2019-11-08 - Healing Hod


Sif and Sigyn walk into a bar. The bar is closed, covered in blood, and Hod is there.

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Fri Nov 8 04:12:27 2019
Location: Luke's

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After returning Hod to this place named Luke's as he insisted, Sif got pulled into other things and thus wasn't able to return immediately to check on him. But, she's spoken with Sigyn about the Exile's injuries, and is now leading the way into Luke's to hopefully be able to do something more than just pile as many healing stones as possible on the injured man.

"Fair warning, Your Highness, Hod will be far from pleased to see you. He rather understandably thinks the worst of anyone from Asgard." She's wearing her usual dark Midgardian clothing so she doesn't really look out of place in the fairly down-to-earth pub.

Sigyn is wearing Midgardian clothes as well, in this case a pair of jeans and a t-shirt that says 'Domestic Goddess' in elaborate calligraphy. "He defended me so that I could complete the Alfablot on Halloween. If I can aid him in this, I will." She shrugs, "And can you blame him for his thoughts? The All-Father treated him most cruelly, in an attempt to outmaneuver destiny. His anger is just, and -still- he defended me on Alfablot. He might prefer me to stay away, but I would think less of myself if I did not offer my aid."

Luke's is actually closed, not that that matters when the front door has clearly been broken into, or if one were Asgardian and knew the signs, pushed in and carefully sorta set back in place. The floor of the bar is covered in a long smear of blood, complete with hand prints, that show the way under the bar and back into the kitchen proper. Luckily, this mess is the brown of dried blood and not a glistening crimson mess.

In the back of the bar, in the kitchen, lay the signs of long inebriation and convolecense. Hod is sitting/slouching agianst the metal legs of an industrial kitchen table, his wounds are bound with what appears to be strips of someone's rather large hoodie torn and carefully applied in battle field style bandages. His face, namely the empty holes that are his eyes, are covered with a tea towel wrapped about his face sparing anyone from having to stare into the dark voided pits.

Around the blind godling in a puddle are a few things, first of all there are bottles, a quantity of which is great enough that should anyone try to reach him they will make an unholy racket of clinking glass. The second of which is a brown dried puddle puddle with numerous footprints and hand prints and sliding prints in it, as if someone had already been here and were rebuffed by Hod. His cane lays across his chest, half hugged, half craddled in his unconcious arms, a 2/3's empty bottle of rum dangling from the none cuddling hand. He reaks of liqour. Asgardian exile or not, it clearly still takes more then a little to put him down, but down he is, as he lays there unconcious as fuck.

Sif seems slightly baffled by the damaged door, and outright frowns at the blood trail. But when they find Hod in the kitchen it takes almost all of her self control to not curse aloud.

"I will start trying to clean this," she tells Sigyn quietly, then looks around for one of those blue containers with the white sigil that Miss Darcy impressed upon her as incredibly important, and that glass belongs in those blue containers.

Sigyn sighs softly, "I will focus on Hod… I can then perhaps lend my magics to mending this place, but his health comes first."

Then Sigyn begins to weave her sorceries. The first is a misdirection learned from her husband, hiding them and her further spells by making this area seem boring and without interest. Following that, she begins to layer healings over Hod, starting with the minor, working her way up through the Major. It cannot be quickly done, not without causing pain or waking Hod, neither of which Sigyn wishes. Her magic is more suited to making and mending than breaking and bending, gentle yet still somehow strong. Kindness does not equal weakness, despite what some might think.

Blue containers are present, near the back of the building near the rear door that leads out to where the trash is collected, and said containier is blessedly mostly empty. So Sif won't have to figure out how to make multiple bags and find new ones. A second glance at the pile of bottles is likely to make her second guess that assumption. The instant she touches a bottle however, and the glass clinks, Hod comes awake.

