615/Godly Communion

Godly Communion
Date of Scene:	25 May 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Ares, Loki

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Ares has posed:
    Late at night, the magic hour gigs for construction workers pay well. When a business doesn't want their normal production interfered with they'll have the workers come in and renovate and build in the wee hours of the night and morning so that the next day when the employees come in, the place is upgraded like magic.
    Currently there are two teams at work repairing some damage that was done to the Chrysler Building last month. Two large gaping holes had been punched through by a pair of empowered individuals during one ruckus or another. So now those teams are working on fixing the superstructure. It's a regular job, no glory to be had, little worthy of remark...
    Except that the man currently straddling an I-beam that hangs precariously high in the skyline is a rather tall fellow with quite the history. John Aaron has a white helmet on, and a visor that's pushed up and back, eye protection he doesn't need at the moment. Currently he's using a rivet gun with one hand to connect two sections of beam, even as he grimaces, something about the work gig seemingly ticking him off. Could be the material that's bugging him, or the job, or the foreman who keeps making cracks about his size.
    hen again... the money is good. And perhaps his face just looks like he's eternally scowling.

Loki has posed:
Nothing like the mystery of nightfall to cover up all manner of clandestine activities, like reminding citizens of a mighty city their arteries don't run on electricity alone and dreams don't come to fruition without many, many pairs of hands to share the burden. No one wants to disrupt the tourists coming to the many landmarks, greasing the economy, or the pompadoured captains of industry making their six hundred to one income ratio on a bit of speculation of puffed up importance.

Why, then, a son of another realm chooses to make this hour to emerge from a business on the sixty-fourth floor of the famous art deco structure is unimportant. What matters, the business present there isn't likely to disrupt the construction efforts and the partners for the deals conducted under secrecy of international trade, brokerages, and blind partnerships would rather not have anyone know what they do.

They know him only as Liam Serrure, a distinctively British appraiser of antiquities and art. The pedigree on the paper matters less than the world in an elite circle, where questions are discreetly asked and answers divulged less than the Swiss open their vaults. While elevators shuttle the clients and guests to the bottom of the building, he for reasons unto himself goes to the top.

Of course, the lone security guard on to assure nothing happens to the highest floors and the cleaning staff inside might have something to say to him. A few dollars slipped to a guard doesn't do much nowadays, unless the bills are middle denomination. It's more than the fellow gets in a six hour shift. On goes the dark-haired academic, pulling the collar of his coat higher in anticipation of the cold to come when he pushes open the door and approaches the observation deck.

From there, obtaining a view of the beam and its occupant becomes a matter of ease, really. He'll give a few minutes of uninterrupted regard unless, for some reason, John chooses to look that way. And is there much to be said for a tall, fairly lean man in a dapper English coat staring up at the sky?

Ares has posed:
    In a lot of ways the people who work construction or maintenance or security... they're used to be ignored or looked through. Some might consider it dehumanizing, to be just considered a part of the scenery. But for some reason that riveter, he prefers it. It's a cultivated skill to keep a low profile, especially when one is six foot eight and three hundred pounds. It provides a measure of security and anonymity.
    Yet the tall man has his own baggage carried with him from gig to gig. At times he'd feel a small niggling in the back of his head, a curious sensation of old entities from the past. Once it had been Apollo, a laughing youth who had been whooping it up in a restaurant in Midtown. Another time it had been Athena as she watched one of her disciples speak to the U.N... but now, it was something else entirely.
    He looks up, frowning moreso than normal, turning his head to the side and setting the riveter down. No he doesn't espy the appraiser, this Liam Serrure, but it's enough to get him to gain his feet and call across the way.
    "Smoke break."
    The foreman looks up and grunts, "Smoke break!" He yells back and keys a timer on his watch.
    John Aaron starts to move back towards the building itself, and conveniently towards Liam as well.

Loki has posed:
It's definitely not Artemis, wild child and uptight daughter of Leto sooner likely to fillet a man with arrows, nor modest Hestia with her gaze downcast and mouth sour as a prune for being kicked out in favour of Ganymede.

