NYC is Going SPLAT

May 02, 2017:

After the events of [| Unleash The...!] Tattoo escapes them to Oblivion, where time flies, and Mattias gets some blinders pulled off.

Oblivion Bar - Fringes


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The barrier settled over Tattoo is one she can feel, it is as if every pore absorbs what Strange pitched her way, and for a moment she knew peace

But Mattias' battle cry as he is sucked below… The rises wipes it all away and the placement of spear bears into a ground that /writhes//! But as Strange's bolts of flame push the Kraken back, the battle cry of the 'Unknown' Mattias' and the yells of padestrians with-held in the maws of beasts that could have been birthed from Hel Itself… (Her)self…

The spear retracts with a suctioning noise, a spray of blood that paints halfway up the figure of Tattoo just before the tentacle slaps her in the peel from the 25 sign as well with a wetted *squelch* of parting sinew..

    "//K'aal / Oblivion! //" States as her body is impacted, stricken and thrown, the quint-pack of Lycanthropes releasing their quarry and rescues to about-face and bare fang just before a sudden upsweep of wind comes bidden on a whirlwind!

Matti is likely thrown as well as the massive appendages of the Kraken recoil in the burst of ethereal flame emitted by Strange, pushing it back and as quick as the tumult came, the cyclone turns inside-out, and even if Mattias' blow slides through the tentacle in its withdraw, it is remembered… Seeded… The rumble that richters the streets and bay a subtle hint of such…

    Atlantis however…. The backlash?

As Tattoo falls through and a ripple, a rip in the fabric to open her into a fall between, the post and remnant of Mattias' sign is gripped and if he does not release his own spear??

Just like the Kraken and the sea-borne cyclone, they are gone in a (rip)ple of fabrics, landing upon a hardwood floor covered in visceral spray of red and ~clear~…

Kida sits upright… Calling for a Doctor?? No tardis as the visual of where they were is seen slowly fading to black and the waterbed calming to act as if nothing has happened…

Then nothing save the stilled clamor of a Bar long beyond Oblivion and back….

Kida sweeps slimy palms over her eyes as the essence of her Five slip through and her skin begins to bear a paint

A flash of hazel eyes now flicker to Mattias who has just been transplanted and is the focus of the staff and patrons.


Mattias Larsson, at least in the middle of fighting a giant beast, is a creature of his own action. His eyes dart to the sides quickly with every move save for the one he’s committed to. Checking the field, as it were,  wrapped in the queer, pale energy cast onto him as a protective measure by a man Mattias knows as a stranger and not as the Sorcerer Supreme. It’s such a rush, but it isn’t bloodlust that drives him. It’s something deeper in his veins, something stronger than most of the mortal realm. It’s Asgard. His blood…is singing.

He lets go of his spear in time, thinking to save the woman with no name, but the ripple in space and time swallows him as well, sinking him through the landscape. Mattias tries, oh, how he tries to regrab his makeshift spear to save himself, to provide a handhold for the foreign woman, but instead he falls, tumbling down.

Towards a hardwood floor?

When Mattias’ weight comes crunching down onto the polished hardwood, he lands with one knee bent. Fingers dripping with ink more slowly than it slicks off of his leather jacket, the once-blonde man looks as if he just got done crawling through a sewer pipe. Thick strands of hair mat to his cheeks; others sway like oiled dreadlocks. The adrenaline still stinks his blood and his heart still pumps. He rises to his feet, whips his head about, looking for the next danger to come the way of himself and his new, complete stranger, of a female comrade.

A bar?

Mattias turns to Tattoo and the patrons of the bar, staring at them with two confusion-laden blue eyes.

One plus one equals two, and Mattias, recently having learned that there is a Loki, connects the dots the only way he knows how. Fighting then bar equals…

“We just died on that beach, didn’t we?’ Mattias asks them in his dumbfounded, Swedish accent. He throws up a hand and slaps it down, hard, against his thigh. “FOK!”


The denizens of Oblivion, even down to the ‘hidden’ Sobeken turn their gazes towards the duo that land into the bar in a squelching splatter of a viscous liquid, all the while on screens behind… The whole fete was watched, among other news-casts of humanity… And not..

So when that visceral SPLAT happens on Oblivion’s Bar floor, there are a couple people already on standby… One of which with fractal wings….

“Not dead… !” When Matt slaps his thigh upon assumption Kida grabs his hand upon impact and tugs him to rise as she does, despite having parts of cloth, hair, and blood smeared across her form in a Rorschach and a war painted, anew.

His own spear got left behind and imbedded in the appendage of the Kraken, but her spear? Kida would die before she let go, and as it folds back in upon itself within these walls to be tucked back beneath her back-pack and along the small of her back her chin lofts to Mattias in a greeting.

“Safe. For now… “ An up-down of that unsettled hazel gaze lined in noir and spattered in blood. “Su’u-yapi.” Something about the final word is not friendly. The ability of him to even come with her blows her fucking mind! and despite the heavily laden Thump of backpack beside her when she reaches the bar.

“Welcome to Oblivion.” Pause. “Not Death. Just …” A handwave and Kida slowly slides into a seat. Accent, words, altered language for adaptation…

Not from here….

And the hitch in her shoulders shows the defensiveness, even as it exposes inkwork trailing along her tanned skin as well as the massive scar over her hip that seemingly ripped a piece of art from her tapestry.  

“His drink? Strong.”


