2019-06-24 - Aftermath of Amphipolis


During an aftermath of one of the Battles of the Peloponnesian War, Hodr the Hidden comes into conflict with the God of War, Ares.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Mon Jun 24 02:47:35 2019
Location: RP Room 2

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The rain comes down in sheets, thick and blinding, so heavy and loud that it's hard to hear your own men speak around you so that they must yell to be understood. "I SAID NAY BROTHERS!" Hodr rages, his helmeted head snapping to the side, along with his teeth, as one of the Spartans drags a sheild forward, through the mini rivers quickly forming under the deludge. Had he eyes they would see the madness in them, but alas, he has not. Nor has he the ducts with which to weep, and so the shadows cast by his helm will have to be warning enough, and the droplets steaming down his face and through his beard the tears he cannot shed.

Hodr kneels amid the roaring victorious Spartans, their cries raised in glory to Ares and Hercules both, patrons of their people and their City. Resting upon his lap is the head of Brasidas, greatest of their number, commander of the force that turned the Athenians left wing in a surprise charge from Amphipolis. Blood from the Spartan's head wound runs pink and thin, the rain washing it away in sheets. The jutting broken end of a spear juts from the deadman's thigh, a gash that runs from his temple all the way down to the hollow of his throat marks the blow that felled him. "We must." the Spartan says, his voice quiet, but firm, couragous even in the face of Hodr's rage. Fault the Spartans for many things, cowardace was not among them.

The rain around the men freezes instantly to sleet, the puddles and rivlets that run the ground near by audibly crack as they freeze in the blink of an eye, and frost forms across Hodr's helm, his breast plate, the leather creaking under the instant change in temperature. From the pits in his head where eyes should be, something moves, something dark and old and angry beyond words, "Nay." he says, and this time his words are quiet but heard by all despite that, "You must not." And now they stop, no longer advancing. There is a difference between courage and stupidity.

Legend has it that Ares was with those brave Spartans, who pushed back the Athenian line so fiercefully that the dead was beyond the count of grief for the Athenians. But it was this day where the Spartans would know, for all time, that not only were the Gods real? Many of them were cruel.

Suddenly, it would seem as if the air would - crack open - with the force of such an arrival, and it seems as though the descent makes a ploom as this mysterous figure lands upon the ground with such force that the dust shifts into the air a few feet off the ground, but not higher than a Spartans waist.

Once the dust had cleared, A lone figure with an intense mohawk and golden armor upon his shoulders, bare arms, with white on his top and black the rest of the way down. Spiked armor lined his elbows and knees, with golden greeves on his feet. In his hands were nothing for the moment, but from his shoulders was a long cloak painted red as if it were of blood.

THe sheets of rain descended upon him, washing the blood off of his face. But he stood to his feet and he looked upon the Spartans.

Legends say that Ares fought with the Spartans to lead them to victory.

He was not.

It was the God of War himself as he approached the line of the Spartans. His fierce eyes seemingly locked onto Hod, specifically.

Hod's snarl doesn't change, his expression doesn't soften, instead, the air grows colder still and the sleet begins to sting, "you." he says through bared teeth. There was a time when the Heart of Winter itself would come to Hod's call, when he could blind the foe with gales of biting snow and sluicing ice, when he could send waves of shadows to mire the feet of his enemies and strike them as blind as he was, there was a time when he could flit through a battlefield like a dream, disappearing from here to reappear there, everywhere a Jotun or an Elf would fall. Now his power is curtailed, to parlor tricks and minor hinderances. He is not what he once was, but in all that lingers still the echo of what he used to be. And then there's the spear.

Hod's fingers don't curl around it's shaft, they don't have to. It's ebon length just from the stone next to him where the silvered head is buried all the way to it's cross guard, having slid through the stone like butter. Instead, they curl against the edges of the breastplate of the man still laid in his lap, staring up at a sky that weeps with eyes as sightless as Hod's own sockets.

As he approached, Ares looked upon Hod and the other Spartans, who no doubt were either in a state of indecision or were already forming themselves into their classic battle lines. "Me." Ares replies, summoning a large sword in one hand and a battle axe in the other, the Strength of the God of War allowing him to wield these usually two-handed weapons with ease.

Clearly, Ares is basking in the great war. This was the greates 'worship' for Ares, even if the Greeks didn't know it. "I'm here for my Bloodshed." He looks upon Brasidas as he lays dead at Hod's lap. "Those who live by the sword…die by it. Is that how this pitiful adage goes? Cleon of Athens also suffered the cold hand of death. But of the two, will they be sent to Hades? Or will my father accept them into the fields of Elysium?"

He smiles devilishly then as he breaks out into a dead charge towards the line!

