13170/Tiki Torches and Paper Umbrellas

Tiki Torches and Paper Umbrellas
Date of Scene:	25 October 2022
Location:	Bar With No Doors
Synopsis:	Modgud calls in debts for a third party. Dr. Strange and Zatanna step up and promise to pay. Strange finds out about Malekith kidnapping Thor.
Cast of Characters:	Hela, Zatanna Zatara, Stephen Strange

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Hela has posed:
The Bar with No Doors is far too bright for the occasional devil or necromancer. All kinds are welcome here but two ghosts flee through the portal door, and several other conversations turn clipped when the guard of the dead sits herself. She orders a bright pink drink with a large orange mango swizzle poking out. The jarred head of a bartender makes sure to levitate the overstuffed tiki glass over.

Disapproval radiates from the tiki mask behind her. The spirit dislikes her and she says bluntly, "Shut your maw before I make you into my bedspread." A moment. The blue-skinned giantess hisses.

The tiki glows, teeth growing in. She bares her serrated ones back, and the furor settles into a detente while Modgud waits in her leathers, bow propped against the booth.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
It doesn't take an empath to judge the atmosphere in the bar. A glance at the Tiki mask's frown is informative enough as Zee steps out of the portal and zips it shut with an imperative gesture. She has dressed appropriately for someone employed in death's realm, at least according to Western traditions, all in black, straight from Shinjuku, her latest haunt for fashion. The only touch of feminine whimsy is a stiff gossamer white silk blouse with a high collar under the asymmetrical jacket. She always wears sensible shoes to a tense encounter; a second lost to casting a spell for something to run in can be dangerous.

With a nod to the bartender and a meaningful look at the Tiki mask, Zee crosses the bar, eyes fixed on the blue-skinned woman.

"Thank you for meeting me, Lady Modgud, " capped by a deep nod of her head. Over her shoulder to the jarred bartender, "Top shelf single malt whiskey, please."

Hela has posed:
The bar's usually host to all kinds of weirdness. Finfolk of shifty disposition trade in criminal deeds, while exchanges between the likes of witches and wizards takes on a more deceptively casual quality. Drinks ply conversation. Lips loosen, looks full of promise. Occasionally grimoires are popped out of nowhere, artifacts unstashed, the news or the boasting of a new spell as fondly spoken of a new familiar or child.

Modgud stands a head taller than most of the usual patrons, who are at least human in general appearance. Her fat white braids coiling around the bench are weighted by large bronze rings, each glowing a dull greyish-white light, runes glimmering weakly. She lifts the drink mechanically and sips at the thick, opaque concoction. It's apparently to her liking if that grunt is anything to go by.

Another teleporter? No big deal here. A homo magi fits in as well as lizardpeople or Faltines -- the real kind, not the one in a body.

"Smells in here," states Modgud. Her way is pretty flat. "Someone has celestial brass. Strange choice. Olympian design but not their work." She shrugs and the broad, fur-trimmed cloak dissolving into rotten shadows moves with her shoulder. "I told the mead wizard to come. Maybe he will come. We talk problems, you ken?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
With a strange light in her eyes, Zee lifts a clenched hand and opens it like releasing a captured moth into the air. A perfume of arctic tundra and notes of permafrost flutters the drink napkins, freshening the air.

"That I do. And you got the good Doctor, as well? You are a magician, Lady."

She pulls out a chair with a faint scrape and seats herself across from the guardian. "There is much to discuss but I will wait." The whiskey floats to the table and settles itself in front of the magician, a glass of room temperature water following it.

Glass lifted, "To your health and to the resolution of our problems."

Hela has posed:
Despite a near endless supply of liquor enchanted to suit her needs, Modgud drinks most sparingly. The level in the tiki mug with its grimacing face barely sinks more than a few centimeters on each swallow. On her scale that's almost nothing. Cool blue skin gives way to the fierce tattooed markings that arrange themselves in something of a grimace. "Naught of the sort. We practice nonesuch 'craft'," a hint of an edge enters her voice, "save for Angrboda's type. I'm not any of her tribe." Thin smile gives no real evidence of warmth.