One part relief to two parts confusion, Mattias allows the stranger to grip the gooey, inky blood matting his hand and hoist him to his feet. The sole of his boot leaves a smear where he once was. The goat-faced stencil on the back of his jacket seems all the more menacing, running with the kraken’s blood. In a way, it's laughing. Everyone is laughing and yet…Mattias cranes his neck around, feeling as if he hasn't been let in on the secret, or at least, the joke.

“Story of my life.” Safe. For now. Mattias jerks his chin upwards in a greeting of solidarity and follows Tattoo where she leads. His leather clad forearm smears across his face, trying in vain to clean the area around his mouth, but the leather leaves more than it takes. His face cuddles at the taste of it on his tongue, so he spits the excess blood into his palm, then smears it on his ruined jeans. “I should be used to these curves and bends by now.”

Brows lowered to cro-magnon levels, Mattias turns his hip into the bar, facing Tattoo and declining the use of a seat. He scans the woman over, reading her scars, the pure survivalism that comes off of her in waves, then snaps his eyes to the clientele beyond, as if searching for one face in particular.

By the hackles raised at his shoulder and the way he keeps his back to the wall, he's never been to this place, this Oblivion, but has a very keen idea of someone who may just have visited it from time to time.

“Oblivion, as in the end?” Mattias lifts a brow and nods his thanks at her ordering of a drink for him. Not seeing a half-black, half-blue face in the crowd, he drops his elbow onto the bar, taking a break, as it were. “Or is this place Oblivion and what's happening out there something else entirely? If it's still happening,” Henrik shakes his head, frowning as the black blood drips onto the bar. “One drink then I want back in the fight. Tender?” Mattias looks for the server. Tap-tap on the bar. “Towel, please?”

Then, as if accepting his surroundings as much as his battle-nerves will allow, the blonde exhales a bellowing sigh.

“Could you give me the condensed version?” He looks over to her face. “Something tells me we're short on time.”


Kida came to this place in almost the same manner as Matti. So when he asks for a condensed version her facade has a pause, one that seems to be necessary for translation while lips move… and her mind translates…. Even what she has to say in return through thickly accented vocals that come with duress..

“Not from here..” Yep he asked the wrong person! Kida just looks at Mattias and then away, to the tender who pauses and steps down off a stool that has him disappearing behind the bar. A lower door opens and the “dwarf” is there beside Matti, staring up with eyes that are opposing to ”Natural”. White iris’, black backdrops.

“You got somethin different in ya, lad! If you did nae, ya wouldn’t be…” A sweep of smaller palm and the Red Cap gives a crooked-toothed grin to Mattias and goes back to tending with a heavy little hand and sharp barks of orders that threaten a bellow.

Kida just watches between ‘Cap’ and Matti, her own puzzled look and duress slightly lifting, her shoulders falling from erect to lax. A bandanna that hung from a lop in her waist is tossed to Matti non-chalantly and Kida exhales.

“You live.” Although a corner of the bandanna slaps wetly along his profile due to visceral remnants of what they have partially battled.

“Stop asking. Just be.” Took Kida a couple years to cope, and here they sit.

“Enjoy…” And one hand rises with her own glass unladen in any ice, tinking off the rim of his that ‘Cap’ serves before she takes it back.

“Fights over. It swallowed. Memories…” A Tap to her temple rapidly and Kida seems to have a moment, then lets it go…

“But it’ll be back. Not done. Promise…” And the crack is like dawn with her smile.


Mattias Larsson sizes everything up. From the dwarf with the inverse color in his eyes to the bar itself, his eyes pinch into slits, but the tightening of his jaw lessens with every passing moment. Even with the Redcap in his face, the Swede leans away with scrutinizing eyes, visibly chagrined at the idea of being touched by strange people in strange bars, but the more familiar it becomes, the more the white of his knuckles flushes pink, loosening his grip on a need to understand.

“So I've been told.” Mattias replies to the recap with a dry lurch of his brow. “I've been told as much lately, but not all of the important details so, if you'll please excuse the-” Mattias looks pointedly at Kida, one eye wincing closed in a sarcastic look sent her way in time with the slap of the bandana against his jaw. “-whiteboy while he gets a drink in him to gather his wits.”

Mattias mops his face slowly, then frowns at the bandanna. There's no coming back from that kind of sludge.

“Thank you.” Mattias breathes softly, setting the bandanna down on the lacquered wood closer to her. “And thank you.” Mattias adds, wrapping black-coated fingers around the width of his stiff drink. From the wrists down, he looks like he's been giving oil changes all day, and with a tink to Kida's glass, he lifts it…and promptly, succinctly, shuts the fuck up.

His eyes close with the first sip. An Adam's Apple stained black bobs as he drinks, then lowers the glass.

There, now, all better.

Let's try this again.

“Memories?” He manages a half-smile of his own, not quite the dawn, but a pleasant dusk. The large man snorts and shakes his head, opting finally to plant half of his ass onto a stool. “I've got not wants to look like a confused farm animal, so understand?” I don't normally see Kraken. One grade of what the fuck and this is just…another grade of what the fuck.”

Blue eyes blink at an unusual wamrth coming to the Swede's blood. Two black-coated brows tip in the center as he turns back to his glass, studying it.

“…Gods, my body can actually feel this stuff.”


The Cap just stares at Matt as he inquires about memories and slowly shakes his head, a short gesture so when Kida rights she doesn’t see it at all save him drying a glass before he pours another for Mattias and another for Kida.

“Things are not… right… Wait…” And when Matt manages to decipher her word Kida is staring at him. Mouth opens, closes with a click of teeth… Her body suddenly shakes and the hand on the glass shudders, splashing the old liquid of refined history over the rim…

How…?” A low utterance and Kida is staring at Matt with a look that nearly seems like war.