Light Drinker snaps to it's full length in his hand and he begins flailing about with it wildly as he tries to push himself backwards across the floor with his rum bottle holding hand, snarling unkind words about someone's mother in what sounds like Greek. The head of the spear doesn't even bother acknowledging steel as it cleanly slices through the kitchen prep rable like it was tissue paper, severing one leg and splitting a cast iron skillet into to peices that fall to the floor amid the bottles causing them to explode in shades of glass. He scoots and flails with odd aplumb, as if this was a thing he was used to, very nearly skewering poor Sigyn in the process. Either he's drunk, half unconcious, or both, because it takes long seconds for him to slump down on the far side of the puddle of bottles, panting, and huff out a word that won't require Allspeak to understand, "Oh." he lifts the rum to his lips, "It's you two." and he takes a long pull from the bottle. "You shouldn't-" he makes a wet belching noise that smells almost entirely of alcohol, "sneak up on a guy. I know sneaking. You're shit at it." He looks /really/ bad, and if one had eyes that could see in the dark, they might see that all his thrashing has reopened a few of the larger wounds, namely his thigh and the gash on his cheek.

The sudden flailing has Sif startling, and she very nearly loses her balance onto all of the bottles. THAT would have made a bigger mess of glass. She also tries to keep the spear from hitting Sigyn by throwing her arm up to block it with the vambrace hidden under her jacket's sleeves. It's a risky thing to do, but she'd rather take that risk than to see Loki's wife injured.

Once Hod has ceased with his flailing, she watches him for a wary moment, then goes back to collecting bottles to put in the blue container. "Of course it's us. If I'd known you were injured this severely, I would have taken you directly to Sigyn." She doesn't say it aloud, but she can't help thinking that it might be worth the trouble to get him out of here anyway. He's damaging the steel furniture, and this place doesn't really seem all that much like a comfortable residence anyway.

Sigyn layers another healing spell on Hod, reclosing the wounds he had just opened. "T'would be easier to heal you under my own roof-tree. My sorcery is a rather domestic source, and works better in my home. And I wasn't -sneaking-, I leave that to Loki. He's good at it."

Sigyn sighs, "If you will not guest with us, then at least do me the kindness of holding still while I heal what I can? Your wounds are quite deep, but even if I can not heal you completely I can at least close the wounds and heal enough that you won't be stuck laying on the floor." She pauses, then adds sweetly, "After all, it would be easier for you to drink sitting up, yes? Though back at my home I have Asgardian mead, and spirits of Asgardian mean, which would get you much drunker, yes?"

Hod snorts and lifts the rum to his lips again, "Thor already tried." there's a /wealth/ of emotion in that sentence, layers upon layers upon layers. Brothers. Am I right? Some shit is just… well, hardwired. "Didn't go well for him. Think you can fair better?" he quips with a little smirk and raises his spear hand and makes that iconic 'come at me bro' wave with his hand, as if inviting Sif to try and make him. "This is not where I die." he points out. "I'll be fine." despite all of his efforts to kill himself with liquor it would seem.

Hod's head cants to the side lightly, blissfully unaware of the tea towel's rooster theme that currently puts a cock directly on his forehead or the clever implications of said placement, "I've lots of practice drinking from the floor of random establishments and this one has the added benefit of being owned by a-" he pauses at the word friend and instead offers, "minion." as a suitable alternative. "Asgardian mead however, may very well kill me." he considers, "So yes. You should certainly fetch me a jug or seven."

Sif takes a moment — and one armload of bottles for the recycle bin — to think of a way to beat Hod at this 'I will not go' stubborn streak he's got going on. She thinks she's hit on something.

"You are ruining this establishment for your minion. If you were to let us take you to Sigyn's home, you'd not be destroying furniture, you'd have access to the mead mentioned, and this place could be cleaned and returned to proper order."

She starts collecting another armload of bottles. "I do not understand why you would refuse Sigyn's hospitality when accepting it would likely incense the AllFather greatly." And wouldn't that be just the tiniest bit of fun?

Sigyn mutters something under her breath about Loki rubbing off on her. "I understand that you do not care about my offering of healing or hospitality… I understand that you want to wallow here in pain and alcohol fueled misery rather than trust my offer of guest right… And I am sure that you have every right to feel that way."

Sigyn's hands sign a series of glowing symbols in the air, a complex glittering form of magic and runes forming in the air in front of her, then she thrusts it at Hod and it flies from her hands, soaking into him… and he finds himself as healed as if he had spent a week in bed, resting and well fed. And, alas, stone cold sober. No hangover at least, which is a small favor.

