Neutral Omens

The door swung open like it'd rather have exploded outward in a shower of splinters, and a tall, heartily cheerful man swung in. "Hello!" He called, striding across the room to the bar.

Destruction was in the mood for some really terrible beer. He was remembering the time he'd been a pavement artist in London, and all the swill he'd been bought by the college kids. He always thought it was the quality of his explosions that did it, although it might have just been that they were drunk. Still, it took effort to draw an explosion at a horizontal level, and his had practically singed eyebrows.

People sometimes wondered why the embodiment of Destruction liked art so much. But Creation was his domain too - because coins have two sides. The advice reminded him of someone he'd given it to, once. He wondered vaguely how the kid was doing, meeting the rest of the family... sort of. Still, his decision not to come back had been justified. Freedom tasted good... like cheap London beer.

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Wednesday finished off his mead in one long draught. From behind the bar he brought out a bottle of Jack, smiling as the amber liquid filled his glass. He downed it and poured another. He heard the door to the bar nearly get blown off of its hinges.

"Hello!"
Wednesday looked up to see a pale bloke with bright red hair. Recongnition hit him like a wrecking ball. He hadn't seen the old bastard since the saking of Constantinople. Good times.
"Gods, is that you Destruction?" He pulled a glass out of the cupboard and placed it on the bar and the man swaggered towards him. "What'll it be? You still drinking diluted piss water?" He smiled lopsidedly and displayed a bottle of Miller light.
Looks like the night had potential afterall.

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Destruction started. He'd offered the greeting on general terms, not looking at who the greetee was. But then, he'd already met enough old acquaintances here that he sholdn't be surprised.

"Wotan, old chap! Didn't know you were here!" He sat himself down next to the old god. "And you know I'll drink anything that you can respectably pour into a mug." He grinned and reached for the bottle.

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Wednesday grimaced as he watched his old friend drink the beer. He downed his glass of Jack and poured another (he felt like getting wasted. And with luck he wouldn't be the only one getting shit-faced. He added a a few percentage points of alcohol content to the beer Destruction was drinking).
"Didn't know you were here, either. Been a long time, Destrution. How have you been doing?"
He remembered their last night of drinking together. It had been nearing the end of his reign of terror in the South, and he had wanted to get plastered that night, too. They had always had a lot in common, their viewpoints of destruction and regeneration had always been similar.(though their means had been different). Destruction had been more of a passive spectator, usually limiting his actualy participation to nudges in the right direction. Odin was more "hands-on." His hand tightened on his glass, the way his hand had always tightened on Gungnir before battle. There were no more battles, now. Not in any meaningful way. He hurled the rest of his drink back, and looked at his friend. Humans had convinced themselves that they no longer needed a god of war, but Destruction would never go out of style.

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"Oh, this and that." Destruction grinned. "Been visiting some old universes I hadn't seen in a while. Worked as a pavement artist in London, for a while. Kept a dog."

He took another swig of the beer, wondering how ol' Barnabas was doing now. He shook his head. "Never did appreciate my artwork."

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Wednesday nodded his head in that distinctive "I'm-interested-and-comtemplative-because-I-am-very-drunk" way. "Yeah, dogs. They never do appreciate art." He thought about Freki and Geri. Not quite dogs, but close. He remembered how they always hated it when he read them the Edda. Their ears only picked up when they were mentioned. Or Fenris, the fuckers. Canine unity his ass. They weren't the ones scheduled to be eaten by that Hell-hound. "You want another drink?"

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Destruction tipped up the bottle and stared down the neck. "Well I'll be... it's empty already." He chuckled. "How about something stronger. I developed quite a taste for Vodka hanging around Petersburg about five hundred years ago. Or was it six? I can never quite remember..."

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Wednesday smiled and traced his finger on the bartop. A large bottle of unlabeled Vodka appeared on the counter. A gift from Chernobog. Nothing like bathtub vodka to kill brain cells and cause irreversable liver damage. "Hmm, Russia. Always been a good place for death and D..." he thought about it. "...you."

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Destruction smiled wryly, taking a swig from the bottle. "Phwoar." He grimaced. "Now that's real vodka. I like this stuff cos you can make it out of anything. Bread, potatoes, rats..."

He looked thoughtful a moment. "It's funny," he mused. "Nobody ever calls my sister's name to her face. They say it all the time, but never to her."