A look to Cap…

Then back to Mattias…

“No one here…. Ever…” A swallow, but one lacking alcohol until she downs her drink before she wastes it in the uprising of…. Her hand drops and her large backpack is gathered, those massive lycans slinking from corners then to reveal themselves nearby her… But as they get closer they suddenly dissipate and her tanned skin crawls.

Kida is ready to run, it is nature when she does not trust, or cannot make it fit. Her pale eyes snap from Mattias to her bandanna, then to him… then to the old rag from home - A few steps forward and she reaches for it in a snap of grip.

“Welcome to Ka’al, Matt-ee’as. Thirst quenched?”


“I don't know.”

Said mutedly at first while gazing into the last of his first glass, Mattias tilts it back, downing the contents into his stomach. The drink bites at his throat in protest as it goes down, fumes staining his eyes. The firmness of the alcohol makes his nose scrunch up until he can breathe out the remnant fumes towards the bar.

Mattias is almost too busy watching the lycanthropes in the reflection of the bar’s line of bottles to catch Kida's sudden movements. Almost. Caught between taking up his second glance and a reemergence of taut muscles and shocked nerves, he reaches out with his hand towards hers. Like hell she'll leave without him. His fingers snap out, wrapping around her wrist. The turn is so sudden towards her, his grip is like iron.

“Please! Don't.” Mattias’ eyes seem angry, what stranger wouldn't assume, but there's a hopefulness in his lips when he says it and not a single sheet or baring of meat-tearing teeth.

His brows soften, and upon realizing he's forced his strength against her wrist, his fingers let go.

“I…don't know.” Mattias admits, chin jutting forward after he says it again. With no want to share, little trust of the room, it's as if he's submitting to the need of the moment. He slicks his hair over the top of his head with one hand, holding it back for another sip, then lowers his jaw in a conspiratorial way.

“Since I was a child, I've been strong. Freakishly strong. Freakishly healthy. Any language, I've understood. I've got more questions than answers and I know you didn't ask for this to happen or me to be here, but-” Mattias downs the last of his second drink, slides the glass over to Cap, and turns with two arms crossing about his muscular chest. “-On my honor, I'm not your enemy. So I'm going to ask you, trust me or not, to not leave me in this place.”

Mattias quiets, jaw tightening.

“I don't know where-” Who, or what. “-I am.”


The bandana is curled into her fisr and in turn?

Tlaan!” The protests is called when his hand reaches for her own, gripping her wrist, and his strength?? He can feel how it affects her skin, her very structure. Bones of her wrist bends, bow, fracture…. Birdlike. But along her body those underlain Haida’n runes begin to light, much akin to her staff, the lines course along her skin and along her arms… Crude-edge’d scrawl of wings, but they appear harsh while a flush of heat rises up her swan-like slop of neck and that feather-light hair lifts and settles over bre shoulders.

Stop!” Is what had been said, a warning before a threat, but hazel went silver in the depths of her eyes while that bandana met an assault of white-knuckling grip and her own canines *click* down to bear at Mattias in a feral grin of near-challenge.

Beneath his hand and the grip that keeps Kida in place he can feel those tiny tarsal bones of her wrists re-align, shift, bend…. They almost do not exist?

Mattias’ explanation though… His words seem to take longer to parse as her own brows furrow and she narrows her gaze upon him, that wrist malleable and wrenched away to clutch at her chest with a look to him of appal as she massages those tiny fractals back into place.

    Oh, ye have so little faith…

Kida wanted to run, but his words…. They resounded too close to… home. As he watched and had his own hope the crawl along her skin bubbled flesh, re-aligned musculature, and where no ink had lain it suddenly reforms, wolves in their lope across her tanned canvas reappear in their lining of a tribal etching down arms and towards spine covered in oil-stained tank top.
Kida swallows, the bandanna slowly worked to almost fully be concealed in her fist as she casts a glance to Cap who gives her a reassuring nod towards the stool she had vacated.

Her ass reclaims it, that denim and grating slide of chain clatters over the worn wood but Kida does not let that tumultus gaze fall from his.

“This place?” A draw in of breath…

“Safer with them…” A beat and a look from Mattias’ brew to Cap and then around the Bar proper. “Sometimes not knowing…” A search for words and her hand rises, waffles to and fro and with a flick of wrist the red bandana flourishes like a spray of faux blood.

“…Safe…” exhale.


It only takes Mattias a fraction of a fraction of a second to realize he's fucked up. His hand jerks back from hers when he feels something give way. The sympathetic hiss that escapes his mouth and owl-wide eyes make him look every bit the stupid farm animal he doesn't want to look like. A stupid farm animal covered in kraken blood, at least. A farm animal warrior? Warrior, farm animal, or not, the regret is instant in his big, blue eyes, holding his hand away with twitching fingers.

Fokk,” Mattias swears under his breath, lips curling into a frown as he watches the light show. The muscles in his belly tighten against the ruined King Diamond shirt he wears when her skin crawls. He can't look away, and the way his eyes dip to her bare skin isn't a leering stare. Understanding laces into his brow, connecting the dots from the tattoos to her magic, for what else could it be? “I…apologize. I forget how strong I am when I shouldn't.”

With a clatter of chain from the wallet batting the side of his ass, Mattias lifts a leg and slides back onto the barstool. His sympathetic face morphs to a calm baseline, cheeks smeared with blood matting his features like war paint. Eyes holding hers to listen, his brow twitches in the subliminal wish for a shower as he follows her words to Cap and the others in the bar, gathering data, even if he has to be waterboarded with it.