"So the blame of this if the Allfather is angered is entirely on me." Sigyn's tone is surprisingly stubborn for someone whose reputation is for sweetness and devotion. Or perhaps not so surprisingly, it probably has taken a lot of stubborness over the years to stay devotedly married to Loki.

Hod snorts at the pair of them, "Why? Because in three millenia of life accepting help from family has ended in misery every single time with the singular exception of Baldr." he points out flatly before raising the rum to his lips again. Right when Sigyn gets all… Harry Potter on shit. And then he's just sober.

Sober Hod feels all the aches and pains however and he's not happy about it. "Well." he says, eyeing the rum in his hand, "You're just the worst." he informs Sigyn with a distincly less mush mouth type of enunciation. The bottle is set aside dejectedly, "You know, you just kill all the fun in moping." he points out.

"Well. I know where I stand, then, cousin." She carries more bottles away again, and there really aren't many left after all. She's not even going to look at Sigyn askance for the sudden sobriety that Hod has to deal with. Serves him right, just in this moment. Maybe later she'll feel a bit more sympathy, but not right now.

"Now that you're not at risk of reinjuring yourself further, are you choosing to continue lying on that floor in the remains of your own blood?"

Sigyn mmms, "Loki makes the same complaint that I take all the fun out of brooding." A few minor spells cleans up the blood and other fluids, and mends the door and the table that have been damaged. "Of course, if you had come to my home, I would have been able to do a better job of healing you, provided food and drink, and maybe told you the tale of how I ended up married to Loki in the first place."

"As for where I stand, my loyalty is to my husband, first, foremost, always. But you defended me on All Hallow's Eve, and I would have thought less of myself if I had not come to your aid in return." Sigyn shrugs, "Loki is not well loved by the Allfather, and the feeling is mutual. Loki be pleased that I was able to aid you, and regret not having time to talk to you further. And if you had been captured or detained while your wounds incapacitated you? Loki might have felt he had to balance the scales of you helping me by going after you himself. I would rather remove the risk afore hand." Some of her word choices… Hod will realizes she's not using Allspeak, she is speaking English. Not her first time on Midgard by the sound of it. Bits and hints of old accents flavor her speech.

Hod sighs and seems to sink in place a bit, "Why do you all insist on showing up after so many years to late?" he sounds more weary then angry, "Even Thor, may his hammer be replaced with nerf, attempted to assist me but a night ago. Or two. Three thousand years to late, but still. Have you all suffered the effects of multiple blows to the head? Father's sentence remains in effect," and he quotes for the second time in two days, "None of Asgard shall offer solace nor succor, no bargain made shall stand nor aid be rendered."

He shakes his tea towel covered head, "Fools." he says after a time, "Loki mayhaps possess the skill to forever slips the Allfather's cunning, but you do not." he says, meaning of course Sigyn, "Aid rendered to me risks Odin's wrath, and that is not a fate I would wish upon any." he pauses, considers, "Maybe Thor." he amends as he lifts his rum hand to waffel it in the air slightly as if that were still under consideration. "I would have healed in time. I would have been freed in time. I have said it once, I shall say it again. I have Seen my own death, and it does not happen this day, nor in this manner." English is familiar to him, and while he clearly has made use of Allspeak in his time on Midgard, he's spent to much time here to be flumuxed by a terran tongue. "You smell strongly of cinnamon." he adds after a moment, "That is not an Asgardian spice. You have discovered christmas. Father would be disappointed. I approve." he adds randomly.

Sigyn laughs softly, bitterly. "Too late? Yes, always too late, because the Norns will have their say no matter how we twist and writhe to escape." She smiles, though it is a fragile thing, "Since wedding Loki I have spent more time away from Asgard than on it. I disappointed the All Father when I proclaimed in court that I would follow my husband into exile and share his punishments rather than remain in Asgard." A small cask of Asgardian mead appears with a solid thump. "Enjoy your aches and pains… and the mead hangover. I've come to prefer white wine… or even tea, with meals."

Sigyn looks over at Sif, "If you would see me home, Lady Sif? Your presence here has done nothing to earn any ire, and we can keep it that way."

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