Opening gameplay.
Today, though, one of the owners, Mr. Borson, has asked that you intend a class yourself. It was his idea that they start offering historical combat classes, something sure to resonate with your clients. One of the more rare arts is Glima, the Scandinavian Martial Art. Given your background, you were a natural fit to be the first of the instructors at Nerdstrong to learn.
Mr. Borson brought in a Glima expert, Atli Donar, who you were to meet for special training after hours. On your first sight of him, you couldn't shake the feeling that you knew him...or, hell, you were related. He stood even taller and broader than you, and you hadn't met many men in your lives that could make that claim. He had fierce red hair and bright blue eyes, same as you; but where your hair and beard were well trimmed, his made him look like a Wildling extra waiting to shoot the next season of Game of Thrones. Where your face was scarred, his was smooth and unmarred...but you knew, deep in your bones, that this man had seen battle before.
He grinned broadly when he saw you, and he seemed to size you up. Nodding as if satisfied with what he saw, he began to chat with you as you both stretched and warmed up.
Atli was full of questions. What your childhood was like...how you enjoyed school and sports...if you missed football...what you liked to do in your spare time...what you wanted to do with your life. They were probing questions, and should have been overly familiar...yet they were not. You found yourself wanting to share with the man, and you did, and his smile only grew wider.
You began learning Glima. Your mixed martial arts and football experience gave you a great base and you proved yourself a quick learner, but one thing was quite clear; Atli Donar was the best fighter you had ever seen in your life. Combat was like breathing to him, and though he clearly enjoyed his prodigious abilities, he did not lord his superiority over you. You had met men that could turn teaching into torment, and never for an instant did Atli attempt that, instead approaching you earnestly and teaching you as much as he could.
After an hour, you were sweat-soaked and tired, but you felt glorious. Atli nodded to himself, and he said that you were ready. He plopped down beside you, reaching into his gym bag (which had been laying nearby) and pulling out a couple of beers. Opening them up, he handed one to you...and he gave you the talk.
He re-introduced himself as Thor...your true father. You were, of course, skeptical, but when the man summoned a miniature, localized hurricane inside the gym and produced the mighty hammer Mjolnir, you began to believe. He apologized for not being around in your youth; he did it to keep you safe. He had been captivated by your mother's beauty when she was younger, and had decided to seduce her. The Aesir had...arranged for her to meet the man you've known as your father a couple of weeks after her one night stand with an impossibly handsome biker passing through town, and both of them thought you their natural son. While it had been a shotgun wedding, the Aesir had ensured that your parents were such people as had a chance at real love...and lucky for them and you, it seems that that is what had grown.
Thor explained that if you had grown up knowing of the divine, you would have sent out a beacon to any Titanspawn while your powers grew, and you would have been easy prey for a roving band of Jotun. This way, you were given a chance for your powers to mature and manifest on their own. Now, it was time for them to fully emerge, for one reason and one reason alone; all of the greatest of the Aesir in gifts of Magic and Prophecy knew that it was the foreordained time. Fimbulvetr had begun, and soon, Ragnarok would be here in earnest.
Thor reached deeper into his gym bag, presenting you with gifts to begin your life as one of his Scions. He told you that you must meet up with others like you, other children of the Aesir recently come to knowledge of their divine heritage. There was a chance...a small chance...that you could avert the beginning of Ragnarok, at least for now. And even if you could not, the Aesir had seen that you could become vital in saving some small measure of Asgard, and possibly of Midgard, from the end of days.
Thor told you that a man from San Francisco would be getting in touch with you. He was like you, a child of divinity, recently come to knowledge of his power. He would be gathering several of you to handle a mission of dire importance. What this was, Thor wouldn't say; he would only reveal that you would know what you needed to, when you needed to. The messengers would be quite clear.
After a few weeks, a man named Ulf Johnson got in touch with you. He was fairly circumspect in his language, but his meaning was clear enough. Since you were based in Los Angeles, he asked if you had a large enough space to host a meeting for six people in similar conditions to yourself. Your place is relatively large, so you agree; the meeting will occur in one week.
Well. After a couple of months of too much wallowing and too much whiskey, you shook yourself out of your reverie. You had a little money saved up; not much, but enough to start over. You rented an office up in San Francisco, where you weren't known to the local law community, and began your new career as a private investigator.
In the intervening years, you've become more than “good” at your job. Corporate executives and tech moguls are more than happy to pay you exorbitantly for dirt on their rivals or spouses, but you still have a far lower rate for those that truly need your services, and you've developed a reputation for professionalism, success, and, lesser known to your “big” clients, kindness.
For all this, you did miss some of the excitement of being a cop.
One day, you found an envelope on your desk, baring a strange symbol; almost like two flags touching each other. This was more than curious; the only people with keys to your office were yourself and one of the janitors, and they didn't bring you mail. Not knowing what to make of the symbol, you snapped a picture on your cell phone. Google Image did the rest pretty quickly; it was the rune Mannaz, linked to the Norse God Heimdall. Your interest piqued, you opened up the envelope, and since that moment your life has never been the same.
There was a full dossier on what appeared to be an arms dealer, bringing in major weapons to arm the gangs of San Francisco. You'd never heard of “Krieger Munitions”, but after doing a significant amount of digging, you found that many European arms manufacturers were in fact holdings of Krieger Munitions. It wasn't easy to find, and that was extremely strange, given how profitable these companies were.
Krieger Munitions was owned and operated by a German by the name of Werner Krieger. Through painstaking investigation, you were able to pin down his movements and, eventually, confront him. You thought that you were clever and cunning, and had a weapon drawn. You had him dead to rights.
He just laughed.
Werner's skin...shifted, his muscles and bones distending as fur covered his body. He was becoming what could only be a werewolf.
You thought for a moment that you were going crazy, but rather than simply think that and stand there to be slaughtered, your training kicked in, and you ran.
Werner gave chase, but he had happened to pick an area to do his business near the Golden Gate Bridge. On this night, at this hour, as you ran for the bridge, arms and legs pumping, labored breath thundering in your ears, there were no cars. There were no pedestrians. All there was was a mist, and an unnatural chill, even for the bay area.
Werner eventually stopped, and soon you saw why. As you approached, there was a tall, powerful man standing there. You saw him almost in a doubled vision; at once well dressed in a fine suit with a cane, and replete in archaic battle armor with a large sword.
Shaking your head, you looked again and saw only the man in his suit. He smiled at you and congratulated on your investigation...and on your graduation.
