Log:Union's Dues: Interlude 1

Union's Dues 2021/03/11 Helen Union Grimm Radical 3

Eljudnir, Nairheim

The hall is filled with many trestles, long tables with long benches upon which gather scores of people. A low murmur fills the long, pillared place. Virtually everyone, coming through the hall, will have come to realize that ... the dead are /many/ sorts of people, here. Yes, humans, and humans of many sorts, but also light elves and dark, plus jotun of various sorts, regular and fire and ice. Those with familiarity of Greater Faerie will see all of the races represented in some part; dragons as well, albeit of small, 'humanish' size. Plus others, many others, of races not before seen by the eyes of man ... but many human races nonetheless.

After the conversation between (mostly) Hel, Helen, and Union, Helen gives a courtesy to her mistress, and the group draws away in order to allow the Dead to once more approach their queen. Helen mentioned something about talking to fellow apprentices, but also having to learn something, and as anyone knows, learning almost invariably takes time, so several of the 'party' choose to wander amongst the denizen of the Hall. The more they do, the more the conversations become intelligible -- wide-ranging conversations, about almost every topic conceivable.

Radical walks around...not straying too far. In general, he tries to stay within sight of Helen, since she's the reason they're all here. But he's still curious, so he looks around at what he can.

Grimm isn't sure this is the right place to be for this, given all of Hel's help so far. She sighs and looks around, not following Helen currently. She's keeping mental tabs on Union and scans the crowd idly, trying to think of alternatives to restore Union.

Helen is actually going outside, in the direction the Dead go after their judgement. Some of them look shocked at their destination, some upset, but all of them seem to be heading where-ever they're headed without arguing. Both Grimm and Radical will see that it is a compulsion, possibly an innate element of spirits, possibly something imposed by the judge in her seat, that there need not be a fight for those going to dire punishments.

Out the door, however, Helen manages her way down a short flight of wide stone steps, then turns towards what looks like it might be a blend of graveyard and picnicking area: scores of low, heavy-slabbed tombs strewn across the meadow, interspersed with a roughly equal number of trestle tables. As Grimm and Radical follow Helen towards one such table, they will notice that the dead at it are matched by an equal number of living.

Lizzy had headed for the goat cart, figuring that Helen would be using it to get where she was going. Instead, Helen heads for the door, so Lizzy changes course to follow her.

Radical furrows his brow and just keeps looking around. He has seen plenty of odd dimensions, but this is his first time (that he can remember) being in a land of the dead.

It will possibly -- probably -- strike the living heroes (and Grimm, when she gets there) that Radical now represents a significant percentage of the male population hereabouts. Of the roughly thirty at the table (and several hundred scattered around the meadow), there are only a couple of males (and maybe forty or fifty in total). Of the living, he is the sole representative.

Helen slows to let the three of you catch up. "There," she says, nodding towards the ten or so living souls around the table she approaches. "There are most of my fellow apprentices. Though," she concedes judiciously, "not all of them, and probably about half should be considered journeymen. Just, you know -- where do you journey for the craft of judging the dead?"

Grimm, as she goes through the hall, suddenly realizes that those around her -- who are seeming to speak in English -- are not doing so. Something about being here enables those who are here to simply understand each other, fully and completely. Souls speaking to souls, without messy 'language' getting in the way.

Lizzy says, "To visit other such judges?"

Grimm finds it similar to speaking directly to the minds of others. Language isn't a barrier for telepaths. Though this doesn't seem psionic in nature. Just a property of the realm or plane.

Radical looks around curiously. "Not many men here. Is that due to a lot of them going directly to Valhalla? Or Muspelheim?"

Grimm decides to stay near people she knows, just in case something goes off the rails. Which seems to be a frequent thing for her. She wanders closer to where Radical and others are.

Helen nods in concession to Lizzy. "Pretty much, I suppose. There's more than a few of them who are involved in the justice system of where-ever they're from. A lot of court stenographers, interestingly enough." She glances at Radical, and smiles a little. "This is the place of the volvas, the wise-women, those who practice seidr -- women's magic. There are always a few men ..."

She leaves the delicate hint for Radical to follow through on, and lifts a hand to one living female ... troll, maybe? Rock monster? Though she has a lot of humanish features, and gives a sense of considerable age. "Helen Astridsdottir, welcome back to us," comes the grinding rumble that Radical and Lizzy both realize can't actually be /in/ English, that's just ... understanding. Instinctively.

