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Oct. 29th, 2016 10:58 pm〈 CHARACTER INFO 〉
CHARACTER NAME: Mr. Wednesday
CHARACTER AGE: ~1200 years, in this embodiment
SERIES: American Gods
CHRONOLOGY: At the end of the novel.
CLASS: Villain
HOUSING: Alone
BACKGROUND:
***CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR AMERICAN GODS***
The veneration of the Allfather is older than the most weathered runestone in Scandinavia: the god of war and law and wisdom, who hung from the world tree, a sacrifice of himself for himself, his side pierced and bleeding. From the northmost fjords, where he is called 'Odin', to the banks of the Rhine, where he is called 'Wotan', trees were hung with sacrifices, human and beast both, and battlefields consecrated in his name. Old and wise and bloodthirsty, the gallows god dwells there still, gray-haired and staff-bearing, surviving on a well of belief that is deep if not overflowing.
This is who Mr. Wednesday is. But he is not it.
In the early ninth century, a group of Norsemen - their record lost to history - arrived in a distant land, across the Atlantic. They made landfall in winter and did not survive to see the spring, but they were there long enough to sacrifice a skraeling to the Allfather. They sang his songs, gave him praise, and when they died, they died believing they would be taken up unto his hall.
Thus Mr. Wednesday was born, an old god in a New World. The same, but different.
The New World is not a good land for gods. For a creature born to survive off tradition, a place with seemingly no history - certainly not his history, at any rate - was a desert in which he had to eke a meager existence. He wasn't alone in this wasteland. For many years he had the company of his Asgardian brothers and sisters, a source of solace and comfort in a strange land.
But one by one, they perished or faded, giving up hope or passing out of living memory. Of these losses, the most deeply felt was the suicide of Thor. Wednesday's affection for the big, dumb, decent god was a saving grace for him in those long, lean years. When the Thunderer put a gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger, something perished within Wednesday as well. What goodwill he had gave way to a profound cynicism, which, combined with the barrel-scraping to which he was forced to stoop, brought out his bitterest, most sardonic aspects. Always ruthless, Wednesday forsook pride and sought new means of survival.
The most noteworthy consequence of this change of heart was the primacy of his partnership with Loki Liesmith, a strange bedfellow to be sure; association with the chaos god wasn't a natural pairing for the lawgiver, and the myths bespeak a troubled relationship at the best. Common cause, however, has made for stranger alliance. They were facing not a glorious twilight of the gods but a ignominious dwindling, not a bang but rather a whimper.
Where before he'd have thrived on overt worship, Wednesday learned to survived on grift, on desperation unto death, greed unto bedlam, and of course money- a powerful offering all its own. Working two-man cons with Loki, his gift for disguise and insight into the hearts of men made for a living, if not precisely one befitting the creator of the world. Yet he survived, even as the fellows in his pantheon disappeared.
He knew it was only a matter of time, however, before he too would lose his purchase on existence, forgotten or replaced by some facsimile; one didn't need the power of divination to see the coming storm. New entities, ambitious and powerful, but just as cognizant of the New World's inhospitability, were hungry to erase all competition for the hearts and minds of mortals. A paradigm shift was surely at hand.
So Wednesday devised a plan- to play the two sides against one another. It was years in the making, not least since it required the conception of a child, a difficult task at the best of times. Wednesday had, and still has, a properly pagan attitude towards sexuality, so by dint of numbers alone he finally found success, siring a son. His purpose- to serve as a distraction in one final grift, the grandest, longest con the world had ever seen.
In collusion with his partner, Loki, he orchestrated a final confrontation between old gods and new, even allowing himself to be bodily slain in order to complete the deception. The goal: to sew chaos and bring death, and to consecrate the battle, like so many battles in the Old World, to the Allfather. Had it worked, the sacrifice of gods would have provided a source of power that would allow him to weather whatever storms came for centuries to come. Had it worked, he would have been reborn in gore and glory.