You had proven that you were ready, and that you were worthy.
He walked home with you that night, telling you the truth of the cosmos and of yourself. Heimdall, your father, left you with several gifts, a dossier, and some instructions.
The dossier contained information; about the Titans, the Gods, and, most specifically, a group of individuals similar to you; new Scions. You were to find these other Scions and band together with them. The foretold end times were nigh, and only a fresh Band of Scions, unfettered by the Doom of the Aesir, might be able to win enough power to blunt the fates.
The dossier indicated that you meet at the dwelling of one of these Scion's, one Dustin Reinhard, in a week. You were also to contact these other Scions and have them reach the area as well. For what reason, you were not particularly sure, but the dossier indicated you would all learn more about your purpose once you had gathered.
The most surprising thing in the dossier, however, was that it contained someone you knew; Erika Erlingsson. She had been a damned good prosecutor, and even beyond being someone you had worked well with, she was someone who had spoken on your behalf during your "forced retirement". It had done no good, but that had won her a lot of respect from you. Reaching out to her was met positively, and she swiftly agreed to the meeting; she was still based in Los Angeles, after all.
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That's why you started looking into the mass shooting in Las Vegas.
Your years of training and experience were practically screaming at you; something is wrong here. Not in the way of the conspiracy theorists, but the details just tugged at you as...off, somehow.
So you started digging.
You couldn't say why you did. You didn't know anyone personally injured or slain during the attack. Something inside you, however, couldn't stop poking at it, like a half-healed scab.
You used your connections and made some calls. You talked to people who knew Stephen Paddock, the shooter, and they all said the same thing; they felt like there was just no way that the man they knew could have done this. And you knew they were telling the truth, that they really believed what they were saying.
One night, while sewing up a new costume for Sibyll, someone knocked on your door. Curious as to who it would be, you opened the door.
Standing in front of you was a beautiful woman. She was striking and regal, wearing a blue dress with a pure white shawl over her shoulders.
She looked at you for a moment, studying. Then she invited herself in.
You were too poleaxed to argue, and Sibyll immediately began rubbing against her leg and purring. The woman seemed to welcome the attention, scratching the cat behind it's ears before settling into a chair.
Your conversation changed your life forever.
She knew of your investigations. She asked what you would think if she told you that Paddock had not acted of his own will...that dark forces were at work in the world, that the end times were coming and that you were one of the few that might be able to stem the tide of horror. You wanted to speak out and rebuff her as a madwoman...but you knew that she was telling the truth. And your eyes glanced over to your occult texts...and just a little bit, you began to believe.
As she continued talking, you believed a bit more, then a bit more, until finally your skepticism was swept away.
She was your parent, Frigg, one of the Aesir. When questioned about how you had two mothers, she quirked an eyebrow and explained a bit about ichor and how divine bodies were constructed. Frigg herself, of course, is the mightiest sorceress of the Aesir, and so there are many things within her power.
She revealed that your mother, a strong and righteous woman that had impressed Frigg, knew of her nature, which was why she discouraged your interest in the occult. Now, however, the time for the mundane had passed, and it was time for a strong judge of character and skilled seer to come into her power and do what she could to avert Ragnarok.
Frigg made you swear an oath never to harm her son Baldur, which you saw no reason to refuse. She glanced at your runestone bag, sitting on a table, and smiled, telling you that from now on you should carry it on your person at all times.
Frigg told you that, in a few days, you would receive a phone call from a man you had known; Ulf Johnson. Johnson, you had known and liked when he was a police officer. The two of you shared similar frustrations about criminals escaping punishment, but corruption in local law enforcement had forced him out of his job. You had tried to help, but the people set against him were too powerful for your opinion to have much sway.
Johnson and you talked, both surprised by your link and your previously unknown heritages. He spoke of a meeting, which you agreed to. Johnson then mentioned that his father had given him a dossier with information relevant to both of you.
The police had not disclosed all information relevant to the mass shooting in Las Vegas. Stephen Paddock had used many unregistered, powerful firearms, and Johnson's dossier made it quite clear that they were manufactured by Krieger Munitions.
While you might not be able to tackle this right away, perhaps together you and your new allies might ensure that justice was done, after all.
While our game will not truly start until all characters are selected and I have written prologues for all of you, we will be starting at Dustin Reinhard's home. Dustin, please provide a description of the location.
As far as all the rest of you; mundane economic concerns (where you live, the car you drive, etc) are mostly irrelevant to the campaign. You have a lifestyle that's appropriate for your character based upon your background. Ulf and Erika, you are most likely not extremely wealthy, but make a decent living. Dustin, as a former athlete, you likely have a higher standard of living. I mention this so that everyone has a framework; Ulf is probably not driving a shiny new McClaren F1, and Dustin probably doesn't have his own private jet.
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Dustin Reinhard, ex-pro-football star, lives in a far less flashy fashion than most of his peers.
He was able to buy a house in Sherman Oaks on a short sale (down markets favor first time buyers, after all!). Sherman Oaks is a city in the San Fernando Valley, near two of the major freeways in Southern California, the 101 and the 405. His particular house is located a couple of streets away from Ventura Boulevard, between the Woodman and Coldwater Canyon exits . He gives Moorpark and Woodman as his closest major cross streets, and aside from the nearby freeway, his neighborhood is generally pretty quiet.
The home is two stories, a newer model in the traditional style. It's slightly over 3,500 square feet with a large backyard that Dustin has built a large pool into. He has a spacious two car garage, in which is currently parked a Tesla Model X and a Tesla Model S, both belonging to Dustin.
The house itself has sort of a nerd-chic design feel to it. Cool metal posters of Star Wars and Marvel movies decorate the walls (purchased from Etsy, of course). There are five bedrooms and five bathrooms, though Dustin has converted a couple of those bedrooms. One of them has a home gym that Dustin uses regularly, with a full set of weights as well as a heavy bag and a leg-press machine.
The other converted bedroom, Dustin has made into a sort of haven for his hobbies. There's a ginormous TV (the latest in 4K ultra...whatever it is, naturally) with all of the modern consoles attached and a state of the art gaming chair. There's a large desk with an almost unreasonably beastly desktop gaming rig, replete with top tier mouse and keyboard and three monitors. All of the tech is hooked into top of the line surround sound.
The downstairs has the standard kitchen, dining room and living room setup, though the television and sound setup in the living room is just as nice as the one upstairs.
Though no one is apt to see it, Dustin's room has a rather large library, full of leather bound editions of fantasy classics.