"Mother Clewncliff," says Helen, closing and hugging the nine-foot-tall-sitting being. "I am told to find the posting-house."

Mother Clewncliff's eyebrows lift. "So young?"

"For need," says Helen, and gestures towards Lizzy, who becomes the sudden focus of all thirty-something individuals.

Lizzy says, "Um...hi?"

Radical nods as he listens. "Interesting." He waves to Grimm as she comes into view.

There is a soft laugh from a ... girl? Wasn't she kind of an insect thing a few moments ago? There's definitely still something mantis-like about her ... erm. Well. Said girl trills, "Worry not, we don't bite."

"Speak for yourself," says another woman, perhaps in her late forties, who gave Lizzy a long hard look and is returning to her thread-work, what looks to be lacemaking. There is quiet, amused laughter at that. "Riven?"

"Mistress said 'caught on the cusp'," offers Helen.

"Ahhhh." It is a soft exhalation of understanding from thirty-plus throats.

Grimm waves to Radical and draws near, stopping alongside him as she takes a deep breath and lets it out. "I miss anything?"

Radical shakes his head, and says to Grimm, "I don't think so. Though I did learn why there aren't many men here." He then recites what Helen told him a few minutes prior.

Grimm raises a brow at that with some interest. "Huh. So they end up somewhere different based on the magic they practice...?"

Radical nods. "Well...perhaps? But it could be a matter of where in the realm, too."

Grimm shudders for show. "I'd hate to think of who I'd end up with in the afterlife based on what magic I 'practice'."

"Well, then," rumbles the tall more-humanish-by-the-moment Mother Clewncliff, "you indeed need to bring her hence. Come, we will describe to you the Way."

Helen nods, turning to the three who have escorted her here. "This will take some time," she apologizes, "but it will be less actual time than you think. I think I once figured the dialation ratio at about eighty to one. In any case -- I have some studying to do. Stay and talk with the others if you like," she suggests, and gestures towards the two living ones who have spoken, the laughing twenty-something 'mantis' girl and the 'speak for yourself' fiftyish woman. "Miss Tiklara and Mistress Firewick will ..." She pauses, then says carefully, "be excellent hosts, of a sort." She then turns and clomps around the far side of the hundred-something Clewncliff, to sit with her and several others, listening closely in.

Firewick gives a glance up from her work, then back down even as Tiklara saunters her way around the table. "Not at all," Tiklara says. "This is merely where we gather, the living students of Hel, and those dead who practiced rightly and well. Most of the Dead who follow the Aesir and Vanir are here in the land of the Dead. Very few besides the 'worthy' ones," and all three can hear her scorn in the word 'worthy', "are in any place but here."

Radical says to Firewick, "You're refering to Valhalla, I'm assuming?"

Grimm notes the scorn and bitterness in the tone, but keeps quiet.

Tiklara mmms with a nod. "Valhalla for the more heroic half of those slain in battle; Folkvangr for those slain in battle who were not chosen by the valkyrja. Forseti takes judges, but only good ones; Odin takes kings, but again, only those he decides served suitably. That the rest are here was a foolish decision," she says judiciously, "made by a leader who could never take the long view. Solve short-term problems with solutions sure to lead to your own destruction."

Lizzy says, "Is it possible that someone bargained unwisely in their search for wisdom?" Lizzy rubs her eye.

Considering Lizzy's question, Tiklara gestures the three down to the opposite end of the trestle, where there is space to sit and talk, next to and opposite Mistress Firewick. "Perhaps," she says, "but also perhaps not. There is much to be said for introspection, and yet ..." She pauses, then collects three cups and pours into them water from a pitcher before refilling that of Firewick and her own.

"One-eye," says Firewick, her eyes on her work, though her hands move with assuredness, "is clever and wise, yes. He is also greedy, and always worried about keeping his leadership, and fears death most of all. I personally think it's the last that spurred all his worst decisions. That and refusing to learn from rival tribes."

Radical nods as he listens, "Hmm. Interesting. Thank you."

Mistress Firewick doesn't miss the short answer, slate-grey eyes lifting to skewer Radical. "You don't agree."

Grimm conjures herself another latte to sip from. "I don't think he said yay or nay."

