asgardeventide | first recompense ♆ ( video )

[There's a shirtless young man, hunched over his bracelet, eying it peculiarly. He hasn't been here long, but already the city's affects have taken it's toll. In his mind he has not been in a city like this since he was exiled, fleeing and living off of Europe's countryside. He raids villages, killing as he wishes.]

They call this place Ásgarðr, and yet I do not believe them. [He speaks in Old Norse, purposeful and with a slight lisp. He is used to his fangs that are no longer there. He doesn't look confused though, content and powerful. He wipes at his chin, though nothing seems to be there.]

I apologize, [He switches back to the native tongue here without thinking. He looks more like a deer in the headlights, unsure how to act in front of people.] I have heard tales of this place, strong men with braids speak of it before I spill their blood. They call to Odin, they call to Thor.

But these are not my gods, child of Gaul, of Rome, of Death.

[He licks his lips again, expecting the taste of blood that is not there.] I do not belong among the dead even if I am death itself.

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My world has some of your legends. It certainly has some of your language, if I'm hearing you right.

[His Norse is all for spellcasting purposes, none of it conversational. But this person sounds like they know a little bit about magic, or at least the undead, so he's interested enough to respond.]

Have you heard the dominant theory as to why?

[No. She didn't know that tongue. When he lost himself to certain words, she tried to follow it, but she knew ancient Irish, not Norse, and the two had nothing in common. So many ancient tongues, but it sounded familiar...]

yeah. Lot of people have stories about the Norse. Odin isn't missing an eye here either, so don't expect those to be the same.

And you sure don't look dead.

[There's a long pause when the audio turns on, as if it had been turned on by accident. Still, when the voice finally speaks, he returns the language in kind, speaking in a fluent Old Norse, though with an English lilt.]

You killed Northmen, and yet you speak their language? Where are you from?

Death itself...[there's a small chuckle, as he looks over the camera.] I'd love to see the justification for that claim.

[ Oh. My.

Eric isn't really... sure how to face this. He's well aware of who this is. It's his maker, of course. But it's also his maker as he met him over a thousand years ago. He's partly in awe and partly... disturbed? Confused? Angry. Not at Godric, of course but more so at this place for doing this to him.

He's not really sure what to say. So instead, he settles for one simple question. ]

Do you know who I am?

Magic. [The one word is uttered out. No, he hasn't heard anything, but he looks across the screen at the holograph in front of him. He cannot touch the boy in front of him, but he can speak. This he understands.]

And what is death to look like? Inviting? [He raises an eyebrow to challenge her.]

Didn't say you don't look like death. I said you don't look dead. Dead people don't get up and walk around usually.

...

Usually.

Echoes. Platonic forms, if you're familiar with those. This world comes first, everything else out there is impacted by the aftershocks. Branches of the original tree. They're just stories, in some worlds, half true or even incredibly close to the original. Others even have shadow-Asgards, populated with versions of Loki, Thor, Odin, the like. But this world is the original one, and those are the shadows it casts.

Before. [It is not a direct answer, but Athelstan is asking more than he knows. Before is over. He is this now. He ran from his home, though it was never his home. And before that? The time too simple and carefree. The darkness does not like the light, so he curls a bit.]

I killed more than Northmen. Before them, the south.

I was born in death, made to kill, and death has been my companion for some time. What would you call it? [Aside from the fact he looks like a sixteen year old boy.]

[He hunches over the device some more, squinting at the man on the screen. His confusion is replaced with shock. He does not remember their thousand years together, but he does still remember him.]

The battlefield.

I died years ago. [He looks away.] But death I still am.

[There is a pause. He disagrees.]

This would be the shadow. It is weak.

You mentioned Rome.

[He ignores the pang of anger he feels at that- after all, the Northmen as a whole are not his responsibility.

Still. People don't often come here from Athelstan's time, much less with any sort of knowledge as to the culture of men who worshiped these gods.]

What year? [And that seems to be the main question people have when talking to Athelstan- might as well get that part out of the way first.]

Ah. The undead then?] If it's something I understand, then you have my sympathies. The dead should be allowed to stay dead. I knew a man like that once.

Pride makes a lot of people say that, but you should take a long hard look at the circumstances around you, and whose power you're currently under.

But don't believe it if you don't want to. It's just magical theory.

They are not my gods. It is not my pride.

There was no choice made. [He was a slave, his life taken away when he was younger. Years in servitude under a Roman ruler only to be forced into being made a monster.]

There usually isn't, but it isn't something that I can fix. [She grunted and shifted uncomfortably.] If you don't mind me asking, what tongue was that earlier?

Rome. [His nose curls, and there is a distaste in it. Not from the blood he still thinks is there.]

I knew their god, too. [But then he asks of time, and he shakes his head. He had been in Rome some time before he killed his Maker, exiled to the forests. He had himself for company only. It speaks to his state of mind. Still he speaks.]

I died while Julius Caesar reigned.

The tongue of the North. Not mine. [But it has long been since someone spoke Gaulish.]

Caesar?

[But that was- it takes him a moment to remember, as Athelstan hasn't touched any piece of literature since he was with the monks, but he knows of the time period, of the man. Far before his own time, and he ducks his head for a moment in thought before continuing.]

Would Latin then not be your language? The Northmen have only begun their reign some eight hundred years after the death of Christ. How could you know them?

No, [It is shot out of his mouth.]

I was a slave to Rome. Before. I have not heard their tongue in some time. I have heard it since has fallen. [He spots. Let it burn.]

Death does not know time.

[Athelstan quiets at that, his eyes narrowing. If he had not heard the language from this man's own mouth, he'd call him mad, and yet- how could he know the language of the Northmen if he had never been there?]

You are death.

[It's a statement, rather than a question. This man obviously believes something of the sort.]

I have met men here who claimed to be angels, men who claimed to be devils, and men who claimed to be the gods of the Northmen. Why not Death itself? [And it's just the faintest bit cynical, but Athelstan knows better than to be wholly insincere.]

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first recompense ♆ ( video )

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