Dustin's kitchen is well stocked, and his living room has more than a mini bar; he has a full bar stocked with almost every type of liquor and glassware imaginable. He has a kegorator that currently has an Imperial Red and a Belgian Golden Ale on tap.
Finally, there is a "play" room downstairs; here, there is a custom table that has tablets built into it and a table-long LED display. Dustin uses this for tabletop games with friends. The table is surrounded by elaborate chairs that look like they could be being used by the White Council to discuss driving the Necromancer from Mirkwood...but they're all superbly comfortable and have cupholders.
If I have provided a prologue for you, you may begin to roleplay. Other than Dustin, please begin with a description of how you are arriving at his house. You all have smartphones and have his address so navigating there is not difficult.
Dustin had faced down bullies, outnumbered three to one. He had broken tackles and trucked through men even larger than himself (no mean feat). He had stood adainst adversity and taken leaps into the unknown and he had never hesitated.
Today, though, he was nervous as hell.
Seven o’clock. That was when they were coming. Other people like him. He had spent the entire day getting ready. He was an excellent host in normal times, but now, he went into overdrive. He cleaned his pool and raked the leaves in his backyard. He mowed the grass in the front and back. He washed both of his cars. Inside, he made sure all the rooms were vacuumed and dusted. If the dark hardwood was dirty, he cleaned it with a rag and solution. He got some bleach and worked in his toilets and showers. He windexed every bit of glass until it sparkled. All the dishes were done and put away.
This probably wasn’t necessary, but it helped him deal with his nerves. Even more than that, he wanted...well, more like yearned to make a good impression. Part of him wanted to cook, but he didn’t know what people liked, and he had just deep cleaned everything. He settled for picking up a few twelve packs of beer and a few cases of soda to compliment his already impressive collection of beverages. As far as food went, he opted for delivery. Leaning Tower was a local place he liked a lot. He ordered several portions of a pink sauce penne with grilled chicken, three pizzas (one cheese, one pepperoni, and one veggie), and a few large orders of tater tots with ranch.
The food arrived at 6:45, right on time. Dustin tipped twenty percent to the delivery driver, then went about getting the food ready and putting out plates and utensils. By the time he was done, it was five to seven...all there was now was to wait.
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Ulf drove up to the Reinhard residence an hour in advance, rolling by the house once in his old black 2006 Ford Fusion once before parking down the street and rolling down the windows. Ulf wasn't worried about the neighborhood; he had researched the place earlier in the week and the crime rate was almost suspiciously low. Getting comfortable, he pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lit one up. That finished, he unfolded a pair of glasses and put them on.
Normally, from the distance he had chosen, he would have needed binoculars to see the front door clearly, and a directional microphone to hear the vague sounds coming from the houses around him. Ever since he met the man on the bridge, however, he found that he didn't need such things anymore. His senses and reflexes were beyond what could be considered human. Even the night didn't seem as obscuring as it should have been. It was still dark, but everything he could see was crystal clear. The glasses didn't help; well, they did, but not for distance; with them he could see through almost any visual occlusions. Smoke, fog, even frosted glass windows, which he tested out thoroughly finishing up his cases to clear his plate for this meeting.
Smoking, he shifted in his seat to flick the ash out his window and felt the bulk of the gun in its holster. The weapon wasn't much bigger than the old H&K he now left in a gun safe in his nightstand, but it was much lighter and the grip seemed custom-designed for his hands. He tried not to think about the kaleidoscope-like rainbow crystal that replaced the clip. It still weirded him out.
Waiting and observing, he could see movement in the house. A man moved about busily past several windows. Only when he took out a bag of trash to the side yard dumpster that Ulf was able to confirm it was the man in the file. Heimdall's files were perfectly accurate.
Seems busy. Ulf thinks to himself. hiding evidence? No, cleaning. He wants to make a good impression. Interesting.
It was at this point he became aware he hadn't even changed out of his normal clothes he wore to work; a collared long sleeve shirt with a muted plaid pattern and khaki-colored slacks. His clothes were a little rumpled, but Ulf was starting to think that only he could tell. He had a trenchcoat, something he had picked up because it was almost expected of private eyes; fit the stereotype, get more business, get taken seriously by clients.
Sighing, he resumed his observation, noting the food delivery guy and what was delivered. When was the last time I ate? Ulf asked himself. Ah... It was a pair of fish tacos... a week ago. Shouldn't I be hungry? Ah well, at least he ordered food.
Ulf rolled up the windows and stepped out of the car at 6:58. Calmly walking, he discarded his finished cigarette before stepping onto the porch at 6:59. Taking a few seconds to adjust his trenchcoat, he held his hand up, waited exactly a few seconds, and then knocked on the door. 7:00.
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Dustin had used the interlude between food being ordered and delivered to change from what he had been wearing into something more presentable. He wore a simple but nice grey collared button-up, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He wore blue jeans with a plain black leather belt. He didn't bother with shoes; truth be told, he preferred being barefoot.
He finished setting up the food and poured himself a glass of water. Frankly, he wanted two of his blue-label scotch over a single rock, but he didn't want to start imbibing before people got there; they might think he was a drunk or something.
His Apple Watch suddenly sent out the alarm he had set; it was seven o'clock. At the same time that Dustin reached down to turn off the alarm, there was a knock at his front door.
Huh. Prompt.
Swallowing and ignoring the butterflies in his stomach, Dustin headed to this door. He peered out of his peephole, and saw a man in a collared shit, tie and khaki pants. From the description he'd been given over the phone, this could only be Ulf Johnson.
Dustin had Googled the name, of course, and found out what the internet had to tell him about the man. A Private Investigator, and apparently a good one. There had been some article about the man having been in the police force and retiring early; something about the stresses of the job, but Dustin hadn't had the time to read it.
Dustin opened the door, putting on a friendly smile as he did so.
"Hey, good to meet you! I'm sure you probably know already, but I'm Dustin."
Dustin offered his hand. He had learned long ago to modify his strength when shaking hands; even before becoming divinely empowered, he had been much bigger and stronger than most other people.
"Please, come on in. There's food out if you're hungry. Can I offer you anything to drink as well? I've got pretty much everything."
Ulf takes his hand and shakes it, looking the man in the eye. His eyes are an amber brown. "Dustin." he greets. "I'm Ulf Jonnson, thank you for agreeing to see us tonight." he wipes his shoes off on the doormat before walking into the house. "A nice house you have here. Good neighborhood."
