Summary:Another meeting between Hod and Herc, with Dylan chiming in Log Info:Storyteller: None |
Related LogsTheme SongNone |
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This is not Hod's usual place. It's a cop bar for starters, and authority figures of any kind rub him the wrong way more often then not, and secondly the music is all pumped in through speakers which he finds to just be lazy. He's old fashioned that way.
That said, while a nice addition, music isn't why one goes to a bar. Whiskey is why one goes to a bar. And this one has some … behind the counter offerings if you know how to ask. Which Hod does. And is currently enjoying at a stiff mark up. Not that he cares.
Tonight he's enjoying some time Off The Grid as it were, which for him is easier then for most… or it was. These days you can't turn left on a side street without running into at least 3 versions of a spandexed hero or villain or self proclaimed wizard or deity. Hod is starting to long for the good ol' days when he was entirely invisible to the world. At least in this dimmly lit place and the shadows clinging to him gently he's all but impossible to notice. He can sip his bourbon in peace and just relax.
Dylan walks in from the street, a patterned grey wool pea coat keeping the chill away. As he unbuttons it, he looks around a moment before making his way over to the bar and taking a seat. The selection of whiskey catches his eye and he studies it with a bit of a smile. A good choice of places to stop, it seems.
It's almost palpable when Hercules enters a place. He probably isn't even aware of it, the big lug — though to his credit, he doesn't stand on ceremony either. Stamping his feet a bit, swathed in that old leather and fur cloak of his, he rubs his broad hands together more out of habit than actual chill. Ambling to the corner of the bar, he tugs at his beard, looking at the bottles on the wall with curiousity.
Hod is more at home this time of year then any other. The black cable sweater he wears is entirely for cosmetic effect after all, but, ever since the mad dash through the inter-cosmos he recently undertook, Hod has been without his glasses and unless he's willing to actually put his meager power into it, it's hard to remain completely off the radar when one has a blindfold wrapped about one's face. He makes his best attempt however, as he /feels/ Herc walk into the bar.
Unsurprisingly, there's an increase in murmuring when Herc enters and Dylan half turns to see what's caused the attention. Tall, muscular, handsome, anachronistic. Must be a god. Or someone's making a movie nearby. "Two finger of the Penderyn." he tells the bartender, his Welsh accent as strong as the Welsh whiskey he just ordered.
A quiet conversation, and a mug of something as dark as roofing tar; a stout of some kind, judging from the head on it. Herc sips, makes an approving sound, and wanders away from the bar, mug in hand. Catching sight of Hod, he doubletakes, then just shakes his head. Walking over to the blindfolded man, he comments slightly, "You know, they have these marvelous wraparound sunglasses. Much less obvious. Have you considered picking up a pair?"
Hod lets out a long slow sigh as he feels Herc head his way. Literally. He can feel it. He stops trying to shrink down into his seat, "I had glasses. Nidhogg took offense to them." he mutters, polishing off his glasses contents in a swallow and raising a hand to motion for a refill. "Problem with buying glasses is that if you get ones that look stupid, you stand out more. Tell me Herakles, can you see the problem that arrises in this situation?"
Herakles. A god then. And chatting up… someone who doesn't look anywhere near as godlike. But they do seem to know each other which makes him curious. Waiting for his drink, Dylan studies Hod, trying to place him.
Hercules just shakes his head. "He's jealous because he doesn't look good in them. Also because he's got less charm than a cyclops and at least -they- know how to play cards." He slides into the seat opposite Hod. "And call me Hercules, for Fates' sake. I stopped going by Herakles millenia ago."
Hod is exceptionally hard to place, not to mention get a good look at. Sure, the basics are there. Blindfold, dark clothes, beard, but details are all… blurred out? It's like now matter where he sits or how he looks, he's always /just/ out of the light enough that seeing him clearly is more then a chore. He snorts, "Yeah. I dropped my name awhile ago too, didn't seem to stick though. The Embassy shows up and boom, everyone starts bringing the Old Names back." he lets out a breath. "Hercules it is." he pauses, "Why the change? Or did they change it for you and you just didn't wish to cause a fuss?" if anyone could understand it would be Hod… or Hodr, Hodur, Hoder, Hood, Hotherus, the list goes on. Time and his own concentrated efforts to erase himself from all records have lead to creative renamings of him by poets past.