Hod reaches out with a hand, patting the earth until his fingers close upon a sword, and he lifts it, pressing it to Brasidas' palm and curling his fingers around it, "I care not for the soul of Cleon, but this man is worthy of far greater fate. I would see him in Valhalla." and he stands, gentely placeing the fallen warrior's head upon the stones and pulling his spear from the stone, "See to our brother," he says to the man only moments ago he threatened to kill, "this man belong to me."

And he spins the spear in a tight arc around his body as he leans forward and begins his own charge towards the mohawked man. His bare feet ignore the slickness of the ice, his arms pump as he drives himself across the rocky plain, his lungs fill with a great breath and as the two immortals near he lets fly all his wrath in a howl of mourning directly into the teeth of unrushing God of War. This howl is followed closely by the Uru tip of Light Drinker, Hodr's dwarven crafted spear.

Ares approaches Hod, apparently grinning. "Valhalla is a glorified participation prize, no paradise." but of course, Ares does so despise peace. But once he sees Hod let his wrath-addled howl loose at the God of War, Ares targets him specifically. That spear of Uru manages to to break Ares's sword after a few clashes, but that does not mean defeat for the God of War.

…who was holding back.

Until, after a brief moment of amusement at Hod's mourning, that battle axe swings at the Fallen God of Winter and Darkness, with force enough to just - Body - Hod straight to the ground. His spear likely dislodged form his hands as well, though not broken.

Ares stops in his assault then, measuring the willpower of Hod as Ares stands there, watching how Hod reacts after such a strike.

Hod has never had the strength of Thor or Tyr or even his twin, but where he lacked their mass, he was always quicker. He begins the combat by bringing the spear back behind him in a two handed grip, leaps through the air, and swings it at it's full length down towards Ares' face as if the weapon were an axe. He does this all while keeping himself well out of the God of War's reach. A tactic that he sticks to wisely despite his anger. The blade flicks in and out serpentine fashion, seeking any weakness, any wound, and eventually setteling on halving Ares' defense by simply slicing the sword's blade from it's hilt, the head of his own weapon humming as if hungrily with the action.

Then the world changes. It's easy to forget that Hod is blind, he's been that way for so long he's found a way to manage around the handicap. His ability to judge location and action of a foe by the sound their feet make as they move, or the rustle of a cloak in the air, the brush of armor against skin, is uncanny. He 'sees' without eyes, feeling attacks on the air a fraction of a second before they fall, smelling the breath of a silent foe as he slips up from behind, all of it coming together to paint a sort of image he can work with. And he's great at it. Which is why he rotates the spear in close and holds the haft up crossways to block the blow he knows is coming, his riposte already planned in his mind.

Until the brutal reminder of his new station in life, the vast difference in strength between the two, is made abundantly clear. Hod doesn't remember the fall to the ground. Nor the bounce when he hit the rocks, bounced up, and then back down again under a second blow. He does remember the moment the spear flies from his hands, the sound of it's silvered moonlight butt spike scraping over the ground as it spins out of his reach. He remembers the sudden feeling of there being no more rain as Ares looms over him, blocking the rain from landing on him, a sort of absense of feeling at the Greecian seems to gloat.

And Hod remembers lashing out with a heel, trying to plant it firmly into Ares' 'god hood', his lips twisting into a bloody pink toothed snarl.

All thats possibly heard is the 'thud' of Hod's foot against Ares's hand. The God of War then dropping his battle axe into the rubble of the ground, before he just smiles. "You have spirit." But then Ares uses his superior strength to, with ease, throw Hod through the large rock on his right.

His eyes shift to the spear of uru, and while he considers taking it for himself, he decides against it. He won't defile Hod's honor by beating him further with his own weapon. Instead, he looks at Hod. "You are a fallen God. Once you were mighty, perhaps like your brothers. I admit I was curious when you found yourself on earth or…as you and your lot call it, Midgard. But of course Odin's own cowardice would cause him to banish his own son because of a prophecy. In this way….perhaps you and I are alike."

Two sons, disregarded by their fathers. Ares is trash to Zeus, only to be used as a tool of war and sheathed when he's no longer needed. Hod, an innocent once-deity who was laid low because of one All-Father's fear.

Is it weird when your visin swims and you have no vision? Hodr isn't certain, but it certainly /feels/ like it should be weird. The stone shatters as his body hits it, the boulder cracking with a sound like thunder and he can feel his bracers and breastplate slam into his flesh hard enough to bruise him deeply beneath them. Their edges cut into his flesh, and he feels something in his forearm fracture. He grinds his teeth against the pain, fighting back the impending unconsciousness through will power alone. Being god of darkness has some small perks, though he's pretty sure it doesn't allow him to actually fend off metaphorical darkness. Or does it? He doesn't know. He's never been knocked out like that before!