Radical shakes his head, "I don't have an opinion one way or the other, ma'am. I am mostly unfamiliar with the results of Odin's decisions, as my knowledge of Norse mythology and lore is...inadequate. When I say something is 'interesting', that is what I mean."

Lizzy says, "Among my people, there is a saying - when a man makes decisions based on his passions rather than his wisdom, he is said to 'Let the little head do the thinking for the big head.'"

Grimm rubs her face at Lizzy's quote. "Just. Wow, girl. Don't say it like you're quoting some profound wisdom."

The gaze of the older of the two women shifts towards Grimm and gives her a /look/, then to Lizzy, and barks a brief laugh. "Well, he's done plenty of that," she agrees, then turns her attention to Radical once more. "Oh, there's a whole list," she says, pausing to take a drink. "Alas, we know them all. If you're ever in the mood to be horrified, just let us know. Or young Helen; sharp as a tack, that one, and twice as durable."

Radical nods. "I'm sure there is. I will be sure to ask Helen about it later." He does recognize that he'd likely be getting one side of the story, but it's a start.

Grimm idly combs her fingers through her hair along the left side. "Sounds pretty wild. I imagine it's more than shows up in most legends and lore about him? Maybe some first hand knowledge, given...this place."

Firewick eyes first Radical, then Grimm, appreciatively. "You've good heads on your own shoulders," she says. "You probably already know the sagas and suchlike, or some sort derived from them, however they look in your world. Keep in mind that thos're the one side, prettied up to make them all brave and noble. Look at your own more recent history, I'm sure you'll find the dark underbelly. Gotta do that critical thinking."

"Enough, Mistress Firewick," says Tiklara. "They're questors, not looking to become converts." She turns towards the three, smiling a little. "And I'm sure you have stories of your own you'd be willing to tell ... ?"

Radical looks to Grimm, "I can certainly tell something about myself, but I figured you might want to first, given your long list of titles." He smiles, though it's barely visible under his mask.

Grimm grins slyly at Radical. "You don't even know the half of them." She looks to the other ladies. "But I'm not much of a story teller." Despite her family name. Her forefathers must be rolling in their graves. "I've done a fair bit of traveling to other realms and planes, and other dimensions. Seen a lot of things. Done a lot, too. I used to travel a lot more, but I'm really trying to finish my degree, so I've cut down a lot in the past year or so."

The two 'apprentices' exchange glances, and then Tiklara settles down next to Radical, bumping his hip with hers. "Tell us. You'd be surprised at how good a storyteller you can be with a willing audience." Several others -- the dead, these -- lean over to listen; new stories are always welcome ...

Radical shrugs, "Well, if Grimm won't...I can." He no longer realy tries to hide his former...job. "I once was the Cartesian of Order. For those here who do not know who or what that is...there are Lords of Order and Chaos. They fight eternally. I was the mortal agent of Order on Earth. Midgard. My uncle held the title before myself. He...gave up the mantle when he refused to use a great artifact...called the Ataxianate...which would have won the war in Order's favor. Instead...he destroyed it, and in punishment, his powers were taken away from him."

"Ah, yes," agrees one. "Well, your Earth," says another. "Hel is one such," says a third.

Grimm raises a brow at the response from the others.

Radical thinks about it. "Are you saying that Hel is a Lord of Chaos or Order? I think that...this is a group that Hel is not a part of, even if she does embody one of those concepts."

"Perhaps," says the one who spoke, a dead woman (and thus missing the last bit that would turn her colors into liveliness) of older mein, speaking in a subdued manner, slow and careful as if with great thought, "your Lords of Order and Chaos are ... not as we understand such things. It sounds like yours are as commanders of armies, battling back and forth over a prize. For the jotunn tribes, the Ice of Ymir and Fire of Surtr are Order to the one side, Chaos to the other. Ymir was slain, but the Ice remained ... and eventually once more found one to embody it." Her hand gestures towards the Hall Ejudnir, and its Mistress by implication.

"Both," adds Tiklara, "understand that sole possession is absolute destruction, death of all things. Their war ended long ago, and instead there is life in all its wonders."

Radical nods. "The Lords of Order and Chaos do not care that if they win...the prize they fight over will effectively be destroyed. It took me...some time to realize that."

Mistress Firewick sniffs. "Lessers, then," she judges. "Brainless fools."

Grimm looks over to Radical and smiles gently. "But you did finally realize that, and walked away." Her tone says she's proud of him for that.

