armours | (no subject)

Noah has been an outcast his entire life. It's hard to say which is worse. Is it being an outcast because you are a sickly, dying thing and people either make fun of you or pity you? Is it being an outcast because you are mostly demon and have done so many terrible things you can never hope to make up for them? It's likely the second that is worse. He's gotten in more than a few fights since he returned to Valhalla. It's mostly been defending himself. He has a temper, but his sense of guilt towards the people in this city... it's astronomical.

As an outcast, he takes his food on a plate, and he sits outside on the steps leading up to the main hall, away from the rest of the people inside who celebrate, who congratulate each other. It's easier this way. No one wants to sit at a table with him, and it's not as though he can blame them. At least as a kid, he just sat at a corner... sometimes with his father, sometimes not. His father is now dead too. He was no warrior, but it was likely the loss of his wife and his... son which did him in. It's quite a lot for a man with such a big heart as his father had to come to grips with.

It's been over a year now since he's been back.

It's another regret. It's another sin to add to the rest.

He takes a goblet full of mead, drinking that back. It clangs awkwardly on the step.

Threaded | Flat

Elin isn't here all that often, she has a job to do after all, and it isn't really one that allows for much time off. Still, there are days when she needs to go out, when she needs to make lists of who's next. It's always a little morbid if you ask her, and she prefers not to think about that side of things. Far too messy.

Of all the realms to visit though, she's always drawn to Valhalla. It's hardly surprising really, not when her childhood had been full of stories. It always seemed so magical, so unreal. But that was before her life turned into a story of its own.

She tends not to get in the middle of things, keeping to the sidelines and disappearing into the surroundings. Easy when you're dead, of course. A funny knack that people seem to pick up when they're no longer breathing.

It's before he leaves the hall that she spots him, and a few minutes after he leaves that she follows him out. She knows what it's like, not to really fit in, not to have a place. She knows how that feels. And so she walks up towards him, gentle heels clicking on the stone ground before she stops and sits herself down on the step next to him, her lemon coloured sundress pulled up under her knees.

"Worried someone'll nick your drink if you stay in there?"