Summary:Angela and Herc meet an old acquaintance at Luke's. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
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It's a Karaoke night at Luke's! Which means, naturally, that Angela is there. Currently, she's singing on the small stage, performing a very sultry version of "Turn the Page" by Bob Seger. The angel-in-disguise is wearing a shimmering red dress, the lights causing the fabric to sparkle as she sings…
"Here I am, on the road again
There I am, up on the stage
There I go, playing the star again
There I go, turn the page…"
And it's clear the listeners approve, particularly Hercules. He smiles broadly at the angel on stage, though his eyes are a little distant. He's been mulling something over all night, between sips from a glass of watered wine. But it's clear he approves of Angela's voice.
Angela finishes the song and comes off the stage, since she's not one to monopolize the mic time as that's just rude. She moves over towards Hercules, smiling over at him as she noticed the Greek God pretty quickly. Of course, he's hard to miss as she sits down next to him. "Something on your mind, big guy?" One eyebrow arches, as the angel looks curiously over at Hercules. After all, they've known each other for a while…
Hercules smiles at Angela in turn. "Just thinking. I know, it's the last thing people expect me to do." He takes another sip of his wine. "The changes in the world. The rise of champions and villains." Pausing, he remarks, "I was getting a little bored, so I went to help in the zone, moving debris. Not the worst task I've ever faced. But… I don't think I'm as -strong- as I was, so many years ago."
From behind the bar a single hand comes into view, rising from the darkness like that of the ressurected from the fresh churned earth of the grave. This is followed shordly by a pained and pitiful groan of very mortal agony as the now exposed palm presses itself against the wood. With a grunt of effort and a sour sigh, this hand becomes the fulcrum that drags it's owner up into the light. And while not a true zombie, surely this disheveled representative of the hipster scene has been party to better days. His hair is all mushed to one side, sticking up oddly, his vest is crooked and rumpled, the shirt beneath in much the same condition, and his beard is uh… bushy. Lets go with bushy. But mostly what stands out is the scarf like cloth wrapped about his face, namely, his eyes, like a blindfold. It's still taut and in place, but there are indentions in it that are disturbingly deep and uncomfortable to look at. Anyone with a blindfold on still has the hint of eyes beneath, this man apparently does not, and it's… uncomfortable to stare at. At least for most. He wobbles a bit, then groans and sinks back down so that his forehead can press against the cool wooden bartop while muttering something to himself.
Angela hrms, "I wonder about that… could it be based on the fact that you don't have the believers that you used to, back in the day?" She shrugs a little, "I mean, when I gave up the Vengeance thing I lost a fair amount of my own power, at least in the obvious sense."
She then pauses and looks at the blind bartender that is… having a rough night, or rather recovering from one, and says simply, "Excuse me, are you alright?" One eyebrow arches as she regards him, as she does remember him from the free sample night a while back.
Hercules hmms. "Maybe, but belief is a funny thing. I mean, Father is still a ridiculously overpowered skirt chaser, but nobody's sacrificing to him these days." He taps his jaw. "I have an idea, but I don't have any way to prove it, and…" He pauses as the blind bartender rises up, raising an eyebrow. "Ho there, friend, it's not good to oversample the wares." Then he pauses, again, and peers at the blind man. "Wait a moment…"
Hod is sporting, at least to Angela's eyes, a new scar across his face too, well, new and old all at once, meaning it wasn't there before, but it's also got the pinkish hue of scar tissue a couple months old. Just beneath his 'eye' and along his cheek bone, as if he'd been grazed by an arrow or some such. "Agreed," he says, his voice burrowing into the bar and echoing out muffled back into the bar, "oversampling the wares is-" he makes a belchy sort of noise, a groan, then continues, "best. Not good. Best." then he's pushing himself more or less up to his feet and stumbling about, his hands patting down ever flat surface as if in search of something until he comes in contact with the sink. Where upon Hod shoves his head and then turns the faucet, dousing himself from the neck up.
Angela shakes her head a little bit at Hod, then glances over to Hercules, considering a moment, "Well, what's the idea? I honestly am not entirely sure what would be the reason for your problem there." She tilts her head, sounding genuinely curious, though at Hercules' pause as he regards Hod, she glances back over towards Hod as well at that.
Hercules takes a much longer sip from his glass, blinking as he watches Hod jam his head into the sink. Without looking away, he responds to Angela, "The… power, let's call it. In the old days, it could be concentrated into a few champions, because there really weren't that many humans. But nowadays there are so many mortals, and so many threats, you -need- more champions to cover all the gates." He smiles a bit. "I don't mind, myself. I'll miss rerouting rivers and rearranging the mountains, but if it means humanity has many more defenders, I won't lose any sleep." He leans over the bar. "Speaking of gods and men," he says dryly, "how long has it been, Hodr? Six hundred years or so?"