That, however, seems to have raised a side discussion as to whether or not the 'Lords of Chaos and Order' might not be remnant jotnar from the earliest days, one who somehow survived Ymir's slaughter and continue in those same early foolish ventures.

Radical nods to Grimm, "That's true. But it took a similar crux point to what my uncle had to deal with to make me realize what I was doing was wrong. It just...was not as large a scale of a problem." He then chuckles. "They are not brainless. But their goals are far from understandable to normal folks. They are...alien, in many ways."

"Well...maybe, but they -were- altering your personality some. It probably made you blind to some of it. And you did do some good as the Cartesian before, too. Hard to see the problems that way," Gabrielle concedes.

Radical nods slowly. "Taht's true, too. It definitely is hard to see the issues when you're influenced by the very power you're wielding."

Grimm grins a little. "I know a little about that," she says conspiringly.

Firewick fixes a gimlet eye upon Radical. "To fight over a toy that will be destroyed if you ever manage to fully gain it, and might be destroyed by the fighting, is brainless and you know it, mister. Balance in all things." Her gaze shifts to Grimm. "Goes for your nutcase friends too, missy, don't think we aren't aware of /them/."

Grimm looks to Firewick and chuckles. "You really have to be more specific than that. I got a lot of them." She smiles to herself at the mention of Balance and what Connor's been trying to achieve.

Firewick inhales deeply, then speaks three Words that near to make the stale air shake with intensity.

For a moment, everything within easy earshot just ... /stops/. It's less a shock of pain than it is amazement. The dead are certainly revealed for what they are; in many cases, their appearance alters, and the cause of their death (hanging, drowning, strangling, and mostly just age) is apparent. For the nine apprentices, there is the living essence of their souls there, as well as the Mark of Hel, a burden and a ticket-of-passage, a visa or passport if you will, marking them as hers to those with the eyes to see. None of them gain Power from her; all of them, even Helen down at the far end, possess it in their own right.

Firewick reels, and falls off the back of her bench at the effort necessary. *THMP* "... fuck," comes her mumble.

At the speaking of the words, Gabrielle's qliphothic aura and influence is visible to all and manifests itself. Darkness exudes from her, or perhaps it's consuming light around her. Black tendrils swish and sway slowly at the fringes of her aura, and her eyes appear entirely black. She's touched by forces of destruction and nightmare, giving a feeling of dread about her. Reality warps around her in subtle ways. The forces she's tainted by are contained through force of will and Grimm's discipline of not overusing her powers for frivolous causes. A few seconds later, it's vanished again, more tightly contained and more sensed by mystical beings than visible to the untrained or uninitiated. "Wh...what'd you do?" Grimm demands, unsettled by the effect.

Radical's body is merely an outline briefly...of a body full of stars. No...not stars. Twinkling geometric shapes, all moving in a complex pattern of some kind. Though there are embers of darkness that stream off of him in irregular intervals.

"A Call to Manifestation," says Tiklara, then climbs out of her seat and steps around to the other side, where Firewick still lays on the ground. Bending over, she delivers a resounding *SLAP* to the other woman's face. "Idiot! Isn't only Odhinn who does things out of sheer grumpy spite, is it??" She then helps the older woman up and back into her seat; it's clear, as she does, that at least one of Firewick's legs is at least partially lame.

Grimm looks to Radical's aura in mild surprise. Order magic still infuses with him, but so does a bit of chaos. That's no surprise. But how it looks. "Wow, that looks...metal."

Radical looks at himself, "Huh. That is...hmm...it reminds of me when I used to contact Lord Antherion."

Mistress Firewick wheezes as she settles back into place, a curved print red upon her cheek where Tiklara smacked her. "Them nutcase friends," she pants, reaching out to clutch at her cup and then draining it noisily down. "Seems you know your way about 'em, though." After a long moment of silence in which the other apprentices and dead return to what they were doing, and Tiklara glares at her, she finally mutters, "Sorry. Shouldn't have done that. Just don't like play-talk when there's serious jawing being done, is all."

Grimm grins at Radical. "I guess that makes sense a bit. But what about those little streamers of darkness?"

Radical shrugs, "I'm not sure? Bad decisions?" He chuckles.

"Balance," suggests Tiklara, sitting down again and pouring from the jug.

"Not a terrible decision," Grimm opines.