8299/Hercules meets his Better

Hercules meets his Better
Date of Scene:	18 October 2021
Location:	Astoria Park
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Hercules, Sif

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Hercules has posed:
    As All Hallowes Eve crept closer and closer, the air grew sharper, crisper, the wind threatening with cool winds that poured in from the water, people went about their business. Some walked here or there, ohers milling about as they pleased. Children ran and played as is their wont on pleasent afternoons. Here and there, buskers could be found but none were quite as ear and eye catching as-

                                    HERCULES                                    
                                PRINCE OF POWER                                

The Lion of Olympus was regaling a small gaggle of common folk, his voice loud and clear as he recalled one past glory or another.

"And so, the Warmacht had come to Paris! Theit giant Automaton towering above the city, a great, fascist titan of steel and cruelty!-"

He went on about donning a pair of green trunks and thwarting the attack single handedly.

"And to this very day, King Namor yet takes credit for that battle even though it was none other the Lion Of Olympus that had pried the steely claws of danger from about the Eiffle Tower and cast them down into the Seine"

Sif has posed:
It began with a rainbow in the sky. Sure it was a bright one, oddly visible against the daytime sky, and sure it seemed to stretch literally into infinity, but it's not exactly where most people are looking. Maybe two people on South Hill, say, spotted it. Those who did, however, got to see something even stranger. A boat. In the Northern European style: cockleshell shaped, single sailed. And it slid along the rainbow from Infinity before slipping off the rainbow into the air as the rainbow withdrew at bewildering speed, leaving the boat suspended in the air.

The boat dropped from the sky at a good rate, although obviously controlled in its descent, not free-falling. The sail billowed ahead of it, as if there was a tail wind, despite the prevailing winds coming from other directions, and utterly ignoring the downward course.

Sharp eyes, peering from over the stern gunwales expertly spot a clear patch in the park and bring the boat down. As the boat grows nearer, and as more of it can be viewed from the side, the figure guiding it at the tiller is more obvious. Tall. Shining white, red, and steel. Dark-haired. Female in form.

The boat lands, hovering barely above the hillside, and from within it Sif, the figure within, steps up off the side and jumps gracefully to the ground below.

By this time, of course, all eyes in the park but those enthralled by Hercules' tale, are on the new arrival. The new arrival who walks with almost military precision in her step to the storyteller, pausing a respectful distance away to just listen.

And get gawked at.

Hercules has posed:
    Hercules was a man with many gifts, one of those gifts was the love of talking about himself, another was his casual relationships with facts and truths... and pronunciation.

Amongst these gifts was not the ability to hold the attention of those gathered against the near gravitational pull of a sky-boat descending from a rainbow, helmed by a superb warrior woman! It started slow, someone turned for a selfie and spotted her descent. From them it rippled outwards and soon there were fewer eyes upon Hercules as not!

The discrete and cautious chose this time to disperse, others turned their phones onto what was sure to be a spectacle, others were just happy to draw back to a 'respectable' distance.

Soon enough, rising up from his own self-absorbtion and the sway of his own story, Hercules too noticed this fantastic new arrival. His lips pursed curiously and the beskirted man gave Sif a slow once over, appraising and curious but not oogling. A feat for the strong man.

"Ho, Fair Friend!" he boomed after his moment of inspection, arms flung wide in welcome as he took a few steps nearer, "I nearly mistook you for a relation, come to ferry me home. To what does Hercules, Lion of Olympus and Hero of Heroes owe the pleasure of your presence?"

Sif has posed:
"Hail, and well-met, Grecian," Sif replies to the greeting, having the decency to look a little chagrinned at having interrupted Hercules' story. "I had caught word that you were here regaling the mortals with your deeds and it caught my curiosity, so I used my skiff to wend my way here lest I lose you to the horrors of..."

She pauses for dramatic impact.

"...New York traffic."

This, needless to say, causes a bit of a wave of laughter to flow through the crowd.

"Your name is known even in Asgard," she continues. "I had intended to wait until you were complete before approaching."

