Two Asgardians and a Canadian walk into a bar...

February 27, 2014: Thor, Sif, Logan, and Rune all wind up chatting in the Silveroak tavern.

The Silveroak

The Silveroak Tavern sits nestled off one of those side streets in New York no one ever quite thinks about until they happen to be there. It's like a hidden gem in the city, really. Red brick facade accented by green painted wood in an old English pub style. There's no writing over it to proclaim its name. There's just a wooden sign that hangs on a copper bracket over the street, painted with a silver tree, a tankard inscribed on its trunk.

Pushing inside the red-painted door leads one to the warm, golden tap room. A long bar sits against the far wall, the shelves behind it laden with popularly recognizable through to entirely obscure bottles of alcohol from all around the world. A full sized keg, the sort one might expect to see in a period movie, sits at the far end, an oaktree like the one on the hanging sign burnt into its face. It houses the local house mead, widely rumoured by those in the know to be the best in the city… if not the world. The smell of rich and homey foods can be detected wafting from the kitchen, though getting through to that kitchen is a challenge to any not part of the staff.

The place is owned and operated by a small, silverhaired woman apparently in her 60s with merry eyes and a tacit demeanor. She is at once everyone's kindly mother and fierce landlady, a genuine force of nature. Her name is Wassea and she is not lightly crossed in this place. This is a neutral meeting ground. Dark, light, or wild, it matters not. All that matters is that the peace is kept and food and respite are enjoyed to their fullest.



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Mood Music:

The Silveroak tavern is rarely empty, but is occasionally quiet. This night, however, it's actually fairly busy. It's not a rowdy crowd — yet. But, it's a comfortable one. The most notable thing about it? It's a great mix. Those sensitive to magic will feel much at home here. Those of more archaic sensibilities will also find a familiar place. So, many of the crowd reflect those natures. But, there are others here, too. Mutants or metas… take your pick as to what you call them. The strange and unusual are welcome here, so they are bound to find the place sooner or later. But, even mere mortals, those common citizens that fill the Earth, can be found relaxing here if they've the temperament for it. It's a homey sort of place.

Which is probably why Dana Hunt makes her home here. She pushes through the red door, into the tap room. There's a white dog at her side, about the size of a shepherd, but shaggier. A mutt maybe? Unless, of course, you're the alert type to recognize the red tinge to the ears and muzzle. Then… maybe not so much a mutt.

And certainly not an animal to deny. Without missing a beat, Dana raises her hand to a couple of regulars, greeting them silently and offering a smile before she pushes her way further back to peek her head into the kitchen to see if Wassea's about. For his part, however, the dog pads across to where a genuine stone hearth blazes merrily some feet away from the bar and flops down entirely unceremoniously on a fur rug tossed before it. He's taken up his spot for the night, thankyouverymuch, so kindly move along…

Pushing through the door moments later is another shaggy mut(t)ant. Logan's wearing a leather jacket over a plain t-shirt, jeans, and a pair of boots. A hand comes up to scratch at the man's cheek as he surveys the inside of the tavern, this being his first visit to the place. He'd heard mention of the place from some mutant or other at some point, and on his trip to the city, the memory of it had popped up.

And so here the short old Canadian is, blue eyes focusing on the bar which he makes his way towards, leaning against an empty spot near the end of it. The dog catches the man's attention for a moment, always one to have a connection of sorts with beasts himself. Shaking his head, he turns his head to look for the bartender.

It's to wash the bad taste of recent events out of their mouths, at least for a start. Sif has been excited to explore this great city of Midgard, this New York — "The /old/ York must be truly magnificent if this is its younger settlement! Or is it built on its parent's bones, its foundations?" — and is quite content to walk those highways and byways and streets broad and narrow.

The Silveroak Tavern is exactly the sort she would generally prefer to stop in and visit. She wasn't specifically looking for a watering hole, but the prospect of trying some of the sweet and watery stuff these mortals call mead is appealing enough.

Pushing open the door, Sif breathes in the scent of the air and sighs with approval. "I think it a worthy place to pause," she declares, stepping aside to let her companion through. "And you have spoken well of the beverages of Midgard. Let us see if they stand up to my tongue as well!"

"Aye, York was a city of remarkable beauty," Thor agrees, letting Sif precede him. One doesn't hold the door for the Shieldmaiden of Asgard, but it's still polite to let them go first. "I have visited it in the past, though it resides across the great seas to the East," Thor explains.

