Owner	Pose
Brunnhilde	Brunnhilde isn't one to normally explore beyond her usual haunts these days and most of them tend to be conveniently located.  Funny that way.  This one is an establishment she'll take a little detour for, because there's a park across from it. Dressed in an old black leather jacket with a gray hoodie on underneath, dark jeans, her hair kept enough, etc.  She walks down the street, hands stuffed into her pockets from the cold evening.  She pushes into the shop with a little jingle of the bell and knows exactly where she's going.  Whiskey.  It's obvious by the way she moves.  The greeting from the store clerk gets a customary grunt as she does what she always does.
Sif	While it is not uncommon for Sif to make her way to Midgard, it is through happenstance alone that she finds herself here tonight. Wearing a thick coat with fur lined hood, she is dressed modestly as she passes amongst the people of New York near to Central Park. The hood is down off her dark hair, pulled back, and her booted feet crunch into gravel as she exits the park onto the sidewalk near a shop where Brunnhilde has just entered seeking the nights whiskey date. She too knows where she's going as the bell jingles her entry, but it is not in kin with the Valkyrie. No, she is shopping along the aisle laden with snacks, searching for the ever elusive hot cheeto bag. It puts her right in line of the racks of alcoholic beverages, however.
Brunnhilde	They are out of whatever whiskey Brunnhilde likes or tolerates, which was probably what the clerk was going to tell her.  This was more time than she wanted to wait for getting whiskey into her veins.  She sighs, glowering at that empty spot on the shelf that she probably caused. Brunnhilde holds up the bottle, squinting at the bottle label only long enough to know she doesn't give a fuck.  Her eyes flick down the aisle and back...and back down the aisle.  She doesn't feel /that/ drunk. It's her time.  Odin has always saved her a place in Valhalla and only another valkyrie would be able to find her so quickly, if it were the right time.  She grabs a few more bottles and forgoes the snacks.  Piling the bottles on the counter, she starts opening one up right there as she waits to be rung up.  Apparently this isn't a problem, as she only gets a tired look that doesn't expect anything to change. "Someone's having a party." "Not tonight George," Brunnhilde mutters and shoves across a wad of bills.  "Better take off two of them I think," as he muddles through them.  She chugs one of the bottles down seconds flat.  Really it's peeling off the damn crap they put on these bottles that slows her down.
Sif	It is neither Brunnhilde's presence, nor the divine decree of the All Father, that alerts Sif, but her sisters own words to ''George''. She had only been paying half attention to her surroundings, saw the woman at the liqour aisle, and written her off initially. That voice, however? That voice she knows. Standing up from her crouch at the snacks, Sif turns towards the register, eyes narrow more out of observation than malice intent. Surely not? Surely Brunnhilde is not, after all these centuries, slumming it in a seedy liqour store in New York City where she should be feasting in the great halls of Valhalla alongside her fallen sisters... Absently, a bag of the flaming hot cheetos is snatched from the rack on her way towards the register. Attention never diverting, never faultering, and her steps becoming more purposeful as she approaches the figure draining whiskey in seconds. "It's the plastic that gives you the most trouble is it not?" Tossing the packaged snack on the counter beside the second bottle of whiskey. "For what victory are you celebrating that it could not wait until you had solitude to toast it?"
Brunnhilde	Yes.  It most undeniably /is/ Brunnhilde.  Trying to camouflage that is futile.  Everyone who matters here knows it.  George does not.  Brunnhilde can hear Sif approaching and double-times her drink down.  It's a wonder when she'll get to a volume and speed that will stimulate an expression of some form of struggle. Mid pull, Brunnhilde looks sidelong to Sif at her words, dropping her hand to wipe the spattering of liquor with the back of her hand.  "Always.  They insist on it here.  To stop children I think."  When Sif tosses up her snacks, Valkyrie says, "Pull off another one," but George thinks it is unnecessary and gets to hand counting the whole affair again.  He's too absorbed to listen. "The victory of death.  I have waited a long time to see you again."  It's as if Brunnhilde knew Sif would not fail her.  "I just thought it's be with a lot better whiskey.  Want to share?  In the park?"
Sif	A few dollars on the counter for her cheetos, all while Sif is listening to Brunnhilde recant her chosen celebration with a bemused expression on her generally stoic face, "Death. How coincidental you chose that in particular." No hiding the tone she takes, one of distant curiosity, and possible forlorn. Nodding to the offer, "To the park then." Snatching up the second bottle to clutch beneath her arm, her other hand extends out towards the door inviting her old friend to lead the way. "I cannot say I will be so enthusiastic to celebrate death this night, but if that is your desire, then I will drink with you." Her smile takes on a softer tilt on the right, "I doubt this whiskey will be nearly enough to properly lay us low, but I suspect you've a story worthy of a keg.." Why aren't you dead? You're suppose to be dead. "We mourned. /I/ mourned."