She pokes the swizzle of fruit and then takes a ginger bite of it, like a horse lips at a sugar cube. A suspected sugar cube. The flavour is compelling on the tongue, sweet and cloying, something to be drowned in hard liquor. "You went through the Barbican." It's not really a question, pointed at Zatanna. "What cost was it to you?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Yes, yes, wizards smell. And, at this particular watering hole, it is lousy with wizards. It is no surprise that the olfactorial senses of the giantess may be offended. Magic was never really known to be a fair-scented venture.

And, speaking of the Doctor...it would appear that Stephen has joined the fray. If by joined one means 'stepped in casually.' A circle of sparks, sure, but brief and fleeting as Stephen, certainly dressed down from last both magician and giantess had seen him. No brilliant blue tunic. Certainly no flashy red cloak. Just a casual green sweater, black pants, and sneakers? Yes...definitely running shoes of some sort. Odd selection for going out, to be sure.

Of course, once Strange enters, he immediately makes for both Zatanna and Modgud. And...those grey eyes look *upwards* towards the giantess. "I received your message." Just how did he get the request Stephen doesn't say. But...the fact that he is here means that he certainly is taking the request seriously. Zatanna receives a nod in greeting and a brief 'Good evening, Ms. Zatara.'

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
It is a fae mood that prompted Zee's little poke at Modgud, comparing her to a magician. A bad habit of hers to poke the hornet's nest. Modgud's attitude toward magicians and sorcerers was clear enough on the bridge where they first met.

With a short nod returned in greeting, "Good to see you, Doctor. If you're drinking order something and we will get to the business at hand."

Hela has posed:
Frosted eyes never cast in human likeness shift beneath the hood that still conceals a good deal of the giantess' face. It's a memorable one. Her tattoos stand out well in memory. She perhaps has no desire to be so easily singled out if being seven some odd feet tall doesn't already do that. So be it that another wizard adds eau du magie to the air. Her grim regard across the glass acknowledges Strange waltzing into a place very much prone to his disposition and ilk.

A low exhalation isn't a grunt but rumbles the table mildly. The tiki mask takes offense, eyes huge and leering in their empty sockets. Something else she ignores.

Her flat look goes to Strange. "You owe a debt of a lady. She calls it due." Then to Zatanna, expectant for an answer.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
The answer looms large and a memory of being tested by her mother's relatives suddenly assails the magician. It was the first moment in her young life that she realized what magic was ; the questions carrying a dangerous flavor of purpose to them. The world changed in that moment. Zee minutely shakes her head to focus on the giantess's face and stay in the moment, wondering what tipped her into that memory.

"The Lady that ferried me to the battle in the Underworld, Persephone. None other."

Stephen Strange has posed:
And, to which lady does Strange owe the debt to? Stephen regards Modgud with almost the same sort of flatness. Almost. Then, a single name is spoken, mostly for Zatanna's sake than it is for Modgud or for Strange. After all, they both know exactly who the giantess speaks of.

"Persephone."

Yes, that Persephone. Goddess of the seasons and Queen of the Underworld. Strange certainly remembers his excursion through the Underworld and what events brought him to the Queen's court.

"I do." What, exactly? It could be a great many things...but, in this instance, Strange is acknowledging fact. He does owe Persephone for the kindness and knowledge she shared. He also may have an idea as to what exactly Persephone is calling in the favor for. "It is time, then? To restore the realms of the dead to what they once were?"

Hela has posed:
The giantess puts down the tiki glass large enough to drown a koi in. A big one. Its reddish lines simmer in the faint patina of frost let by her fingertips, leaving no doubt she belongs firmly to the realm of Niflheim. At least it keeps the drink frosty and fresh.

