesture as old as they. But he looks aside to the tender as the man delivers their drinks and then, of course, the chili fries for those are terribly important.
    "I give no credit to chance nor happenstance, what brings you to this pass, Liam?" He finishes the last of his bottle and slides it away, taking up his new drink and enjoying it with a small pull and then setting it aside. He keeps his level brown-eyed gaze upon the man, "Much has passed, what has drawn you?"

Loki has posed:
"Indeed. On the construction site, made you an offer about a nasty little piece of work that might be in your bailiwick." Loki tips back the beer so the dark imperial stout rolls in a wave under the foam, as essential to him as the chili fries are for any man after a hard day's work. "That. The usual cordial affairs that prove so bothersome are finally released enough to enjoy myself slightly."

He gives the slightest pull to the collar of his t-shirt, freeing up that ever so subtle yoking. Some things can't be escaped. "Laying low from the rest of the family or is this long-term residence? It seems they can't help but live in interesting times."

Ares has posed:
    "Ah," His brow furrows, "That was you?" John tilts his head to the side, rubbing at the stubble along the curve of his jaw. He frowns to himself as he looks to the side, leaving the chili fries untouched for now. His misremembering seems to bother him as he shakes his head, one hand lifting as if trying to pull the words and the images from the air to populate his thoughts.
    "An artifact of some ill omen?" He frowns and shakes his head, "It is a poor time for such, or perhaps from the other angle a good time. I have recently lost a fair amount of my more storied pieces. Mystical, no. But still. Storied."
    John takes another drink and then sets the glass down, "But good on you, Liam. Your family has always been..." He starts to consider a word, then chuckles a bit, "Well, not as if mine was better."

Loki has posed:
    The lack of memory isn't forgotten by the dark-haired Englishman or the god masquerading as one, at least. He notes that. He might well note everything in the dive from the argument over the better baseball team to the guy worrying about which bill to pay this month and the rising price of taking the subway while quality isn't getting better. He hooks his fingers tighter around the base of the pint glass half full of foaming stout, tipping it back. "Nasty weapon. Wants to drink life, really, and something I'd like to see destroyed. Naturally like any good artifact it resents being done with and given your credentials, well..." Liam smirks.
    "You wouldn't like the story for this. Destroyed." Underlined with a slide of his forefinger across the bar. "I don't have especially much patience for seeing it misused. Too much nasty potential."
    His eyes narrow slightly at the mention of family, those green irises shining a tad too brightly. There could be very thin ice there. "Mostly bad. Not all. My mother is lost on them."

Ares has posed:
    "Ah," The tall man turns to the side slightly and extends his hand towards the new drink, sliding it back and forth a moment before lifting it up from the bartop and tilting it back for a pull. He sets it down and gives a small nod, "If it needs to be acquired let me know of its location and the owner, perhaps legal channels can be exhausted if you have not already done so." He holds up a hand to stay any possible objection, because of course he most likely already exhausted them.
    Then John tilts his head to the side, looking on Liam with that casual contemplative look to him. "I know of a smith of some repute that also might be of some aid if we need to make a suitable alteration."
    That having been said Ares smiles a bit as Loki brings up Frigga. "She is a remarkable individual who stands out amongst the divine." He glances to the side and only then avails himself of a chili fry, "As for mine..." He takes a bite.

Loki has posed:
    Ah indeed. "It's currently entombed in a garden where its presence causes no real trouble. Not that it's exactly inert." Liam tilts his head and the distant slide of his gaze to the middleground possibly intimates a much further stare than a thousand yards. His gaze remains lost for a time while the game on the television drones on and the electric crackle of electricity remains a stalwart presence all around, a blanket pulled tight to the body.
    "A smith. Not the family sort, I hope. No disrespect but his things tend to end up in hands they ought not to." The faintest hint of laughter wants to bleed through, maintained on a relatively tight leash. "We can discuss it. Though the first glimmer of avarice, I'm out. The deal's off. Too dangerous to leave out and about." Imagine that, the Trickster showing an iota of responsibility. How bad can it be?
    They're to negotiate a tricky silence. One doesn't wisely invite importune statements about another's mother, even invited to do so.

