2020-02-14 - Third Time's the Charm Part 1


Brunnhilde runs into Hod, who seeks vengeance on a man who he has already killed twice…

Log Info:

Storyteller: None
Date: Fri Feb 14 03:46:33 2020
Location: RP Room 1

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Winter has returned. The young, namely anyone not counting a full two and a half millenia under their belt have no frame of reference for the feeling. The omens and portents that heralded Winter's return to the fold were either brushed aside, unnoticed, or the fuel for random gossip. But not all of the Vanir, the Aesir, are in Asgard or frequent the Embassy. Those for who're no longer welcome, or for whom being in a single place is akin to imprisonment, felt the return in their own way. The sudden thin layer of ice over a warm soup, a chill wind that causes gooseflesh to rise on skin that hasn't noticed a temperature change in centuries, the hoarfrost over a houseplant despite an apartment sitting at a mortal comfort level called 'room temperature'. Whatever it was… it was.

Hodr was always notoriously hard to find, capable of hiding even from the eyes of Heimdall himself, he was a thing of chill and shadow, so finding him on purpose is no mean feat. How fortunate that these days, Hodr the Hidden has not been himself. It's been so long, so /so/ long since he could commune with Winter and he's finding it difficult to contain, or even want to. Luckily, as is usually his way, he's found a way not to think about the problem and instead focus on a perfectly suitable distraction. Vengance. Which leads him here, to the Valdivian rain forest, one of the largest untapped forested areas left on the globe, it's 95K+ sq miles of dense jungle and vegitation the perfect place to hide a military base, or a research and development site, or a small country really. Assuming one has the resources to do so. And the Kraken does.

But one should be careful attempting to hide from the once god of secrets, he tends to… know things he shouldn't. Like where to find hidden needle like bases in haystacks the size of Oregon. Sadly, its harder and harder for him to hide himself. He's out of practice when it comes to Power, capital P. It's taking time for him to adapt, remember how to deal with it, and not having access to his Aesir physiology doesn't help any either. It means there's leakage. Unexplained coldsnaps, unusal weather patterns, sudden blizzards without meterolgical warnings, moving across the globe. The locations are random, wide spread, the events clearly either preyed upon as proof of global warming or proof that global warming is a hoax, depending on your politics. It would take a practiced eye to spot a pattern in the chaos. There's no line to chart on a map, no direction the pop up storms seem to be heading… unless you can sense the Ways.

Hodr stands beside the flowing waters of the river, one hand resting on a tree, head cocked to the side as if listening to something. For a forest it's an oddly loud place, the sounds of animals doing animal things, of insects doing insect things, of countless leaves rustling in the slightest breeze, are nearly deafening with their constant symphony of white noise. Hodr doesn't seem to care. In fact, he doesn't seem to care about a lot of things. Like the bark of the tree darkening slowly beneath his touch, the leaves over head browning at the edges as frost accumulates on their tips, the quiet cause by cold blooded animals suddenly experiencing precipitous dropoffs in body temp. He doesn't care about the condition of his clothes, days old blood long since dried from crimson to a brick like brown color staining the light gray material and making it stiff in places. His face, the blood that caked it oh so recently having dried and then flaked away from everywhere but where the lines are deepest, making them stand out more on his face, giving him a haunted and gaunt look. His hair, like the clothing, dried, stiff, matted, the faint smell of copper trailing behind him like a lure to anything stupid enough to think him prey. He waits next to the tree, listening for a sign of his own prey, pr

Brunnhilde has been an exile of Asgard so much longer than she was a citizen. Longer than she was leader of the Valk'ior. Longer than she was Odin's right hand, the leader of his royal guard. After so long, you'd think she'd have put it aside in her mind.

Then signs and portents begin showing up, and she find herself frustratingly unaware of what's happening, at first. There are rumors of course. Another banished prince of Asgard being hunted, to which she gave her best wishes, at least. Anyone who opposes Odin's plans for ruthlessly chosing the fate of those in Asgard is to be sympathized with, in her book.

