application for Mr. Wednesday (American Gods)

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

(( note, 11/21: I've been feeling under the weather, and thus slow with the tags, but I will get back to everyone's tags! Feel free to toss people at Wednesday. Today is, after all, his day.))

Folds of air shimmered as though an invisible curtain had billowed. Somehow, ineffably, they parted; and a well-dressed man of somewhat indeterminate age stepped into the Sorting Room, a blast of chill surrounding him but quickly dissipating.

He wasn't young, but he didn't look old-old. Certainly he didn't look anywhere near his actual age, and that was a thing he wasn't likely to expound upon, not right off the bat. His hair was fair, the ruddy blonde you see in some Scandinavians, now gone mostly to gray; his eyes, too, were gray, a gray that might put one in mind of flint, or of ice. He wore a pale suit of a clearly expensive make and cut, and he wore it with the ease that suggested this was not just an interview suit. On the other hand, he didn't seem averse to being interviewed, as the Hat declaimed the questions and he allowed the Dictaquill to write down his answers.

Mostly, he seemed amused.

"You'll want to know what to call me. I've had many names. You here can call me Wednesday. Mister Wednesday, if you want to be polite, and I find courtesy often advisable among new acquaintances."



1. What is your favorite cheese? Why is it your favorite?

"Hvítur kastali. Fair and veined, smooth, firm, mild." Wednesday paused, then snorted. "Surely you didn't think I'd say skyr. That insipid whey-stuff. It's not even really cheese, for fuck's sake."

2. Who would you kill first, Barney or Carrottop?

Wednesday chuckled. "What have you got against harmless entertainment? If I needed one to die, it wouldn't matter which went first. Otherwise let them peddle their tripe. It's no skin off my nose."

3. What time is it where you are?

Wednesday looked at his watch, a black Rolex. Whatever it told him -- or failed to tell him -- was, apparently, sobering. "Time to get a new watch," he said curtly, and would say no more on the subject.

4. If you were Albus Dumbledore returned from the dead, which member of the Order of the Phoenix would you sexually harass? How would you harass them? If you are Albus Dumbledore, please answer as if you were Sirius Black.

"That depends entirely on the manner in which the gentleman in question would have returned from the dead. Reanimated corpse? If he was hanged, he died with a hard-on, and maybe he'd keep it in death long enough to make some use of it, but how long before the damn thing rots off? The woman who beds down with a draugr is, like as not, going to wind up in the emergency room needing assistance in the removal of a foreign object."

(( draugr: sort of the Old Norse version of a zombie. )) ))

5. If you are pushing to be in:

A. Slytherin - please state the clever, witty name of the bar in which you bartend, in the dark.

"Mimir's Well. Given the steep price of a drink there, I wouldn't be tending bar often."

B. Gryffindor – Debate whether Harry should ultimately end up married to Fred or George. Use examples from a variety of world mythologies to bolster your argument.

This question amused Wednesday most of all.

"Harry should wed with neither one. He ought to convince one of his friends to disguise himself as Harry and go to Fred and George's house in this guise. After Fred and George have given this friend the requisite bridal gifts, the friend can reveal his true identity, smite both the suitors, and fly on home to Harry with the loot."

He paused, and one of his eyes took on a jovial twinkle.

"Name the myth I've used for this example and I'll give you a hundred dollars, cash."

C. Ravenclaw – You guys are supposed to be smart. Explain why my desk is inundated with paperwork at all times, even though I’m constantly disposing of it.

"That happens to desks. Get rid of the desk and the problem won't recur."

D. Hufflepuff – Prove you are not useless.

Wednesday feigned affront, or rather, gave the appearance of deliberately feigning affront. "Uselessness is a strong accusation to level. It also presumes I'd like to be useful to the person leveling it. If it pleased me to be useful, I might offer to give you counsel. Giving counsel is one of the things I do."

