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Who: Deucalion, OPEN

What: Arrival shenanigans

Where: Outside of the Valhalla Inn

When: 7/11 in the evening

Notes: your face

Warnings: my face

Deucalion’s arrival was spontaneous, unexpected, and unexplained. Once again, he’d been thrown out of the womb of the world he once knew, and into someplace entirely unfamiliar and strange. While there were certain similarities to the world he called “home,” he realized that it was not identical. This was not home. It wasn’t New Orleans, Austria, Tibet, or anywhere he’d been for that matter.

Prior to his arrival, Deucalion had been in "a mood." Jonathan Harker had been killed and after a quick visitation to Detective Connor’s home, he had move on. Back to the depths of the cities, back to the shadows. It wasn’t exactly a life he regretted or brooded over, but it wasn’t one he reveled in either. He existed, he explored, and he controlled his rage. The last element, the most important, as difficult as it was. Finally, by doing all of these things, he worked his way closer to bringing down Victor Helios, Frankenstein. The process was long and strenuous. 200 years had gone by and he still hadn’t achieved his goal, and now, more than ever, he was moving closer to it.

But also, now there was a setback. He’d been torn from his duties, without reason, without explanation. His instinct was far beyond the extent of simply being “upset.” It was maddening, there was no doubtin that. However, he almost instantly realized there was nothing he could do about it. Not at the moment. His only explanation he could currently give was that this was a result of fate. It angered him, yes but if he let the anger overcome him, he would begin this life as he began his last. The overwhelming sensation of fear, images of the mob, and triggered flashbacks enveloped him.

It wasn’t worth it.

Furthermore, Deucalion didn't feel it was necessary to waste his time on the communicator. He had found very little merit in using a cellphone and hardly saw it necessary to spend his first moments in this new world, talking to an inanimate handheld device. After keeping his hood up, head down, and generally too himself whilst roaming the halls of the inn, he headed outside. It was conveniently nighttime and for this reason, he almost instantly felt more at home. Though, the shadows of this world were hardly as familiar. A hulking silhouette of a figure would still be easy to spot in his current position. The alleyways and darkened corners of New Orleans were so far, preferable. Perhaps in time, he would grow accustomed to this place.

Assuming everything he'd learned in the provided pamphlet wasn't a lie.

Only time will tell.

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Today has been an eventful day -- Wanda has also only recently turned up, and this is a far cry from the seaside house she was in just prior. She emerges from the Inn a few minutes after Deucalion, and stops outside its doors, the pamphlet in hand. She looks up at the Inn, and then over at the other pedestrian.

Whose appearance is fairly on the remarkable side, from what she can see in the dim light, but--really, no one is more accustomed to that than a mutant.

She considers him for a moment, and then tilts her head in a wryly affable sort of greeting.

"May I ask you a question?"

Deucalion was instantly withdrawn from his thoughts with the sound of Wanda's voice. He turns to face her, somehow managing to keep the majority of his face under the shadow of his hood. It is an "art" he's mastered throughout the years. Though he's come to terms with caring less about how the general public sees him, it is better in circumstances like this (in lesser known territory), to stay on the down-low.

His overall demeanor doesn't necessarily come off as exactly friendly, but that's just his natural vibe. It's nothing intentional and he certainly isn't going to brush off the first chance he gets at speaking with someone. Deucalion may not be the most social of creatures, but in this case, socializing may actually work in his favor.

"Only under the condition that given the opportunity, I may as well," he gently responds, the tone clashing with his otherwise overbearing appearance.

"Fair enough," she says, agreeably. She lifts the pamphlet, which has been folded and re-folded from her previous attempts to read between its lines.

"Am I actually supposed to be reassured by the welcoming literature?"

One might think that Remy's sense of humor is rubbing off on her, but no, she's really just learned to adapt to all this strangeness in her life with droll commentary and questions that are as information-seeking as they are wry. The question also reveals that she's just barely gotten there, too, so at least they've both got company in that particular boat.

She had a point.

Deucalion first read the pamphlet is nothing more than an informative digest of his situation. The somewhat Utopian philosophy it pressed was almost immediately apparent and like most tales of Utopia, was far more disconcerting than it was reassuring.