Hod's head comes up out of the water fast enough to splash it about, a new level of awareness to the oh so recent miserable groaning, more then a bit of the rabbit in his body language. This similarity is in no way lessened when he literally sniffs the air, then groans, "Bor's swinging cod!" he curses under his breath, "Herakles." some people remember how to pronounce a man's name correctly, "Did Bacchus or Dionysus send you? I swear, I'm good for it, just been busy! I'll get them the trincket, never failed to pay up on a delivery yet!"
Angela gives Hercules a wry look, then glances at Hod, "Wait… Hod? Oh, I know of you, though it's been…" She pauses, then says, "A long time. Your situation has improved, at least." At least there's compassion there in her voice, of a long lost artist that was likely presumed mortal. Then she looks over at Hercules, "We really should form a Facebook group at this point, I swear I meet more immortals in New York than anywhere else."
Hercules looks startled. "No, Hod, Dionysus didn't send me. I'm kind of on the outs at the moment. You know how it is. 'Wander the mortal world until we unlock the gates of Mount Olympus, blah blah blah." He's even holding his hand up and making 'talking' motions as he says this. "If Dionysus wants something he can damn well get it himself, assuming he can sober up enough to find the door." He reaches over and claps Hod's shoulders gently, trying not to collapse the other godling. "What're you doing here, Hod? Besides bartending."
Hod sputters water and finds a towel to reach up and drag down over his face, scrubbing away at it furiously until he feels more awake. To be fair, he doesn't look much like either of them remember, so it's easy to not pick up on it by sight alone. The last couple of decades are the first in the last 2500 years Hod's not been batteling malnourishment and exceptionally poor treatment. He's not been a slave or a servant to anyone in quite some time, he eats regularly and well, and with the shadows of his godhood that remain in him a little fuel is all he needs. That said, he's still not impressive physically. Lean sinew and whipcord muscle rather then bulk coats his frame, and while he's athletic (who from Asgard isn't?) it's not like his brothers. Even Loki is larger. Plus, there's gray in Hod's black hair, lines and scars on his face, hands, and tattoo's. Which shouldn't be possible really. But there they are, coating his forearms. "Yeah well," he says, tossing the rag aside and pulling out a large pint glass and filling it with water, "no one's whipping me in the street for having the gual to beg fo an alm." he returns to Angela. Lessened he may be, but his memory is keen, and no one smells like angels do. He slugs back half the mug before responding to Herc, "Avoiding any responcibility for anything and trying to keep off the family radar. Failing miserably at both." he admits before polishing off the glass and pouring another.
Angela sighs a little, "Well, on the bright side, we only judge based on what you did, not what you're allegedly fated to do." She makes a face, "And mortals complain about the Name pre-judging them. They have nothing on Asgardians." She's familiar with some of the stories, anyway, and she does smile a little, "You do, however, look better than you did then, for which I'm glad. I thought it was you before, but I honestly… well, wasn't sure, and know enough that you don't like the attention."
Hercules watches Hod with a certain amount of pity, noting the lines, the scars, the gray hairs. He's honest enough to admit he doesn't remember what Hod did to be exiled. Something about a prophecy — Asgardians always take their damned prophecies and signs so seriously. He rubs the bridge of his nose, then responds in a calm voice, "Well, settle down. You're among friends. The only thing I seek.." He pauses, and there's a twinkle in his eye, "…is a bowl of peanuts."
Hod makes a face but doesn't comment. Everyone and their love of free will, as if everyone were allowed the privledge of such things. He's learned not to comment on it anymore. "Wounds heal, but Hod the Hidden remains." he toasts the room at large with the dregs of his pint of water, which is double bad luck… a concept Hod would laugh at if he had the energy. "These days the Norns take great delight in seeing to it I continually run across those who know me for me. After all this time to draw their attention to pointedly is somewhat disconerting, I'll not lie." he refills his glass, again with water, and drinks it somewhat more sedately. "Peanuts." Hod then says after a long pause, "Bugger you and your nuts, pea sized as they may be." the smallest of smirks, "I still owe you for pulling me from the mud at Agincourt. And you," he gestures in Angela's basic direction with the mug, "for that nonsence with that Sultan. I pay my debts, and today they shall be paid in food. Hospitality is a dying art."
Angela smiles, "Well, thank you Hod. That's more than fair… I'll take another Long Island Iced Tea, and a platter of wings for myself and Hercules." Because the one advantage of being an angel? Your figure is pretty much locked in, so calorie counting isn't exactly a thing. She tilts her head at Hercules, and murmurs, "They are very good, I've had them here before."
"Indeed, I have heard as well. Though I am curious to know where these winged buffalo are." His face is absolutely guileless, and it's impossible to tell if he's yanking people's chains or not. "But no argument, Hod, hospitality, the welcoming of guests…it's practically lost in these days."