In truth, the tall, strong man looks as if he'd rather be fighting the kraken.

Strange bar. Strange people…but…answers might be found soon enough.

“I read you.”

With a huff, Mattias centers the bulk of his weight on the stool and reaches out for his glass once more. It's been a while since he's felt the bubble of alcohol poisoning his bloodstream. Not since a whole bottle of Jagermeister at a high school party. A party that was good with high school friends he never got to graduate with.

Memories, indeed.

“Is it safe enough to learn your name, then?” Mattias looks back to her face. His hair oozes along his jaw when he turns, the floor beneath his barstool earns another splatter drop. “I'm not making notes or anything, Miss, but I hurt your hand. Tell me your name and let me buy you a drink.”


Kida’s head tilts, it is avian in nature, almost owl-like as she does not yet look at him despite it, but slowly her eyes roll his way in a blink when he omits a curse and seems truly upset with himself. “Bones break, but they heal, too..” Spoken in her own words of forgiveness. He had impacted where she is jointed, not the solidarity, there is a difference there. A major one, and she bore no ill will for a moment of discomfort. The tiny shift was nothing in comparison to the fact that he even touched her.

    That was more the taboo!

Kida does not take contact lightly, and she has reasons for that ingrained since childhood, but given no true reason save to Be Safe. She is basically a magical hypochondriac, and time is of no essence to her to rush into anything.

“You couldn’t hurt me. Not where it counts.” Her words were not insulting, not at all, the look in those eyes that had paled and taken on a storm all their own streaked in silver seemed to soften a bit, his own moment of self-check enough for her. So she knew better as well, too, now.

The large backpack is shrugged down, placed at her feet where those tattered boots loop into the handle to keep it in place and ever-sensed. When she leans forward upon the bar that tank top bearing stains of oil beneath the wet lime of visceral remains and bits of aquatic skin , rides, revealing more ink even the underlay that runs like tanner veins along her skin but is now slowly fading as if nonexistent beneath the colored twine of the rest. But over one hip a massive scar can be peeked, like a burn where only fragments of lines peek from the rigid edges.

    Forcibly removed.

“I do not drink,” A tip of crown to his own, hair that would normally almost float like feathers slaps over her shoulder wetly, like tentacles reborn, even beads are sliding off the ends to clatter to the floor with every wet slap, but the braids hold fast in the entrails of the beast! This was a magical Gwar concert. Dreams. Fulfilled!?!

“Water…” Want to fancy it up, make it fizzy! Again, all due to the fact Kida does not trust, even if she knows here is safe and she has spent nights up here, hearing tales, spinning her own, and dancing among the people… The last time she considered it even remotely the Rift opened… Her guard is firmly set.

“Kida,” Full name unreleased, and for good reason, or good paranoia! “They call me Tattoo, here.” And now Matt gets a lift in brow. “You?”


“I’m…really not one to want to hurt people, counts or not, unless it’s necessary.” Lower lip buttoning over the upper, Mattias twists his head to look to Kida with a new angle and a sharp eye, as if it’ll make his point clear. His nostrils tighten as he breathes in. His fingers come to a hanging hammer from a necklace, thumbing it in thought, or at least an afterthought, to the words offered to her. “Being born capable of hurting too many people has taught me to be more careful than that, so, the apology stands.”

The pendant falls back to his chest, batting against his tee shirt.

Mattias turns to the bar and wraps his ringless fingers around the edge of the wood. Using it for balance, he gets comfortable, drums his fingers from left to right in a row, then squeezes the edge of the bar gently. The bar doesn’t break, splinter, or crack. The sudden reaffirmation with himself that he’s capable of gentle handling draws a tiny nod from the man. A test? Has the bar changed him? No. His strength hasn’t become worse and he can still control it.

Or it’s super wood. FUCK.

Lack of answers is a living hell.

“Mattias. Mattias Larsson.” The Swede repeats his name, in full. One finger is lifted up and Cap delivers another strong pint for him and a water for Kida, which Mattias nudges her way, as if serving it to her, his treat. “And even under these circumstances, it’s nice to meet you, Kida. Or Tattoo. Kida has a certain sound to it; I’ll call you that since that’s what you said first.”

Mattias clears his throat and lifts his pint for a sip.

“Siege. I’ve been called Siege before. It was a name given to me by an old teacher who’s not a part of my life anymore.” Mattias continues. “I moved to New York from my home a few months ago, so, the never-ending learning experience continues.”


Kida watches Siege, Mattias, Lars/Son/ carefully, there is something piercing  there and gone as her head tilts and she magpies to his necklace, but with a slow blink, she is looking to the water and bringing it to her lips, but not until after she tips it and scents.


Once the glass is held within her lap she does not look directly at Mattias yet, speaking lowly with that thickly accented vocal-cord. “Part of or not. Sometimes names matter?” Kida tilts her head and those muli-laden strands covered in a visceral sludge slide over her shoulder to descend and hang more like a wind-chime over weighed, then the lightweight extensions they are.

“Why Siege?” He has seen, ‘why Tattoo’. It is obvious, and in part, she has seen his strength and what he can achieve, but the depth was her query, even as fingers nearly vibrate in their skips over condensation upon the glass of water she clutches while watching between it and him.

Like a deer, always ready to be in flight, beside Mattias’ who seems to want to spit blood in the face of whatever would attempt. Survivors, but of opposing ilk.

“You won’t break here, nor break anything here. Place of peace… for now.” SLOP-SLAP**.

… Nevermind the entrails?