Brunnhilde	"I have more back at my place, but I was out for a stroll," and thought she'd what, slip in for a little couple-bottle nightcap in the park?  Looks like it.  Brunnhilde, holds up a finger though.  "This is a special occasion."  She walks back to a different section of the store.  "George where did you put that barrel of mead I asked you to order."  There are other reasons she goes out of her way to come here. "In the back.  You want it now?" "Yeah.  I'll get it.  Here."  Brunnhilde hands him a credit card.  Who the fuck cares.  She's going to die!  Yes!  He tosses her the keys.  She returns with a barrel over one shoulder as of it were a rucksack, because that looks at least inconspicuous enough that she'll have to tell less assholes to fuck off. "You didn't put a handle on this thing?" she asks as she tosses him the keys back on her way out. "You didn't give me enough time." Brunnhilde shrugs and grabs her card and the other two bottles in her other hand on the way out, which George so kindly stacked two big red solo cups on top of for her, a sweet and futile gesture. "Let's see how long we can tap this before we get driven indoors," Brunnhilde says with a shadow of her former luster.  It's not sad terribly for a human, outside of the drinking, but for one of the Valkyrior, the once-leader, for Brunnhilde, the general, evident lack of fucks left is jarring.  "It isn't Asgardian, but it is the best I've found here." Out into the park, out into the night they go.
Sif	Sif is still uncertain what cause Brunnhilde has for such galavant drinking, but her old friend seems intent upon the task, so she'll oblige. Where the former General of the Valkyrie seeks to toast death, Sif by comparison seeks to toast a friend found and will do so gladly, stolling along once the cask of mead is acquired. "No, it definitely is not Asgardian." She laughs at the thought of midgardians having anything comparitive to that of Asgards finest. "You still haven't answered my question." A quesiton that went spoken silently, sure, but now that they're out in the streets it's far easier to poke that festering wound. "Where have you /been/?" It's been... a very long time. A very very long time.
Brunnhilde	Brunnhilde, in fact, kind of skipped out on everything Sif said in one way or another, the last being the most awful.  But she was always going to return. "I didn't hear one," Valkyrie answers with intentional obtuseness.  In another time, it might have been the tactic of a teacher to draw out boldness, but it is now.  Everything is different.  "You know I'd rather drink."  But she knows she owes it Sif her words. "Different places.  It doesn't matter.  They're all the same."  It was never going to be a life full of color, life, and adventure.  A life of promise.  "Drinking seemed like the best way to pass the time."  The pain of which she does not speak freely.  "You know what I lost."  She's never been much of a sharer.  Being sober doesn't help those chances, but getting information from Brunnhilde in these 'moods' is a bit like peeling back an onion.  Of course, she is now encrusted with centuries of the smell of death of self. Brunnhilde finds a bench and sets the barrel down.  George installed the spout just like she asked.  She sets the cups aside and begins to refill one of her empty liquor bottles.  "I decided I was done.  Done with Odin, done with the crown, done with life.  I died that day.  I just never went to Valhalla."
Sif	Sif isn't much for pressing into matters of conversation and few would suggest she's ever been the most emotionally inclined. The fact that she only seems marginally excited to see her friend is as to others throwing a celebration for the ages. These things must be weighed against who a person is and Sif is the Goddess of War. What she knows of emotions is measured in battle, the ringing of swords, and the cries of victory. But she listens well. And reads things unspoken. Nodding at Brunnhilde's statement of what she'd lost, she says nothing for a while. Tipping the entire cask of mead up for a hardy drink, after which she pulls her arm across her mouth to clean it of rogue drips. "You, as I, know Valhalla to be the great battle grounds. Where we celebrate our constant victories on the fields of combat for all eternity, then do it all again." The cask is held out to her friend, easily held in the palm of her upturned hand as if it weighs nothing at all. "Certainly a more literal locale than New York, or in fact ''all over the place'', but how is this struggle you're facing now not a battlefield? An eternity of strife against ones own enemies seems every bit the conflict as wars between neighboring kingdoms, save only one personm dictates when the turmoil has ended."
Brunnhilde	"Because this isn't a struggle.  It's just how I've decided to hasten my days.  You aren't listening.  I have no fight with anyone.  No struggle with anyone until I reach Valhalla."  Except for maybe with her landlord over rent.  Brunnhilde knocks back a bottle's worth of mead, just trying to get the ball rolling.  "Whatever you are looking for doesn't exist...besides.  It doesn't matter anymore anywa-" Brunnhilde twists to look at her long lost friend.  "You aren't here to take me?"  She knows she already knows the answer.  She starts to laugh, a little too loud for its own sake.  Her dark eyes flash with ironic amusement.  "Well you might as well.  I can't pay my rent, my ship's busted, and now Odin and every other As-bro will know where I am."  She sighs.  "Still.  It's good to see you.  You are doing well?"  The transition is abrupt and as unsettling as anything else, but no less genuine.