Sky-blue eyes look over the crowd of people who've formed a semi-circle down the hill around the pair.

"I had forgotten what impact I can have on mortals, so my plan to surreptitiously watch was ... not successful."

Pairing Hercules' steps with her own, she reaches out an arm for a warrior-to-warrior arm clasp.

"I do apologize."

Hercules has posed:
    When no heads were seperated from shoulders, Hercules felt relieved but not disarmed. His beaming, warm smile dimmed to something more casual, his cheeks still every so slightly raised, eyes narrowed just so, his eyes twinkling faintly. He laughs, a companionly chuckle in answer to what seemed a jest. Jokes, he already liked her. Some Asgardians were too severe.

"Fear not any interruption, my Asgardian compatriot! Yours is a welcome vist. As I have never been turned form you mead halls, I would ever welcome yours in return!" Few are the earthly pantheons that have not suffered the intrusion of Hercules!

"The wonders of this age are many and vast but there is still yet room for old Legends of long ago eras. We yet shine so that those that follow us might find their way by the trails we have blazed and the paths we light." he opines at some length, making grand gestures until he is at last close enough to extend a big, meaty hand to her in welcome and friend ship.

"So, tell me, to whom do I extend my greetings and what grand occasion brings you hence?"

Sif has posed:
The litany begins.

"I am the Lady Sif of Asgard, Marshal-General of Asgard, known by the sobriquets Dark-Haired Daughter of Asgard, Sif the Implacable, Gentlest of the Gentle, Sif the Unstoppable," Sif says, seemingly unaware of the contradictions. "Golden-Haired Daughter," she continues, without explaining the black hair. "The Right Arm of the Allfather's Will, Obsidian-Haired Harbinger, and Goddess of War."

She chuckles politely then.

"Among many others. And the last is a courtesy title only," she adds in a more self-depracating tone. Very slightly self-deprecatingly.

"As for occasions, none but curiosity. I was in my hall at the embassy when all the infernal noise devices started going off with notices about your presence here telling tales, so I took it upon myself to see for myself."

Hercules has posed:
    Sif lays epithet after epithet at Hercules' feet and as each is listed off, he nods. Two or three are generally expected. Even the heroes of the modern age can manage such things... but like the rings of a great tree, the number of titles can often tell you the age and pedigree of a hero. By the eighth, he is genuinely impressed, brows lofting as she brings it home, he almost applauds.

"My own good fortune then!" he trumpets with a laugh, "Then again, I bid you Welcome, Friend Sif! Though it is not a grand hall where I might invite you to feast, the food carts offer quite the alluring selection." he bade, granted, he was just another rando walking about.

"Now, as to patrons of war, take this with whatever weight you choose but as the brother and frequent adversary of one such God, I say you strike a fine figure as a God of War. You've even avoided the bone motif, a very canny choice!"`

Sif has posed:
"I do not patronize war," Sif corrects gently. "That is a courtesy title granted me for my prowess in it. I prosecute it."

Her eyes take in Hercules twice. Once an official, open appraisal. As frank and analytical as a surgeon's blade passed over Hercules, assessing strengths, weaknesses, and threats. The second time was more social. Noting garb and demeanour. The face perfectly neutral in both, though at the end of the second a very slight Mona Lisa-esque smile and a small tell: a nod of approval. Faint, but present.

"I have had the good fortune to have encountered the 'kosher dog' and its myriad of toppings, especially the 'hot mustard', though I confess the latter still vexes my nostrils. It is well-tempered by the 'sour kraut', however." Sif inclines her head in acceptance of the offer. "Your kind offer is appreciated and your hospitality noted."

She pauses a moment.

"It is still against the mortal customs of this nation to drink mead in the open?"

Hercules has posed:
    Corrected, Hercules tips his head in acknowledgement, difference... and apology. It's a heavy nod to be weighted with so many meanings. "As you say, so it is." sincere, without so much as a fleck of patronizing or condescending tones.

