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Where the universe is concerned, Olaf doesn't generally question its choices. Bad things happen. Good things happen. Strange things happen, but usually it all fits together in the larger pieces of the puzzle. It's why he doesn't really do so much more than shrug when instead of walking into Mike's bar, he walks into a party in full swing where he doesn't recognize a single guest.

It's not like this is the first time it's happened to Olaf. Generally, him recognizing someone in a crowd full of people is usually a start. Still, he has learned to go with the stranger events in the universe and no one's died as a result of this little left turn, so he grabs the joint he'd tucked away behind his ear and drifts into the throng of people, observing the summer-like nature of the party from the vibrant drinks to the decorations to the clothes everyone's wearing. Really, this could very well still be Auckland for all he knows and whatever he took earlier had been laced stronger than usual, but Olaf's sort of getting the feeling there's more to it than that.

With no shoes and a Hawaiian shirt fit for a king, Olaf feels like he fits right into the breezy, summer theme of the party around him. He might not know how he got here, but Olaf's never turned down a good party. This one holds a great deal of promise.

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Drugs didn't particularly affect him any longer since he was, after all, dead, and the only thing that really did affect him was fae blood. Eric lifted a hand.

"No, it does nothing for me. Feel free to keep it all to yourself." He still didn't know what this man was but scent told him it wasn't human or anything he'd ever encountered before. "Where are you from, exactly?"

Olaf shrugs, halfway pleased that he's not going to have to share. He takes in a deep inhalation, eyes half-shut as he genuinely enjoys the weed and swallows most of it before exhaling. "Auckland," he mumbles, working his way around the marbles in his mouth the curls of smoke are causing. "New Zealand. If you want to get more specific, a bar in Auckland, New Zealand."

"Louisiana. Baton Rouge, specifically, but I would not claim to be from there." Eric wasn't from anywhere any longer, not as many years as he'd lived; the memories of his family and their homestead were long gone and only brought to mind when he spoke his mother tongue. It was Norse then, not Swedish as he'd started using now, and much different from any other language he'd ever used.

"I do not think anyone ever claims Louisiana."

"Where are you from, then?" Olaf's trying to listen to the buzz of what the universe is telling him, but right now, it's so fucking clouded behind the miasma of marijuana that he's not sure it's worth it to even bother.

"Sweden, once. We did not call it that when I lived there." Eric had already decided that whatever this man was, he was not human, and announcing an irregular life span likely wouldn't do him any harm.

"This was approximately a thousand years ago."

"My family hails from Norway," Olaf says cheerfully, like the proximity of their countries immediately makes them neighbours. "We emigrated to Norsewood," he explains, offering the briefest of smiles. "And when the farms were a bit much, we moved to Auckland. Not a thousand years ago, though," he clarifies, as if such a point needs clarification.

He takes in another deep smell, because he can't place it and Olaf has been very in tune with his nose for a long time. "You're not a god," he says. "And you're not a giant or a dwarf," he says, puzzled. "But you're a thousand years old. Cool."

"And you are not a human," Eric said, lightly sniffing again to determine what he actually was. It was strange indeed, being unable to place something quickly as he was used to.

"What are you?"

Olaf gives Eric a bemused look, actively enjoying this little back and forth. He supposes now that he's been scented out, there's no point in worrying about hiding the secret. Besides, the rule is 'don't tell mortal's and whatever Eric is, it isn't mortal. "The mortal reincarnation of Baldr," he replies cheerfully. "Reborn, every day."

"You are a god, then, and one I once worshiped," Eric said, tilting his head a bit in deference. "I don't believe I've ever had this particular pleasure in my long life."

It did explain why he did not smell human and at least Baldr, unlike the maenads he'd run across occasionally, was a god whose cult he was intimately familiar with. "There are not many who keep to your ways in this day and age."

"My god spirit may be who you worshipped, but I'm only ninety-three years old," Olaf explains, a hand pressed to his chest as though this is a sad and small and silly little thing -- 93 compared to a thousand sort of is, though. "Baldr's been in several incarnations, but unless I die. Unless Odin is killed, I'd like to think I'll be around a while," he says pleasantly. "As for the worship, I don't really mind losing them. Attention from mortals these days is a bit not good," he says, sober and severe.

"They tend to kill that which they do not understand," Eric said. He knew this from vast experience and while vampires once enjoyed a considerable upper hand against their hordes, the pendulum had swung and now humans had both the numbers and the technology to wipe them all out.

"I do not blame you for wanting to remain...anonymous."

"That, they do," Olaf agrees readily, his private smile a sober and more serious one than he usually wears most of the time. "You know, it's not every day that I meet someone who understands the trials and tribulations of being chased out of one's home by fiery sticks," he says. "Do they come after you? The mortals?"

"Now, yes. We used to terrorize them before and the shift is not entirely pleasant. I guess it was inevitable. There's so many more of them than us and technology has improved by leaps and bounds."

Eric was certain that eventually, his kind would be corralled and imprisoned, or, worse, given the true death one by one until they no longer existed. Only the oldest and strongest vampires would survive.

Olaf's not sure that the Norse pantheon ever truly terrorized the mortals, but he supposes enough illicit affairs and bad decisions would eventually count towards being a mistake. At least, that's his general feeling on the matter. "Should I be afraid for my life?" Olaf asks, wondering if, indeed, he could die in that manner. "Or am I safe thanks to technology?"

"You're safe thanks to not being vampire. I presume gods don't actually eat their followers."

Eric was reasonably sure of that in his own religion though he could not speak for all religions. "But don't fear. I don't plan to wreak any havoc here."

Yet, anyway.

"Some did, but mainly the Greek pantheon. I'm afraid to say that us Norse gods were more concerned with fucking and drinking," he confesses, given that the hyperactive sex drive isn't exactly a bad thing, but he knows some of his family isn't overly fond of it. "If you are planning on a second Ragnarok, so to speak, just make sure you give me a nudge of fair warning," he says brightly.

"Only common courtesy," Eric agreed. Right now, it didn't seem like he would be staging any kind of coup. He had always enjoyed living his life and seeking out his pleasures without the interference of the government or higher powers and the hotel, at least on the surface, seemed like the ideal place to do that.

Others had grander ambitions, larger plans, but Eric's one desire had been to kill Russell for destroying his family and that was done now and a thing of the past; he had no ambition past it.