Ares has posed:
    "No, that would raise a bevy of other issues," His response to the smith's identity, "But talented, nevertheless." He lifts a hand as if to hold off any such concern, however. His eyes remaining level upon the incognito trickster, "As for a weapon of power I have no need for such. I have no care for the acquisition of such. If it is to come into play in some other aspect of plan you embrace, I care little unless you wish to take that newly found blade to me and mine."
    That having been said he takes another chili fry as he murmurs, "If you mean to inconvenience one of my siblings, then I would still likely aid you. But beyond that, have at, Liam."
    John turns to the side and rubs the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, "Though there are mortals I would consider under my protection to some degree, but they are few and far between."

Loki has posed:
    "What /do/ you want? It begs to be said. Given your estrangement from your kin, and being down here..." The conversation drags off, brought to a quieter backwater where the eddying flow and rhythm of the words can cease for John to munch on fries at his leisure and Liam to drink. The empty glass he slides across the bar to await the tender's recovery, dashing it off and probably wondering whether Mr. Fancy Accent scores all the ladies that way.
    "Your siblings haven't directly bothered me." Yet. "I've had my eye on the others usually responsible for bedeviling the populace. Just in case. A man has to enjoy himself while he's on sabbatical." Is that what it is? Even a Trickster can lie to himself beautifully. All the same, he takes that second stout and watches the foaming head die down. "Who do I steer clear of in recognition of your prior claim?"

Ares has posed:
    "Liam," The tall man shakes his head as he looks at the man, "You will think me more then fool than you already do, which I am sure you will laugh to yourself and think that that would truly be a difficult task." John meets the other man's gaze and smiles, then looks back to his plate of cheese fries. He pulls them over and then slides them slightly in the trickster's direction, a quirked eyebrow making the offer in silence before he takes another bite.
    Leaning to the side he casts his gaze across the room, sparing a small wave for one of the other construction workers who are still getting their drank on. But he looks back towards Liam, "I want little more than this. To live as quiet a life as I can, to raise my son," He waves a hand to the side, "To be at peace. Nonsense, I know, and perhaps doomed to failure and yet..."
    He crosses his arms over his broad chest, the beer bottle lightly tapping at his bicep then he looks sidelong back to his conversational partner. "Ah, as to them. I should probably get them a handstamp or something." He smirks, eyeing the man if he'll accept a joke made by the God of War.

Loki has posed:
    Is there ever not a light in his eyes, a proof of mischief gleaming alight and true? Loki, the Trickster, is foremost the god of //stories//, though the truth would tell it he's a being of evil and malice, vindictive chaos. Perhaps if the speaker were dozens of years older than the present, if he were not a recipient of some grace higher than he deserves. Cheese and chili fries are so far beyond his ken... yet Liam takes one, swiping the fry through the crumbled hamburger and reddish sauce, fearlessly biting it. Any mundane experience is made better by melted cheese, this is an undeniable truth.
    Mercy's going to be making these. Possibly without understanding why, but she will. His lips press together and the flavour pulls him under, singing its cholesterol-ridden song of comfort to veins that never clog with fat.
    "We've certainly seen what the //other// options look like. Much overrated. Some would tell you rebuild a kingdom on Earth and overthrow the status quo, of course, and they'd be neglecting to realize the sheer amount of inertia to toss aside," he casually answers. His knee flexes and he balances on the stool, stretching out his legs ahead of him. "So then, you've got yourself a little crew. Who?"

Ares has posed:
    "A crew, I don't know. Friends?" He offers that word almost grudgingly, as if it didn't sit well with him or if it was a creature he heard once described but by a man with a lisp and only two teeth. He holds up a hand, "I maintain some connections to various communities. Intelligence. Martial endeavours." John looks to the side, "There are some that enjoy my favor, one or two that carry a trinket around of mine or a storied weapon of some sort."
    He tilts his head towards Loki, "If they are a warrior of some repute, some aspect to them that might surprise us in our long-lived lifetimes... then chances are I have found them and had words with them."
    Yet he waves that all off to the side, as if it were not too terribly important. "But a person of your craft would assuredly discern them and their connection to me."