He almost felt as much as noticed her taking the measure of him. Burly and broad, golds and emerald greens, skirt just short enough to be exciting but long enough to prevent immodesty. There is a slight effort taken. A blink-and-miss-it moment where it almost seems he was about to pose, to -Flex-. It was just a shift and then a crook in his lips, a deft, and unabashed wink.Built like a literal Greek God and he knew it!

"Yes!" he agree'd hartily! I have supped upon Ambrosia yet the flavors of base sausage seems to have conjured a means to cast its shadow over even that in its own way!" a sweep of his hand directed her along the walking path, a silent promise of their repast some distance further. He would take up pace with her as soon as she found her stride.

With Asgardian influence, Mead has likely found itself the dubious equal to ales, lagers, and other such beers. Who knows! "Ihave found that no matter the rule of the land and nation, few choose to refuse the friendly request of a God." claims Hercules, his smile brightening slightly, "Blessings upon those with the fortitude to do so but such are they way of merchants for those with an abundance of coin."

Sif has posed:
"Yes. The mercantile impulse vexes all those who would wish to keep society orderly," Sif says with a brief, quickly-suppressed grin. "It is almost as potent as strong drink for this."

There's something in the eyes there. Something that hints she speaks from experience vis a vis breaching order and strong drink.

"I am a warrior, however, so the base is my preferred. The tastes of courtly food are subtle, refined, and a delight ... but they remain unmatched by the taste of grilled flesh and rewarmed bread, alongside a tankard of mead, once battle has ended and recovery begins. The sausage will be more than sufficient for my palate."

For her part, there's something just a bit standoffish about Sif. Like she's trying to keep herself regal for sake of image. The clues are there as she walks, periodically relaxing and seeming more genuine a person for a moment before apparently remembering that she's the LADY Sif and repositioning herself accordingly, straightening her back, holding her head higher, and generally being nobler-than-thou in her bearing.

The facade cracks once they get in scent distance of the sausage carts, however, with her widening nostrils and her eyes pinned on the vendors.

Hercules has posed:
    Hercules knew the pretense she carried. A heavy thing of heroic nobility. It weighed on the shoulders but kept them squared. Burdened the back but kept it straight. The Lion of Olympus had his own way. She marched, he seemed to swagger. "Aye, decorum is a fine thing for ceremony and circumstance but Feasts are poor places for such things. Meat hewn from bones... or, in our case-"

Carts, here and there tucked in their corners and territories. Large signs and smells describe their wears. Drinks, ice cream, pickles, pretzles, nachos, and of course... Hot Dogs.

"Stuffed into what used to be intestines and then boiled up."

"Be it on sticks, bones, or buns, every age has produced it's street meats. I marvel to think what the next age will bring about."

Sif has posed:
"Provided the marvels are in food, not in the means to dishonourably slaughter indiscriminately from a distance, I am sure that the next age will not disappoint."

And with a single sentence Sif manages to condemn modern warfare while still retaining some hope for the future.

The pair, naturally, raise a lot of eyebrows and attract a lot of stares, the latter ranging in nature from curiosity to admiration to prurience to not a little envy. In return Sif regards the array of foods with ice blue eyes flicking in curiosity, then dismissal, as she evaluates food for possible interest.

A hot dog cart is what she finally stops before, the hawker (seemingly for the first time in his life, given the noise that had come from him as the pair approached) struck dumb by surprise. Looking over the menu she finally decides: "A dozen 'foot longs' suffused in ketchup and garnished with grilled onions," she says, "and a further dozen suffused in the hottest of your mustards and filled with sour crouts."

She turns to glance at Hercules. "And whatever it is that my companion would like to eat," she adds sidelong.

This is not helping the vendor regain his voice.

Hercules has posed:
    Her companion laughs, a barked laugh that was warm and loud. He was delighted by her appetite. "Fortune smiles on you this day, Good Friend and her name is Lady Sif of Asgard. What she has not emptied from your larder, I will take. Know and share your good fortune." Hercules was no anachronistic fool, change treasure for paper script would be easy... But the eyes of a person when their hands were weighted with dense, golden coins was not something to be missed.

