infomodder | IC contact [Mask or Menace]

Sometimes the gods forget that.

[That people can't be perfect, that things go wrong outside of people's control, because her gods lean a little more towards perfection, even if they aren't infallible like some.

She remembers hearing other Valkyries - born Valkyries - and people who resided in Asgard, that certain gods were a lot more difficult to please than others. Ones who wouldn't accept any failure, but most would understand.

As for getting drunk:]

'Bout a month ago? Balthazar had real Asgardian mead.

[There's - something in her voice, in the way she takes a drink, but she's trying not to acknowledge that fact that she actually misses a damn angel.]

It'd been a while before that.

[Gods existing alongside other gods, their followers outright admitting that weather can just be weather, the idea of deities forgetting—all nothing he's used to. It continues to leave him torn, provokes two very different responses despite his lack of religious involvement. Perhaps they've talked about it too much, though. It all seems to be something she doesn't share often, doesn't have anyone to share with it. He's fine with sharing, truly, but perhaps it's best to veer course.

...somewhat difficult when the mead goes right back to Asgard, damn.]

Is there a recipe that makes it real or was a little travel involved? [How the hell (Hel?) does anyone get to Asgard, he doesn't know. The way his knees close in on each other and he leans against them further isn't nervousness now that the sound of thunder is gradually getting closer and this conversation is happening, no way. Certainly not. That would be silly.] Can you make it on your own?

It was probably from Heiðrún.

[The expression on her face is one of a little caution, because she knows how this next bit is going to sound and sometimes people can be a little weird about it.

But Will seems a bit less likely to be freaked out.]

She's a goat, the mead in Valhalla comes from her udders.

[yeah]

[He's not quite sure what the face is for, first assuming that maybe the word she just said was something that would take a lot of explanation she wasn't sure how to go about. That in his attempt to get away from too much more explanations of home, he'd gone and asked a question that flew in the face of it. And then—ah. Ah.

He doesn't laugh, exactly. Nostrils flare as he exhales quickly, but there's no sound of real laughter.]

Most of the goats I ran across were ornery, made me wonder why anyone raised them. [Not weird to Will, not one bit.] If all goats produced mead instead of milk, wouldn't wonder that at all.

[The beer goat sounds fucking awesome, in short.]

[It's a better reaction she gets from most people, proper laugh or not, and she manages a wry smile in return.]

They ain't too bad if you know how to handle 'em. Problem is people let the bloody things push 'em around, and then they think they're in charge.

[She's done a lot of farming and living off the land, and that has occasionally included owning goats.]

[Goat farming is not a dead. Unlike, in his world, certain deities. Religions. Those have certainly shifted, but people still use goats the same as they did before he was even thought of.]

Same with dogs. [He indicates his, muddy and apparently asleep, seemingly the opposite of ornery, ill-behaved, or thinking he's in charge.] But they don't have horns and they're not prone to headbutting.

[No, they just have fangs that can do damage if someone gets on the wrong side, and they piss all over everything to let the world know it's theirs, and they destroy entire houses if they have superpowers, and yet they're so sweet, awww.]

Rather be headbutted than have my throat ripped out.

[Not that she has any problems with dogs, she likes them, but she isn't inclined to forget where they came from and what they're capable of.]

[The look that crosses his face—he is the weariest, most burdened man in the world in this moment. Not that people don't call his shit out for what it is back home, of course, but it's usually much ruder or in much more complicated manners, involving metaphors and similes that crumble apart halfway through but they keep on anyway.]

Rather be headbutted if I knew mead was attached instead of just milk.

[So there.]

[oh will]

Not a fan of milk?

[And now she's just mocking him a little, teasing, because they've had enough a somber mood for now, she thinks.]

Not if there's an alcoholic alternative, no.

[There's one in his hand right now, one that is a little much for someone to finish in a single go—or not, apparently. There it goes. Thunder's getting closer, he's had a few unfriendly thoughts related to a god who's all about the storms and lightning in the presence of a Valkyrie, but there's no fear that that counts for anything in this world.

The way he looks at her, though: I know what you're doing, Kara, let my face tell you that much.]

[She just shrugs; she doesn't care if he knows what she's doing, it's not like being subtle has ever been her kind of thing.]

Could be baileys in the milk.

[What.]

[Well, if she's going to be like that, Will can return it. He certainly can. He frequently deals with April Ludgate, sometimes a vampire queen, sometimes a human, always ready to spout bullshit and slowly growing prepared for Will to bring it up later. He can roll with this.]

That's the reason I buy my own milk and put my name on the jugs. One of my roomies found that out the hard way.

[The breakfast of champions is alcoholic cereal. Also this never happened.

The single drop of rain that manages to hit the knee of his pants did happen, but it's ignored. Stop begging for attention, Thor.]

[Kara looks up at the sky as a raindrop hits her cheek, frowning as if that might make it go away.]

I'm gonna hav'ta start coming over for breakfast.

[If there's boozy cereal involved.]

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