Sif	Sif lifts her chin, gently inclining her head, with one eye squint at Brunnhilde, "Yes, you look much like someone whose struggles are behind them. Not all battles are fought on a field, certainly the most difficult struggles are with oneself." But it's a moot point, which she waves off with the twist of her hand and another hardy guzzling from the cask laid between them. "Is that your play then, old friend? Waste away here on Midgard far from the All Seeing Eye?" The thought of it is genuinely amusing. "You know the Wise One likely already has eyes upon you, even here." Motioning to the park, the city, and Midgard itself. Shaking her head at such trivality as that, a smirk firm upon her lips. Until the question of her own wellbeing is brought forward, "I am well." She is not. "Trouble by dreams-" That part is more akin to truth, "But without any means to decipher them aside from the-" tapping the side of her head, "-wit of my own brow. Otherwise, good.. plenty to keep me busy."
Brunnhilde	Brunnhilde outright ignores the parts of what Sif says that she disagrees with.  She won't change her mind.  She's sure of it.  She's also been drinking Midgard swill for hours.  And it's Valkyrie.  This Valkyrie.  Brunnhilde.  Yes.  A lot of time has past. "Right'o.  It was a consolation from the old bastard, even if he had no idea he was giving it."  Yep.  Brunnhilde totally pre-gamed, though probably only Sif could recognize some of the telltale hallmarks that have survived and dug in over time.  "He would have summoned me by now."  The one who he has called his god-daughter on the rarest of occasions.  "And if he does have eyes on me and hasn't summoned me.  I don't care.  Good.  I just want to be left alone." The bubbling up of old anger grips Brunnhilde before she shakes it off.  It stirs in her and she lifts the bottle to drown it.  It doesn't work.  She throws the bottle, looking probably as effortless as a flick to mere mortals but it slams into a tree trunk...too far away at...too high a velocity. Now Valkyrie's ready to listen.  "Dreams?  Hmm.  What happens in them?"  She makes sure Sif is good on mead before pouring herself some more after finishing the second bottle she'd carted.  "Are you sleeping enough?"  There's a part of her that sneaks so effortlessly back into the ghosts of an old mode.  A time when she worked with the Valkyrior, when she trained them.  They were family and Valkyrie clearly never stopped caring, even if her capacity for it has all but vanished.  "No one keeping you busy?  Besides Odin?"  But there's also just that friend side of her too.  That side never stopped caring for her friend either...though it also left too, and stayed away.
Sif	A fact Sif well knows watching Brunnhilde just... go quiet rather than addressing the elephant in the park. A quiet chuffing sound escapes her, head shaking in amusement at the silent treatment, then the litany of ''I don't cares'' that follow mention of Odin keeping tabs on the former General of his Valkyrie. It's amusing. And entirely possible true. Sif swallows another big gulp of mead and waves a hand at any further attempt to add more to her bottle. Her blue eyes are flicking off towards the horizon now, a frown creeping onto her face. "I am standing on an ancient battlefield looking at a sea of dead men fighting.. not Valhalla, these are corpses. As far as the eye can see, skeletal figures clash with no reason to any of it aside from the bitter sounds of endless howling.. save one familiar face, Ulf." A name none know with the exception of Sif herself. "He died in Vinland." By way of exlanation. "He stands amidst the chaos beckoning me to come down, inviting me to hear some secret he's kept all the centuries." Her hands turn up, head shakes, and the frown is replaced by her stoic blank stare. "I have gone to Helheim to speak with him, but it has unearthed only more questions."
Brunnhilde	Even if it weren't true, Odin would probably just say it was anyways, so no one will ever know.  Brunnhilde respects Sif's choice to hold off on more mead, but keeps hers flowing.  She listens in her own quiet way, now more taking big sips than crudely gulping. Though Brunnhilde is happy to see her friend and ask after her, she already regrets having pulled threads that seem to have more threads.  "You should find someone in the mystic arts maybe?  I know someone."  Still, she cannot let her friend go empty handed. "I must get to work now though."  She stands up and reaches out, no doubt to take her friend's forearm as she oft did so long ago whenever she was able to get Sif on her back while they trained.  Sif always was her favorite sparring partner.  It was nice to be challenged.
Sif	Goddess of War and all. Sif takes Brunnhilde's forearm and pulls herself up from the bench, holding fast for several moments thereafter. "It is good to see you have not yet passed on to the great feasting halls, old friend." She's either forgotten the troubling memories of her dreams or has put them back in their place behind the veil of her will, which has grown substantially from what was already substantial when they were younger. "Now that I know you are still amongst the living, I dare say I will trouble you far more often.. perhaps with something better to drink than this Midgardian pale substitute for ale." A smirk there and she releases the former General to go about her business with the full knowledge that Sif, at least, is well aware of her existance. And that hiding wouldn't be nearly so easy anymore.
Brunnhilde	"Do not come without it!" Brunnhilde calls out over her shoulder before she takes off.