“The breaking of the wall.” Mattias replies, albeit the kind of reply that requires explanation. His brows stiffen; he knows it. All too distracted by the tendrils lapping at her shoulders, he glances once, twice, and then averts his eyes purposefully towards his beer. Lack of distraction comes in the bitter.

It washes down with a pinch, and the large man sighs.

“Someone told me once that the wall breaks, always. The tide beats against it. The ram beats against it. The fist and a thousand strong beat against it.” Mattias continues lowly, quietly, his volume an attempt to keep their conversation as private as he warned. “That I was born to be the Siege Engine, a battering ram of sorts that could break the walls of my enemies, break their wills, and bring them to justice.”

At the time, it all seemed strange in how ancient the wording sounded. The doctor couldn’t have been older than forty, with unremarkable blonde hair and horn-rimmed glasses, but he had brought trainers in for Mattias Larsson. Teachers who knew the secrets of the Einherjar.

The justice his mentor had hoped Mattias would seek, wouldn’t be Mattias’ justice, but his own.

“It doesn’t matter much. It’s a name that fits, but without a Kraken, the imagery doesn’t match up.” Turning on his seat, Mattias is careful of Kida’s back and to not bang his knee against hers in his turn. His dirty cheeks fall into a flat line and his eyes scan over the clientele once more. Sometimes, even mentioning the devil beckons him to appear. This time…the devil chooses not to. “I’m not going to siege anything that isn’t hurting innocent people.”

The pint of beer points her way. Indicating Kida’s face with questions forming on his own lips.

“I understand, why Tattoo.” Mattias, slow on the pickup, asks the obvious. “Is it magic, or are you a mutant?”


“What… wall?” Kida inquires as she watches Mattias, being practical, being precise… Blunt… It is her nature, holding no bars even if she seemed constantly in headlights and ready to get ‘two for flinching’.

She would just as quickly run someone through for even trying to make her flinch, then disappear into her surroundings like camouflage.  A fading scar on her palm is her reminder, an accord and bond with the Supreme here… Promises. She did not have to hide, and he protected her, Siege, and they got back here only covered in something akin to jello/jelly/ and both melted beneath superficial layers.

“So, you will know your name soon.” Kida’s voice is level as usual, even s she drains the water like it needed a toast and slid the glass down the lacquered bartop. When he asks her a deeper question that a year ago she would nt have known, let alone been able to answer she stills.

“I… Magic. Where I am from, no mutants ever existed.” Hollow, those words had to be as she looks down and slides a feather from the edge of a slippery braid of likeness, twining the limp bit of layered straw ‘tween fingertips.

“Mutants… Your Metas… Not allowed here. Did you not…” A light lift of brow as Kida finally looks to Mattias’… Looks.

“You did not know?” Cap, gives Kida pause with his look as he slides two refilled casks (glass for Kida), before them. True, true, she did not know of this place until 6 months ago. But did not know has a bit more -depth-.


The question slices through Mattias Larsson like a hara-kiri blade.

Intelligent, but untrained, the wonderful confusion in Mattias’ eyes is replaced with a sudden sharpening. His jaw slackens, but his mouth does not open. His eyes widen, pupils constricting into pinpricks that only heighten the amount of blue that is to be found there. Mattias Larsson is not a politician or a card player, such tells aren’t held so close to his body. In Kenny Rogers’ terms, with that question, Mattias doesn’t know when to hold ‘em.

“…am I not a mutant?”

The question comes out, blood from the wound. It’s the natural reaction to so deep a cut.

No. Mattias does not know.

The movement from Cap snaps Mattias out of it. Suddenly the room feels colder and thinner. The Swede can feel dozens of eyes on his back that truly aren’t there, and the vulnerability feels unwanted. His jaw tightens and he buttons down on the feelings, rolling his shoulders in a desire to shrug them off and turn for his drink. His eyes lift to Cap, hover there briefly, and then he’s turning for his beer with downcast eyes towards it.

Beer won’t laugh at you. Beer is your friend.

“I told you.” Mattias leaves a smear of inky blood on the glass as it is lifted. “I have more questions than answers.”


Kida is watching him with a gaze that seems almost apathetic. Almost.

No one laughed, Kida did not even crack a smile as his reaction full surfaced and she watched it transpire over him much like the melding descent of the ichorous drops of Kraken that descend and miss the content of his “beer”.

“Siege…” A whisper from Kida in that accented tenor, a tone that seems close to empathetic…

Once he looks up… If he looks up…

“Drink.” A slow reach forward then, and when he lifts the glass she helps him tip it back. He seemed shocked he could feel it, so let him.

Fuck tomorrow, we only gettin’ younga!

The gypsy tangent and vocals seem to radiate from the musicians and performers that keep the place lit.

“I was told not to hide, anymore.” A shrug, one that has a hand resting, spanning arm across her chest in a cross and resting opposing shoulder while it lofts in a shrug and leaves him to partake of his draught alone, now save her words and presence nearby.

“You’re here. So answer? No… Ge’e.” A toast offered from the slimy coated glass with water to Matt—-Siege.

“So maybe accepting it is best.” Spoken lowly, carefully. “Who was your Elder?”


The glass tips back. Guided by Kida’s fingers, Mattias closes his eyes and holds his breath. The heavy, potent liquor remains flat, a diagonal slant against the angling, smeared glassware. Second by second, it drains down the back of Mattias’ throat. The powerful muscles in his neck tighten, acting as a frame for his bobbing apple that coaxes the drink down into his belly where the demon that lives in the bottle can filter into his bloodstream.

The end of his third, something he’s not felt in a long time. His eyes have a slick of glass to them, and not rimmed in mournful, sullen red. There are no tears, only the physical manifestation of the drink turned flight.