With that in mind, he responds, "Visions of Utopia often result in dystopia." After a beat and a moment's consideration, he continues, "The pamphlet seems to imply that via demands and threats, it will somehow be reassuring. Which it isn't."

"Have you as well, recently arrived?"

"Just now. You, too, I take it." She glances out at the night again, wondering what this particular city's story will be. There's always something, from clocks buried deep underground and guarded by monsters, to the constant flux and chaos of the nexuses. Wanda no longer believes she's ever sent to these places for reasons like coincidence; they're all chosen, deliberately.

"This is... very far from home. Dimensions away, specifically." That much she can feel, with her magical aptitude (however twisted it's become over the years).

Deucalion nods at her question about whether he just arrived. Like Wanda, he too believes that everyone here was chosen. Though, whether it was by some actual physical being of this earth--he's skeptical. Deucalion believes in a greater power. Whether or not it's the Judaic or Christian Almighty God, he can't say. But he is confident that it exists. And whatever it is, isn't of this earth. It distributes souls and drives destiny.

Destiny could be a very likely explanation for their arrival.

Her words certainly pique his attention, or more specifically, her wording.

"Dimensions?" He asks, not a hint of doubt in his voice. More so, there's intrigue. "How can you be sure?"

It's taking Njoki less time than she'd originally anticipated to get used to the ebb and flow of Baedal's energies, but she still spends a portion of each night running to reinforce her connection to the city. She's come to recognize the various hotspots of (un)dead activity and while investigating them has been shocked by the sheer variety on display.

Now, as she winds down on her run and approaches the Inn, she's able to scent out something new and unusual.

Awkward glances and side-eyeing are the least of Deucalion's worries, and frankly, nothing new to him. Regardless, when somebody nearby is so blatantly and unrelentingly doing just that... it's hard not to address. Besides, there is a certain merit to not ignoring the accused.

For one, indulging in this does provide a form of mild entertainment. And for some reason or another, blame it on the circumstances, Deucalion decides to play along this once.

"Now that you've got the gawking part out of the way, there's nothing stopping you from speaking your mind," he chides the stranger mildly. "And who knows. Perhaps I've yet to hear this observation." As he finishes, if Njoki happens to be meeting his gaze, she'll notice a very distinct flicker in his eyes. Like lightning coursing through them. Not at all subtle.

Njoki snorts, not because she's disbelieving, but because she's been startled.

"Sorry, didn't mean to intrude. I just came off a long run and my mind is a good forty feet back behind me." Still breathing heavily from the run, she seems a bit confused and curious. She saw the lightning and knows what she can scent off him, but it's still not adding up into anything she's ever come across. In the dim light, he might notice her eyes reflect green like a cat's would.

"I'm 'Ki from Earth."

Deucalion, never one to pry his eyes from someone he's speaking with, certainly does notice this. And it intrigues him to further carry on the conversation. Not that he would be so willing to drop it, especially after the sincere response he received from Njoki.

"I'm Deucalion, from Earth," he mimics, holding out one grossly oversized hand. "And you're not intruding. Given my recent arrival, I would assume that role belongs to me."

"I'm new here too," she says accepting the handshake without hesitation. Njoki shudders briefly as the hair on the back of her neck stands-up, but she controls her surprise and transformation; halting before her teeth are too sharp or her eyes too wide and dark.

"...I think I oughta be upfront here. Just to keep this easy, eh? I work in a very specialized trade and while I don't know what you've got going on, I'm picking up something that I know is none of my damn business. I'm not gonna ask, I'm not gonna do anything about it, and it's not personal." While he's considerably larger than her, Njoki is reasonable confident that if he takes this revelation poorly she'll be able to either out-run or out-fight him. "We still good?"

Perhaps 200-some years ago, Deucalion would have reacted to this encounter in an entirely different manner. Well. No. Not "perhaps." He certainly would have. However, he's almost certain that nobody back then would have used the words "none of my damn business." In fact, even in modern times, adhering to somebody's personal space and privacy is a relatively new concept.

He withdraws his hand, maintaining his steady, calm, and unflinching composure. "I'd like to know what 'specialized trade' you speak of," he calmly inquires with a distinct note of sincerity. "And I will be more than willing to accommodate any questions you may have. I can guarantee that I've likely already answered to whatever's on your mind at least once in my lifetime."

