4463/When the Stars Align...

When the Stars Align...
Date of Scene:	22 December 2020
Location:	Heart of Neolithic Orkney, Mainland, Orkney, Scotland
Synopsis:	A woman may end up dead.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Amora
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

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Jane Foster has posed:
Neolithic ruins scattered over Mainland have sent visitors and locals goggling since there were people to forget who raised those henges and cobbled those walls in the remote outskirts of the Scottish extremities. A chain of islands stretch their arms for the Faroes and ultimately Norway through the frigid North Sea. At this time of morning, it's usually only the wooly, resolute sheep bothering to come out from their sheltered pens. Most of the human inhabitants of Mainland bother staying snug in their gas and electric-heated houses. A few ghosts lurk in the depths where countless victims of World Wars I and II rest in the Scapa Flow among the untouched rusting hulks. For the most part, they're dreaming of Christmas and the wild, near pagan Up Helly AA -- another reason to be here. The fire and swirling snow raised by dancers all around is too good to pass up.

But that's not the case in the darkening hours. Not the case at all, when an arcminute separates the two mighty gas giants in the sky that, to the naked eye, look like a single presence. Jupiter's four great satellites spill out in a straight line through the telescopic sights reviewed by eager astronomers, scholars, and the odd tired chaperone dragged out here by an overeager parent, partner, or kid. They're all in parkas and heavy coats, mittens and gloves aplenty. Hot cocoa and cider -- not spiked -- are spread among those in dire need.

The chilly wind wreaking havoc over the islands threads through the ancient stone monuments and caresses half-forgotten barrows on the narrow neck of the island. It's not so far from the sea, less than a kilometer really, and the pounding waves can be heard without much effort. on this rise, surrounded by lumps and rattling bushes, they get the best view.

So here they are, Jane Foster among them, peering at the jewels of the heavens claimed to be a star that heralded the coming of a Messiah, a herald of joy and hope. Christmas stars, even if they're just planets. "Just."

"Careful," Jane corrects someone fighting with a large-lens telescope, tilting the barrel up lightly. "You can use the viewfinder if it's too hard on your glasses."

Amora has posed:
Stars. Prophecy. Ancient power... Asgard has always been deeply connected with various events about the world.., the solstices, or even the planetary convergence that dragged so many to the Orkneys today. And while most will be here to watch the stars and planets above, trying to find meaning in their beauty, Amora is more focused in the stirings on the thread of magic as of late. A stir that has led her to this place, for while high above there was a convergence of the two planets that 'power' was focused here... Somewhere...

She had taken a 'ride' with a multimillionaire who wished to take a look at the stars.. All the man's idea of course, not that Amora had been making his mind to be here with her tonight. For even if she knew the importance of what tonight might bring she couldn't resist the 'game', the manipulating of humanity on the tip of her fingertips. Of course that said millionaire had been discarded for now, left to his own devices out on the island while she was prowling about...

A prowling that had now brought her to this particular part of the island where Jane is. She could sense power here. Was this the event? No, something different.. But her crystal blue gaze found someone familiar.

Jane Foster. Was the power coming from her?

Her eyes narrow just so and she moves to approach, a sway to those hips, chin held high. "Jane Foster." she murmurs when she is close, "Still with your eyes up on the stars, I see." a very faint smile to her lips. "But you have always aimed high, have you not?" look, she may still be a touch upset with the way she helped Asgard, and in particular Thor, all those years back. And helping go against Loki? Tsk tsk...

Jane Foster has posed:
Stars, prophecy, the cold meeting of currents in oceans and battered land. All that has been in Asgard's purview before; it's not like the stories talk of them hanging around the tropical regions of the world. Maybe because Asgard itself could be so balmy. Nonetheless, the starry night has few clouds to interrupt the southwestern approach which everyone here trains their binoculars and their telescopes on. Some take advantage of a break to sit down on lawnchairs, curled up in fleeces or blankets with a cup of something warm to keep the icy wind at bay. Here, there can be so much to appreciate in natural beauty that the vastness of the stars above is almost impossible to imagine. Here; it's all remarkably deep where the heavens meet the sea, scarcely any kind of barrier dividing them. Knowing where stars end and choppy waves slashed into chevrons of whitecaps begins takes a keen eye. With the huddled humans beside one another, clumped in twos and threes, the sight of the astronomers isn't much to look at. Mostly it's the cars in the car park or the occasional flash of a cellphone screen to give them away. No one wants to lose their night sight out here, anyway.