Dylan Grey pulls out his phone to take a quick pic of the two of them - no flash used or needed - then looks over the result, turning to take his glass when the bartender brings it over. Sliding over a credit card, he takes a sip and nods approvingly.
Hercules's expression becomes… not exactly unfriendly, but there's a hardening in it, a reminder of the very large footprints he left in myth. The moment passes, and he takes a pull off his mug. "Alcmena gave me that name, in an attempt to soothe Hera's temper. Needless to say," his voice tightens and becomes slightly bitter, "it didn't work." He exhales, and unclenches his empty fist. "When the Romans came along, they changed it, and I liked their version better."
Hod offers a solemn nod Hercules direction, "Romans were okay." he says, though he imagines his interactions with the Empire were a far cry from Herc's own. "Welp, better your step mom then your real one." he offers in a dry tone of comiseration. He raises his glass, which a server walking by takes from his hand and replaces with a nearly full glass, sparing looks almost exclusivly for Herc in the passing before hurrying off. Hod continues as if they had never been there, offering the glass up in toast, "To shitty parents, may they ever stub their toes in the night, find their flagons empty, and their beds cold."
Dylan takes another sip then sets his glass down, still looking at the phone. Using his other hand, he enlarges the display, drags it over a bit, enlarges once more then looks over at the two gods and back to the phone before nodding once and putting it away.
Hercules can't argue Hod's remarks, but… such a toast doesn't sit rightly with the infuriatingly noble demigod. So instead he raises his own mug, and quietly responds, "And here's to those good parents, even if they were not of blood; who guided us, taught us, and made us better men." He drinks deeply, draining his mug, before signaling for another. "I have a question. Why -did- you run away after Agincourt? I gathered that you'd warned the French king he was walking into an ambush, that's why he'd had you tossed out of the camp. But it wasn't like the English were looking for blind men to nail to trees or something."
Hod never had parents like those, so he merely offers another solemn nod Herc's direction, his expression dour. He knocks back half the glass in two swallows and hisses through his teeth at the burn. "The Dauphin had been my benefactor." he says, "Long chunks of time down here when it's not been good to be different, and I'm already different enough." he waves a hand at his face, "without the whole Seer thing coming into play. So when I can find some upstart assmonkey with a title and some superstition I can exploit, I did. In exchange for a bed, a roof, regular meals, I would read his future in rose petals." he snorts, "The French. Rose petals. Can't use the Runes or throw bones, those are barbaric, savage, but you rip up a flower and toss it about and suddenly you're an oracle." he shakes his head. "I told him he'd lose the battle, it would change…" he waves a hand, "Well, the face of Europe for a few generations. But he was arrogant and self assured, and all of my other predictions had been of victories. When he fell what remained of his men were not keen on seeing me return with them. There's a fine line between predicting the future and being the cause of it in the mind of the ignorant." he shrugs, "Didn't feel like trying to explain how it wasn't my fault to a lance traveling at a high rate of speed." he then adds, "And you were there. I couldn't be sure you weren't-" he waves his whiskey at Herc, "You know. Working for Dad. Sure, with some time and distance it sounds stupid, but paranoia had done me well for millenia, didn't seem a good time to give it up."
"The French didn't have Welsh archers fighting for them." Dylan says from where he sits. "The English bowmen were a help too but the longbow carried the field that day. It didn't take a seer to know that being able to fell your enemy from a distance is a winning strategy." Motioning to the bartender, he gestures to the table and tells him to send a round over.