"S'fair. Most of what I do is just basic conjure -- hoodoo if you know it? -- but I've a knack for working with the dead and undead. Repairing old injuries, things like that." When you can live a few hundred years, some vampires get a bit miffy about old scars, missing limbs, and so on. "I don't raise the dead, I don't raise anything, I can just work with what's already dead and there."

Njoki is wary, but appreciates that Deucalion is taking this well.

Deucalion had never dabbled in forms of hoodoo or folk magic himself, but he knew of it. Spirituality in all its forms, had been something he'd invested great amounts of personal research on. Furthermore, spiritual practices and beliefs based around the paranormal and supernatural. After all, spiritualism was, in his own opinion, much purer and much more respectable than science.

Despite its criticism and mockery of the occult, humanity had proven to be much more destructive with its use of science.

"And so you recognize what I am?" He asks.

This is a first. He assumes Ki isn't a member of the New Race. Victor likely wouldn't have found any merit in casting a role like Njoki's in his master plan. Nevertheless, Deucalion is curious to find out just how much Ki knows about him.

"Yes and no? There's something I can recognize, but I don't know or understand what I'm getting off you." If she had to classify him, she'd guess that he's some sort of flesh-golem but the scent is all wrong. Njoki can build a patchwork body and ask (never demand) a spirit to inhabit it, but those spirits are profoundly non-human and that is certainly not what Deucalion is.

"If you're not sure yourself -- which sounds off, but happens occasionally -- I might be able to sort it out over time."

"I am grateful for your offer," he replies. "But I'm well aware of who I am." There's a pause before he continues. He doesn't mean to come off as ungrateful or sarcastic in his response because he truly does appreciate the sentiment. But given the somewhat grim nature of his origins--

"I'm a living creature, like yourself. Though I am not sure classifying myself as 'human' is appropriate." Ki did say 'from Earth' and for that reason, may very well be aware of Deucalion's "origins." But that was a work of fiction based on fact and furthermore, not something he went out to refer to unless asked.

"But my creator is likely different from your own. And as such, the way of which I was born into this world differs greatly too."

"I'd guess it would have to be." Njoki shivers again and shakes her head; partly to clear her thoughts and partly because this is a very strange conversation. "I won't deny I'm wondering all sorts of things, but my professional curiosity isn't as important as your personal comfort."

It's just not polite and not done to outright ask 'what the hell are you?'

"Personal comfort is a luxury I've long since lived without." And that was his melodramatic way of saying he didn't mind explaining. It wasn't anything he hadn't answered before and something that he'd grown used to talking about.

"I was born of an assortment of bits and pieces of cadavers robbed from a prison graveyard." Deucalion rolled up one sleeve, demonstrating evidence of what he spoke of. Though throughout time, the scarring had grown fainter, there was still an obvious ring of scar tissue around his wrist. "These hands came from a strangler." There was certainly no note of pride in his voice. "An example. If you desire further specifics, I can provide them." There was a slight emphasis on the word can, as if he were informing Ki that he was capable of doing this but would prefer not to.

"While my creator designed what you see now--in the end, it was divinity that gave me life, through a bolt of lightning." He didn't like giving Victor any sort of credit for a soul. As he hadn't intended for Deucalion to have one.

The story may have sounded familiar, Deucalion never expected it not to. But he preferred to deliver it via his own words and personal account versus the option of referring to a fictional retelling.

As if to say 'that explains it', Njoki chuffs, an odd sort of sound coming from a human, but not outside the realm of possibility.

"Huh," she says, trying to process his history. Ideally, Njoki like to keep this conversation in professional tone, and while she feels that she ought to say something useful or emphatic in response, she can't think of what the appropriate phrase would be.

"I'm not usually so stunned, but I've never heard of that. Mind do, I'm self-taught and there's so much I don't know, so that's not really unusual."

He appreciates her silence in comparison to unnecessary empathy. It makes the atmosphere a bit easier to converse in.

"The technique spawned from the realm of science," Deucalion added. "And to this day, is unheard of and almost incredulous to most scientists." Technically, this now included Victor. Who was now more "capable" in his methods of creation. "Who," he adds, "I think are likely better off in their ignorance."