Thus, Amora isn't immediately the kind to stand out until she moves into the light or becomes it. Oh, certainly, that untold power hidden in her veins, that lust and passion she embodies, will snap heads as soon as their owners pull themselves away from peering at the rings of Saturn revealed in living detail. The smashed remnants of some long ago moon in the past hundred million years makes for a stunning display, streaked like handles on a teapot. Jupiter is turbulent and stormy, separated by a short black void before meeting the rings edge on. All very pretty, but not /breathtaking/ like the golden-haired danger that no man or woman ought to let too near. And if they do...?

Only one person answers to Jane Foster around here. One who knows what she decipher as an accent, imperious and proud. Her warm Arcteryx coat has its own fossilized logo, winking at Amora, before she lifts her head. The stripped curls of her chestnut braid mark a halo, her face clear and expression turning from lively to guarded in a moment fast enough to prove she, too, is marred by the great realm. There's no way of hiding that knowledge. "Always. To know the stars is to know ourselves, and we can find encouragement in great astronomical events like these," she says, stepping away to leave the goggling teenager with a knit cap pulled low staaaaring at Amora. Supermodels like stars? Totally the right call to brave the cold.

Amora has posed:
Amora was aiming for subtle tonight. Only a rather form-fitting bodice that does nothing to protect her from the cold (nor from the looks being given around) and a large fur coat about her. whatever beast that came from though? Clearly not an earthly one, the fur mingled with dark gleaming scales not of those species found about here. Perhaps some exotic beast up at Asgard who knows? Or maybe even in one of the other realms. Dark green leather pants and high heeled boots complete the emsemble, along with jewelry here and there, all high-end type of course. No cheap trinkets would ever adorn Amora of course! The smile still remains on her expression even if her eyes do not seem as warm, as cold as the night air surrounding them. "Sometimes one should know their place too, Jane." as if Amora can speak much about that, always aiming higher and higher on her schemes. Yet noone can deny their own nature.

"But at least you have always been consistent throughout all these years." Those eyes continue to roam Jane, as if there was something there she couldn't quite read. It's a frustrating thing really, and quite distracting her from her goal here tonight. Or is *that* the goal? Now that would be interesting... "Yet no Darcy in sight." a roll of her eyes, that girl can be infuriating. "Have you gotten rid of her? Good.."

The surrounding ogglers are mostly ignored for now. Humans, she barely pays attention them most of the time. Instead her attention is fully on Jane. Which can be rather scary, but also a flattering feeling. "Something is to happen here tonight. I have *seen* it.." she announces, her qualities as a seer never having been a secret to those in Asgard...

It is then that there is a rumble. Out in the seas? Up in the hills? Something *is* going on..

Jane Foster has posed:
Leather pants and heels in a place like this would cow lesser people. Those heels being stuck in the turf foremost a problem, if the toes weren't cause for tripping over semi-frozen clods of earth. Not everyone has the benefit of being a semi-divine being of some sort, particularly when it comes to dealing with the myriad troubles that might beset Earth. Midgard never had a chance, did it? The supple kind of smile that normally greets the world is found diminished slightly, but not entirely lacking. Jane isn't rude, any more than she is stupid. Rules count for something -- other than slapping Loki Odinson for richly deserved reasons. Always reasons. "People generally know they can aspire to greater potential when given the opportunity and resources to do so. Science is like a foreign language, but show the basics, and it can be grasped quite readily. It might even seem like magic to some, but not when you break it down for them."