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Wednesday's eyebrows arched. "See, thats another reason I can't stand this age. None of them have any guts to speak of. They run from the idea of having power. "What's in a name,' my eight-legged-steed-riding ass. True power is in the ability to name something. My sword, my steed, my spear, my house- everything has a name. They have to or else they are just 'things.' Mortals forgotten that bit just as they've forgotten about the cycle of birth and... deat... destru..." He took a swig from the bottle and brought it down onto the bar with a loud bang. "Can't really say anything without mentioning a member of your family, can I? I'll just have to steer clear of talking about Ragnorok, or I'll end up mentioning at least 4 of your other siblings."

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Detsruction smirked. "See? You won't name us either. Mortals, they're just like us, only with less power. Besides, Most of my family see Ragnarok as a sideshow. Universes with stories are all well and good, but we don't go in for endings... most of us. Just me and my sister. After all - " he lifted the bottle in a sort of toast, "Out with the old, in with the new."

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Wednesday stiffened and took the bottle of vodka out of Destruction's hand. "You're right, there's never an end. Its all a product of the wheel of time." He downed the remaining liquid in the bottle and handed it back to Destruction. "But as for 'out with the old'..." his fingernails etched into the bartop. "Look at the mortals. All they do is cling ot the old. Look at their fashions. Their sense of "nostaliga." The 'good old days.' Its all bullshit. Even their 'new' gods. Look at me." He spread his arms in a fighting stance. "They talk about their psychology. The ego?" His voice thundered. "I *am* the ego. They say they no longer love war, but look at how they live their lives. Endless little private battles, hushed-up wars, a million slights. If they'd stuck with my version, they would actually get somewhere instead of stagnating in "nostalgia." They say they are straightforward and honest? There is not a mortal that wouldn't sell his mother given the proper price. No, the only thing that changes is the names. Instead of worshiping Gaia they worship the "mother earth." Instead of Worshiping me or Athena, they worship the internet for their knowledge. Instead of Freyja, they worship 'female sexuality'."
He paused and he suddenly seemed very old. He sat back down, the fire doused. "But of course, true power rests in names. You're right about all of it." He looked at his empty glass. "It is this paradox that will be the death of me."

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"You always did get wordy when inebriated," Destruction shook his head and grinned. "Even after a battle, one minute you'd be singing your own glory and the next - bam!" Destruction hit the bar a little too hard, sending splinters flying, but didn't notice. "Existential angst!"

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Wednesday glared at Destruction and ground his teeth. Then his lip began to quiver. Then wrinkles settled around his eyes. Then... he burst out laughing. "I always knew there was a reason I liked you... apart from the obvious wanton destructive nature you embody." He hit Destruction on the back with a force equal to the hammer of the gods. "'Existential Angst?' Huh? Well, that sounds like a excellent reason to split another bottle."

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"I'll drink to that!" Well, he'd drink to pretty much anything right now. But Existential Angst was good enough. He absently picked splinters out of his fist as he waited for Wednesday to produce the alcohol.

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Wednesday marked a few runes around the battered bartop. A couple of jugs of moonshine appeared and he looked confused. "I must be getting rusty." He glanced sidelong at Destruction to see if he'd heard. His drinking partner was too busy picking out splinters, so he simple scooted one of the jugs over towards Destruction. He uncorked the jug and took a swig. He rolled his eyes. "North Caroline White Lightning." He quickly pushed the images of Thor out of his mind from when he found his son.

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Destruction raised an eyebrow. "Moonshine... hadn't seen this for a while. Man, those Hazard kids were fun." He raised the jug in one hand and drank deep.

(ooc: Is this a good time for Crowley to join in? You're not on AIM :()

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Crowley was feeling stir crazy again. He was tired of being stuck in the Manor with no one to tempt but Aziraphale, which was hardly a challenge anymore, and nothing to do but think. There had to be something going on somewhere. To find out what it was and who was doing it, he headed downstairs.

The bar seemed a likely place to start so he stuck his head in. John wasn't there, surprisingly enough, but two big, red-headed men were. No, not men. Something else. Crowley vaguely remembered seeing them at the Halloween party, but he didn't know who they were, though he felt like he should. Shrugging, he stepped inside and spoke jovially.

"Hey. Looks like you're having a good time. Mind some company?"

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"Ho, Wednesday, looks like we have a visitor!" Destruction boomed. "Come, friend, sit, drink... I haven't spoken to a demon in a while!"

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Wednesday looked at the demon. First thing he thought was "Damned Christians," (which was kind of true on both accounts), but upon second glance he immediately thought "flash bastard," which he had to admit to being his favorite type of bastard (having been one himself on several occaisions). He nudged the bar stool next to him out with his foot and tilted his head towards it. "And I don't think I've ever had the pleasure of speaking to a demon. What do you want to drink?"

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Crowley sniffed delicately.