He pauses, deciding to try his hand at a question. "It sounds like your practices may similarly, if only minutely, reflect what I speak of. May I further ask what drew you into them initially?"

"Genetics, maybe?" Njoki pauses for a moment, trying to recall her history. "What year are you from? I mean, if I say it's 'genetics', does that mean something to you?"

"Either way, I do what I do naturally. I can sense out the dead and undead, I've done conjure for years, and then one day, a man came to me and offered me a lot, a lot of money to try and heal his face." It wasn't really an offer that brooked refusal. "I did it and got a reputation for tough cases."

"The year two-thousand-six," he replied and after a moment added, "... C.E.. So, yes. It does. But at the time of my creation, Gregor Mendel had not yet been born." Victor's recent techniques in developing a New Race were much more relative to genetic science and engineering, though even stating that much was a stretch. "While studying in university, my creator, primarily a biologist and chemist, was deeply drawn into the subject of galvanism. It became the driving inspiration for what he would eventually do."

Hearing Ki briefly cover her history was intriguing. For one, her talent was natural. It sounded as if she hadn't learned it, but was always gifted with the ability. Furthermore, she had earned a decent reputation. While it was not necessarily through charity, it was neither through villainy and deception. That in itself was admirable.

Coincidentally, Deucalion's own face had been maimed early on in his life. He went though an "operation" of sorts, but through a much more primitive method.

"It sounds like you use your abilities wisely. Gifted people rarely make that choice."

"Most of the people I've worked for are bigger, badder, and a hell of a lot less principled than I am -- if I wasn't on top of things, then I wouldn't be here." Njoki wuffs and shrugs her shoulders, the movement emphasizing that there's something fundamentally inhuman about the way her joints are put together.

"I'm still trying to get a feel for this city, to see if I can hang a shingle that says just what I do or if I need a euphemism."

Deucalion does indeed make note of her awkward movements. However, he chooses not to comment on it. Inhuman tendencies and physical attributes are something he has as well and it has been the subject of mockery many many times. He knows that people are self-aware of what makes them unique and pointing out the obvious would imply nothing but rudeness.

But that doesn't mean he isn't curious.

"How long have you been here?"

Not so much awkward, as unusual. The locations her muscles attach and they way they move and the shape of her joints are slightly different than a human's would be.

"Not long. A couple weeks. You?"

Not too long after Deucalion is once again left alone, the nearest door opens to admit another body—this place is a bit like an ant farm, you get used to it—but this one doesn't immediately acknowledge him. Given that he stops just a few steps from the exit, it may seem at first that this gentleman of below-average stature is feeling unfriendly, but in actuality he only wants to get settled into his break first. He lights a cigarette with a wooden match, takes a long drag, and finally, after breathing smoke, offers an up-nod to yon hulking figure.

"Hey."

Also, he is wearing sunglasses. At night.

If Deucalion had any sense of humor or lighthearted wit, he might have commented on the counterproductive choice in accessories. HOWEVER, he was somewhat lacking in that department and thus, kept the (serious) commentary to himself.

He gave the shorter fellow a nod in return before--

Okay. So the humor was rare. Scarce even but...

"A rather bright evening, isn't it?" He quietly added. Except he sounded totally serious.

Maybe he was...

Fish is trying to stop saying 'huh?' so often, because he feels it makes him sound dopey, and so instead of that one brilliant syllable there occurs an awkward pause as his brain catches up.

"...Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, no. The light bugs me a little." This one in particular, he means, gesturing at an external fixture, the bulb inside its little glass and iron house. It's not very bright, honestly. "I usually switch it off before I come out, but last time I forgot to turn it back on, so..."

The very incredulously rare moment of wit vanishes and is replaced with curiosity.

"The light?" He lifts his eyes to rest on the relatively dim fixture which Fish is referring to. Then, he concludes with a light, "Ah." He decides prying for any further explanation is unnecessary. Every person has their quirks for one reason or another. He knows that his own are less than ordinary and throughout time has come to realize that mere quirks are trivial attributes to one's personality. Furthermore, they are oftentimes personal and not relative to anyone else's business.