He walks into the house, his expression placid, but his eyes are sharp and flit over everything with an analytical focus. "Food sounds good." he says, absent-mindedly. "I hope there's still some chicken penne left. I'll take a beer."
Nice place. Humble on the outside, very well kept inside. Man takes pride in his personal accomplishments but doesn't want to brag. Doesn't look like he's remodeled the floorplans for the kitchen or living room, though.
Ulf walks through to the dining room, almost as if he knew the layout of the house already. Once there, he withdraws a thick folder from the inside of his trenchcoat and sets it down. "For our meeting." he says, pulling up a chair and taking a seat.
He spreads his hands as he looks Dustin over. "Well, I would wager that we have questions, but I think we should wait until everyone arrives so there won't be time wasted repeating ourselves. But on a personal note... how long have you been, how would you say, *in* the know?" he asks.
Dustin smiled and shook his hand. Ulf's comment tugged at his awareness a bit.
How the hell did he know what food I got?
Dustin decided not to make anything out of it. There'd be time for that later.
"I've got a lot of options for you brew-wise, my friend. I have a couple of beers on tap, an Imperial Red and a Belgian Golden, and a pretty wide range of bottles. What's your poison? Are you an IPA guy? Or more of a domestic type?"
Dustin made his way over to his kegorator, thankful for the excuse to pour himself a glass. As he was waiting for Ulf to reply, he poured some of his Imperial Red into a frosted bouncer mug from the nearby freezer; Dustin liked his glasses cold.
"You're not wrong about the questions, but yeah, I think it's best to wait til everyone's here. On that personal note...not long, really. Maybe a month? It's...I don't know, man, it was definitely a lot to take in. I mean, I just played football and worked out and tried to be a good guy, you know? And all of a sudden, a for freaking real God comes and tells me I'm his kid. Which is, honestly, cuckoo-bananas. Like, my mom's a dentist. My dad was a programmer for Apple. He's retired. He likes to play golf. And all of a sudden I've got a biological father I've never met and since he said what's up, I can just about bench a semi."
Dustin cut himself off. He hadn't told anything of what had happened to him to anyone, and it felt so damn good to finally be able to say something about it he felt he'd talk forever. He took a long draw from his beer, though, and waited for a response.
"Domestic's fine." Ulf replies. "Cold?"
As Dustin talks, Ulf listens patiently, his eyes watching the man talk and paying attention to the man's expressions. When Dustin finished, he nods. "Your abilities sound pretty outlandish too. I've only been aware for about a week or so. I've not noticed myself benching any cars lately, but I've been able to balance on a half-inch post without difficulty and shoot the bullseye on a target fifty yards away... around a corner." he shrugs. "looks like we all get different gifts."
Dustin reached into his cooler, pulling out a Budweiser. He popped the top off with his thumb, then grabbed one of his chilled mugs and poured for Ulf before proffering the glass.
"Well, unless we share the same parent, that makes sense, I guess. Uh...we don't, do we? My...father, I guess, didn't really clue me in on what's going on with...the rest of us."
Ulf takes a drink before setting the glass down. "Mine didn't give me much but a pat on the back and a few files. Of course that's more useful to me than an explanation, so maybe he knew me better than I estimated."
"Thor, right?" Ulf asks, taking another sip. "Heimdall's mine."
Dustin nodded.
"I'm getting the feeling they all know us better than we'd think, really. So...Heimdall. Guess I shouldn't try to beat you in hold'em, then. Anything really whacky you've been able to do yet? Aside from, you know, the around the corner thing."
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"Gave my dog some of my blood, after reading a bit about our lineage." Ulf replies, chuckling to himself. "I've never seen Torg drag my couch across the apartment before."
He shrugs. "I've not done something extremely supernatural, but I've learned a few tricks... and I have a gun that shoots rainbows." he sighs. "Lame, I know, but at least it still sounds like a goddamn gun."
"Rainbows?"
Far from mocking, Dustin's tone was full of wonder. He whistled appreciatively.
"You'll have to fill me in on the whole feeding blood thing; I think I missed that part from the Prose Edda. I do kind of really want to see the rainbow gun, though. I actually got sort of a bunch of toys. A sword that...well, I don't know what to say, exactly, other than I'm sort of scared of it. I'm not only stronger than human, now...I'm tougher, too. Maybe not with your gun, but I feel like I could get shot by a pistol and just have it bounce off. But I feel like that sword...well. I don't want to get cut by it. I got a belt that makes me even stronger, a runestone for...I don't really know what, and kind of a rad vest that somehow makes me even tougher.
It's just...what the hell are we supposed to use these things for? Wait...sorry. Wait until everyone else is here."
Dustin took a long sip of his beer.
"Did you drive down from San Francisco?"
Ulf nods, adjusting his glasses. "Yes. I have a place near my office."
"I've only shot the gun once. But It's hard to get a range to myself, and I don't play sloppy with gun control. But... Yeah, I'm eager to get some time to practice with it and get a feel for what it's capable of." He slowly pulls the gun from his holster and ejects the clip, showing Dustin the chunk of rainbow crystal that replaced most of the magazine.
"I think it's from the Bifrost, if my weekend wikipedia searches are accurate enough." he says, sliding the clip back into the gun and working the slide. Dustin sees a faint shimmering bullet-shaped gleam of light materialize in the chamber a split second before the slide closes.
He puts the gun away and hesitates. "Did you try a knife test?" he asks. "Poked yourself with a regular kitchen knife? It would be a good idea to find out just how invulnerable you are before we get into any major conflicts." Ulf looks momentarily distracted, the muscles in his limbs twitching, as if he's suddenly remembering an encounter he had. "There are some nasty things out there, and you know what they say about being able to see monsters... right?"
Dustin nodded, a bit grim.
"I did some theater growing up. If you can see the audience, they can see you. Same thing with monsters, really."
Dustin suppressed the urge to shiver. Mythology and folklore were rife with tails of horrific monstrosities. He didn't look forward to meeting them.
"I haven't really tested much out, besides my strength. But...well, I was cooking the other day. Had something going in the oven. Wasn't really paying attention, and I just reached in and grabbed the baking pan with my bare hand. It was still hot, but it didn't hurt, really. My skin didn't burn at all.
I jumped off my roof the other day, too. Felt like nothing at all. I don't know how much I can take, really...but you bring up a good point. Maybe we should find a way to check."