Too slim for Hercules, too tall for Dionysus, and there may be a streak of something utterly foreign and unimaginably complex for a single figure. Loki breathes in the cool air and tastes the dreams of a thousand thousand people in the fifteen block radius around the old dame. They look up at the art deco icon and wonder. Sometimes those wonders have a decided pull, if someone knows how to read them, interpreting symbols or absorbing the power that's offered.

His hair whips around his face and he schools it back, for little help that is. All too bright green eyes follow another of the floodlights up to the giant perched on the metal beam, straddling the void. One push this way or that might send him flying, toppling out of the way.

The cry of warning is enough. A snap of his fingers and a lighter's in hand, a metal thing with a long tongue of yellow flame. He plays with the cap, pulling it back just in time for one John Aaron to come into a frame of reference. The cigarette between his fingers is a bit of trickery, too. "Looking for a light?"

The wall gives some shelter from the restless air, a bit of privacy where none is.

Ares has posed:
    The existence of Ares is a creature different entire than that of the trickster. Oh he is tied into his word, his role, the subtle primal rumble of conflict that writhes beneath the rhythm of the world. It is not a thing he is conscious of and were someone know enough to ask him of it, he would be unable to explain. It manifests in the steady simmer of rage around him, the hum of anxiety. It manifests when conflict rages or what is more... the possibility of conflict beckons. It is this sensitivity that draws his attention, an instinctive thing.
    Yet it seems to hover around him to those sensitive to the arcane and the eldritch, manifesting as naught more than heavier shadows, the oppressive feeling of an enclosed space becoming moreso. And as he steps towards this being, this individual with the cigarette and the lighter who beckons to him in the heavens, the two subtle energies seem to come together, signifying what it would be difficult to say, save perhaps... potential.
    He answers the question with a raised hand, waving it off. Perhaps out of old tradition of not accepting gifts from those newly met. Much could be said of a Greek holding to such a tenant. But then his brown eyes meet the brilliant green and he rumbles a few words in a growling baritone. "Grant your name and purpose. My time is short."

Loki has posed:
Tightening energies forced into an increasingly small space is never a good thing. Neutron stars certainly have not given the universe much positive to focus on. Whatever distinct shifts tighten the essence of the man to his other self are present, Loki is there to witness. His perceptiveness descends to a range almost unbelievably precise, though it likewise forces him to concentrate and remain in the moment. Anxiety contrives to feed the taller man. But potential gives the lord of stories and trickery his great art, and they both have roots in the same primordial soil of chaos. Conflict and the unknown, how are they not cousins in their way?

The cigarette ends up in the corner of Loki's mouth, the light applied to the cut end until a cherry bright glow erupts from the burning substance. It's not tobacco, at least, and certainly not clove or something more illegal in fourteen states and jurisdictions. He blows out a stream of smoke onto the air, evaporating over their heads in a widening miasma. "Is it really? I wasn't aware you were officially on the clock," he says. The tenor of his accent is undeniably English, crisp and precise, afflicted by a tint of amusement.

Such a simple question. Such a convoluted one. "You can call me Liam. I have acquired something that needs to be dispensed with permanently, and //you// are precisely the person to do it, I think."

Ares has posed:
    There's a steady exhalation from the tall man, sounds almost like a growl but more just a sound of consternation. His brown eyes slide to the side, eyeballing the foreman askance from afar even though the man isn't clearly visible. Then he looks back towards Liam and tells the man levelly, "Fifteen minutes. Give or take."
    There's a turn of his head as the join crackles with a short snap of cartilage surrendering to pressure. He listens, watching the man's features, eyes, lips, back to eyes. One eyebrow quirks sourly and he says simply, "I have employment." His eyes narrow. "Are you a shaman? A dabbler?" For likely it is someone with some talent for magic that could sense Ares for what he is.
    "If you are, then best for you to turn away. Forget what you imagined you scryed and stay clear of me and mine."

Loki has posed:
His brother isn't this ornery, though he tends to be equally as prickly as a bothered hedgehog. Loki brings the cigarette once more to his mouth and takes a long drag. Embers cascade from the end with the slightest dash of a finger. They should reach the ground, littering in a place where signs that demand no smoking are placed every ten feet or so. Thanks to the wind, those traces carry up and vanish over the railing.