“I may not be human.” Mattias replies after regaining his breath. Too much liquor and not enough breathing, it takes him a moment, but he finds his words amidst strained vocal cords. He brushes his lips with the back of his hand, leaving a black smear of ink at the corner of his mouth, and sets the glass down.

‘My elder is unknown to me. Always has been. For a while I thought maybe the one who gave me the name, Siege, may have been, but I don’t think so.” Mattias, tipsy-rendered, speaks a measure less guarded. He reaches into his pocket and pulls a pack of cigarettes and the shining tin of a zippo lighter. “My mother needed help to have me born. My father, even she doesn’t know, was anonymous, and the doctor who made it all happen isn’t who he says he is.”

Mattias pauses to light his cigarette, then offers the pack to Kida.

“Do you know of a man with pointed ears?” Mattias asks, exhaling a plume of smoke. “His face, half black, half blue?’


Kida had a hard time trusting liquids, as they sunk into blood far quicker, but she watched her elder smoke with her parents, and those that had moved beyond age…

In her world she should have been a decade dead so… His offering of a cigarette despite the glassed over look in his eyes…He looks… different.. She accepts, pulling the stick from the pack and flips it back and forth. Lifting it to her nose, she is almost animalistic in the sniff - nostrils flaring.

A glance to Cap, reassurance as the Red grunts, rolls his eyes, leaves them two more drinks and steps off his stool to disappear (literally) behind the bar, his height unseen in the height of structure. “Tat ya safe….” An indiscernible language (to Kida) is muttered, likely curses of her incorrigibility as he flicks some lights off, but others on with the shift-in beyond a ‘witching hour’.

Kida pays no mind as she stares at the cigarette and watches now as Mattias lights his, flipping it so filter is now facing her and correct.

His description gets a light tilt of Kida’s head, a motion uncanny as she peers at him now through more darkened streaks of blood that (in this lighting) seems like a warpaint. The only thing they share is a -pale- gaze that could glow with the offset.

Last time they did this…. A dart of eyes to the doors of Oblivion, a grip of palm upon the bar as Kida mimics Siege and puts the cigarette between her lips.

“El/ff/?” A query slurred by the clutch of butt between lips, bouncing the cigarette awkwardly, sliding slightly from a loose slather of … tentacle… Only to be caught and righted so she can wait for him to finish lighting his own.

“Dark el/ff/, white, hurr…?” The only way she has learned and known to describe Darkedge.



A sickly lock of blonde hair oozes from atop Mattias’ head and over one eye. It bats against his cigarette as he draws off of the cigarette once more. The blood, thick and syrupy like oil, there's no telling whether or not it's flammable. Quickly, Mattias plucks the cigarette and breathes a plume of smoke that will never, ever blacken his lungs.

If only he knew why.

“An elf, but with a black and blue face? Black like the ink, and blue like the same ink from a pen?” Mattias turns with a clank-scratch on his lighter. Mastering the art of fire, he drifts the flame under Kida's cigarette. He holds it to the tip, turning the paper into a charcoal black surrounding the cherry-orange tip. His face glows in the firelight, introducing Kida to a bad, bad habit of his.

“If his face is two-colored, then point me in his direction, but not him in mine. Maybe I'll find answers that Loki himself won't tell me. If anything, this elf is the source, but I don't have ears. So…he couldn't be my father.” Mattias continues. With a snap of his wrist, the lighter claps shut, extinguishing the flame. Zippo tricks. All the cool kids know them. “My mother and stepmother know nothing, not that I've asked too many hard questions, but they're too fearful for my safety to convince me that they'd be lying.”

Mattias waves his cigarette in the air beside his head. He looks down to a tray and taps the ashes. The sinewy arabesque of smoke resumes, drifting against the edge of his glass, kissing its curve along the top.

“I've met Loki. I'm not fully human. I've been tampered with.” Mattias furrows his brow and runs his tongue over his teeth. “And for my mothers fearing for my safety, I know that I am far more safe than they are, and that I'm on the right path.”

A beat. Mattias snorts and rolls his eyes, a sudden joke to mind.

“I wouldn't be surprised to learn that I was found on a doorstep in a bucket.”

A basket, Mattias. BASKET.


Kida leans forward into the // *click-clack*// of Mattias’ zippo, the end of the cigarette burning, but not lighting yet, her eyes, seen in the glow cast from flame watching him and learning-as-she-goes.

So while he smokes and lights hers she draws in and makes embers glow, the mixture making her draw back and cough, smoke pluming from lips, nostrils and her eyes suddenly shifted. Her own poker face right then failed as her lungs burned, the inhale of smoke and burning carcinogens makes her wheeze and heave… But she sucked in enough to get a nicotine buzz like a kid hidden under a bridge that knew no better.

…For a moment her eyes crossed as pupils dropped back and down to pin-pricks. Her mouth over-salivated and throat felt raw, swallowing would do no good so she just got her water, knocked it back and held her breath with eyes closed while booted feet kick her in a pivot to rest the small of sine along the eave of the bar…

Kida wanted to vomit for the moment… Or maybe just needed a moment? Not even she knew.
        ..It burned,  but did not ** burn**  her…

Finally Mattias’ words sink in, the drum in her ears dulls and she can respond without losing Kraken-cookies or YELLING. “No. Not the elffen I know.” But even saying that she does not seem sure, this is a different world, and she does not truly know Darkedge. Let alone trust him.

“Rune might help.” A slow swallow, as knowing people, talking to them… New to her, trying to help instead of run. Make a stand?