Moments tick past, coping mechanisms hand disbelief and acceptance. Emptying an entire cart at once, even so well rewarded, is a daunting task. Heroic resolve stiffens in the cartiers jaw and solidifies in his eyes. Foot after foot of sausage are slapped between warm, soft buns only to then be slathered in spiciest mustard or onions.

"Earlier you spoke of modern war with some distaste..." Hercules broached while the dogs began to mount. "Even when I was mortal, we still reached for a better answer to 'How am I to slay my foe who is all the way over there?' The creativity of man will ever begger that of the immortal... For weal or woe."

Sif has posed:
"It is not the slaying at a distance I object to. We have majisters and archers among our forces, after all, and some can skewer a target from one mountain peak to another without difficulty."

Sif watches patiently as the vendor starts assembling what is likely to be the largest single order of his life.

"It is the indiscriminate nature of modern battle--I refuse to term it warfare--as if the goal is the obliteration of all the people of another tribe instead of to settle differences between tribes. I have no compunction in slaying those who bear arms against me. It is the nature of warfare and all who are involved know this and know that it is the way. But the villagers... They did not make this choice. The smithy did not bear arms against me while I'm a thousand paces away. Why then should I wish her dead? The gardeners. The farmers. The bookkeepers..."

She gestures to the man desperately trying to find places for that many assembled hot dogs, and a container big enough to hold them all, cobbling something together out of six-pack boxes and twine.

"...Food vendors. Doxies. Skiffwrights. None of them chose to bear arms against me when I'm a thousand paces away, so why are they acceptable targets by my hand?"

Sif pauses in her rant and shakes her head ruefully. "Apologies, friend Hercules of Olympus. I spoil the jovial mood. Let us enjoy the repast, find drink, and speak of merry things."

Hercules has posed:
    "You do no such thing, Lady Sif of Asgard." Hercules dismisses her apology with a wave of his hand. "You speak of the very reasons why I savor battle yet eschew war." he claimed. His smile had dimmed but it was still warm. His eyes still narrowed with his smile but lacking that twinkle. "I would take the ravings of some mad philosopher-scientist over those of an empowered despot any day. Your masked criminal is much more enjoyable a foe. Be they mad or mad with greed! I see why some wish to done their own masks and swing through the city streets in search of adventure and vigilante-ism." he speaks as one box is filled and then another started. He pantomimes ham-fisted swings and punches.

"Admittedly, not as formidable as giants or trolls but the conversation is somehwat better!"

Sif has posed:
"I have had battle with companions doughty and brave," Sif says, nodding, "against intelligent, capable foes. There is a charm to it that merely toppling the next troll in a string of them doesn't hold."

The increasingly dire straits of the hot dog vendor finally reach Sif's awareness. Tsking at herself, she takes from a pouch an ornately carved stone box. (A box that can't possibly fit into the pouch it came from.) This she sets down on the cart and opens, revealing ... an empty box. That is, mind-bendingly, larger on the inside than on the outside.

"Apologies, good shopkeeper. I was not paying attention. You may lay out the repast within this case."

Hercules gets a 'if I didn't screw my head down I'd forget it too' look.

Hercules has posed:
    "Y'yeah, uh. no worries, right?" came the answer from the Hot Dog man. The Cartier trepidatiously places a Hotdog into the box... To the common man, extra-dimensional spaces are daunting. A look of blank awe and then another is placed, and another, so on and so forth until the novelty of it grows just slightly more blunt.

"There is something to the bellowed roars of beastial foes, the thundering ferocity of monsters." Hercules recalls, looking off and into some distant memory or another. "But the witty rapport to be had with some cunning fiend." a look of relish crossed his face, eyes burning, lips spread wide into a beaming grin.

Then a spark of.. something, realization, recollection, his lips pursing, brows lofting. He turned his attention to the man filling the unfillable box.