"Right path taken, wizard," she replies to Strange, the bitter taste of the mango rind imparted around the saccharine bounty. Her tongue runs over her teeth. "Some number of offenses remain to be corrected. A proper bounty, as it were." The smell of ice and oakmoss spill over a damp base of stone, giving the slight fougere a broadening blossom. One of the runes on her braid terminals glows. She plucks it straight up and a filmy parchment made from asphodel unrolls lengthwise as it might have in the bowels of Alexandria's archives. Writing there defies familiar conventions, the Aeolian Greek in a cramped scrivener's hand that requires some measure of squinting to properly see.

"Your business to fulfil the terms of her request. I make no promise of being a merchant." She shoves the contract over with a wave of her hand. "The Dread Queen would seek the restoration of balance. Has her fancy list of names there, and mark them, no minor matter." She points one blunt finger callused from archery at a particular line. "Old but traitors one and all. Bit of disarray on my front will be that much the easier to see fixed when this is all cleared out."

She pauses, smirks. "The bird lady from Khemet thinks the same. Been a bit put out the cavalry hasn't ridden to her."

Stephen Strange has posed:
If there was any doubt as to who exactly holds the favor that both Stephen and Zatanna are beholden to, that contract, with the Greek script, would have dispelled all guesswork. And, really, Stephen doesn't show any signs of confusion or rejection. He does certainly owe the goddess...and Stephen has done enough of this sort of thing to know that when the mark is due, it is best to do what is asked. At least Persephone is more reasonable than a great many others....including the list of names before him.

But yes, they are all traitors on the list. To that, Stephen agrees with the frost giantess. "No doubt they are a traitorous lot. To attempt to upset the balance so, they have learned how precariously the scales are weighed. And, in their attempt, they lost all. Regrettably, they much be restored to their former places, to resume their duties."

Is Strange happy about restoring those that tried to overthrow reality to their former positions? No. But is it necessary? Absolutely.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
What, indeed, would the Lady of many names, require of her? Homo Magi can live a thousand years. Yet, seldom do. Demons having a strange affinity for the taste of those with her blood. Now, she knows why she remembered that moment among her aunts, uncles and cousins.

Leaning forward she reads the names on the list, all known to her. Traitors to life, all of them. Redressing the balance of the Underworld may shorten her potential for a long life. She nods accepting the burden, it being considerably lessened with Strange in the mix.

"Regrettable but it can't be ignored and they must resume their duties." Her gaze moves from Modgud to Strange. Need she say more?

Hela has posed:
The giantess folds her hands in a triangular position. The runes on her hair terminal finally quiet, back to a dull grey glow none too bright for those who want to look closely. Modgud shrugs her shoulders again and throws back the remainder of the drink in earnest. "Head!" she calls to the bartender. "A green one!"

What manners but then, Asgard's nine realms aren't particularly beholden to the niceties of good company. Or they are in a difference way. "She is a fine lady in her way. But she's gone down below and sits as judge enthroned. I would be pleased to recall what became of the war booty taken by her and the Receiver of Many. Right and cruel outcome for them, that's for certain."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"It is the time of year for her return. As for the booty? It's only of academic interest to me, Lady. Unless I can aid in its recovery?"

Finally, she pays attention to the shot glass of liquid amber. First, a sip, then a longer taste, leaving half in the glass. She chases it with water, turns to the jarred bartender to give him a high sign, then regards Strange for a moment before voicing her overriding concern, "Malekith has Thor."

Stephen Strange has posed:
There is no drink for Stephen. This business was something best left sober.

Still...when Zatanna mentions the fate of the Odinson and his current predicament, there is certainly a notion that Stephen might have misheard. "Wait. Did you say that Malekith has..." The statement trails off as Stephen considers. "This...this happened when we freed the group from that pocket dimension, didn't it?" It is a question, certainly...but Stephen doesn't expect an answer. He already knows...or at least has a really good idea, and will not be delayed in his own considerations for something so trivial as stopping to listen to facts.

"Just like him to add a level of difficulty to the equation. I will see what we can do. Perhaps we can combine the two efforts into one. Still...trying to resolve both situations is going to be difficult...and I fear the stabilization of the underworld realms would be more important."