As Sif speaks about the drinks, he slows, making a gesture at Sif's back. "I spoke well of their lagers and stouts," he corrects the Shieldmaiden with a playful sternness. "I have yet to have a decent mug of their mead, though. It does not seem a popular drink on this continent. Might I procure thee a mug of dark stout? If you find it palatable, we might linger here a time."

Dana pushes her way back out of the kitchen. "Don't worry about," she can be heard saying, glancing back over her shoulder. "I got it covered." Then, she takes a moment to remove the rune-covered bag across her torso and set it behind the bar.

In lieu of the regular bartender, she's it, tonight, it seems.

Here, in this place, the woman relaxes, even as she picks up a bar cloth and tosses it over her shoulder to keep it handy. "Hey," she greets, seeing the shaggy Canuck sidle his way up to the bar. "What can I get you? We've got just about anything you can imagine, and probably a lot you can't."

Normally, she'd be squinting at this point, particularly with the entrance of the Asgardians. Their power should, by rights, dazzle the seer. But, this is the Silveroak. And here, for a few hours, she can look out into the world without seeing everything automatically. Which isn't to say her powers don't work here. It's simply to say that their default position isn't always on. Did she wish to see the dazzling sight? She would. But, she doesn't. So, the only thing that alerts her that the Asgardians 'aren't from around here' is their manner, mien, and garb. Politely, she tips a head to them, greeting them as she would any newcomer to the rustic pub in the middle of the city.

The funny chatter from the Asgardian couple reaches Logan's ears and he turns to the side at the bar to look at them. Spotting Sif, he grunts and then lifts a hand in greeting to the pair, "You were at the Yates Building, eh? Did good work with the evacuating folks." Blue eyes drift from the black-haired swordswoman to the big and blonde Thor, a soft grunt escaping before Dana draws his attention.

Turning back to the bar, Logan taps a finger upon the wooden bartop while nodding to the woman, "Evenin', miss. And I'll start off simple. Some good whiskey'll do for now. See if I can jog my memory and think of something more exotic to ask about in a minute." There's a faint, fleeting smile offered to the bartending witch before he glances back to the 'not from around here' couple.

"Dark stout? I will try their dark stout." Sif nods decisively, moving through the press of people without much trouble. She's not shoving; she's just moving where the bodies are not, wending her way through spaces that just seem to open up. There aren't /that/ many, but it'll be easier to get up to the bar than to attempt a table.

The woman has made absolutely no attempt to blend in. The sword is peace-bonded, for as much as that matters, but she's still wearing the armor and the garments she would if she were exploring some wild land beyond the fields she knows. New York /is/ a dangerous place sometimes.

She ends up near Logan in enough space for herself and Thor, turning back to the warrior: "You have explored these lands much more extensively than I. Perhaps in time we will visit York itself and consider the differences between that land and this."

But she turns then to Logan, looking him over before a bright smile appears on her face: "I recall you as well. Asking the fire chief how you could be of help. Well met, sir. I am Sif of Asgard, comrade to Thor the Thunderer." She extends her hand to Logan, proud and… well. Completely without deception. This isn't just politeness. With Sif, it rarely is.

Thor /does/ just plow through the crowd. Not that he shoves anyone- he's just huge and projects a force of personality ahead of him like the bow wave of a passing ship. At 6'+, if Sif blends, Thor is closer to a walkig billboard for modern Viking costume, still wearing his sleeveless breastplate (thankfully having left the cape and helmet behind). "Hail, traveller," he says, greeting Logan as he's introduced. He offers a handshake that's like a chunk of rock compressing Logan's hand a bit. "I am Thor Odinson, Prince of Asgard," he says, offering a formal greeting. He then turns to the tender, looking her up and down boldly. "Serving wench!" Thor says, his voice carrying loudly but not rudely. "Two mugs of thy finest stout, 'pon thy convenience," he requests of the woman, slapping his hand on the bar once, and hard enough to make glasses rattle.

"Whiskey it is," Dana tells Logan with a flash of a light smile, turning to grab a bottle of Jack's and a tumbler. "Rocks?" she pauses by the ice. And her attention shifts to Thor and Sif.

The daughter of Arawn, King of Annwn, would be a fool not to recognize the names of the Thunderer and the Shieldmaiden of Asgard. There is much overlap between her people and theirs, though they are separate in culture and much of history. Indeed, no wench she, but Sidhe royalty, considered by some a demigoddess in her own right… and she calls attention to none of it.

Quite purposely, too.

