Nico squinted at the new figure that appeared in the Halls. Although the House in the Underworld always had a drafty somewhat unfriendly appearance, it had gotten more so since the original ruler and his wife had been slain by the Ghost of Sparta. Nico kept meaning to get better lighting and maybe some more welcoming decor, but the backlog of souls did not leave him much rest.
But this soul was different.
"You're not from here," he said, rising to his feet before he shook his head slightly. No, that wasn't right. "I mean, you're not supposed to be here at all."
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@hammerofavoid said: 💪 It's an extremely reluctant and hesitant touch to the arm and withdrawn almost instantly. 😟 Worried they're about to do something foolish.
If he hadn't caught the movement from the corner of his eye, Freyr would have just assumed that it was nothing and continued in his idleness. He did notice, however, and was reminded of the fact that Sindri was beside him. The god turns to look over, a little startled that Sindri of all people would be the one to grab hold. Yet, as soon as contact had been initiated, the dwarf pulled away with a notably stressed facial expression.
"Oh, hey buddy!" Freyr offers a warm and inviting smile, tilting his head to the side with an eyebrow raised in confusion. "You startled me! Everything okay?" Because there had to have been something that spurred the action, right? Especially because it was Sindri of all people that had done it. He knows full well that the dwarf had a fear of germs and was very, very, very reluctant to touch much of anyone let alone anything. Perhaps Freyr was in the way of something? Or doing something Sindri didn't appreciate?
"Sorry, am I doing something wrong? Do you need me to move? I can move, it's no big deal."
“Somewhat of my what?” He looked down at the other man not really sure what he had tried to say. Somewhat of his...? status? looks? height? the possibilities were endless, but whatever, it didn’t matter. -- “Listen, I just want to take a little peek. I open it. I close it. The end! Everyone happy. If you turn around and pretend not to see me, you won’t even notice! Now, move. Come on. Scoot-scoot.”
[ DISCOVER ] for receiver to find sender at the end of a trail of blood.
@hammerofavoid
┊ ┊◇┊ ┊
The only word to describe the sight was ghastly.
Hermes knew he should not have stopped here, but, he couldn't help it. His attention had been taken ever since he had heard the ugly screams from afar. He had followed the source of the cries and now found himself at the end of the trail. A small hut that appeared to have once contained a travelling forge sat decimated, ransacked entirely, smoke still emanating from the fire that brought the innocent structure tumbling down.
Those damned Beserkers. The large scattered footprints in the snow leading up to the hut should have been evidence enough. Always as relentless as mankind could possibly be. They destroyed families and homes without any remorse with little desire to conquer at all, only driven to slaughter no matter where they went. Hermes was made sick by their actions, which to him proved them far more monster than man. Yet again before him lay waste the remains of their latest act of mindless hostility.
It had been a small structure more than likely belonging to a Svartálfarian. The logs of what appeared to be the supports of the hut had practically turned to ash. The stones and brick surrounding had been reduced to rubble. A firepot appeared to have been tipped on it's side, various chests and containers flipped upside down and emptied completely, leaving not a tool or weapon left in sight. Not a resource, not even a pale of water. Naught. What was once there was taken, and what was not taken was demolished. Knowing the Berserkes ways the Olympian concluded himself that whoever may have been residing at the site was taken as well...
An overpowering smell of burning filled the god's nostrils which made him shake his head. It was during times such as this where he was reminded of the violent fables his homeland told of the northern people. He prepared himself to turn back and continue on his initial path but paused once he saw something else aside from debris on the ground. Another set of tracks, not left by brutish Berserkers but by someone smaller, and lighter- the individual who left the footprints seemed to have dragged their feet sluggishly and left behind a trail of red in the snow.
The Olympian always had a terrible flaw of letting his short attention span get the best of him at the worst of times, something the Sky-Father shunned and punished him for. Had Zeus been near he would have ignored the mess but he was all by his lonesome now. And upon noticing the blood trail he had forgotten completely of his path and made following the blood his focus.
In his mind he wondered if it was to do with his duty as a psychopomp, if there were a fresh soul as the result of the attack he would feel inclined to guide it onward to the afterlife. However a forgettable scrape between inhabitants of Yggdrasil should have even so low, not even on the priorities of a Greek god on emissary far from his homeland but if there was a survivor, Hermes wanted to know. He was the only other one here and as much as he shouldn't have, as much as he wanted to leave it be, something within him demanded he would not leave here without finding out if there was a survivor.
With that, Hermes followed the blood.