"I've no qualms if you turn it off. I'm preferable to darkness as well. Given the array of illuminated windows, I doubt anyone would find your negligence to turn the light back on again, very troublesome."

"Yeah... uh, actually I turned those off too, last time. Just the main floor ones, I mean, I didn't bust into anyone's room and turn off their lights suddenly. Still, it was pretty dark out here." Why is he even saying all this? Shut up, Fish. "If someone tripped out here cuz I went all Forgetful Jones again I'd feel kinda bad, so..." So, sunglasses, he indicates with a nudge of his finger, raising them off his nose a bit and letting them drop again after a pause.

"I could switch off this little one, though, if you want. For a few minutes. ...Are you staying here, or just hangin' out?"

The evening rides that Integra and Nuala take about the city are not quite scheduled or regular; often enough, one or the other of them simply hasn't the time or energy, the responsibilities of leadership weighing Nuala down to her desk or taking Integra out with her agents. Accordingly, it's always a pleasant relief when their schedules align and they've the time to take Althalus and the Phantom Queen (which is a lovely name for a horse, thank you) out in the lowering dark of Baedal.

By the time they are passing nearby Deucalion's path, conversation has temporarily lapsed - such rides are an excellent opportunity to share their thoughts on the current situations, but at times there is only so much to say and silence has its own value - and Nuala is only half paying her surroundings attention.

Her voice comes startled in that silence, "Dlúthchara?"

He does have a very distinctive silhouette.

[ one of two. ]

Time for this is something Integra would have made forcibly, if needed; her horse (whom now has a name, though in her head, it's still just stubbornly the horse) got new shoes nailed on the other day, and those need to be rode on properly. Hells forbid the thing get lazy.

When Nuala startles, Integra slows her horse, though she puts herself a few paces in front of the Princess. As usual when the two of them are out riding, she stays quiet, and merely observes the figure ahead. An acquaintance?

The night has been an eventful one thus far, as Deucalion has found himself feeling rather fortunate. Despite the somewhat unfavorable circumstances and arrival, he has, in a very short time, encountered some of the most fascinating and intriguing people he's ever met in the past 200 years. It's quite a feat.

However, he did and does not expect to actually be recognized before a verbal introduction.

While Deucalion has studied various classics and their languages (Greek, Latin, and Chinese for example) Gaelic had not been one of them. Regardless, the note of familiarity in the stranger's voice is recognizable in any tongue.

He turns to face the newcomer, a momentary flicker of lighting coursing through his eyes as he studies her. Unfortunately, to Deucalion, she is still a stranger. Despite his rugged and intimidating appearance however, he does possess (something which he had to teach himself to relearn constantly over time) compassion and tenderness. And as such, does his best not to harshly disappoint her.

"I apologize," he replies, the faint hint of a Germanic accent coming through as he spoke. "But do we know each other?" He's met many people throughout his 200 years of existence, but an intriguing face like Nuala's would have been memorable.

A friend; so she had called him and so she felt he had been. Even as he softens his answer, it is disappointing to find him not the same and her face falls, just a little, as she slows, and with this in mind she doesn't protest Integra's decision to place herself between them. Perhaps, as with Hellboy, it will be an opportunity - but she is not naive, and she will tread carefully.

Finally, diplomatically, she says, "In another life, perhaps. I am Princess Nuala, and in another place I knew a man like you." They feel similar, even at this distance; a man, perhaps, but something other. She resists the impulse to reach her hands out to his mind to see. "He had no name, so I called him my friend."

A pause. "My companion, Sir Hellsing."

Her companion...who looks significantly less delicate. Integra is not riding side-saddle, as the princess does.

Integra does little more than nod, painting a bit of a funny picture for a knight guarding a princess, with her long blonde hair and glasses (and being a woman). The look on her face is not unkind, just serious - she's not alarmed by this man's appearance, but it's her duty while out on these rides to maintain a healthy bit of wariness where the Princess is concerned.

He feels a tinge of guilt, as there's not much he can exactly do about the situation, but for the same reason, the feeling doesn't linger. In fact, he's intrigued by the situation.