One of his names had been Gagnráðr, for gainful counsel. But another had been Gangráðr, for contrary counsel. How useful his advice might be depended on the listener. Like many of his gifts, it could be double-edged. And like many of his gifts, it came with no warranty.

6. Offer a bribe to the members of this community so that they will not squib you. Items used in bribery do not necessarily have to belong to the person offering the bribe. Do not threaten us rather than offering a bribe. A threat indicates you either don't really want to be here, or don't have enough sense to answer the question properly. The hat will automatically squib you, regardless of other votes, if you do.

"Well spoken. Everything has a price. Name yours and we may possibly come to some kind of arrangement."



(( the strictly OOC disclaimer:
"I have read the hogwarts_hocus faq, and understand it is a crazy, cracktastic sorting community and RPG. Wednesday.
I have read the hogwarts_hocus rules and agree to abide by each and every one of them. Wednesday.
I agree to be a good sport and not get my knickers in a bunch. Wednesday. ))
One day, marmalade will rule the world. Wednesday."

Comments

[totallyluminous.livejournal.com]

Mel isn't drawn by the aspect of money, though it would be nice to get something decent for Brice for Christmas. And she can do a lot with £50.

'That myth,' she says, careful not to insult any gods as she once did whilst talking about the Egyptians (and thus getting sent back in time with her demon archenemy) 'Is it the one with Thor's hammer and Freya having to marry the frost giant, and Thor going as her? Loki accompanied them, the hammer was brought out because the giant had stolen, and they smashed a few skulls and went back to Asgard?'

And, because this guy is really freaky, she ducks her head as she finishes, almost afraid it's wrong.

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

A studious schoolgirl, is she? Don't think Wednesday doesn't pick up those angelic vibes, either. One of his gifts is to know the names of all the gods; he can tell a supernatural being when he sees one.

She's no maiden, either, young as she is, holy as she is. Wednesday finds her, too, amusing. This place promises much entertainment. Wordplay is the only kind of entertainment he expects or wants from this angel girl, luckily.

(She's a brunette, and also he doesn't much like things appertaining to the Judeo-Christian god. Though he holds neither of these against her, it doesn't add up to attractive.)

"Tell me the name of the frost giant, and I'll toss in another fifty, sky-maid."

[pippithepirate.livejournal.com]

Pippi twitched a freckly nose, and absentmindedly scratched Mr. Nilsson's head. The monkey was, as always, following her wherever she went, and was now looking at the newcomer with surprising serenity.

There was something... almost sort of kind of familiar about this man. Like she should know him somehow, maybe from home. Maybe that was the reason behind the fact that when she opened her mouth to talk to him, the words came out in her native Swedish.

"Is Wednesday your favourite day?" she asked curiously. "Did you get to pick your name yourself, maybe? That sounds nice." There was a small pause. "I would have named myself Birthday." Because hers was coming up pretty soon. She should start working on that. Have a party and so on.

To Pippi, no weekday was very special, since she didn't go to school or... anything even remotely similar to that. If she had, then maybe she'd at least suspect who Mr. Wednesday was. She cleaned her house every Friday and Christmas, though! Well, if you could count cleaning your windows with a mop cleaning. (And you could. So there.)

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

Wednesday replied easily in the same language. Languages were another of his gifts, and he liked Pippi's more than most.

"You could say Wednesday is my name-day," he said, with a kindly-uncle smile (not the creepy kind). Speaking to her made him feel a little at home. "Birthday is a good name for you. It's festive. May I say hello to your friend? He rides your shoulder the way my ravens ride mine when they are with me."

[johnryder.livejournal.com]

((Repost for typo-killing goodness))

....Waaaait a minute. The man's application was interesting, but more interesting still was the fact that he looked uncannily like Ryder, or Ryder looked uncannily him. Wednesday, huh? Ryder wasn't exactly all up ons studying the ancient gods, but he wasn't stupid; this guy really was Odin. Odin Odin. The resemblance was nowhere near exact--Wednesday looked a good twenty years older than Ryder himself--but it was close enough to be...well, pretty damn odd.