The plan failed, aborted by Odin's own son. Dead and not reborn, Wednesday was left a shade of himself, a seed unsewn. As disappointed as he must needs be, this final failure did not curdle into hatred; his son's overcoming is still in some small way his own, his vigil a re-inscription of Wednesday's own trials, a remembrance worthy of him.
And gods are difficult to kill. Wednesday is an old god, wily and persistent. And his story is not yet over. Patient, as only the ages-old can be, he merely awaits another opportunity to acquire the power that is his rightful due.
PERSONALITY:
Mr. Wednesday is not the only iteration of Odin walking the world. He is the immigrant Odin, the Allfather-in-America, a place known to be a poor country for gods, and he hasn't had the benefits of tradition to sustain him through many winters of unbelief. He is, therefore, a survivor, someone who makes do with very little; it's not without reason that he worked so closely with Loki Liesmith, setting aside old differences in order to make the best of the divine wasteland. While he has a kingly self-regard befitting the head of a pantheon, it is buried beneath centuries of irony and lean living. Armed foremost with a bladed grin and a properly pagan morality of strength and cunning, Wednesday is sly and charming first, working the angles and seeking the advantage in any situation, while being, in the end, extremely dangerous and desperate, a death god of many lean years.
Though he claims that being a hustler is the least of what he is, his chief occupation is profit through deception. He takes advantage of people as a matter of course and centuries of practice, most often for their money, some women for their bodies, sustaining himself by their credulity and attention, all while (covertly) asserting of his divine superiority. His tastes are old and bloody, his hunger for sacrifices that come in dozens of oblique ways, from red butchered meat to pale living flesh. This doesn't make him unsubtle or impulsive. He is capable of great patience and complex planning. He is a god both of war and of wisdom.
He is also a wanderer, by dint of domain and the demands of his trade. He's good at blending in, despite his height and dapper attire, and at finding a place to stay for the night (though he's never quite at home). He prefers to keep moving, sustaining only a few long-term relationships with people who are enjoyable, important or useful, the kind of investments proper to a perigrant grifter and thief. Though most of his crimes are ones of wit, he's hardly afraid of violence, and has been known to hire fighters and killers; death is his breath and bread, after all.
POWER:
Divinity -
Immortal: Mr. Wednesday is a god, and that counts for a lot. He doesn't need to eat (at least not for nutrition), he doesn't sleep (it's a habit he does not indulge), and he doesn't get sick. His sustenance is faith and sacrifice, and by and large he gets by, capable of regenerating from harm if he receives tribute. Sex, in particular, is useful in this regard; he rarely spends a night alone if he has the opportunity to do otherwise, for deeper reasons than simple libido. He is also extremely hard to truly kill; he must be forgotten or else he will reform. Furthermore, he has access to the symbolic realm of 'backstage', the reality behind reality, where ideas have form: in short, he is capable of traversing the astral plane.
Spiritual Companions: He is traditionally accompanied by two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, 'thought' and 'memory', as well as two wolves, Geri and Freki, 'hunger' and 'greed', creatures as much of spirit as corporeal reality. They aren't often seen with him, as massive ravens and wolves aren't very helpful for keeping a low profile, but they perform tasks - most chiefly reconnaissance, for him. In game terms, this allows him to gather knowledge of events without being directly present, and to communicate messages at great distance and speed even without the help of telecommunications technology.
Disguise: As a god he possesses many names and aspects, and is traditionally skilled at disguise, able to go from imposing to charming to doddering and harmless depending on the demands of circumstance. This is a mix of skill and power; he's not a shapeshifter as such, but his seeming can change, particularly with regard to mortal expectations. In game terms this allows him to be described rather differently depending on his needs, though some elements of his person - his gender, his advanced age, his missing eye - are not subject to alteration.