An educator at heart but then, she always has been. Her height isn't vast, but it suits as she eases away from the telescope. Conversation is bound to distract, if simply standing there and breathing doesn't. She's light on her feet, all told, her hiking boots picking out a solid patch of earth some distance off. "Would you care for some cocoa? We've added marshmallows to some, you may find it quite sweet. Otherwise there is the typical tea and coffee, or apple cider. I'll warn you it's from a powder, but perfectly enjoyable." The words aren't laced with bitterness or cruelty; she really does offer libations to ease the way. "She's busy at the moment with coordinating a few things. I will be sure to let her know all is well. How is Lorelei?"

A light inquiry there, laced with interest, slip-skating with a puff of silvery air that escapes her parted lips like steam. Her mittened hands gesture to several of the metal carafes set up, one clearly big enough for quite an impressive amount of tea. UK, after all. "Something is to happen? we checked the weather maps and the sea charts. Nothing unusual on that front, other than the cold. Unless you mean it might brew up out of nowhere?"

Amora has posed:
"Science is never a replacement to magic though. Humanity believes they have debunked and explained so many of the mysteries but they often forget the answers they unveil only bring more questions. And some ..., they cannot be explained through magic." Amora retorts, gesturing with elegant fingertips while she speaks. The offer of cocoa does bring a pensive look to her face. She usually prefers the high-end stuff, but she is not one to refuse an offer of hospitality. "I accept your offer of hospitality." she then replies, in quite the traditional manner. Asgardian courtly manners. But it also seems to show she is not here to otherwise antagonize the other woman. There are rules where it comes to hospitality afterall.

There is a moment of pause at the question about Lorelei, her smile then deepening, "She cannot wait to return to Earth." a beat, "But she is ever a creature of fleeting interests, right now she is focused elsewhere." and perhaps for the better.

Ruby-red lips twist up into a more gentler smile, "Nothing brews out of nowhere. There is always a motive, a source." the rumbles turn more intense, the earth shaking just so, some of the telescopes swaying. It's enough for that oggling teenager nearby to yelp and reach for his telescope so it doesn't fall.

"Ah, here it is.." Amora looks up at the sky, almost as if she was scenting it, then back to Jane. "How curious..." another rumble is felt, this time a *lot* louder and in the distance, on one of the hills of the island, the sound of an avalanche is heard. Far enough that it shouldn't affect anyone on their spot.. But still...

She begins to walk towards it, uncaring about being in heels and walking through the snow but then she slows and looks over her shoulder. "You should come with me, Jane Foster."

Jane Foster has posed:
"How often they seem to coexist. Some things cannot be achieved by conventional means, but that doesn't mean they are beyond reach. Though I really wouldn't be the one to talk about magic in a vacuum. It exists alongside a good many other strands and variations of wonderful knowledge, and probably some not so wonderful. No matter where you measure us now, we're still advancing at a prodigious rate. Minds like Reed Richards' have contemplated questions that a hundred years ago would have been inconceivable. Judge us on our own scale of lifetimes, and that will give you a more accurate ruler by which to gauge us." Jane isn't entirely out to scupper the conversation, but she rises gently to the defense of mankind as she has probably done time and time again. The serene wash of night sky is impervious to their arguments, those stars so old that Asgard was likely nothing but a twinkle in a spirit's eye when they were discharging their light. Water sweeps against the shore, nearer here, visible through the wrack of bushes, brush, and finally the low cobbled shingles where humanity has made its home for thousands of years despite the inclement weather and trials of the environment. Hospitality stretches to the taste of a solid chocolatey brew, marshmallows or not, a pleasant variety for everyone to partake of.

"Good tidings," she adds when it comes to Lorelei. "May those journeys be long and fruitful." Emphasis on long, of course. There's no further question of what Lorelei is up to, because it's best not to be too certain of the return of a blighted songbird. No thank you.