Sure, there are some in the tavern, fully aware of her identity, who look momentarily startled, but it doesn't last. They know the princess to well to expect her to respond otherwise. "Two dark stouts, coming up," she says with an easy smile, treating them no differently than she would any other customers. And, because their voices are hardly quiet, "But if I may, if you're looking for mead, you'll find no finer than what we brew here." A smile, maybe a hint of challenge in her hazel eyes. "I'll warn you, though. It does pack a punch. I've seen some of the finest Sidhe warriors laid out flat by it."

A bushy brow arches at the introductions from Sif and Thor. Hell, anybody with a tv recognizes the name and face of the big blonde thundergod. Grunting wordlessly, the short mutant shakes both the Shieldmaiden and Prince's hands, his own perhaps a bit small compared to the latter's, "An honor to meet the pair of you, eh? I'm just Logan. I'm sure the people of the city are glad to have you two around."

Aside to Dana, Logan answers, "No rocks, thanks. And if you don't mind my asking, the $#*& is a Sidhe?" Completely unaware of the woman's position, the squat Canadian idly remarks to the Asgardian pair, "Wench sort of ain't a popular word anymore. Bad meaning to it these days, yeah?"

No historian, the lady Sif; nevertheless, the name of the Sidhe is not lost on her. She blinks in some surprise, dark eyebrows raising as she glances between Thor and Dana. "Have a care, my friend," she murmurs to the Odinson. "None in this world is as it seems, I deem. Surprises lay all around. But I fear not of your mead," she continues, her eyes falling back to the lady behind the bar.

"We mean no offense by the word," she adds, glancing to Logan with a moment of bafflement. "Unless there is something shameful about being a woman, there is nothing shameful in the word 'wench'. Those who would find shame in being a woman might well disagree, but I say in that case the word should be reclaimed!" This said with a strike to the bartop.

The question of what a Sidhe may be is not directed to her. So she doesn't answer it, but the knowledge of the answer — at least her own understanding of that knowledge — brings a faint smile to her lips.

"A member of the Fae Court?" Thor looks more closely at Rune, gripping his hammer in his right hand, then starts. "My apologies, dame!" he says, offering a courtly bow. "I find myself lacking in courtesy. I know of course your mother and father," Thor explains, settling the hammer back at his side. "But I shan't divulge thy identity herein, as ye seem of a mind to keep thy heritage your own secret."

He nods in support of Sif, clapping her on the shoulder, then turns back to Dana. "If the lady doth not protest, then, two-, no, three mugs of proper mead," Thor booms, indicating Logan with a gesture. "I have yearned for mead for many a day now and to taste sweet nectar's brew would be a welcome reprieve from mere water and weak, sugary concoctions."

"I can understand that," Logan replies to Sif's remarks about the word wench, "Kind of feel the same way about the word mutant."He looks aside to Thor at mention of a 'fae court', staring rather blankly at the large Asgardian for a second before he mutters, "S'what we need to start doin'. Just tell everybody that's got a problem with mutants that we're all faerie god princes and princesses from another dimension. Problem solved."

The short Canuck's head bobs in a nod at Thor's mention of beverages, "Wonder what alcohol was like when you faerie folks were young." His glass of whiskey is scooped up, and drained pretty much instantly, without so much as a grimace.

Leaning against the bar, he watches Dana wander over to the keg, "Tinkerbell. Elrond. Elves and faeries. So you folks got pointy ears, then? Got a magic book somewhere? Suppose I can't say that's too strange. Seen magic before." The feral man chuckles dryly and gives his head a shake.

"Ah, my apologies," Thor offers. "I had thought I had caught the scent of the Queen of Air and Darkness 'pon thee, but my pert words have caused me some consternation. I meant no offense by my assumption," Thor offers the woman. As Sif slips out, Thor watches her go, then turns back to the bar and accepts the mug, settling into the heavy oak stool. He offers Logan a companionable nod, then promptly slams back about a third of the tankard. He blinks a few times, then shakes his head. "By the All-Father's eye, this is true Fae mead!" he booms. "It would lay a mortal low. Friend, perhaps you should have a care before drinking some," Thor says, taking a much more manageable sip this time. "'tis not a drink for the faint of heart."

Dana glances to Logan and laughs. "I wouldn't recommend it," she says. "People don't believe much in fairies any more. And no amount of hand clapping will change that." A beat, she pulls the leaver on the second tankard. "But, in answer to your question: Sharper. Fae alcohol is smoother, but hits harder."

She puts the drink beore Thor with a grimace, however, keeping one for herself as the Thunderer mentions the Queen. "You did, huh?" Caught her scent? That doesn't really make Dana happy. "Yeah, well, she likes to keep tabs, sometimes."