Runic Charms -
When Wednesday hung himself upon the world tree, he did so for knowledge- not abstract knowledge, but knowledge-as-power. A share of this knowledge are two-times-nine charms, a diverse range of often maddeningly specific powers. To use them, he must be able to sketch the appropriate runes out on some surface, something he can do with any pure or sacral substance: salt or ash or chalk or blood or sugar. They are also not zero-cost for him; the use of any active power on Wednesday's part exacts a certain toll of energy, and he can accomplish only a few such feats without drawing upon some source of power to recharge himself. As such, he uses them sparingly, as necessity dictates. They loosely fall under the following categories.
Curative: Though a death god, Wednesday possesses the power to cure wounds, both physical and mental. Immune to sickness himself, he can also relieve most illnesses in mortals as well. On a more metaphorical level, he can undo any locks or bonds that might trap him. He must be physically present to invoke these powers.
Protective: Called upon to bless his faithful in battle, Wednesday has a number of powers designed to protect both he and his warriors from harm. He can render himself immune to the weapons of his enemies, snatch projectiles from the air, deflect harmful spells and . In short he can ward himself, and those near to him, from various forms of direct harm. He can also ward against environmental dangers; he can quench fire with a gaze and dispel inclement weather. These feats often require some component or incantatory element, such as a sprinkle of water or a song.
Persuasive: Particularly useful in his work as a con-artist, Wednesday has a number persuasive charms. He can win the friendship of one who hates him, inspire others to share his dreams of power, glory, and wisdom, and otherwise gain the loyalty and conviction of those he approaches personally. He can also charm any woman he desires (if he's in need of love), and insure that woman will never want another. (For obvious reasons, I expect these to work only on incidental NPCs, unless explicit consent is given by a player.)
Knowledge -
Perhaps nothing defines the traditional Odin so much as his ceaseless quest for knowledge. Wednesday is the beneficiary of this tradition, even if he has fallen from his previously lofty mythical role. During his career he took a drink from the Well of Urd, the fathomless deep which contains cosmic knowledge, leaving an eye in exchange. Savvy as ever, Wednesday made sure that the eye he left behind is able to gaze upon secrets even separated from him.
This makes him a storehouse of all sorts of information, albeit of a mystical and intimate sort. For practical purposes, this allows him to peer into the histories and secrets of mortals, something invaluable to a con-artist (something to be negotiated with players). He also has particularly keen foresight, especially with regards to history's capacity for repetition, and can tell a fortune with the best of them, though fortunes are, as ever, cryptic things (meaning the degree of his foresight is subject to plot considerations and discussion).
Two of his charms are also very specifically knowledge based, one causing the dead to speak their memories to him, the other granting him knowledge of the names and ways of gods and mystical beings. This gives him a leg up when it comes to dealing with beings of supernatural extraction, regardless of their tradition. Wednesday does not like to walk into a situation unprepared.
〈 CHARACTER SAMPLES 〉
COMMUNITY POST (VOICE) SAMPLE:
I'm looking for a partner on a business venture. Someone who shares my nose for opportunity, New World initiative combined with Old World grit. Familiarity is a plus, though a willingness to learn goes a long way. Must not be squeamish, easily startled, or indiscreet.
Profits could be considerable, and very likely tax-free, with prompt payments upon completion. A driver's license is needed, preferably one of many, as well as access to a vehicle. Mobility is an absolute necessity.
I'd prefer someone of feminine subtlety, but with appropriately masculine ambitions. Comeliness is not a requirement, but is always appreciated. When working closely it doesn't hurt to be easy on the eye.
Think you fit the bill?
LOGS POST (PROSE) SAMPLE:
There is power in secrets. Why else the craze for speakeasies, in spite of their absolute legal non-necessity? Even the aura of secrecy, its mere suggestion, adds a charge to the air. People can feel it. That's why they'll wait an hour on the street for half that time for the corner of a crowded bar, why they order cryptic cocktails for four times what a drink would cost elsewhere. The speakeasy is just another mystery cult, its veiled treasures mixological, elixirs instead of idols. Wednesday enjoys them not in spite of their pretensions, but precisely because of them.