Dustin took out a large knife he used to cut fruit at his bar (hey, sometimes people like fresh limes). It was well cared for, and Dustin gingerly poked his finger with the point. Taking care not to use his enhanced strength, Dustin then dragged the blade along his forearm with no noticeable marks.
"Well", he said, breath a touch ragged, "I suppose that's something."
"We've all got things we're going to discover about ourselves. I haven't had to eat in, like, 7 days?" he admits. "Usually I skip a meal because I'm working but I'd still feel the hunger, you know? This, I'm only just now getting hungry..." he raises an eyebrow. "Oh, that reminds me." he says. "Penne? And a slice of pizza, if I could impose."
If someone was to take a bird’s eye view of a particular Sherman Oaks neighbourhood that late afternoon - say, with a drone, if they ignored the no-fly rule - they might have noticed a black SUV doing elaborate loops through the streets, stopping occasionally. The car was Erika's, and the stops, ostensibly to ask for directions. But who needs directions when you have Google Maps, right? Erika has long ago perfected her cold, piercing gaze, the one that says ‘if you're guilty of something, I will know’. It made people nervous. And nervous people… they tend to babble. She now waited patiently for people to babble their way through all they knew about Dustin Reinhard - fact and rumour alike. Which wasn't a lot, but Erika abhorred being unprepared.
Five minutes before seven, the SUV pulls up a street away from Dustin’s house, and Erika pulls down the mirror for one last flight check. Make-up, check; glasses, check; severe-looking business suit… eh, check. It was sitting a little strangely on her, courtesy of the bulletproof vest underneath, but you wouldn't be able to tell unless you knew her well. Being a prosecutor was hardly the kind of profession to endear one to angry people with guns, and it would have been foolish to not take some precautions. And speaking of guns… check. After all, there was no reason to trust someone just because they were the descendant of a living god, right? She was still a little stunned by that part; it was a bit late in life to have such world-shattering revelations about one's parentage, but things were what they were. Although it was nice to get confirmation that she really was special, had been all along - and not the kind of ‘special’ with air quotes and a sneer that some of her more mean-spirited colleagues used to describe her when they thought she was out of earshot.
Finally satisfied, Erika exits the car, locks it and strides up the sidewalk towards her destination, timing her arrival for seven sharp. And stopping in her tracks when she notices that someone else was being punctilious about punctuality. Then recognition kicks in and she has to fight the impulse of letting her jaw drop. What is Ulf doing here, and what's with that outfit? Punctuality be dawned, she’ll wait a couple more minutes before making her appearance. Let's say… 7:03. Ding dong.
Dustin started out of his reverie.
"Oh! Of course, I'll put together a plate for you, my pleasure. I know what you mean, though. I've been eating regularly out of habit but...I don't really get hungry anymore."
Dustin moved into the kitchen, which was quite open and visible from where Ulf reclined.
"Chalk it up to discipline, though. I've been an athlete for so long that five meals a day is pretty much habit. I have noticed that what little body fat I have seems to have been melting away, though. It feels weird...like my body is becoming something else."
Dustin moved efficiently, putting the requested food on a plate and gathering up a napkin and some utensils and bringing it to Ulf.
"Getting drunk has become an entirely too difficult matter. Not that I overindulge, mind, but if you couldn't tell from my bar, I enjoy the finer stuff and a nice beer or scotch when I'm winding down for the day. Three days ago I broke down and finally decided to find out what I was going to need to get a buzz. I went through about half a keg before I started getting fuzzy."
At the bell, Dustin excused himself to Ulf, then made his way to the door again. Peering through, he saw a rather professional looking woman. Dustin opened the door, smiling in much the same way as he had for Ulf.
"Welcome! Please, come on in. I'm Dustin, nice to meet you."
Again, he offered his hand.
"Make yourself at home. One of us has already arrived, he's in the dining room. There's food if you're hungry, and I'd be happy to get you whatever you'd like to drink."
Ulf stands as Erika enters the dining room. "Miz Erlingsson." the investigator says. "Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat."
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You'd been looking forward to this for months...for years, really. You showed patience well beyond your years, not buying things with the money you earned, scrimping and saving and sacrificing, and it was all about to pay off. Tomorrow, you would be eighteen.
Tomorrow, you would get out of this hellhole and never look back.
For once, you were grateful that your “parents” were conservative. They had smartphones, but were hardly proficient. Thankfully, you had long ago memorized your adopted father's credit card number, never using it until earlier today when you bought a plane ticket online. You had to be careful and time it right. He looked at his credit card statement at the end of every week.
Thankfully, your birthday this year was on a Tuesday.
You decided to chance sneaking out at night. You wound your way down to the beach, board in tow. The stars were shining and the water was warm tonight. There was a spring in your stride, and some of the worries you had been struggling with seemed to slide away from you.
As you made your way down to a remote patch of beach only frequented by locals, you were surprised to see a woman there. She was wearing a wetsuit, already slick from the water. She was...statuesque. Beautiful, absolutely, but mature. Her hair was black and her eyes a shocking gray.
She turned to you as you approached, a smile ready on her face...and as you came near, you couldn't help but think that she was looking into you, that you were bare before her.
And her face fell, tears welling in her eyes. She could only whisper, and even so it was like the breeze after a storm.
”Oh, my beautiful boy, what have they done to you?”
And you could not help but begin to cry.
She held you, and that was the first time in your life that you knew, to the marrow of your bones, that you were loved.
Once you recovered, you talked. You spoke of impossible things, things that you could not help but believe. This was your mother, in the flesh, and she was, of all things, a Goddess. The sea was hers, and that, more than anything, made you believe.
She told you how sorry she was that she couldn't be there for you. That you had suffered for it. Still, she said, better this way. At least you were alive. With her, you would have been a target, and easy food for Titanspawn. No, Scions had to live in the World, first. They had to be a part of it to care.
Your mother explained to you that she had not come merely to meet you. Ragnarok was coming, and she was a part of the Aesir, now, and glad for it. She needed you. Your true family needed you.
Your mother gave you gifts, items to help you along your way, and instructed you to head out to California. There, you would receive a call from a man named Ulf, who would give you a meeting place. You would meet others like you. You would have the opportunity to grow, to make true friends and, at last, be accepted for who you are.
Erika shakes the offered hand firmly, noting, and approving of, the restrained strength of Dustin’s grip. She had met entirely too many men who had made a good attempt at crushing her hand, like they had something to prove.