The tremors through the earth set off a startled array of comments and complaints. It's the UK. Earthquakes aren't common and less so when the water is right there. Some vacationing in Greece or Italy or Cyprus probably react more sharply, but with the delicate equipment swaying, alarm is bound to show up. The tripods on their thin legs are meant to deal with being nudged, but this is different. Hands are outstretched, precious and expensive equipment snatched. Jane halts, the brunette's eyes sharpening. A swing of her head over the terrain doesn't find a huge freighter or warship rising, lingering for a moment or two on the waves. Are they rising, are they trustworthy? It's hard to be sure if she's about to be doused, distrustful of the brine and brackish weight. The rush demands quick action. "That's good enough for now everyone. Let's go ahead and pack it up, move it into the middle and back to the car park. Let's not take too long. Kids, move it! We can replace binoculars but not you."

Amora has posed:
While a talk about the limitations of humanity is quite the enticing prospect for Amora her focus now seems to fully be on whatever just happened. The alarmed stargazers moving back and fro, gathering their equipment and stowing it away properly to then move out as Jane requests now taking hold of the camp. There is a buzz-buzz about, of course. Some people concerned, other excited on what may be some kind of adventure. Others even taking pics already for their social platforms... 'Earthquake on the Orkneys.' no need for news crews when people so readily spread information...

As for Amora though, once her 'demand' for Jane to go with her isn't immediately followed a finely-trimmed brow arches just so. She is too used to being obeyed and while if it was business as usual she would had been gone the next moment she still lingers for now. As for why? Hard to tell... But she is watching Jane with a keen interest, eyes not telling on the reasons for her to wait. Of course that her patience isn't known to be high. A good term for it would be non-existent!

"This is not where the answers are." she then says in a soft manner, perhaps meaning this spot.., with all the humans around.

Jane Foster has posed:
The reason to move quickly is evident in the tone of voice Jane uses, precise and orderly. Not worried about herself; she worries much more about others. That she puts herself at risk with a known trickster is probably a kind of schadenfreude, given the last few years, but the tight smile beckons to poise from the director of the Hayden Planetarium and Nobel laureate. She knows what she is about, even if the people around here aren't beguiled by celebrity so much as saving their own necks. Snapping pictures on their phones is bad enough, and she turns away to stop one of the coffee thermoses from rolling away. Planting it against some stones isn't very helpful, but it's the best she can do on short notice.

"Nothing you have caused, have you?" she asks in a quiet undertone after keeping stray shrapnel of the caffeinated variety from polluting the sea already stricken by so many activities. The Scapa Flow is a huge inner harbour and the lights of the other islands blink dimly in the dusk. She can't see far past that, still human, still gauging her surroundings for any of the fingerprint halos she's come to dread. Fastening the hood over her head with a quick move, she gestures. "The water might start rising if this shakes. I wouldn't want you to be swept out to sea. Let's get to higher ground with others." Or back to town. Which is about as good as a concession for eavesdroppers as one can get. Transportation around here is foot, bike -- not in this weather -- or vehicle; whichever Amora chooses, she follows.

Amora has posed:
"Not this time." Amora doesn't even blame Jane for considering this might be her doing, considering what she has done in the past, and her affiliation with the Prince of Lies. But alas, that tone rings truth at least... Or well, at least as true as a master manipulator can make it ring. "I do like to brag about the calamities I cause afterall." now *that* is true. At least she is self-conscious enough to be aware of her own personality. Not that she regrets it the least.

As for helping these humans ..., she isn't too interested, not even when one of them trips nearby and almost breaks their precious telescope. But all seems well.. As long as she doesn't get dirt on her clothes, or her face remains immaculate. At least as immaculate as this wind can leave it be. "Being swept out to sea would be an interesting prospect." she muses, "Perhaps we could get Namor to come to the rescue. Have you ever been to Atlantis, Jane Foster?" casual convo while people are running about.

There is perhaps merit to returning to town, listening to what the locals may have to say. They are the ones who know the lay of the land afterall. "Let us go back to town." she then chooses. "The locals may know more about what happened. Where is your carriage?" carriage.