She sets the mug she'd thought to keep for herself in Sif's absence on the bar and then glances to Logan. Pushing two fingers against the mug, she cants her head. "You want to try? On the house, if you're still standing when it's done."

Thor's remark has Logan sniffing and then stating dryly, "Can't say I smell anything that resembles a Queen of Air and Darkness. Magic thing, eh?" Dana's answer about the alcohol has the mutant's attention for a moment, "How hard?"

Which is followed by Thor offering an answer of sorts to that question, "Is that so? I suppose in that case, I can't resist the chance to take a drink. Ain't a whole lot of anything out there that lays me low."

With a nod of thanks to Dana, Logan reaches for the mug, "Might as well. Ain't got anything to lose." Taking the mug up, he lifts it to his mouth and takes a regular drink, which earns a grimace and then a wondering, "Huh." Shaking his head, the mutant takes another drink, coughing a bit after that one.

Looking to Dana, the mutant grunts, "That's strong stuff. I like it. I can't even remember the last time I actually got more than a little buzz goin', seems like this might do the trick."

Thor claps Logan's shoulder with a broad smile and drains another quarter of the glass, belching sonorously. "Delicious. Had I know the Fae make mead such as this, I should have visited 'pon thee earlier," he offers the woman, saluting her with the glass. "An' aye, her scent follows ye. The Queen has taken interest in thee and marked you," Thor informs Dana, a bit more soberly. "A dangerous, fel power to associate with. Be wary of that one, my friend," he advises the girl.

Dana flashes a grin at Logan. "Drink up, my friend," she says with a light laugh. "We'll see if it does or not." She doesn't really feel badly about encouraging him so. He's already shown more resilience than most other mortals that come in here. She's seen bigger men than he out after the first sip. Which means his power's pretty formidable in its own right, this mutant.

Again, though, those brown eyes return to the Thunderer. "Oh, trust me, I am." She gestures lightly, a finger twirling to indicate the premises. "This place? She can't touch me here. Neutral ground. Outside?" She gestures to the the dog, snoozing by the fireplace. Thor, doubtlessly, would recognize it to be a cwn annwn — a Hellhound of the Wild Hunt… and probably a goodly size larger than what it currently seems to be. Doubtlessly, he's seen Odin and Arawn ride together, the fierce hounds preceding them across the 'scape. "I bring a friend."

Logan chuckles with the shoulder clap, offering a grin and nod to the blonde man while nursing his own mug of the stuff at a slower pace than the norse god. He voices his agree with the large Avenger, "Thinkin' I'll be putting this place on my list of places to his more often myself."

Gesturing with the cup before taking another drink, the short, old Canucklehead grins at Dana, "Thanks, miss. Good drink, pretty bartender, what more is there to life?" Logan's eyes follow the gesture over to the dog, studying it briefly before shaking his head.

Over the course of a few moments, the old mutant finishes his mug and sets it on the bar and grumbles mostly to himself, "Definitely can feel that stuff…Wonder for how long though." Looking back to Thor, the Canadian remarks, "Good meetin' you, Thor Odinson." And then to Dana, the mutant continues, "And you, Miss. Don't think I caught your name yet though, eh? I'm Logan."

"A fearsome beast!" Thor applauds Dana. "Thou hast forged a healthy hearth and home here. A shame Ma- the Lady seeks thy person, but it seems that your father is taken some steps to aid you. Thou seems most competent, with mead or magic," he says, grinning slyly.

"Farewell, Sir Logan," Thor says, nodding at the Canuck. "May we meet on the field of battle. Until then, safety and Valkyrie alike look over you."

He turns back to Dana. "This mead… your own brew?" he asks.

"Dana," the erstwhile bartender replies, giving the mutant a light smile. "Come back any time, Logan. We're almost always open." She watches the man rise and take his leave, duly impressed with his tolerance for the brew. A man like that is worth respecting… because she can imagine what that level of tolerance means in a fight.

Her attention returns to Thor. Still she smiles, but she shakes her head. "It's Wassea's. She owns the place — chief cook and bottle-washer, too. I've yet to see a meal she can't ace or a brew she can't master." Not, mind, that Dana's tried terribly hard, either. But, then, she knows there's no point. The elder woman's been alive for millennia. She's had lots of practice. "I just live here, help out as I can."

With a nod and lifted hand in farewell to Thor and Dana both, the Canucklehead turns to head for the door.

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