”Good evening, Mr. Reinhard, pleasure to meet you. My name is Erika Erlingsson.” She takes in his red hair, blue eyes, impressive build… oh yes, she can definitely spot the family resemblance, but she is unsure if it would be polite to mention it, so she doesn't. Walking past Dustin and into the living room, she greets Ulf with a genuine smile. ”Ah, d- Mr. Jonnson, what a pleasant surprise! How have you been?”
She had been about to call him ‘detective', but perhaps best not to out his profession, just in case. Sweeping an appraising gaze over what is visible of the first floor, she notes the neatness - another thing that gains her approval, although he probably employs some poor Latina woman to clean for him. When offered drinks and food, she settles for a soda and a few slices of pizza, however incongruous that might be with her neat, professional look.
Dustin noted the exchange, surprised.
"Oh, you two know each other?"
He settled back at his bar, sipping his beer slowly. He had taken no food for himself yet.
Chase didn't have any idea what the States were going to be like, not really. America had always seemed like it was too big to be real, and too many things all at once: decadent and prudish, stuck in the past and obsessed with the future, cowboys and Indians and skyscrapers and NASA. He knew that regadless the first thing he was going to do when he landed was buy some cowboy boots because cowboys had to be everywhere in the States, right, and he wanted to fit in best he could. He practiced his American accent the whole flight over, pronouncing every "R" in every word which seemed like an awful lot of work to do for talking.
He'd always known he was destined to get away from his parents and meeting his mother, his real mother and finding out who she was, the Sea itself--it was all starting to make sense. Everything had happened for a reason after all. In between practicing his accent he drew in his sketchbook, pictures of his new mother--they came as easily as if she was modeling for them right beside him.
The States were not exactly what Chase had expected. No cowboys, for one, though he still insisted on buying a cowboy hat and boots the moment he found a store that sold them. A lot less guns than he had thought there would be too--only the police officers and security guards seemed to be carrying them, though he wondered if maybe everybody just hid theirs? He wondered if the relics that his mother had given him would be any good against a gun--he had gotten the spear through customs by calling it a curio which the officer had somehow accepted with a nod and a shrug but the thing looked like it had been dragged up from the bottom of the sea--and if wikipedia was right maybe it had been--his mother had called it Queen Anne's Revenge, which was supposed to be the name of Blackbeard's ship.
Regardless, he didn't feel too out of place in LA, especially not with his surfboard and his blonde hair in a ponytail and nobody seemed to take too much notice of him either. His style of clothing--a pale blue muscle tee and board shorts--seemed to be pretty common here even when he added the hat and boots. When he got the call from Ulf he used his dad's credit card to get a taxi--the driver said it was declined at first but Chase managed to convince him that was a mistake and the man dutifully agreed, taking him to San Fernando Valley and the home where he would meet his fellow scions.
He wondered if maybe they were movie stars. It was a pretty big house and a pretty nice neighborhood--bigger than any house he'd seen back home, by far, and all the house in the States seemed to require a garden that could've easily been a whole park back home. He thanked the driver and walked to the front door, taking a deep breath before ringing the doorbell and waiting for an answer.
Once more, Dustin padded on over to his door. Looking through the peephole, he saw an obviously quite young man. He frowned a bit...were they really bringing kids into this? Well, he supposed he was no one to judge. It wasn't like he was *that* much older, anyway.
Dustin opened the door, taking in the newcomer's appearance in a flash. He was certainly good looking.
"Hey, I guess you're here for the...thing? Come on in. Can I help you with your things? I'm Dustin, by the way. Come on, make yourself at home. There's food if you want to eat. Can I make you a plate or grab you something to drink?"
Walking past Dustin and into the living room, she greets Ulf with a genuine smile. ”Ah, d- Mr. Jonnson, what a pleasant surprise! How have you been?”
Dustin noted the exchange, surprised.
"Oh, you two know each other?"
Ulf's smile is a genuine one. "Yes. We ran into each other a few times during work." he gives her a wink. "Occupational hazard. I've been good. Adjusting took a year or so, but I was finally in the swing of things... until this-" he gestures to the three of them."-happened. How about you?"
He sits back and smiles, wondering if anyone else knew about the car that just pulled up.
"Oh, you know. Work, mostly. The usual routine, until... this." Erika smiles again, something that lights up her features in a way that belies her general serious demeanour. She turns to the door as the bell rings. "This is turning out to be quite a gathering, isn't it? I had no idea that this was even possible, and now it turns out there's... quite a few of, well, us. Huh. Still feels very strange."
Her hand drifts to her tiny purse, hanging by a chain worn diagonally across her torso. She wasn't in the habit of carrying a lot of things with her, so it had been an exercise in efficient packing to fit the bag of runes into that compact purse, but Frigg... her mother, oh gods, it was so unspeakably strange to think of her like this! had said to carry it with her at all times, so she was doing exactly that, even sleeping with it under her pillow.
As the newcomer enters, Erika gets to her feet, starting to feel a little nervous. Ulf's presence was reassuring, but here were two others that she didn't know - and didn't know what they could do. She had never been much into physical things - a bit of swimming, a bit of hiking, but that was all - and she could imagine all too vividly the kind of superpowers that other scions might have. Thanks, Marvel movies.
"G'day--I mean, hello," says Chase, doing his best attempt at an American accent before offering his hand to the impossibly tall ginger standing before him. "My name's Chazza--uh, but you can just call me Chase. Sorry, I'm fresh off the boat as it is."
Chase hands Dustin his board before following the man into the mansion. He wonders who the place belongs to--surely not the man who greeted him, who even Chase can tell must be an American Football player. Must be a tech millionaire or somebody like that. "I'd kill for both, mate," says Chase to the offer of food and drink while grinning widely. "Airline food isn't really my style. But I'd take a beer if you got one."
As he surveys the room, Chase nods and smiles at the other man and woman before unceremoniously dumping the rest of his things on the couch and sitting down on it. He wonders if the other man is the one who called him in the first place--he sort of looks like a rough cop type--Chase visibly blanches when he spots the gun, though he's a little excited as well.
"So how'd you blokes get caught up in all this?"
Dustin grinned. Like many Americans, he was a sucker for accents. He set Chase's board aside in the kitchen. He nodded at Chase's comment about airline food; back when he traveled for football, he'd had enough airline grub to last him a lifetime.
He raised an eyebrow at the request for a beer. Chase seemed a mite young, but by his accent and his words, he wasn't from the US, and the drinking age was lower in other parts of the world. Besides, Dustin had always thought it more than slightly strange that you could be old enough to own property and get married enlist in the military not but not have a beer.