Jane Foster has posed:
When it comes to the Prince of Lies, is anything ever a matter of fault or simply responsibility in slivers assigned to others? Jane knows better than to take that at more than face value. She looks askance at Amora, giving the sorceress a mere shake of her head. "Your reputation precedes you, I have no doubt."

While the quake keeps causing the water to slosh around, the alarmed calls from the astronomy buffs furthest from the point of trouble try to hurry along their friends and peers. Shouts to get into the cars, toss the gear and go, doesn't seem that necessary to get them scrambling. The brunette slips when the pebbles under her hiking boot gives way, causing her to drop to a three-point stance and avoid falling straight onto her face. It's not exactly her finest moment. Not everyone can be human perfection embodied, even in the Asgardian opinion. She swallows a curse about Odin's beard -- just /by/ Odin's beard -- which probably has him grinning into his mead cup, and throws caution to the wind to scramble up with the help of her hands. "No, I've never been to Atlantis. It feels like everyone is going to different places these days, and I haven't managed to find the right pass. But perhaps I started something popular, after that trip on the Bifrost." Far be it from her to break into a bad mood, especially with other people at risk. Getting back up, she moves a few paces ahead to assist an older man struggling with his coat, his scarf, his binoculars, the coffee canteen. "Charles, leave the drinks behind. Let's get you on the path, up we go. Onto your feet, there we are." Talking him through the process comes naturally.

She may be an astrophysicist but her mother's practice as a physician comes through clearly. The bedside manner of someone who won't panic means to soothe, even if she looks back to check if the emerald witch of Asgard is still there.

"Right up this way. I would be pleased to give you a lift so we can safely get back," she tells Amora. And she means it. "The Land Rover up there." With a nod to the carpark swathed in the light of a single swinging lamp, it's bound to be easy to spot the big boxy SUV rather than a host of little boxy cars and SUVs. It's a rental, and the hazards of travel covered by insurance may not include 'cranky aliens.'

Amora has posed:
"Well, thank you..." Amora replies about the reputation, allowing a faint smile to curve up at those ruby lips. She does enjoy being acknowledged afterall. And being infamous? That means being *more* than famous right? "I do like to leave a mark." she then adds, rich amusement in her tone.

As for all the humans scrambling about.., Amora doesn't hide the contempt she has for them. Beneath her? Very much so. With all their mundane troubles. And this? Just a small little earthquake, nothing to worry their little minds about. So she doesn't try aid or even conduct any of them back to their trucks and cars. It's a contempt that doesn't seem to show when she regards Jane, as if she found something else in her.. A rival? No, most likely something else. But whatever it is means Amora's attention is on Jane which can often be a dangerous prospect all in all.

She moves closer to the 'carriage', and apparently she knows what a Land Rover is as she nears it promptly, "You aren't missing much, Jane Foster. It has way too many fishes, attitude and cranky Princes playing at being Kings.." a brief roll of her eyes given. Casual talk while an earthquake is abound. Nothing to see here. The talk about the Bifrost has her glance over a shoulder though, "You have broken quite the barriers by doing the travels you have done. The Asgardian nobility appears to favor you." hint of jealousy on her tone? "Yet I do hope you are ready to live up to the potential they have seen in you." now she's being ominous.

Jane Foster has posed:
Infamy is a dangerous spell, intoxicating but endlessly reckless when sought in high doses. Can't possibly end well. Jane only offers that understanding nod, focusing wholly on aiding those who need it when they head back in a mass towards the relative safety of their cars. The upset sea threatens to slosh over the causeways, causing the hurrying slew of traffic to fishtail out at speeds less recommended than frightened. Exhaust and tail lights wobble in the dark, those 'carriages' capable of getting jammed up or driving in the wrong lanes if it means finding relative high-ground in low-lying Orkney.