But she wasn't expecting to find them here, in this jungle. Where she was summoned by, of all people, a local strongman, who was smart enough and actually cared enough about his people enought hat he was willing to spend the funds to bring a monster hunter to his lands, to stop one from preying on his people.

It's returning from this hunt that Brunnhilde pauses, scenting blood in the air as she slows, adjusting the duffel bag over a shoulder that contains proof of her successful hunt. Quietly, she reaches behind her back, then draws Dragonfang, holding it easily at her side as she tries to pinpoint what her gut is tellign her. Where that scent is coming from.

She advances more slowly now, heel to toe, moving more quietly in the underbrush, as best she can, keeping her feet planted where she can twist and move should it be a threat, rather than an oddity. But she is moving roughly towards HOd's position now.

"Don't." the voice that cuts through the sounds of the forest is gravely and a bit raspy. To many miles on it, it lacks the crisp clear quality of the voices of Asgardians, even the older ones are strong, they don't deteriorate enough to get gravely voices. Booming, bellowing, thunderous, growling, sure. Gravely? Not so much. This is a voice with to many whiskeys and cigarettes in it's past, not enough to kill the holder, but enough to notice their passage. That said, the holder is /clearly/ Asgardian. Who else uses Allspeach?

"Go away and try your hand some other time," he turns his face in Hilde's general direction and it's suddenly no longer hidden in the dappled shadows of sun passing through heavy canopy. The empty black holes in his face where eyes should be but aren't come into sudden sharp relief, "Father isn't worth dying for." and the cane in his hand suddenly snaps out into a full length spear, leaf bladed and with a cross peice, it's a beautiful bit of work, one that twinkles with moonlight in the day, and who's ebony shaft seems to drink in the light around it giving it an almost matte look.

Brunnhilde pulls up short at the words, and the 'empty' gaze thrown her way. "I'd sooner spit on him than die for him, if you mean that bastard One-eye." she says, her own voice husky, worn down by years of drinking to excess. She's very much not dressed as an Asgardian. No armor, only a pair of hiking boots, black jeans, and a slightly stained tank top in a deep red.

Doesn't put her sword away. "…you're…Hodr. Yes? I'm not here for you…but I smelled the blood." Her dark eyes flick over the blood caking the other man, her dusky form shifting from foot to foot as she takes his measure.

Hod isn't built like an Asgardian either. There's a stoop to his shoulders, flecks of gray in his black beard, his hair, there are lines on his face that honestly make the familial resemblence to Odin somehow deeper, not less. But he's thin. To thin. Asgardians are all slab of muscle and the picture of health, even the lean ones are lean like a swimmer or a gymnast. Hodr is lean like a starved wolf in winter, a mountain climber, or a long distance runner. Where his brothers are all rounded muscle, he's sharp edges, they're all slabs, he's whipcord and sinew. His forearms, bare except for the flacking blood, show the silver of scar tissue, another thing none of his brothers have, and the faded ink of tattoos. A lot of them. Glyphs, runes, it's hard to see in the poor light honestly, but their exsistence is clear. He looks like a cross between a viking warrior days from the battle feild and a hipster from the Village. The viking thing is winning currently.

He's silent for a long moment, then nods his head once, "Brunnhilde." he says, making his own guess, which of course, is correct. He's the spooky one no one likes, rumored to be the one who'll end the whole world. He turns away from her and back to listening, "If you are not here for me, you should go on your way. What deaths will happen here aren't the sort that the Val'koir, fallen or not, need take notice of."

Brunnhilde certainly isn't the type of 'Brunnhilde' that popular culture likes to portray….dusky in skin, rather than pale like ice. Dark reddish hair pulled back in a no nonsense ponytail, rather than flowing golden locks. Dark brown eyes with a tinge of cinnamon to them rather than impossibly blue. And certainly no metal corset, boob cups, or sign that she will be bringing down the house at the opera with a high note.