"Oh, and Relish please." Herc' asked
"What? Yeah, yeah sure." replied the man as his arm dipped ino the impossibly deep box.

Sif has posed:
Watching the man smear what looks like phlegm over the dogs after Hercules' amendment, Sif shows genuine curiosity. "Adorn one of mine with that substance," she says. "I do not think I have had the pleasure."

"Which one you want it on? The mustard and kraut, or the ketchup and onion?"

"... One of each. I wish to compare its flavour to others."

"You got it toots."

The man blanches as he realized what he just called 'toots'. The heavily-armed and armoured woman. With television appearances aplenty making it clear that they're not costume props.

"My true love," she continues, either unaware of or ignoring the slightly disrespectful title, "remains open battle, however. It surprised all when I came to not only excel but truly love the field of battle. It is a meeting of minds and bodies in a realm that defies forecasting ... yet must have forecasting to succeed. Nothing compares."

Hercules has posed:
    So few modern people 'got' that. It wasn't always about the victory, the certain triumph. Nor was it about the final, fatal stroke of some encounters, no. The controlled chaos while everything raged and roared around you. Experience and instinct working in tune, wild urges reigned in or allowed to run wild at a moment's notice. She expressed it all so wonderfully, all of it... on a bun, as it were.

Hercules belted out a laugh, barking his agreement and solidarity! Reaching out, he dared to grip her opposite shoulder, trying to draw her in for a side hug! "Yes, that, exactly that!" he enthused.

"That is what I try to teach these modern heroes in they spandex and lycra. The heart of the battle and the gifts it offers, those moments of exhuberant focus and freedom!" he gestures to the horizon with a slow sweep of his arm before stepping away, mood souring just slightly, like the bite of Sauerkraut against the savorieness of a boiled sausage.

"But they respond with such philosophies as 'Restraint' or 'Responsabilities'..." he utters, a moment of self-doubt washing him, a hand sweeping up, fingers running throught the short, curly crop of hair atop his head.

Half-turning to her, he resumes, "and perhaps they are right in that but such things are difficult to muster and master in the blistering, passionate heat of the moment."

To the Cartier's credit, Frank, we will call him... for the minor comedy of it, he finishes. Her bounty and Hercules' is fulfilled, including the experimental pair with this mysterious relish! There comes a sigh of accomplishment and then a chipper bark of,

"Order Up!"

Sif has posed:
Snapping the case shut, Sif tucks it under her arms. "Now we must seek mead or ale to go with our repast," she says, ignoring Frank's dubious staring at the too-small case that just took in all of his stock.

Well, at least he can spend the rest of the day off, having earned more in this one (admittedly grueling) order than he'd normally earn in a whole day of slinging sausage.

"Well, there are matters such as duty and honour to speak of, naturally," she continues as they start off on the quest for beer. "But in the heat of battle those can fall by the wayside. It is hard to remember the goals of the battle in the realm of strategy when one is faced with a half-dozen svartalfen striving to put an end to one's existence. That fury seeps into the blood and the battle is as it should be: a final test of mettle."

Her exceptional eyes scan the scenery before pointing into the distance. "There is a place with ale at least. Perhaps mead. We should proceed hence in haste to taste the repast in cheerful surroundings and with good libations."

Hercules has posed:
    Duty, Honor.
    The words cause Hercules to roll his shoulders as if adjusting an uncomfortable burden, his jaw stiffening. Hefty, onerous words. He much prefers carrying the burden of what few'dogs were not placed into Sif's perculiar parcel. Hot Dogs are more savory than the bitter medicine of keeping to such things as honor and duty. Sif speaks of Ale, that would do to wash the lingering flavor of such thoughts away completely!

"Strategy is best precticed by those with a broader view of the field of battle and rarely survives the initial clash of battle." not true in the least but Hercules is something of a rook, a powerful force that moves in straight lines.

"But that is a thorny subject, ill fitted to joyeous riparte! You have found our panacea, friend Sif! Lead on, Lady of Asgard that we might have our fill of meads and meats!"