Tracking was one of the messengers many honed skills. A handy bit of knowledge all travellers needed was to tell when tracks were fresh in case of many things, especially when determining how close a target (or enemy) may be. The trail was not made up of the occasional drop but instead a steady stream, as if someone were carrying a pale of red water with a hole at the bottom. Whoever was bleeding was certainly bleeding heavily. And fast.
As for how close the end of the red tracks were, Hermes needed not wonder how new the trail was as after a few careful twists and turns underneath some snow-covered trees he saw the blood seem to be forming a puddle upon flat ground. And, sitting percisely next to the expanding crimson puddle seemed to be a small man hunched over, clutching his abdomen in obvious agony. It sounded as if hisses were escaping him through clenched teeth.
"Stop it! Stop moving. Sit down and hold still," the god's voice displayed concern, not something often shown to strangers. He ran towards the other. He didn't introduce himself or ask who the man was. All he knew was that action needed to be taken fast. The small man (likely Dwarven, Hermes thought) clearly had far less blood within him than a mortal man. "You haven't got much more blood to lose I'm afraid. I insist you hold still and relax. Tell me where you are hurt."
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@hammerofavoid; ❝ I can't believe I'm asking this , but can I have a closer look at your . . . buskins. ❞
"My buskins?" Hermes smirked and raised a brow. He wasn't sure why he was surprised at the request, he knew his boots were impressive, but he had so long been known for adorning them that very few people payed any mind to them anymore. It made sense for the dwarf to be interested. Sindri hadn't seen anything like them before, they were likely a new treasure to him.
"Do you like them? I call them my ptēnopédilos. I've had them since my days of youth. They help to grant me my speed among other things. Fly faster than the winds, traverse through realms in an instant. Nothing special," He joked and posed his legs, allowing the drawf a better sight of the shiny winged sides. Any opportunity to boast about himself and his posessions- he just.. couldn't avoid taking advantage of it.
"They were a gift from my half-brother. He too is a smith. He crafted them out of hawk feathers and imperishable gold. When I first recieved them they were merely sandals... They have long since been adjusted as I've grown. Aren't they gorgeous? I do pride myself on keeping them clean, and in the best possible shape."
The wings unclipped themselves from the fabric they rested against and stretched out as far as they could to show Sindri. They moved and reacted alongside Hermes, as if part of him, and not just an attachment to the footwear. "The poor things are long overdue for an upgrade. They've begun to hug my ankles far too tightly."
A hero in the wrong. (it was some number on one of your ask memes but apparently it didn't copy that part. )
Lost Meme -- @hammerofavoid
“I lost my sibling too. My sister.” The words feel drawn out of his chest, pulled by hooks so they scrap at the back of his throat as they finally emerge, leaving behind a gaping hole in his middle--an ache familiar but also new. Nico doesn’t talk about the death of his sister Bianca, doesn’t even let himself think about it, but the yawning cold and the gleaming light of the fire draws the words out, leaving them to hang like portents in the air.
He shivers, tucking the blankets close as he waits for the other to work. Nico’s traveled much further afield than most Greek heroes tend to go, although he’s not sure if he’s a hero. After obtaining the raw materials for a Stygian iron weapon, he’s found one of the most renowned weapon’s crafters in the world to see if he could make something that might suit him. Nico knows he’ll need a weapon in any event.
Nico doesn’t know why he’s talking though, when the words hurt so much. Maybe they just needed to find a way out? He knows a little bit about the arm’s smith, how he lost his brother, and maybe this knowledge of the loss alone makes the words tumble free. He tucks his head over his folded arms, trying to keep anything else from falling out of his mouth.
“My fr-- they were going to protect her, but they didn’t,” he continues, voice slightly muffled now by his arms.
@hammerofavoid said: ❛ Maybe one day you’ll find humanity. ❜
Had this been at any point before his 'awakening', Heimdall may have made the comment of how ironic it was to have a dwarf talking down to him. But this wasn't. The words carried a sting to them that burned deep with shame. He could not meet the gaze and he refused to look in their direction lest he is unfortunate enough to peer into the thoughts of the blacksmith. He was aware that he wasn't liked among his...peers. Given everything he had said, done, and planned to do, Heimdall didn't blame any one of them.
It did make it incredibly difficult to want to do the right things, however. He was never thanked, never acknowledged- something he liked to hear but could understand that he was doing the bare minimum. He shouldn't expect to be acknowledged or thanked, especially since he used to be the enemy. Everyone was still very wary of him, expecting him to turn on them in an instant. He hadn't yet, but that was the keyword. Yet.
"Maybe." Heimdall replies gruffly. "We'll have to see if I'm granted the mercy to live long enough to find it."