Loki has posed:
    Friends. "Like I know what the Hel those are, Aaron." Loki smirks quite freely at that, the snaggletooth crocodile they're calling a pug split between them. "So you say rather than having a name I'm to look for a maker's mark on a sword being hurled at my chest or find some proof of them. What, have you coopted half of SHIELD? I've been partial to SWORD, myself." Naturally. Must be loyal to one's assumed country and rouse the Queen with another spellbinding song of God Save Me.
    "Then let me say this. A young lady with a garage in Harlem is under the protection of me and mine." A weighty statement, perhaps, and not without purpose. "Her affiliates naturally must have some proximity to this, else they're merely a knot in a legendarily complicated mess that this benighted place makes of itself at every turn. Stop watching them for a moment and they've started a bloody street war, dug up ancient ruins to unleash an ancient horror, and solved a plague by creating /another/." Really, there's just no dealing with humans. "No wonder every space- and seafaring people wants to obliterate them in a moment."

Ares has posed:
    A solemn nod is given, "Indeed, just check the label on the sword." But as he says this his smile curls a touch wry. He looks away and listens to the other man, cocking an eyebrow at the point of discussion as to emblem but he shakes his head as to adopting one for himself beyond... well what is already known for him.
    "Isn't that the way?" He turns to look fully at Loki, "Mortals you take a smidge of an interest in, suddenly they're wrapped up in all sorts of insanity and mayhem." He unfolds his arms to take another sip of beer, then pulls a pair of fries from their plate and chews on them for a little while. "I have known this one for... eighty years. And she seems taken with an effort to get her damn fool self killed." Another chili fry helps him deal with such inanity.
    But then he takes another swig of beer and murmurs, "There are some that work with me, one has been accepted as my herald though you would know her by the scar upon her brow." He looks to the side and ponders, "One wields the hammer of Hephaestus. Another an old pearl that Caesar gave to one of his family some time ago."

Loki has posed:
    "They've never /not/ been, man. It's their native way. Careen from one side to the other, and sometimes crack open an eye to see what blurs by." Loki unquestionably steals another fry and then dismisses it in two certain bites and a good chew to release the flavour. Yes, there will definitely be a conversation. "As it stands, I've got one to keep from being killed by the other. Acts like a mad wolf. Happens, you know, when they starve or encounter an old trauma. Just snaps, off they go." The dabble of those long, articulate fingers banishes the notion for the fragility of the human mind. He's already shifting, elsewhere.
    "Your herald. You keep one. Mm. Names are out, so I may just have to go fishing or offer a noisy clamour to get the message to you. Well, let's put it this way. Figure on reaching for the axe tomorrow, get that out of the way, or possibly next week." Time's fluid for an immortal. While the rest of his ilk truly aren't, Liam is not like them. Hybrid skills or just beloved by a damn fool universe, he has a timeline longer than the Aesir. "Pearls. Venus' blessing unless you mean //Augustus//. Wasn't that lout a..." Lout. Leave it at that. He downs the rest of the stout in a gulp that's surprisingly genteel, and palms a square black device from inside his pocket. It's not particular impressive given other tech. "You need something, /that/ is my herald. Press it, tell it to call Liam. It will get through. Marvel of the quiet age." Something Asgard had about two millennia ago, but it's easy when ravens are technotronic. "As it stands, I'm going to be late for dinner. Soon, then, John Aaron?"

Ares has posed:
    "Oh no, I mean Caesar." Of course /that/ is what he takes exception with, and for him there really is the one. "He gained a clutch of them I believe, so the tale goes. He doled them out at points to acquire the aid of various individuals. One of them being Servilia if I recall the scuttlebutt,"
    But then he takes up a few more fries and slides the rest on the plate to Liam for him to finish off should he so wish before he departs, "Grant me what message you wish and when of the axe, I will at on it then. My life maintains sufficient flexibility that I can take what break from it I can to take action when needed."
    But then he takes up the black device and considers it curiously. He gives a nod as he slips it within his pocket and looks back to the man, "Soon, Liam." A nod is given and a lift of one hand to the departing fellow.