She's striking…like most Asgardians, she's taller than a normal woman of Midguard, and built athletically, toned and muscular, with a panther-ish way of moving that speaks of experience and a bit of paranoia. There's just a hint of softness to her, of easier living having put those curves here and there. If she has tatoos to match, they're not visible. Were it not for the golden gleaming hand-and-a-half sword she carries, that looks made for a larger hand than hers, she would be striking but not otherworldly by any means.

A dark brow raises at the name. "I had heard you were on the run. But there are portents now." She sniffs. "I do not carry the dead to that which I am barred from." There's a faint edge of bitterness, faint in her voice. Long woudned but never healed old, old pain. "My hunt is done. But now, I am curious what /you/ hunt, blind one."

Sadly, all of Hilde's striking looks are completely lost on Hodr, though the sword, her height, the steady beat of her heart, these are not lost on her. There's a sudden cool wind at her back, one that blows against the traditional breezes that managed to occasionally make their way through the press of trees, and Hodr inhales deeply, picking up her scent as well. There are things about the man that are very modern, his clothing, the shoes, his manner of speech if not the language he uses. But there's something Old there too, something from a time before civilized people made civilized rules. Which is odd. Asgard was always 'civilized'. It would appear Midgard has left it's mark on Hodr. "Monsters." he answers after the breeze dies down and the cold wind vanishes.

Hilde scents of…well, sweat, in a jungle. Acrid blood, of some sort, a strange spice mixed in with the more coppery scent. Actual deoderant, strugglign to keep her own scent at bay. Oddly, one scent that is not hovering about her as it does many ASgardians….there's no scent of alcohol on her, not even the weak drink found on Midgard.

"Monsters, hmm?" she purrs. "As it happens…I am a monster hunter by trade, and my last hunt is done, as I said. I can afford to take some time for another."

Hod is quiet as he considers this, the spear in his hand changes shape again, once more becoming a cane, "They are that way." he says, nodding his head up river, "About a quarter mile. They have perimeter sensors, dogs, and some sort of mechanized infantry units guarding the facility. There are also the classics, fencing, armored doorways, bomb proof bunkers, you get the idea. It is a modern military facility. My current plan is to kill all of them until I get to the one I'm here for. Then I suggest you leave." because what comes next won't likely be for others to witness.

"It's been… awhile since I was involved in true battle." he considers, "The Somme." but doesn't elaborate on that account, "I don't work well with others, traditionally." he offers in the misguided attempt at being helpful.

"I don't fight in wars." comes the terse reply. That'd require believing in a goverment, or a group….and it's not been her thing for a long while. "And I'm used to hunting alone. But not always." Hilde tilts her head slightly, studying the other man, before she spins her sword, sliding it behind her back, where it vanishes from view. "Who is this man you want to kill with your own hands? Why is he a monster worthy of such a death?"

Hod lets out a slow breath, "I have killed him." he says flatly, "Twice." there's a certain cold finality to the words, he's /certain/ he killed the man, and yet… he lives. "He has many names, but only one that matters, he is called the Kraken. He is the heart of recruitment and intelligence for the terroist organization known as HYDRA."

There's a faint hiss of breath between teeth at that, as Hilde runs her tongue tip against her upper front teeth lightly. "Mmm. Nazis. Worse, really. Nazis who don't know when they're beat." she responds after a moment. "But hmm….not normal for them to come back. Did he really return from the far shore….or you weren't able to make sure he was dead?"

Hod snorts at Hilde's words and offers a small shake of his head, "Careful Brunnhilde, there's only murderers here and glass houses rarely improve with the throwing of stones." he lets out a slow breath, "Uncertain. He could be of the Mutants, or perhaps a creation of science, like the Hulk you hear about on the radio. It's unclear. But I assure you, he died. Twice." Hodr's empty hand flexes slightly as if it were tightening around something in memory.