“Bucket? I find it hard to believe you would fit in one as a babe.” A brief up down and she is sliding from the stool to pluck up the coughed-out cigarette, twisting it in fingertips and watching it before she looks back to Matt and puts it back… This time puffing slowly. Carefully.

Bucket? Basket? Bin? Duffel bag? No difference to Kida.


The laughter in Mattias’ eyes isn’t insulting. At least, he doesn’t intend it to be. His eyes were on Kida’s lips when she began to inhale on the cigarette, and when she sputter-coughs with the burning in her lungs, his chin dips down as if marking the point and collecting the money from an invisible bet that he’d made with himself.

    Called it.

“For a second there? I was gonna take that cigarette out of your mouth instead of light it for you, but the touch thing. I didn’t wanna risk.” Mattias admits with a mote of genuine laughter. With a little alcohol in his system, the guard is come down. The Mattias Larsson who is, the one when not fighting Kraken or teleporting to strange bars, begins to bleed out of his pores. He becomes himself again, the bull, the creature less worried about the world than he is, at times, about himself.

“It’s a saying here in America.” Mattias continues, lips pursing to blow smoke towards the ceiling. In his backward lean, his chain wallet dangles and he begins to sway his barstool. It squeaks just a little beneath his weight.


“It was something about a stork or some old Jewish guy delivering the babies to people in a bucket. I don’t know all of it. The school I went to didn’t get that far and I had other things to do. Like…learn how to fight. Sneak out. Make friends.” Mattias bobs his head, then offers his glass to tap against Kida’s. She’s trying the cigarette again? Mattias puffs out his lower lip and nods in momentary approval, though truly, he’s done a bad thing.

“To not getting eaten yet.” Mattias calls the toast. “And to figuring out that your elf isn’t my elf, because had you led me to your elf, maiden, and we’d fought, it would have been awkward when we learned I had the wrong elf all along.”


Kida just… Doesn’t like being touched. It is a thing, just like her ability to meld, hide, and dissolve into the background like she was never there, never noted or acknowledged. This move, the grand scheme…

Joining with Rune and Darkedge alone was taboo. The Sorcerer Supreme? Life threatening. She already laid all her cards out: but Mattias is another beast she does not know and to her is one underestimated. Kida just check-mated herself by sitting here alone.

The cigarette is turned, the burning tip /blown/ to life anew and the filter clutched between lps again. Slower now…

“Don’t…” Another warning, a reminder to -touch-, but when she sees the laughter in his eyes, it could have correlated to that alone. Insult or not, Kida is trying to find a semblance of peace and ‘not leave’. So she remains and commences the avian glare of a predatory bird upon Mattias. Pupils moving from pin-prick to dialation.

Kida’s head tilts, a long and slow blink shows she is listening, absorbing his words, but not understanding them fully…

“Like me?” A rotating tilt of her head and the cigarette that she has /literally/ breathed for the past few moments is brought down to held in a curled grasp tween fingertips.

But when his glass rises, her empty water does as well, setting it aside for the other set aside for her by Cap along Mattias’ own NordAle refillsx2! Hoisting that to his and the corners of eyes flinching upon impact, but she smiles… Awkwardly while trying to keep the cigarette between lips.

“Maybe… The elf I know can help…” But it is not even a question. He was of no help to her, why would he be to another?

In the meantime behind them, post the witching-hour the Bar of Oblivion has moved into its own delight despite… Everything. And Mattias’ chain rings out the seconds with every sway.


“Maybe a little bit like you. Yes.”

The amber-colored ale in his glass tilts, marking the point of the toast with a tap. As toasts go, Mattias follows the tradition and brings the glass to his black-stained lips for a sip. Slowing it down a tad, it’s a smaller sip than before, easing his way into a nice, long buzz that he hopes won’t result in a headache in the morning. Strange brew. Strange hangover. It’s poison he’s drinking. Willingly.

“I don’t know how small or large the elf community really is, though. Would one elf know of another?” Mattias stops the spin of his stool to face Kida. The chain clatters one last time before swaying like a pendulum, marking a loop from his ass to hip, and punishing the barstool for getting in the way. “I’d never seen an elf before the doctor, and you know one, but we don’t see them walking down the street or making sandwiches, So, there can’t be that many. It’s worth a shot?”

Straightening his shirt, Mattias smears a finger down the front of it and then whips the excess blood onto the floor. The blood splatters, leaving his hands dirtier than they were a second ago. When he reaches for his lips to pluck the cigarette away, he catches sight of his black fingers, frowns, then sets his glass down.

Back down to one hand again. He plucks the cigarette away with his left hand, instead.

“With my luck, my elf is some lesser known bastard of an elf not worth knowing.” Mattias scoffs, his white teeth flashing her way. “But with any luck, your elf is someone who knows more than he should.” A beat, a considering twitch of the brow. “But, on my honor? I’m not looking to harm my elf. I’m looking to ask a series of very serious questions, and I’m not above tying him to a mountain until he answers at least some of them.”


Kida… shrugs.

Darkedge did not give her much aid, she would not hang him out to dry, but there two? They needed to meet and speak, and she will make it happen. Even if Mattias basically laughed at the fact her lungs just died a decade in a life she ‘should not be living’…

“Do not underestimate… anything…now…” His stein clanks against her empty glass as she takes up another of those upon the bar Cap had left them, drinking after a hoist, of sorts.
The glass sets down, even if simple water, but she stares at Mattias and rocks back, a booted foot meeting ground from the rung - pivoting her again and she rises enough to take the Red Caps arm in a loop of elbows and swing off that has those tendrils of matted and slathered strands spiralling out behind her.