He laughed at Wednesday's answer to question four. "You see many people come back from the dead all ready to go?" he asked. Ryder himself had never seen a zombie until he came here--at least, as far as he knew he hadn't; his memory was an unreliable thing at best.

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

While Wednesday had always been a master of disguise, he had not chosen his body, precisely. Shadow could have told the people here that the Icelandic incarnation of Odin had much the same face.

But Shadow wasn't here, and Wednesday had never seen his Icelandic incarnation, the one he bitterly knew had a much easier time of things.

In any event, Wednesday felt a little proprietary of this face never mind that his and Ryder's muns have known for ages the two would have the same PB, and that Ryder properly has more of a right to it. He was a little amused to find a demon wearing it. He was also exasperated, more exasperated than amused.

"Your masters picked you a clever face," he said. "And no, I don't see anyone much come back from the dead 'ready to go'. Hence my answer to the question regarding the carnal possibilities of resurrection. Of course, I've also known exceptions to that rule."

Himself among them. He'd hung nine nights on the windy tree, as the old poem went; sacrifice from himself to himself.

Also, *spoiler spoiler spoiler.*

[schizowarrior.livejournal.com]

((Repost because I totally lose at spelling))

Molly very, very rarely stopped by the Sorting Room, but she happened to be passing on her way out to sword practice and stuck her head in. Hmmm...interesting.

"Counsel, huh?" she said, stepping in. "What kind of counsel? The therapy kind, or the more useful kind?" It didn't occur to her that Wednesday might not know what 'therapy' was.

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

Wednesday was American enough to know what therapy was, after a fashion.

Therapy was, of course, an elaborate con meant to separate the troubled from their money. There were many such cons, many of them more or less part of something religious. Therapy did not usually have to do with any god. (Usually. Oh, how Wednesday loathed that Johnny-come-lately Xenu.) This increased Wednesday's scorn for it. No one was getting any soma out of therapy. He couldn't blame the psychiatrists, though. They'd found a good game.

"A decidedly useful kind, m'dear," he said brightly, sizing up this unlikely Valkyrie. He could almost smell the madness on her, kept at bay by some herb or other she'd been eating or drinking. He wasn't going to share his insights into the nature of therapy with her, no.

While Wednesday mostly specialized in certain kinds of madness -- poetic frenzy, battle frenzy -- he had a bit of an interest in all crazies. They were his, in a way. Between that and her Valkyrie air, this woman wasn't to be viewed as prey.

"To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?"

[brainy5.livejournal.com]

During a lull in his own Sorting, Brainiac 5 took a few moments to evaluate other Sortings going on at the same time. It seemed very... social. The application was nothing like an effective audition as far as he was concerned, but the voting seemed familiar.

He'd intended to do no more than evaluate, but this applicant's answer to 5B involved a knowledge challenge. "Out of curiosity, do you dispense all your advice based on the Poetic Edda?"

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

Wednesday gave a snort. "Why would I base my advice on that?" It was rather a chicken-and-egg kind of question.

[wings-and-claws.livejournal.com]

"What you want to talk like a book for, old man? Don't you want people to understand you?"

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

"Sometimes," Wednesday answered, and tipped the crazy killer woman a wink.

[grandmasteryoda.livejournal.com]

"Mmm, but pile up on your floor, the papers would. A plan of action for that, have you?"

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

"The desk calls the papers." Wednesday turned both palms up, empty. "No desk, no papers."

[runaway-stark.livejournal.com]

Arya didn't frequent the Sorting Room anymore, but she did still walk past it on occasion. And the appearance of someone who resembled someone she knew (http://community.livejournal.com/hogwarts_hocus/1411973.html?thread=71811717#t71811717) was enough to pique her curiosity. "What's 'Mimir's Well'?"