Wednesday did not wait, of course, not with his particular charms. He beamed his way to the front of the list, his cream-colored suit and polished silver pin exuding a prosperity that more than compensates for his age. Now inside, surrounded by darkness and subdued clamor, his smile is sharp as a naked knife, and about as comforting. He is an eagle, surrounded by lambs. From his lean at the bar, he surveys his prey.
She is twenty-two and already terrified of being old and alone, spends hours in front of the mirror searching for imperfections until she finds one - he thinks he loves himself more than anyone else, and justly so, which annuls his mistreatment of the men he seduces and abandons, but it's self-loathing that makes him incapable of believing anyone could ever love him - this one has worked ceaseless in the belief that a six figure income will validate him, confirm him as a success, but feels more hollow than ever; but surely seven figures will satisfy him - that one has moved from lease to broken lease, congratulating herself on her ruthlessness as she runs out of real friends - and he, yes he will do- he's dying to impress his date, dying to demonstrate not only his wealth but his wit and acumen.
"Pardon me, my boy-" Wednesday grumbles, adding a slight by perceptible slur to his voice, though he's taken no more than a sip of his bourbon. "Not to interrupt you tête-à-tête with this stunning creature, but I couldn't help but overhear… you're in finance?"
The story of an unique opportunity unfolds, a chance to manage a considerable investment should certain funds be taken out of trust. There's just this troublesome matter of paying an initial cost, a broker's fee, and the old man may be well situated but he's not exactly at peak liquidity at the moment. Even if the mark does not take the bait, the girl that's with him is pale blonde and looks terribly bored. Wednesday will walk away with one prize or the other- perhaps both, if the fates are kind.
Wednesday doesn't despise their weakness; he is not driven by malice. He doesn't hate them, or wish them ill, not in the least. Indeed, he even loves them: nothing is tastier than a tender lamb.
CHARACTER NAME: Mr. Wednesday
CHARACTER AGE: ~1200 years, in this embodiment
SERIES: American Gods
CHRONOLOGY: At the end of the novel.
CLASS: Villain
HOUSING: Alone
BACKGROUND:
***CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR AMERICAN GODS***
The veneration of the Allfather is older than the most weathered runestone in Scandinavia: the god of war and law and wisdom, who hung from the world tree, a sacrifice of himself for himself, his side pierced and bleeding. From the northmost fjords, where he is called 'Odin', to the banks of the Rhine, where he is called 'Wotan', trees were hung with sacrifices, human and beast both, and battlefields consecrated in his name. Old and wise and bloodthirsty, the gallows god dwells there still, gray-haired and staff-bearing, surviving on a well of belief that is deep if not overflowing.
This is who Mr. Wednesday is. But he is not it.
In the early ninth century, a group of Norsemen - their record lost to history - arrived in a distant land, across the Atlantic. They made landfall in winter and did not survive to see the spring, but they were there long enough to sacrifice a skraeling to the Allfather. They sang his songs, gave him praise, and when they died, they died believing they would be taken up unto his hall.
Thus Mr. Wednesday was born, an old god in a New World. The same, but different.
The New World is not a good land for gods. For a creature born to survive off tradition, a place with seemingly no history - certainly not his history, at any rate - was a desert in which he had to eke a meager existence. He wasn't alone in this wasteland. For many years he had the company of his Asgardian brothers and sisters, a source of solace and comfort in a strange land.
But one by one, they perished or faded, giving up hope or passing out of living memory. Of these losses, the most deeply felt was the suicide of Thor. Wednesday's affection for the big, dumb, decent god was a saving grace for him in those long, lean years. When the Thunderer put a gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger, something perished within Wednesday as well. What goodwill he had gave way to a profound cynicism, which, combined with the barrel-scraping to which he was forced to stoop, brought out his bitterest, most sardonic aspects. Always ruthless, Wednesday forsook pride and sought new means of survival.