“When will you stop asking questions, Lars/Son/?” Kida asks the question? Or is it Cap? But Kida has worry in her eyes at those outer edges, shaping them almosd if not for the pale hue bearing a backdrop of flickering sparks that only fade as she looks away for the first time…

“I will help you Siege…” And the way it is worded, upon that accet, and the lack of punctuality and annunciation to dialect… Take it as he will, but in the end it is a vow.


The better half of Mattias Larsson’s pseudo-Asgardian, rock hard ass slips off of the stool. Booted, gooey feet stabilizing on the floor, he rises to his full height of nearly six feet and three inches. He should be tired; he fought a Kraken. At least for a few minutes, he did. Still, he rolls his powerful shoulders beneath the layer of dead, black cow leather that is the modern age’s equivalent of socially acceptable armor. He tilts his head back, opens his gullet, and drains the last of his ale into his belly.

It's the most Asgardian thing he's done since flying through the air with a stop sign in his hands, swinging it like an axe at a tentacle almost as wide as a Humvee.

“I will likely never stop asking questions, Kida.” His teeth bite past the bitter of the ale. His lips purse, exhaling the fumes. “It's how I figure out this strange world that I live in. Because once,” Mattias turns Kida's way. He slips out of the space between them and motions to her with an outstretched hand. Clear fingernails, rimmed in black. Oil change hands. “I almost broke a girl's hand. And once.” Mattias smirks. “I shoulder-checked a twelve year old Swedish kid in hockey gear through a wall. Not the glass. The wall. If you spoke Svensk, you would have feared for my life at the things being yelled at me after that.”

Mattias folds back his smile and presses a fist to his chest. The nod of his head, if anything, is an acceptance of her vow.

“I appreciate your help, Kida…and I will press the pause button on my questions for a day. I have no wish to come across as an annoying oaf.”

Yet, Mattias, lightly buzzed, claps his hands together then jerks a thumb in the direction of their inky blood splatter where they'd first come in.

“But I have friends in New York in danger, and I'm itching to get back and make sure that they're okay. So how about you and I find the door to this place and let's get…”

Mattias? No.
The gods frown when you do this, Mattias.



// I'mma blaze high till the day I die
Sweat the shit out, every tear, every lie
Hey! Anybody wanna dance with me?
Sipping on my rum in the corner still
We a groove to the morning break
Na we go banana in a suga shake
Bring the base up, make a blasta block!//

The music started, the random ‘cantina’ band in the corner lifting the beat with the modern day DJ behind them, making the walls rumble, the floor shake and Kida, is drawing those tattered boots of mismatched laces up and off the floor, her shoulders hunching inward as if she was about to become a hedgehog and roll in on herself and be nothing but a prickly bush of:  fuck you.

…Have it mate with a porcupine and that is what her face resembles as lights flicker over her facade, a cringe every time the spot sweeps across her, making dark pupils shrink and expand in reaction while the ‘war paint’ of Kraken blood is smeared over her face with streaks of fingers draw prior.

Cap is out there dancing, witches drop their “veils” and even human/animals shift, a flicker of light and one is the next, the next is one. They are enjoying the night despite the tension and ripples, but to some of them this is acceptable or normal…

Not to Kida, especially not when one spreads wings of the Quetzalcoatl and scales paint over her skin like an oasis over super-dried tanned skin. She feared for them, for herself… And was reminded of wings, and it made her slump further…

Until that hand coated in similar remnants extended to her and offered to free her from the reminders, from what happened before and from endangering them further. Her water is drained like his ale, the booted feet dropping in an echo of *tha-thump* to bring her to a stand and heft her bag while feeling for her hilt.

His joke though?

        Kida deadpans at him. The RBF is strong with this one, but as she shoulders around him towards the door he gestures her head lowers and she lets a smile slip behind tendrils layered in ichor, forming dreadlocks of naturally feather-light hair.

“You don’t want that door.” Those thick vocals of a nearly endangered culture (here and now) bear some of the humor, but beside it if you tilt your head ever-so-slightly, the ridge of trim running mid wall shifts as do the walls, an optical illusion in a maze to create another pathway, but a constantly open door, where the other is requiring allowance or a key.

He is having fun, he almost seems like a weight was lifted, but… Kida would take care of him if needed. So Serious!

Drop baba juice, make it goddamn strong
See me rocking out, going tribal style
Dance like a chicken, flap tiger wild, ah
Flap tiger wild!

“I will get you to New York. I have to get back…” Stated as she releases a plume of smoke and steppy-times on through the gateway to NY!
    “You’ve taken one too many hits…” Cigarette-buzz as she walks into NY air and her world lightly blotches at the corners, the cigarette flicked to the side, spent to the cork-papered filter. “You sure you don’t hurt in the head?” But despite her words, Kida smiles while the pack slips from her back to be clutched with her coat, the hunched shoulders suddenly rippling, bubbling, expanding with a change, those eyes casting an electric glow of pale arctic in the dark of night along the streets of Brooklyn.

Too late to be heavily occupied in this alley enough to bring eyes forth as bat-like wings suddenly unfurl from ink that mottles, congeals and forms into reality from her spine, slapping down to the ground to force a gust of wind between them. With her things clutched to her Kida shows amusement in those narrowed eyes towards Mattias.

“The Repair Shop in … Suicide… “ A small smile then as wings cusp and press down, lifting her up. “Ask for Tattoo… “ Brow furrow. “But not for a tattoo. Spade is nice, but…”

Save party dots from strangers for better places!


Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License