"Murder is just the deed without the prettying words about the target being a monster." Hilde returns easily, folding her arms across her chest. "…not a clone, or copy?" she says slowly. "Powerful magic or tricky science. And HYDRA troopers guarding him, hmm?" She reflects on that, then shrugs. "Sounds fun."

Hod tilts his head to the side as he considers, "I'm a man of shadow and silence," he admits, "I don't do war cries and frontal assaults if I can avoid it. But a part of me really really wants to huff and puff and blow their houses down." he sounds almost dejected.

"I tend to prefer the huff and puff, but I suppose if we want to be sure he can't sneak away while we're killing his men, we should probably find him first and cut off his escape first." Brunnhilde notes wryly. "So you'll need to be satisfied with just killign him and everyone around him."

Hod frowns a bit and surrenders the point, "Agreed." He turns his head to the side not unlike a dog, listening for a moment before turning to begin his trek through the overgrown forest, "The fence is little threat, the dogs…." he trails off and turns so that he can whisper soft words into the wind, he then waits for a few moments and grins, "will not be a problem either. The mechanize units and their various methods of spotting us I can do nothing about. Cameras as a whole are a mystery to me." it's impossible to explain them or their function to a guy who can't see. No frame of reference, "Gonna need you to figure that out."

Brunnhilde follows along, frowning a bit at the mention of the dogs, then pauses, reaching up to hang the duffel she's carrying with its grisly cargo up on a branch, away from where the forest critters can get at it easily. "Mechanized, hmm? I've no gift for that." she says, shrugging. "I'd imagine he'll be in the most impressive building though, so we should head there." Yeah. Rogue, Brunnhilde is not. "I could probably throw you at it if we can pick it out to get you past the defenses?"

Hod snickers at that, "YEah, lets not. The last thing I need is to cave my face in on a concrete wall." he points out. It's not like he'll know the building is approaching unless his screams of terror echo back to him like a bat's screech. "Then I suppose we will have to settle for the time honored tradition of approaching under the cover of darkness." and the spear in his hand seems to grow somehow more dense as the light aroudn them begins to dim.

The fencing is impressive, though it takes a few minutes to get there. Nearly twenty feet tall it's concrete and steel supports hold steel braided cables strung like fencing, each obviously electrified if the faint humming coming from them can be believed. On this side of the fence, there is jungle and roughly 20 feet of cleared ground, then comes the fence, and on the other… a large open stretch of space before one can see the tell tale mounds of underground bunkers topped with trapazoidal concrete entrances. It's like seeing the top of an iceberg and knowing that beneath the surface is so much more. From far away the sounds of what must be an army of frogs fighting a few dogs can be heard, the racket is impressive. "Okay," he says, holding a hand out as if sensing the power flowing through the lines, "I was wrong. You may have to toss me a bit. I think if we cut through that our element of surprise is gone."

Hilde looks over the fence, then the bunkers beyond. "…pretty sure I can clear that. Even carrying you." the ex-Valkyrie notes, almost casually. "I'll need a running start is all."

Hod considers for a moment, "Oh I hate being borderline mortal." he's quiet for a moment then sighs, "We never speak of this." he says, turning a mirror shaded gaze towards Hilde, "Never. Speak." he says somberly before nodding once. "Do it."

He can't see it, of course. But Hilde is SO grinning as she scoops up Hod, then backs up to get a running start, before pelting towards the fench and kicking off, easily clearing it as she goes flying over! Perhaps past the bunkers and most of the defenses in the process, too.

Hopefully Hilde has good feet. Because as they sail over the fence, the light grows increasingly dim, dimmer, dark. It's not completely darkness, not like inside of a cave or anything, but more like a cloud passing over the moon in an otherwise clear night. Every shadow deepens, grays become blacks, blacks become something else, colors sort of wash out to just faded ghosts of themselves. It makes judging depths more then a little difficult. "I hate Get Help." he growls under his breath, and while this isn't Get Help, it's close enough to be demeaning.

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