The most noteworthy consequence of this change of heart was the primacy of his partnership with Loki Liesmith, a strange bedfellow to be sure; association with the chaos god wasn't a natural pairing for the lawgiver, and the myths bespeak a troubled relationship at the best. Common cause, however, has made for stranger alliance. They were facing not a glorious twilight of the gods but a ignominious dwindling, not a bang but rather a whimper.
Where before he'd have thrived on overt worship, Wednesday learned to survived on grift, on desperation unto death, greed unto bedlam, and of course money- a powerful offering all its own. Working two-man cons with Loki, his gift for disguise and insight into the hearts of men made for a living, if not precisely one befitting the creator of the world. Yet he survived, even as the fellows in his pantheon disappeared.
He knew it was only a matter of time, however, before he too would lose his purchase on existence, forgotten or replaced by some facsimile; one didn't need the power of divination to see the coming storm. New entities, ambitious and powerful, but just as cognizant of the New World's inhospitability, were hungry to erase all competition for the hearts and minds of mortals. A paradigm shift was surely at hand.
So Wednesday devised a plan- to play the two sides against one another. It was years in the making, not least since it required the conception of a child, a difficult task at the best of times. Wednesday had, and still has, a properly pagan attitude towards sexuality, so by dint of numbers alone he finally found success, siring a son. His purpose- to serve as a distraction in one final grift, the grandest, longest con the world had ever seen.
In collusion with his partner, Loki, he orchestrated a final confrontation between old gods and new, even allowing himself to be bodily slain in order to complete the deception. The goal: to sew chaos and bring death, and to consecrate the battle, like so many battles in the Old World, to the Allfather. Had it worked, the sacrifice of gods would have provided a source of power that would allow him to weather whatever storms came for centuries to come. Had it worked, he would have been reborn in gore and glory.
The plan failed, aborted by Odin's own son. Dead and not reborn, Wednesday was left a shade of himself, a seed unsewn. As disappointed as he must needs be, this final failure did not curdle into hatred; his son's overcoming is still in some small way his own, his vigil a re-inscription of Wednesday's own trials, a remembrance worthy of him.
And gods are difficult to kill. Wednesday is an old god, wily and persistent. And his story is not yet over. Patient, as only the ages-old can be, he merely awaits another opportunity to acquire the power that is his rightful due.
PERSONALITY:
Mr. Wednesday is not the only iteration of Odin walking the world. He is the immigrant Odin, the Allfather-in-America, a place known to be a poor country for gods, and he hasn't had the benefits of tradition to sustain him through many winters of unbelief. He is, therefore, a survivor, someone who makes do with very little; it's not without reason that he worked so closely with Loki Liesmith, setting aside old differences in order to make the best of the divine wasteland. While he has a kingly self-regard befitting the head of a pantheon, it is buried beneath centuries of irony and lean living. Armed foremost with a bladed grin and a properly pagan morality of strength and cunning, Wednesday is sly and charming first, working the angles and seeking the advantage in any situation, while being, in the end, extremely dangerous and desperate, a death god of many lean years.
Though he claims that being a hustler is the least of what he is, his chief occupation is profit through deception. He takes advantage of people as a matter of course and centuries of practice, most often for their money, some women for their bodies, sustaining himself by their credulity and attention, all while (covertly) asserting of his divine superiority. His tastes are old and bloody, his hunger for sacrifices that come in dozens of oblique ways, from red butchered meat to pale living flesh. This doesn't make him unsubtle or impulsive. He is capable of great patience and complex planning. He is a god both of war and of wisdom.
He is also a wanderer, by dint of domain and the demands of his trade. He's good at blending in, despite his height and dapper attire, and at finding a place to stay for the night (though he's never quite at home). He prefers to keep moving, sustaining only a few long-term relationships with people who are enjoyable, important or useful, the kind of investments proper to a perigrant grifter and thief. Though most of his crimes are ones of wit, he's hardly afraid of violence, and has been known to hire fighters and killers; death is his breath and bread, after all.
