milliways_bar | (no subject)

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Shadwell is lurking by the bar, trying to get some service in this heathen place.

He's really craving a nice cup of tea, but he'll settle for anything that doesn't feature the blood of virgins.

[OOC: If anyone would like to explain the "magical bar" concept for him, go right ahead-- but please can it only be the first person to tag? Love you all.]

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"But you said Helspawn."

She points out, reasonably,

"And I can't be Helspawn. Technically I'm Angurbodaspawn. Or Lokispawn, although that's probably just Slepnir."

"... 'Course ye can be hellspawn," he says after a moment of bafflement. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Dunno 'bout any of them other places."

"Spawn means born of."

She says, glaring down at him,

"Those aren't places, they're people. My parents. And I am Hel."

It registers with him then that she is not just tall, but very, very tall.

He squints up at her.

"Ye don't ... look like a fetid abyss resounding wi' wailing an' gnashin' o' teeth."

"That's Niflheim. Mortals renamed it after me. What you should be saying is 'Back to the Abyss, you foul denizens of Niflheim'."

She glares at him a little more. She's very good at it.

Also, she could probably kill him by tripping.

Probably she could. He shuffles backwards, as if this thought has just occurred to him.

"Well," he grumbles, refusing to be completely cowed, "then I'll be sayin' that."

If he can pronounce it.

"Good."

It has the air of someone who just might "accidently" trip on him if she got annoyed enough.

"Better," he growls back, not to be outdone.

And he eyes her carefully.

"How high're the roofs in Niffle--Nifla--Niffy-- whatever-it-is?"

Because he's willing to undertake the sending-back-to-abyss-of, aye. It just seems a mite more complex with a package like this one.

"Miles."

She says blandly,

"It is an entire world, after all. My world, at the bottom of Ygdrassil. I could take you there, if you're curious."

What can we say? He's just too easy to mess with,

"Niflheim. Knee-fl-high-em."

Knee-fl-high-em?

Sounds Jewish, now he thinks about it.

He doesn't truck with Jews. Witches, the lot.

"An' ye're ruler and mistress o' yer own pit o' treacherous filth, filled wi' lost souls in lubricious thrall to your ev'ry cruel whim?"

It takes her a few moments to figure that out. Then she says,

"No, mostly they just stand around and collect dust."

And there is no way that she could be making that up. Not with the level of disgust and boredom that fills her voice when she says it,

"I rule the place, and I don't think they're lost because I know exactly where they are."

He's a strange little man.

"... Is that sooo?"

He looks her up and down.

This entails a lot of up.

"Never heard anything about any o' that before."

"Well you wouldn't, now would you?"

She looks down at him. This entails just as much down.

"You're just a Man."

"Aye?" he says, hostile, as if daring her to make something of it.

Only Hel = really tall.

So it's a polite dare.

Really.

"Yes."

She leans down (a lot) until she's more or less face to top of the head with him.

It would be nice to say that Shadwell shows no fear.

It would also be incorrect.

Because he gulps, shuffling back as short a distance as he dares, and then glowers at Hel.

"Rather be a man than a creature o' darkness," he mutters mutinously.

"I'm not a creature of darkness."

She objects,

"I'm half blind. I need more light than you do. Besides, its usually cold in the dark, and them my joints freeze."

He squints into her left eye.

"Cannae see out o' that one?"

"Well, yes."

She says after a moment,

"But the state of your soul isn't enough to get around by."

Shadwell frowns.

Then he glances quickly down to his chest, harboring a sudden vague suspicion that his soul is leaking out for all to see.

He's not sure he's in favor o' that.

"It doesn't live in your chest."

She tells him gravely,

"I just see them. With my left eye."

Shadwell is confused.

See, rulers of their own pits o' whatever-ye-like-- dust, if you prefer-- don't gen'rally speaking have the ability to look into one's soul. Not their business, as it were.

But Hel's a cunning one;. She could be LYING.

"Ah don't believe it," he sniffs.

"I could show you."

She says quietly, gravely. Never forget that the first part of "gravely" is "grave".

He looks at her warily.

Obviously she's bluffing. Obvious, that.

"All righ'," he grumbles. He holds up a warning finger. "But none o' yer tricks! No castin' me down into the abyss, or trickin' me inna suppin' on a virgin's heart, or any o' that witchy business."

She holds out her living hand,

"All you have to do is touch my hand. It won't do anything to you."

Except possibly drive him mad(der). Which should take slightly less than half a block.