While Deucalion is extremely cautious in regards to who he confides his trust in, he does not fear necessary interaction. He prefers to keep to himself, yes, but he has learned that throughout time, as comforting as solitude is, nobody can survive on it. As he traveled the world, he realized that not every human was as cruel and merciless as the ones he encountered in his first few years of life. The trust and faith he had in humanity had taken many years to build and furthermore, the rage in his heart took longer to quell. He had finally mastered it and now interaction, despite his awkward dialect and strange philosophy, came much easier to him.

"It is a pleasure to meet you both," he replies, giving an acknowledging nod to both of them. "I've gone by many names," he paused and then added, glancing over to Nuala, "And at one time, I did not in fact have a name at all. But you may call me Deucalion." The coincidence was curious and he realized that perhaps bringing about the subject of a former friend might be painful. However, he needed to ask.

"May I inquire as to what this man you knew was like?"

"Deucalion," she repeats, committing the name to memory and studying his face, his eyes, the way he carries himself. "He spoke as do you; he enjoyed poetry. He lived beneath the city, and caught me out of a blizzard I oughtn't have wandered into."

Literally, in fact; she rolled down a snowbank into his arms. She remembers having been affronted at the indignity of being so weakened by elements that shouldn't have been capable of as much, and grateful for a warm, safe place to weather the rest of it until she could return to Integra and Alucard.

(She sidesteps the memory of how abashed she was for her own foolishness when she did return. That part is irrelevant!)

"I believe he was from an earlier period, as some here are as well. You and he feel...alike to me," she lifts a hand, "but I believe I couldn't mistake you twice."

Psychics. They're wily.

Even in the small description she had given, there was a distinct familiarity to her words. They were only minute details, but they applied to him. Perhaps they could apply to a wide range of people---but something about the present circumstances... it was odd. Strangely coincidental.

He certainly did enjoy poetry, as it tied in with both his love for philosophy and history. Poetry after all, was one of the oldest forms of both writing and storytelling. It provided fantastical portrayals of ancient civilizations and their beliefs.

"I am very old," he starts again, a small hint of weariness in his voice. No, he hadn't grown tired of life but every time he looked back on when it all started, he recognized just how long it had been. "I've dabbled much in the study of quantum mechanics throughout my years," he continues, "And earlier, a woman proposed the idea of alternative dimensions." He paused, considering his next words. "I believe it is a likely possibility."

"Just so." It isn't the first time for Nuala, after all, and the familiarity (and not) of someone who might have been someone else is something she's learned to identify. After a moment, she offers a touch more specifically, "I believe he was of a German origin, and spoke of time spent in the Arctic - he called himself apart from mankind."

There's an implied question, there. She'd presumed as much (in both cases, now), but she's never known the reasons why, and curiosity is a great vice she rarely believes in not indulging.

Edited 2011-07-16 23:06 (UTC)

"I am of Germanic origin. The story that was written about what happened, the book, claims that I was created in Germany. I was in fact, created in Austria," he thinks for a moment, considering the other alterations and then concludes, "A subtle difference compared to the film's errs." Though, he wasn't exactly sure the princess would have seen the 1931 fantasy.

"I did indeed spend time in the Arctic. I had committed many crimes in my early life. At the time," there is an emphasis on these words, "I believed I had just reason. But despite what I believed then and what I often consider to this day, my actions were inexcusable." She didn't ask for those details, but he felt it was necessary to elaborate on them since they were half of the reason he fled to the Arctic. "My maker, Victor Frankenstein, at the time sought me out to destroy me. I fled, seeking both seclusion and solitude to find peace and hopefully, eventually, atone for my sins." The ending of the story that had been made famous by Mary Shelley, was of course, a fabrication. Victor never died and Deucalion never sought him out on a ship trapped by ice in the North Pole. Though, that (naturally) was a much more romantic conclusion.

He had caught Nuala's implicated inquiry and realizes that (if in fact it was) an earlier version of himself might have been less open about his story. Especially to a stranger whom he apparently found companionship in. Something that he had longed for for much of his early life. So he indulges her.

"And as I noted before, I was created. Never born. My body was sewn together from various corpses taken from a prison graveyard. I was brought to life in a laboratory, via a strike of lightning."

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if chrome crashes my tag again i will poop in its face

a chilling threat.

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