Dustin went ahead and made a large plate for Chase; pasta, pizza and tots, and grabbed him a bottle of Stella Artois (he figured that would be a safe bet). He placed them in front of the young man with some utensils, then answered the questino.
"Well, I wrestled a God. No, for real. I own part of Nerdstrong, a gym in LA that's more about positive community and meeting individual goals than catering to meathead gym rats. I teach there four days a week, too. We wrap all our stuff up in geek culture trappings; I teach Crossfit and sometimes we'll do a Parkour course I call the Spider-Man workout, or intense weight work that..." Dusting grinned somewhat sheepishly "I decided to call 'Make You Thor', because it was particularly punishing and helped you get that Chris Hemsworth body. We do love our puns. Anyway, one of the other owners...who I'm staring to suspect is more than he appears...wanted to teach some neat new courses, one involving Glima, which was sort of the Viking martial art. I trained in MMA a lot growing up...not to compete, but I liked knowing how to defend myself...so I was chosen to learn from a special instructor. Dude was big as a house. Great teacher. Liked him a bunch, learned a lot, and when I was done we talked for what seemed like forever...and he said I was 'ready'. Told me who he really was, which is my dad, Thor, which is a sentence I literally cannot believe I am saying out loud. Told me sort of the broad strokes, I guess; Gods. Titans. Ragnarok. Said something about being like him but better which I didn't quite understand. And then he gave me what I can only describe as a bunch of magic items and told me to wait for a call from this guy and host a meeting."
Dustin indicated Ulf with his thumb so it would be quite clear who "this guy" was.
"What about you, Chase? And for the record, don't hide the accent, man. Americans go crazy for an accent. You'll be beating 'em off with a stick in no time, especially once you change out of those travel clothes."
Erika's brows rise as Dustin tells his story. A gym for nerds, eh? That would explain the various geeky posters and paraphernalia around his house. Huh. Hidden depths and all that.
"Glíma? I have a second cousin who does that - Pétur. He even competed in Grettisbelti, but never won. Goes to a gym called Mjölnir, of all things. Huh."
Dustin's a good guy. Young, to own a home and be single, but he's got a bit of money. His parents were well of themselves, but not like filthy rich. Doesn't seem to effect Dustin, though. He's a good neighbor; keeps up with the rules the HOA has in the neighborhood. He has friends come over once or twice a week. Occasionally a neighbor on a walk has seen him bring men and women home that left the next morning with messy hair and wide grins, but seldom has it been the same person twice in a row.
He's not especially handy, but if his neighbors need something he's happy to help. He came to the Fourth of July neighborhood cookout earlier in the year and spent time making burgers. He brought several kegs that he paid for himself and donated to the party.
He never brings up his past as a pro-athlete himself, but is always happy to talk about it when someone else does. Always positive and kind.
Dustin stroked his beard a bit, thinking on Erika's words.
"I actually saw Mjölnir. Thor showed it to me. Doesn't really look like it does in the movies or the comics; little surprise there, though, that they wouldn't be super accurate. What's the...what was it, Grettisbelti?"
"Oh, it's the Icelandic glíma championship, has been going on for over a hundred years. It's a pretty big thing over there." Her eyes unfocus for a moment. "You know, I am starting to realize how much of the old ways are still kept there. I didn't pay it much mind when I was visiting, but now the pieces are starting to add together. Many people over there still believe in elves and trolls, you know that the Ministry of Public Works actually diverted the construction of a road so as not to disturb some elves living in a rock? True story. And the old gods, you know, the Norse pantheon is still worshipped there by some people, they have blót feasts and a temple and everything." She lets out a short laugh. "A woman I dated over a summer even tried to convert me."
She shakes her head and grows serious again as she reaches into her purse and withdraws a worn leather bag that emits muted clunks. "And then there's these. Many people have them, use them to cast fortunes and whatnot. But these, these are the real thing." She pours out a handful of smoothly polished flat stones, each inscribed with a different rune. "My mother blessed them. My other mother... you know, Frigg." She looks at Dustin with a half-grin on her face. "I guess that makes me your step-aunt or something."
Dustin rubbed his temples.
"Yikes. I think if we try to keep track of who's related to who and how, my head will explode."
Dustin finished his beer, then rinsed the glass and poured himself another. Before sitting back down he made himself a plate, eating more from pleasure and habit than necessity.
"Iceland, huh? Maybe we should visit, if we can. Get in touch with our Viking roots, or something?"
Dustin, of course, did not bat an eyelash at Erika's comment. He himself was attracted to people equally regardless of gender, and even were that not the case, it's hard to be homophobic growing up next to West Hollywood.
Ulf shrugs after hearing everyone's conversation wander along. "As far as the old ways go, we have days of the week named after our parents. That's pretty impressive, if you think about it."
To Chase, Ulf gestures offhandedly. "I found out about all this gods stuff shortly after running into a Werewolf. I wish I was kidding." he says, his normally placid expression looking frustrated.
Dustin's jaw dropped a bit.
"Come on, man, you can't bury the lede like that! There are freaking werewolves?"
A week ago, that may have made you sad. It wasn't missing out on money or adulation that would have bothered you; those were never really motivations. But when you had been Red Sonja, you were called a feminist icon. Women looked up to you. They felt empowered, and that had been one of the best feelings of your life.
What lay ahead of you, however, dwarfed all that.
It had been Saturday night. You were just about done with your clinic hours at the Planned Parenthood, when one woman slipped into your office. She hadn't been brought in by a nurse. You asked if you could help her, and she just smiled.
She was...not older, exactly, but there was a maturity and confidence to her. She was simply stunning, and you couldn't help but think the two of you looked rather alike.
Instead of telling you of medical needs, she asked about you. About your research into Parkinson's. About the talks for the new movie. About a half dozen other things that she couldn't possibly have known about unless she was you.
This would have put you on your guard, normally, but you found yourself answering back openly, and even found yourself enjoying the conversation. After a bit, she smiled and said she would see you soon, and she was gone.
The next day, you had a meeting scheduled with prospective producers for Red Sonja 2. When you got to the studio's offices, though, that same woman was meeting you in the boardroom. She was just as lovely as before, but more severe, now. She explained to you that the movie would not be made...
And then she told you why.
She presented it all to you like an executive pitching a script, and in a sense, that's exactly what she was. She told you everything, of course. That she was your mother...why she'd taken an interest in your father. She told you more than once how truly proud of you she was for what you had done. Many with your privilege just bought a bigger house in the Hamptons...you were using your privilege to extend it to others.