POWER:
Divinity -
Immortal: Mr. Wednesday is a god, and that counts for a lot. He doesn't need to eat (at least not for nutrition), he doesn't sleep (it's a habit he does not indulge), and he doesn't get sick. His sustenance is faith and sacrifice, and by and large he gets by, capable of regenerating from harm if he receives tribute. Sex, in particular, is useful in this regard; he rarely spends a night alone if he has the opportunity to do otherwise, for deeper reasons than simple libido. He is also extremely hard to truly kill; he must be forgotten or else he will reform. Furthermore, he has access to the symbolic realm of 'backstage', the reality behind reality, where ideas have form: in short, he is capable of traversing the astral plane.
Spiritual Companions: He is traditionally accompanied by two ravens, Huginn and Muninn, 'thought' and 'memory', as well as two wolves, Geri and Freki, 'hunger' and 'greed', creatures as much of spirit as corporeal reality. They aren't often seen with him, as massive ravens and wolves aren't very helpful for keeping a low profile, but they perform tasks - most chiefly reconnaissance, for him. In game terms, this allows him to gather knowledge of events without being directly present, and to communicate messages at great distance and speed even without the help of telecommunications technology.
Disguise: As a god he possesses many names and aspects, and is traditionally skilled at disguise, able to go from imposing to charming to doddering and harmless depending on the demands of circumstance. This is a mix of skill and power; he's not a shapeshifter as such, but his seeming can change, particularly with regard to mortal expectations. In game terms this allows him to be described rather differently depending on his needs, though some elements of his person - his gender, his advanced age, his missing eye - are not subject to alteration.
Runic Charms -
When Wednesday hung himself upon the world tree, he did so for knowledge- not abstract knowledge, but knowledge-as-power. A share of this knowledge are two-times-nine charms, a diverse range of often maddeningly specific powers. To use them, he must be able to sketch the appropriate runes out on some surface, something he can do with any pure or sacral substance: salt or ash or chalk or blood or sugar. They are also not zero-cost for him; the use of any active power on Wednesday's part exacts a certain toll of energy, and he can accomplish only a few such feats without drawing upon some source of power to recharge himself. As such, he uses them sparingly, as necessity dictates. They loosely fall under the following categories.
Curative: Though a death god, Wednesday possesses the power to cure wounds, both physical and mental. Immune to sickness himself, he can also relieve most illnesses in mortals as well. On a more metaphorical level, he can undo any locks or bonds that might trap him. He must be physically present to invoke these powers.
Protective: Called upon to bless his faithful in battle, Wednesday has a number of powers designed to protect both he and his warriors from harm. He can render himself immune to the weapons of his enemies, snatch projectiles from the air, deflect harmful spells and . In short he can ward himself, and those near to him, from various forms of direct harm. He can also ward against environmental dangers; he can quench fire with a gaze and dispel inclement weather. These feats often require some component or incantatory element, such as a sprinkle of water or a song.
Persuasive: Particularly useful in his work as a con-artist, Wednesday has a number persuasive charms. He can win the friendship of one who hates him, inspire others to share his dreams of power, glory, and wisdom, and otherwise gain the loyalty and conviction of those he approaches personally. He can also charm any woman he desires (if he's in need of love), and insure that woman will never want another. (For obvious reasons, I expect these to work only on incidental NPCs, unless explicit consent is given by a player.)
Knowledge -
Perhaps nothing defines the traditional Odin so much as his ceaseless quest for knowledge. Wednesday is the beneficiary of this tradition, even if he has fallen from his previously lofty mythical role. During his career he took a drink from the Well of Urd, the fathomless deep which contains cosmic knowledge, leaving an eye in exchange. Savvy as ever, Wednesday made sure that the eye he left behind is able to gaze upon secrets even separated from him.