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

Wednesday removed his silver tie pin, the pin fashioned in the likeness of a great ash tree, many-branched and triple-rooted (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yggdrasil). He showed it to the youngster. "Imagine this tree spans all the worlds. At one of its roots, there is a well. That is the well of Mimir, whose name means memory. Even to journey there is hard enough."

[bantersucks.livejournal.com]

((Feel free to have Wednesday perceive and interpret the scarab however you'd like. It spent a couple thousand years in Egypt, if that brings anything to mind. I haven't read the book in ages.))

Jaime had stopped into the Sorting Room quite a bit in the last few days, but he'd mostly stood off to one side and watched most of the Sortings. Not to be rude, but mostly just to see exactly who was being Sorted and where and who to avoid. He'd been trying to stay out of trouble the last few weeks, more so than usual.

So his intention here was the same as usual - just stand off to one side and look nondescript. Unfortunately, he was within earshot of Wednesday when the scarab picked up something... familiar.

It was like what he'd picked up from the Lains back when he'd been Sorted. But it was muffled, subtle, concealed - a hint of great power or the potential for it, he wasn't sure. It sent a literal chill up his spine, and the scarab chattered at him uneasily. "Shh," he murmured. "I know. Back off already, man." Somehow, he doubted the applicant would give a damn about either of them - but antagonizing him would be a Very Bad Idea.

The original plan of not being noticeable, though, was probably shot to hell by now. Sighing, Jaime picked up a copy of the application, raising an eyebrow at the answer to 5B. "Well, I'm still gonna be broke," he observed quietly, smirking a bit, as he looked for a relatively safe answer to comment on.

Which was why he finally asked, "So what do you do if the person throwing all the paperwork at you doesn't care if there's a desk?"

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

Wednesday grinned. "Which of you wants to know?"

[gmilf-hunter.livejournal.com]

"...Where do you gets a black Rolex froms?," Skwisgaar asked, drawn by the presence of what one might call truely metal bling, "Dat's pretty brutals."

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

"Won it in a card game," said Wednesday.

The union of god and mortal usually didn't bear fruit. When it did, the offspring was worth watching. This particular little accident, product of a night with a former Swedish beauty queen, hadn't been what Wednesday and Mr. World needed. The lad had shown only one mark of his divine parentage: an uncanny, almost impossible gift for music.

Obviously a son of Odin would gravitate toward metal.

Wednesday hadn't revealed his Secret Identity to the mother, as it were. He'd be willing to bet Silveta Skwigelf wasn't even sure he was the father. Maury Povich had never come sniffing around after him, anyway. So what Wednesday said next might have come as something of a surprise to Skwisgaar:

"How's your mother, boy?" asked Wednesday, cheerily nonchalant.

[damien-thorn.livejournal.com]

Damien could tell even before reading the application that this was a man to be extremely cautious of.

He didn't even need his own sixth sense to tell him that, really. His dog's uneasiness didn't give it away, either. Damien quietly told the dog to hush, then took another look at the man. More specifically, another look at the man's suit and watch.

From Damien's experience, nobody bothering to be good ever spent that much money on clothes.

Damien's own suit was cut from extremely expensive wool, and was the height of fashion in 1981. His watch was so large and expensive as to be crass, but it had been a gift from the President, and he was obligated to wear it. Thorn took the time to read the application twice, in case he missed anything, then stepped forward to introduce himself.

"Courtesy does seem to be dying out these days, Mr. Wednesday. My name is Damien Thorn." His smile was polite, but not friendly.

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

"An eloquent name for an eloquent man," Wednesday returned. His own smile was in his voice, not his face; and it was neither friendly nor unfriendly. It was what it was: recognition, and courtesy. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Thorn."

The Antichrist's choice of attire was not lost on Wednesday. It told Wednesday that Damien must either be very inflexible (to persist in wearing his dated fashions) or lacking in resourcefulness (to be stuck wearing said dated fashions). He'd lay his money on the former, but a soupcon of the latter wouldn't have surprised him. Something about Damien felt ... thwarted, if Wednesday had to pick a word for it.