"Mead, light beer, potato vodka, and moonshine? You two must be really depressed. Or hard up. I think I'll stick with red wine."

He miracled himself a vintage bottle and a glass and sat on the stool provided. With thousands of years experience, he removed the cork and poured.

"Well, you both seem to know what I am, but the name's Crowley. And you are?"

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Wednesday rolled his eyes a little at the bottle of red wine. Poofter. He finished off the moonshine and rolled out some Jack. The air around him shifted as the liquor began to take effect.
"I go by many names. But you can call me Wednesday." He smirked and held out a hand towards the flash bastard. "And I'm a relic."

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Crowley took his hand and shook it firmly.

"Kveðja , Miðvikudagur. Einn af Norrænn Efstu svalir guð almáttugur?"*

He raised his glass.

"And aren't we all?"

*Greetings, Wednesday. One of the Norse Gods?

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Wednesday's somewhat blurry eyes opened in appreciation and a wide grin lit his face.
"Það hefur langur tími síðan ÉG hafa heyra die Orð. Nú það *er* ánægja til hitta þú."* He raised his glass to Crowley in a toast. "To relics, then, and their continued survival. Without us, who would screw with the humans?"

*It has been a long time since I have heard the Words. Now it *is* a pleasure to meet you."

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Laughing, Crowley said, "Now there's a toast I can get behind. To relics who screw with humans."

He clinked his glass against Wednesday's bottle. Then he turned towards the other man, glass still raised. "And you mate?"

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Destruction grinned at him. "You can call me... William. William De Structen." He glanced at the look on Wednesday's face and added "And don't you say anything. I like the name William. So," he turned back to Crowley. "I believe you were the one responsible for the beer stains on my clown shoes on Halloween? Poor John really did look hilarious in those wings."

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Crowley gave him his third best skeptical look.

"De Structen? Don't tell me, another personification of an abstract concept? But you're not a horseman..."

He looked at him for a moment, puzzled, then shrugged and drank some of his wine.

"Sorry. None of my business."

Then he grinned. "You liked that bit with the wings, huh? John's a mate of mine. He doesn't mind if I take the mickey out of him. Well, not too much."

Crowley held his glass aloft once more, "And how about you, 'William'? Will you also drink to relics and screwing humanity?"

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"William" shrugged noncommitally. "Screwing humanity is all well and good, but relics were never really my thing." He suddenly laughed out loud. "Nevermind that, mate, I'll drink to anything!"

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"Then I seem to have stumbled across some excellent company. Cheers!"

Crowley drained his glass and looked at his new companions.

"So what brings you to Tadfield, William and Wednesday?"

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"What brings anyone anywhere, lad?" Boomed Destruction heartily, taking another swig from the jug. "Adventure and curiosity. Also, I've been in some very inhospitable dimensions for a few months, and I thought it might be nice to be a spectator for once. Mind you," he glanced sideways at Wednesday, "With this many old friends around, it's nowhere near quiet, eh?"

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"I'll drink to adventure and curiosity. Would that my reasons were equally amusing."

Crowley refilled his glass and sipped at it.

"And quiet? Far from it. Too many damn angels around."

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"You said it." He wobbled a little in his chair as he layed a hand on Crowley's forearm. "You ever make it up North? I don't remember you... not without my ravens... but I think you would have had a great time with the Norsemen. No holiness as far as the eye could see. Plenty of fun."

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"Oh, not since the 1350's or so. Too bloody cold up there for frequent visits."

Crowley thought back.

"They were a fun bunch, if I recall properly, but no challenge to tempt."

"So," he said with a mischievous smile, "going to stir up some trouble while you're here?"

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"Tempting, right, I forgot that your kind was into that. No, we had no need of virtue or vice back then. There were the virtues and if you abided by those you were fine. Of course, our virtues were a little different than that lucky bastard from Bethleham." He swirled his glass.
"As for the other, life without trouble is meaningless. And I fully intend to give the lives of the inhabitants of this mannor some meaning."

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Crowley grinned.

"That's true. Your people's virtues are very nearly our people's vices. Don't get too hung up about Jesus, though. He died, after all. He had just thirty some-odd years, but you've been here millennia." Crowley sipped at his wine. "And, hey, if you should ever find that you need some assistance in giving people's lives some meaning, I'm your demon."

He finished his second glass and stood up.

"Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure meeting you, but I'm afraid I must go. I'll see you around."

And he walked out of the bar, significantly more cheerful than when he went in.

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Wednesday watched as the demon sauntered out of the room. "Well, I suppose I'll be going too. Glad you're here, Destruction."

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