This makes him a storehouse of all sorts of information, albeit of a mystical and intimate sort. For practical purposes, this allows him to peer into the histories and secrets of mortals, something invaluable to a con-artist (something to be negotiated with players). He also has particularly keen foresight, especially with regards to history's capacity for repetition, and can tell a fortune with the best of them, though fortunes are, as ever, cryptic things (meaning the degree of his foresight is subject to plot considerations and discussion).
Two of his charms are also very specifically knowledge based, one causing the dead to speak their memories to him, the other granting him knowledge of the names and ways of gods and mystical beings. This gives him a leg up when it comes to dealing with beings of supernatural extraction, regardless of their tradition. Wednesday does not like to walk into a situation unprepared.
〈 CHARACTER SAMPLES 〉
COMMUNITY POST (VOICE) SAMPLE:
I'm looking for a partner on a business venture. Someone who shares my nose for opportunity, New World initiative combined with Old World grit. Familiarity is a plus, though a willingness to learn goes a long way. Must not be squeamish, easily startled, or indiscreet.
Profits could be considerable, and very likely tax-free, with prompt payments upon completion. A driver's license is needed, preferably one of many, as well as access to a vehicle. Mobility is an absolute necessity.
I'd prefer someone of feminine subtlety, but with appropriately masculine ambitions. Comeliness is not a requirement, but is always appreciated. When working closely it doesn't hurt to be easy on the eye.
Think you fit the bill?
LOGS POST (PROSE) SAMPLE:
There is power in secrets. Why else the craze for speakeasies, in spite of their absolute legal non-necessity? Even the aura of secrecy, its mere suggestion, adds a charge to the air. People can feel it. That's why they'll wait an hour on the street for half that time for the corner of a crowded bar, why they order cryptic cocktails for four times what a drink would cost elsewhere. The speakeasy is just another mystery cult, its veiled treasures mixological, elixirs instead of idols. Wednesday enjoys them not in spite of their pretensions, but precisely because of them.
Wednesday did not wait, of course, not with his particular charms. He beamed his way to the front of the list, his cream-colored suit and polished silver pin exuding a prosperity that more than compensates for his age. Now inside, surrounded by darkness and subdued clamor, his smile is sharp as a naked knife, and about as comforting. He is an eagle, surrounded by lambs. From his lean at the bar, he surveys his prey.
She is twenty-two and already terrified of being old and alone, spends hours in front of the mirror searching for imperfections until she finds one - he thinks he loves himself more than anyone else, and justly so, which annuls his mistreatment of the men he seduces and abandons, but it's self-loathing that makes him incapable of believing anyone could ever love him - this one has worked ceaseless in the belief that a six figure income will validate him, confirm him as a success, but feels more hollow than ever; but surely seven figures will satisfy him - that one has moved from lease to broken lease, congratulating herself on her ruthlessness as she runs out of real friends - and he, yes he will do- he's dying to impress his date, dying to demonstrate not only his wealth but his wit and acumen.
"Pardon me, my boy-" Wednesday grumbles, adding a slight by perceptible slur to his voice, though he's taken no more than a sip of his bourbon. "Not to interrupt you tête-à-tête with this stunning creature, but I couldn't help but overhear… you're in finance?"
The story of an unique opportunity unfolds, a chance to manage a considerable investment should certain funds be taken out of trust. There's just this troublesome matter of paying an initial cost, a broker's fee, and the old man may be well situated but he's not exactly at peak liquidity at the moment. Even if the mark does not take the bait, the girl that's with him is pale blonde and looks terribly bored. Wednesday will walk away with one prize or the other- perhaps both, if the fates are kind.
Wednesday doesn't despise their weakness; he is not driven by malice. He doesn't hate them, or wish them ill, not in the least. Indeed, he even loves them: nothing is tastier than a tender lamb.