Hercules snorts. "We've all known kings like that. Besides, everyone knows you get the best results for an augury with a properly gutted rooster." His eyes twinkle, and he can't hide a playful grin, though. "I don't blame you. I spent a long time wondering if 'mother' was hiding behind any kind of issue or setback. I wound up walking all the way into the lands of Qin just so I didn't feel like I had a target on me…" He pauses at the interpolation from Dylan, and looks amused. "Oh ho, friend, here's a young fellow willing to speak at the table. Though he's not wrong; the English yeomanry had repercussions far down the road."
Hod snorts at the rooster comment, grinning despite himself, just a little. It's hard to remain all mopey and what not around Herc, he seems to shed dark moods like rain, "Oh good." he says dryly, "A Welchman. Just what an Irish cop bar needs." he's mostly kidding, and honestly who's he to throw stones? Really. He's not even from this /realm/. "Though I'd give more credit to the rain then the bow. Weather and arrogance did for the French far more then arrows."
"And why not? We've both had our land invaded by the English." Dylan points out, amused. "In a country who rebelled against them. Fortunately, we're all friends now." Mostly. "Arrogance is something the French have in abundance. And their king was mad though he did not take the field. Placing a wager on the English would have been a safe bet. Regardless, that battle proved the advantage of the longbow though I'd argue the Welsh archers were more puissant." To no one's surprise.
"Bad weather can make a mockery of the best laid plans," Hercules agrees, nodding to Hod. "And blind arrogance is a disease anyone can contract. Still, you'd think the French would've known better than to put their dart-throwers and bowmen -behind- their infantry."
Hod sighs, "The Dauphin was fond of his cavalry." he says whistfully, "The boy loved his fucking horses…" he then tilts his head to the side, "So I read somewhere." he adds sipping from the glass. Yup. Read it. Somewhere. Cause reading is a thing Hod can do. Totally.
"Pretending you weren't there comes a little late when you've already admitted to being their prophet." Dylan points out. "I'm not sure which pantheon you're from though it doesn't really matter."
"True," Herc admits with a grin. "Of course, he's also with me. Which means anyone who means to … inconvenience him is going to have problems." He casually rolls his shoulders, which looks disturbingly like computer generated imagery of plate tectonics in the way his muscles shift.
Hod's cheeks puff out and he reaches out to lay a hand on Herc's formidable forearm, "Peace cousin." he says, patpating the tree trunk masquerading as a limb, "I am member of no pantheon." he states almost entirely honestly. He has been disowned for far longer then he was ever a part of a pantheon proper. Sure. There are hints, lingering in him of what he was, but he is not that thing anymore. He feels safe in claiming no affiliation and not being a liar about it. Plus, never hurts to sew a little doubt. "You have seen fit to insinuate yourself into the ocnversation you may as well join it the rest of the way." he motions to a nearby chair that can be pulled over to the table shared by the immortals.
Dylan Grey takes his glass and goes over to the table. "My thanks." he says once he sits. "Dylan Grey, MI-13 on loan to WAND. Hercules I know of." he says, giving the god a nod. Who doesn't know of him? "What do you wish to be called?"
Hercules gives Hod a crooked grin, as if reveling in being known. "I just don't want you sliding down your personal hole or however you do it. It's hard enough getting you to sit still for a chat as is." His blue eyes flick back to Dylan, and he nods. "Quite true. Hercules of Thebes, Mr. Grey. Welcome."
Hod can't see the grin, but can hear it, and he matches it with his own far more weathered and gloomy version, "Ah but my dear Hercules, disappearing is what I do. I'm much better at it then the other stuff. Except drinking." he holds up his empty glass again, "I am /best/ at this." when the other man mentions WAND and MI-13, Hod grimaces, "I'd rather not be called by either of those organizations ever." he says simply, "At least. Not again." another face. "You can call me Holden." as far as mortal names go, it's been working for him.
"Fear not, considering I know nothing about you other than you're not from this plane, I wasn't planning on calling upon you." Dylan assures 'Holden' and drains his glass. "It was not my intention to interrupt. I'll leave you to chat in peace. A pleasure to meet you both."