He groans and rolls over onto his back, pushing a portion of the stone from his face with his good arm, shoving it away weakly.

He speaks from where he lays, sweaty, bloody, exhausted. Before Ares arrival Hod had already fought a battle, a pitched one at that, and he does not have limitless endurance as he once did, "I did not fall." he says into the rain, realizing only then that his helm is missing, likely knocked away in the impact with the stone, "I was cast down." it's a distinction sure, but an important one to him. Falling implies he tripped, that he was in any way to blame for his current state. He did not. He is not. Cast down says something else entirely. He rolls onto his stomach and begins to push himself to his feet, "Our fathers," he says as he wobbles up to his feet, fingers curling into fists and comeing up before his face in a boxing stance, "are as they have ever been. Little better then what swings between the legs of a goat." he pauses, then turns as he realizes in his dizziness he's been facing the wrong direction and recenter on Ares… well mostly on Ares, "a gelded goat." he adds for effect.

Ares watches on as Hod fights against the encroaching mental darkness, but somehow through an ungodly amount of willpower, manages to overcome this. Perhaps a smile touches the God of War's lips as Hod shows his true metal, managing to at least get up and enter a boxing stance. Ares looks….very amused.

That is until he literally laughs at what Hod says, and that sound is like an army's laughter. "Right you are. My father the seed of corruption. Your father the God obsessed with order and serving his own ends." yet, the Greeks tended to fend for themselves on their own as Gods, while the Asgardians were always united. Most of the time. "I like you. Hod, was it? Perhaps there is more to you than a being in exile."

It was nice having someone to relate with, but seeing as Hod was still on his feet and still feeling like fighting, Ares would simply smirk. "In honor of this…I will fight you no longer. Battles rage on elsewhere that demand my attention." especially since Hod probably could only take so much more. He's already showed his mettle.

Hod has been laughed by gods his entire life, he's used to it by now. He's not sure if this is an 'at him' situation though, or more agreement. His head still isn't on right. "Hodr. And no one 'likes' me." Well. One man does. Did. But only his brothers call him Hod. Hod's hands drop wearily to his sides and he seems to wobble once more on his feet before straightening, his eyeless sockets zeroing in on Ares suddenly, "You will escort Brasidas to Elysium?" he asks, the question clearly important to him. Wearily drooping or not, his hands have not yet unclenched from fists.

As soon as Ares had turned on his heel and summoned his axe to his hand does Hod make his request, apparently having been ignoring him before his most important request. Pausing in his step, he turns his head as he looks at Hod. "Cerberus will not feast on Brasidas. On my word, I will take him to the Blessed Isles of Elysium." A place for the greatest heroes. Giving a light nod to Hod, Ares continues on his way, until with a leap, he leaves the area.

Ares never goes back on his word. Believe it or not, Ares has honor.

Hod can't see the nod, nor sense it, the rain isn't helping his abilities much in this way, but he judges the tone as honest and seems to deflate a little, "Gratitude." he offers softly, knowing Ares will hear. When Ares leaps away, Hod crumbles to the ground with a grunt, falling in a heap and laying still beneath the rain as Spartans rush in to check on him, their words half spoken then dying off, then half again before silence once more reigns. "Take him to the city." Hod says up to the sky, knowing the Spartans will hear him, "Take him, and bury him within the city limits." a great honor among their people, "Should any man object, tell him Hodr The Blind will seek him out to settle the matter. With finality." The Spartans are silent for a moment, staring, then spear butts hit stone in a single acknowledging strike before they begin to shuffle away.

A single Spartan remains behind, the man carrying Brasidas' shield, the man Hodr snapped at earlier, and he stares at the beaten godling, "Who are you?" he asks, the question thoughtful and quiet, but heavy none the less. Hodr lets a long breath slip past his lips, "I am less then I was, and more then I should be." it's about as Greek an answer as he could manage, and it's one that the Spartan will accept. "We won't see you again, will we?" he asks but gets no responce. His spear hits the ground once, hard and firm, the only parting required, then the man drags the sheild back towards the fallen hero already being lifted by his brothers.

Hodr lays there, in the rain, until he's alone on the field, letting the water wash away his sweat and the blood, and the tears he couldn't shed. He rises slowly, wincing, and stands. With stiff fingers he unclasps buckles, unlatches hooks, and begins to walk. Bits of armor fall from him, one after another, clattering on the stone. He picks up his spear as he goes, his breastplate falling last, splashing down in a puddle. The staff in his hand morphs, twists, and become a length of olive wood, twisted but tall enough for a man to lean upon, innocuous in all ways. From the battle of Amphipolis Hodr walked alone, unarmored, soaking wet, and painted in pain, inside and out. He left Pelopennisea behind.

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