Freya had one main reason for coming into contact with you, and it was this; within a decade, perhaps far sooner, the world would come to an end. Many of the Gods would be dead and Fate was not clear whether or not the Titans would once again hold sway.
Several others like you were being called together for the purpose of doing what they can to aid the Aesir and Midgard. There were those who would eventually possess strength of enough to shatter mountains; there would some whose eyes could seek out any foe or secret; some so potent they could summon the powers of Fate itself to do their bidding. And that was all well and good. They would be needed.
But so would you.
The world would break. Even before the end, brother would turn against brother and the hearts of man would darken. Freya could not tell you if any of Midgard would survive Ragnarok, but she dearly hopes that it is so. But if nothing is done, the mortals that survive could easily become no better than the Titanspawn that now walked the earth.
Mankind would need hope. Someone to tell them that though the path was dark, there was still a way forward. Mankind would need a healer. Someone to ease their pains and protect them from the ravages of a world gone mad.
Mankind would need you.
You felt in this a true calling, and though it seemed mad, you knew it for the truth, and your new life has begun.
Your mother granted you some divine gifts and told you to expect contact from another like you. A few weeks later, a man named Ulf Johnson, identifying himself as a fellow Scion, has called you, and asked that you attend a meeting of Scions in the San Fernando Valley. That is where you are headed now, to follow the thread of Fate where it will lead, and save and inspire all you can along the way.
As the gathering progresses and the werewolf penny drops, a silver Lexus NX hybrid SUV passes the house, turns around, slows at the sidewalk on the far side, then stops. The driver's side door opens and a woman steps out carefully, practical pumps first, followed by a startling red dress that matches her slightly curly red hair - almost like burnished copper. She has the large sunglasses that most Hollywood types wear when avoiding paparazzi, and she glances up and down the street before crossing quickly to the large home where the children of gods and goddesses cavort.
As she comes under the awning at the front door she removes the sunglasses and glances in through one of the windows, then carefully presses the doorbell.
Imagine for a moment that you were having a football party with your friends, who told you that the Percy Jackson books were all real, and then Scarlett Johansson rang the doorbell and said that she'd been invited to your party. That is, in a nutshell, what just happened.
Dustin went to the door at the bell, looking through the peephole...and the surprise at his door somehow hit him harder than all the others combined. Gods and monsters are real? He'd always wanted to believe that. Son of Thor? Sure! Werewolves? Trippy but sort of neat.
But standing out of his front door was Chloé freaking Marthaler. He had a poster of Red Sonja framed in his bedroom...which he silently vowed to absolutely, under no circumstances, allow her to see.
He shook his head.
Come on, dude, you've met celebrities before. Sort of were one yourself for a minute.
He opened the door adopting another smile.
"Hi! Glad you could make it. Please, come in, make yourself at home. I'm Dustin. Your reputation sort of proceeds you, at least with me. Big fan of your work!"
Dustin extended his hand as he had to everyone else so far. His father had always drilled into him that a firm but not overly powerful handshake said a lot about a person.
"Come on in, make yourself at home. There's food if you need it. Can I get you anything to drink as well?"
That, at least, provided him something to hang onto. He could at least be a good host, and the helped him maintain some semblance of normalcy amidst this madness.
"Thank you for inviting me into your charming home," she says as she steps carefully over the threshold. She extends her hand and then instead of taking his, she places it on his arm and says, "Won't you introduce me to your other guests?"
* She wears, in the deep neckline of her dress, a necklace with a diamond centerpiece surrounded by blood-red rubies. It could probably make several of his mortgage payments. Even a former jock like Dustin knows that you only wear the rich rocks at the society galas and the red-carpet affairs, which screams "relic" to him.
* Her hand is warm and soft and there's a small scar between two of the knuckles that just seems to humanize her even more instead of seeing like a blemish. It is a touch that feels like it could invoke or banish a fever, depending on the whims of the lady.
Dustin nods, smiling. He notes several things about her, adding them in to his estimation of the woman. He rather gallantly (at least, he hopes) guides him to the dining room where everyone else is gathered.
"Of course, I'd be delighted to. Here we have Erika Erlingsson. The gentleman in the tie is Ulf Johnson, and rounding us out right now is Chase O'Connor. Oh, uh, Reinhard is my last name. Friends, this is Chloé Marthaler, if you didn't already know. We've just been getting to know each other a bit, at least within the bounds of our...unique situation. Sort of figuring out who's who. So I'll just reiterate the insane sentence I've only said out loud a couple of times; Thor's my dad."
"Chloé Marthaler. Thank you for coming to this meeting, please, have a seat if you wish. We were just discussing an encounter I had with a werewolf." he says, his face entirely serious.
He gets up from the seat, refreshes his beer and sits back down. "I ran into it before I met Heimdall, mind you. So all I have is my old thirty-eight and some foul language to sling at it and I was certain that the thirty-eight wasn't going to cut it, so I ducked out and ran my ass off. It gave chase, and it wasn't like some man or simple movie monster. It was fast, moved from ground to walls to the rooftops of the buildings and even barreled through a chain link fence like it was one of those rice paper walls from those foreign flicks."
He sips at his beer. "Chased me right up to the golden gate bridge. That's when I met Heimdall. He scared the werewolf off with a stern look."
The detective shakes his head. "I really need to get myself a stern look like that. Make questioning people easier than ordering pizza."
Dustin whistled low.
"Damn. That's...damn. Why were you going up against a werewolf, though?"
Chase eagerly devours the pizza and downs the beer as he talks, occasionally stopping to wipe food from his mouth. "Yeah, you yanks really do like the accent, don't you? We've almost run out of Hemsworths to send you." says Chase with a grin. "Wait, are the boots not good? The boots and the hat were the first thing I got when I landed. I thought they'd help me fit in but LA doesn't seem to be cowboy country."
"I had gone down for a surf and there was this woman there--it was like I already knew her. And she already knew me--she was me mum, I mean me real mum, it turned out. Ran, the goddess of the sea, which I guess explains why I like surfing so much, you know? Anyway, I believed it right away--I've always seen weird things about, you know, and talking to her made me realize it wasn't just because I was wacko. I was planning on coming to the States anyways so when I got the call it all worked out right good."
"Oh my god, it's Red Sonja!" says Chase, hopping off of the couch upon seeing Chloe. He scrambles in his bag before producing his sketchpad and a drawing pencil and flipping to a blank page. "Could I get your autograph?"