"I hear the carpenter's son has been seen hereabouts," he said.

[getoffmydesk.livejournal.com]

Unlike this Wednesday guy, Provenza looked old. In fact, he looked older than he was, and Provenza was pretty damn old. He was also pretty damn unimpressed, too. Lots of people wore fancy clothes and spoke with fancy words.

"So what brings a high-class guy like you to a place like this?" he asked. He sounded bored, which he was.

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

"Sometimes a man likes to try something new," answered Wednesday, amiably enough. "I'm sure you understand the sentiment."

Wednesday, too, liked 'em young.

[castleinthesnow.livejournal.com]

Question 4 made Sansa shudder a little bit. Dead people up and walking around was bad enough, but the thought of them actually bedding with living people? Not something she cared to think about - unless she ended up married to one of them. With the turns her life had taken, she didn't entirely discount the possibility.

She therefore resolved not to ask about the newcomer's experience with the walking dead, and curtsied politely. "Greetings, my lord." It was a safe enough bet - his clothes were very nice. "Uselessness may be a strong accusation, but that does tend to make the answers interesting."

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

Ahhhh, this one was fresh and sweet. Not a blonde, more's the pity, but a man couldn't always have everything all in one package. Wednesday drew upon his old-world charm (charm with a lower-case c, mind, as opposed to The Other Kind) and returned the maiden's curtsey with a bow.

"Perhaps. I find accusations seldom lend a savory spice to any shared dish," said he, straightening with a smile. It was, notably, not a wolfish smile, whatever his internal monologue might entail. "Please, call me Wednesday. What may I call you, young lady?" He could have taken her name from her mind without the asking, but that would have alarmed her, and alarming her was not what Wednesday wanted.

[big-broomstick.livejournal.com]

This fellow was too old to be a Quidditch player, but Oliver knew potential when he saw it. This man was loaded with it, too. Without even bothering to read the application, Oliver walked right up to him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said, wearing his biggest grin. "But have you ever considered sponsoring a sports team?"

He was prepared to flutter his eyelashes, if need be.

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

"That," said Wednesday equably, "depends on the sport in question."

[office-michael.livejournal.com]

This guy seemed cool. And if he was cool, Michael Scott had to become his BFF.

Emitting a loud tsk sort of noise from the back of his throat, he rolled his eyes and approached Mr. Wednesday. "Of COURSE you wouldn't say skyr. That stuff is -- it's totally not cheese. What it IS is crap. TOtal crap. I wouldn't eat skyr if it were the only thing left on Earth to eat and it were on top of an Awesome Blossom."

Yeah, he totally didn't know what skyr was. But that didn't really matter, did it?

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

This guy seemed uncool. He also seemed like the ideal patsy. Wednesday found such people useful to cultivate.

"It's always a pleasure to meet a man with discerning taste in dairy products," said Wednesday smoothly. "Name's Wednesday. What's yours?" He stuck out a strong weathered hand.

[ugly-old-hat.livejournal.com]

Aha! An applicant with good hair! The Hat was quite pleased by this. It had had to perch itself on far too much grease and far many sets of spikes. And that was to say nothing of some of the other abominations (http://community.livejournal.com/hogwarts_hocus/710013.html) it had laid itself on top of (http://community.livejournal.com/hogwarts_hocus/1124109.html).

"I could use some counsel," the Hat declared as it settled down. "How does one get rid of a case of the jibblies?"

[callmewednesday.livejournal.com]

"Well, now, that depends what induced the jibblies," replied Wednesday, unrattled by a talking hat. He'd seen stranger things.

[ugly-old-hat.livejournal.com]

I can only hope that what we can teach you here at Hogwarts can match up to the powerful anti-jibbly-jibblies magic you already possess!

Your bribe has been accepted.

Welcome to Ravenclaw!