Sif has posed:
"I do both," Sif says with a smile verging on a smirk. "I command the armies of Asgard, but I cannot lead if I do not show the way. Faith is lost in a commander who does not fight, don't you agree?"

Her face darkens a moment herself. "Much like the commanders of modern armies."

She shakes the darkness away as the pair head toward the oddly spelled beer garden (Biergarten). As they approach, some of the merry-making falls down as people stare in curiosity at the awesome (in the literal sense) anachronisms approaching. When no sign of trouble arises--people check to make sure--it winds back up.

"Two pitchers of your finest mead or, mead absent, ale if you would. And my friend will order his..." Sif's eyes lock with Hercules'. "...though I wish it to be clear hear and now that the libations are of my purse."

Hercules has posed:
    "Your purse, Lady Sif?"

His voice dipped, an ominous affectation, chin dipping inwards, his brow casting dread shadows over his eyes as a smile snaked across his lips. It was not warm, it was cold and sinister, showing more teeth than glee.

"As you say, so it shall be." he vowed, pulling a chair from beneath a table and settling himself down into it.

"Be fairly warned however, unless you can best me this night I will make a begger of you and empty the deepest coffers of Asgard for I am Hercules, Prince of Power, Lion of Olympus, and I have not known when to stop even once in my entire life!" what started as almost a threat, a warning, warmed into a boisterous challenge! He would rise to his feet to proclaim it to the heavens but he was too busy splaying his share of the food about the table.

"Maiden!" he belted out, "Trouble yourselfnot with cups, bring but the pitchers and now yourself present for a night of Legend!"

Sif has posed:
It takes a lot for an Asgardian warrior to think the boasting has gone a little far, but Hercules being who he is accomplishes with aplomb and dignity. Or at least booming voice and gesticulation.

Sif makes eye contact with the server, making a subtle "whatchyagonnado?" shrug.

"I think from what I carry on my person I could purchase the entire stock of this establishment," she says dryly, "so the risk of bankruptcy is low."

That's what you call low-key boasting. A pecuniary "yo mamma!".

The case gets placed on the table and opened to display the impossible amount of savouries held within, Sif reaching for one of her experimental hot dogs (ketchup, grilled onions, and relish) and looking it over dubiously.

"I find that service here is prone to alacrity when our kind appears. I have always wondered at why."

Hercules has posed:
    Hercules legendary, braggadocious nature is flattened by the simple fact of, yeah, a place can only stock so much beer. Hercules falters but recovers, lifting his head and barking a laugh. "Well said then." he relents, "Know then that the intent still lingers even if actuality falls short."

He unpacks his own delights, he's already started devouring it when she poses her question. His vision trails away, their server moves swiftly, with haste. Managers are consulted, reinforcements in the form of early deliveries are called for.

Hercules swallows and rubs his chin. "Of the myriad potential answers, I propose two!" he claimed, "We are sure to eat well and pay well for it. A boon to any of this profession." he reasoned before carrying on, "Or, they wish us served and done to be away from here before any opportunistic villain would test their mettle against ours in a surprise attack, hoping to catch us unaware of their devious desires!"

Sif has posed:
"Those are both more charitable," Sif says, pursing her lips and frowing a bit, "than what I had assumed, and thus likely more correct. Though it would take a foolish villain indeed to challenge two deities in a chance encounter."

Shrugging, then, at her own fallacy, she starts removing her share of the repast forming a wall of hot dogs from the case too small to hold more than two. This, needless to say, attracts attention (and a lot of cameras). When the beer starts to arrive--the owner deciding wisely to just fill every pitcher he has free to drop on the table in a parade of servers--the cameras go even crazier.

Grabbing one of the pitchers as a tankard, Sif takes a large, lusty bite of one of her test dogs and chews thoughtfully before washing down the remnants.

"This 'relish' is an unusual juxtaposition of sweetness on the tartness of the tomato sauce and the savoury sausage. I must consider it anon."