"This falls under your long term contract, not this moonlighting." He gestures to the building, though nothing in Loki's tone carries contempt or belittlement. Oh, the pun is certainly there. But the wordplay ought to be expected. Given whom he is, and may not be. "I'm an evaluator of antiquities, in fact. Much as I would like to just carry on, the possibility of a deal is too good to pass up. Fourteen minutes, might make use of them."

A slight motion and the cigarette is gone, allowing him to slide his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff coat. It falls far enough to keep the cold out. "This particular acquisition is a problem for you and yours. Someone is trading in nasty sorts of weapons. Believe me, if this makes its way onto the open market, it inevitably is going to fall into the hands of some power-mad, ambitious, bellicose businessman out to settle a few scores after a lifetime of wearing a chip on his shoulder." He smiles.

A smile without light, one leaving those green eyes so utterly cold, glaciers seem positively volcanic. "A soul-rending axe that permits possession of its victims. Haven't seen that ilk free in this part of the world in, oh, a century? Two?"

Ares has posed:
    Those large arms fold over his chest, never a good sign. This Liam continues talking so he is not taking the request to heart. It's only after a moment that Ares actually /listens/. His brow knits together and then Loki makes his approach from an angle that few bother to affect when speaking with the God of War. Antiquities, artifacts, ancient connections to the past. There are few things that hold some meaning for Ares, and the mementos binding him to moments of glory, exultant victories, powerful weapons...
    Well it at least piques his interest, and that can be read in the tall man lifting his chin and looking down the bridge of his nose at 'Liam'. Another breath is taken, but this one seems less put upon. "Such ills would be best tended to, by those who still play at the great game." The ever present game of brinkmanship that deities play amongst their owns if only to get an edge on another to crow about.
    But then he seems to let the thoughts churn and he adds with a shake of his head. "Yet I would hear more." He looks sidelong, away from Liam and his shoulders hunch slightly, unconsciously as if expecting the bark of the foreman. Each sharp comment from the man brings imagery of murder and mayhem that must be battled down.
    He grumbles and looks back. "I will find you again in two days time." As if Liam had no choice, "The largest lake in that monstrous pretense at the natural the mortals have placed in the center of this city." His eyebrows lift as if he were expecting an answer in the affirmative.

Loki has posed:
"Yes, and that's the way to put a soul-drinking weapon in a pair of highly ambitious, irresponsible hands," replies the Asgardian. His own power is nearly undetectable on the surface, glossed away, diluted until not even a pinch of inhuman elements remain to his aura or general bearing.

Still, the hint of humour remains, rather than an accusation. He's tempered that much. "You know none of them are trustworthy with it, nor would they have a care for consequences. Wouldn't it be better to wipe out their perceived enemies and raise a legion enslaved to their whim? At least partly. Hard to predict how it would react to volatile, strong-willed beings."

Rather than totally do the math, he turns slightly and keeps his back to the fenced-in perimeter around the tower rather than leaning against the building of itself. Seeing that all has turned out well on that front, he gives a nod. "Two days. I can contain it for now. But I somehow think you're the most suitable to eradicate the thing. Unless it proves necessary to hurl it into the largest volcano in the solar system as a precondition, we can look forward to the Park."

Ares has posed:
    Again that long slow exhalation, but then he heaves a grunt in turn. Ares holds up his hand as if to offer acceptance or to simply signify an end to the moment. He turns and begins to move away. "I shall hear your words, and take what actions I deem appropriate in two days time." His nose crinkles slightly and he says without a hint of subterfuge, "If the artifacts are claimed and the world burns before then I could not care less."
    A curious stance to claim assuredly, but he has ever been a plain speaking sort. Yet in battles past he did have a certain cunning to him. For now, however, he moves towards his place upon the superstructure of the building, slipping away from Liam for now.
    "Aaron, break's up. Get back to it!" The foreman's voice cuts across the distance, and Loki can probably see the annoyance it inflicts upon the larger man. Yet, to his credit, he goes back to his job.