The brunette clicks the fob and the Land Rover beeps, powerful headlights flashing that obnoxious blue-white that blinds everyone else. It creaks on its suspension, rolling around. "Fishes are best in sushi, though I grew up on a coast. I'm fond of the ocean, but respectful at it. What's this about cranky princes being kings?" Inadvertently giving Amora an opportunity to vent might be the second most dangerous thing she's done other than peered up to the heavens with a telescope and apparently found the earth quivering underfoot. "The nobility may find Midgard, and thus me, an unexpected novelty. In your long lives, surely some things generate interest because of their rarity, when I imagine you've seen so much that it's a bit old hat when you encounter it regularly?" Familiarity breeding contempt by any other name. She plucks open the door on the driver's side, on the right naturally, and indicates the other side. Turning over the engine takes the press of a button. "We put the belt over the chest and hips," she adds for the Asgardian's benefit. "I know it's doubtful that a collision would hurt you, but you would probably break the windshield if you struck it. I don't want you to end up with glass in your hair or your clothes full of shards." See, she cares.

Amora has posed:
The Enchantress settles inside the land rover, comfortable even if no seatbelt is put on. Living dangerously maybe! Or perhaps she just doesn't pay too much heed to these more mundane ways of protecting ourselves. She looks out into the night, and towards that rebellious sea while they drive and move to find an higher place to be at, hopefully closer to town. But so far it doesn't seem as if the sea is too interested in swallowing up those curious enough to come see the planet phenomena of tonight... So far..

Giving Amora an opportunity to vent goes as well as one might expect. Gossip! "Prince Namor, of course." she murmurs, casting a look towards the brunette, "Have you met the man? Insufferable, and rather arrogant." as if she wasn't arrogant enough herself, "Attempting diplomacy was quite the effort on my part. But then again I suppose it is what we should expect out of Atlanteans ..." she lets out a resigned sigh, resting her elbow against the window sill of the car.

The talk about the seatbelt has her FINALLY be convinced to put it on, she swinging it over her front and locking it in. Mentioning her hair and clothes being full of shards does seem to help. She can't look anything less than perfect.

"Come now. You know there's more than simple curiosity about you, Jane. Don't sell yourself too short. Over the years I have learned not to underestimate your kind." she points to towards the small hills in the distance.

"That will be our destination." She announces. "But the choice is yours. Do you wish to go now? During the night and with the two of us? Or do you want to wait till morning, perhaps have a guide to lead us through." blue eyes then fully on Jane while she waits for her answer.

Jane Foster has posed:
Jane loads up the map app on the built-in screen, doing her best to drag up the map. Fortunately, the number of paved roads on Mainland isn't especially many and she's not about to off-road through a UNESCO heritage site. "We're going over there?" Confirmation shows as she points at the screen, affirming in bright details what looks like a mass of grey and black to her eyes.

Swiveling the car around in reverse, the route out of the car park is accompanied by the odd shudder, though nothing so violent as a major quake. These things last seconds, minutes at most, with aftershocks typically short. Presuming the earth's turmoil is at all nature, which the astrophysicist can hardly trust. Her hands grip the wheel as she nudges her hood back with a shake of her head, and gets the Land Rover humming after a parade of cars. Not one to speed past all of them with hectic movements, she dares a look to Amora briefly.

"I was firmly told that Midgard being under Odin's protection had very much to do why an interested eye came our way. Climbing through your libraries to see whether your authors or thinkers deviated from that line seemed untoward in the first place, though I won't turn down an invitation to better understand Asgardian philosophy and history." A diplomatic answer there, though not one without its acceptance of the condescension from the sorceress. "I expect that some of us willing to treat your people like people, instead of invaders or figments of myth, played a large part. Accord someone respect, and you can hope to get it back. Your princes stirred up our society enough, you'll not be forgotten any time in living memory now even if you choose to retreat, more than likely."

And who can know? Her fingertips drum the leather-wrapped wheel, accommodating for the rough roads, but the weather in the North Sea at this time of year is hardly gentle and kind. Those blue eyes are met with the wide regard of their mortal counterparts, and her lips thin a little. "Given your experience, how serious a matter is it? I don't like blindly running off into the dark," lies! Sure she does, she studies /the stars/. "For something emergent, though, we may have no choice if it's to be handled. Clearly this can't be a power plant or fracking. They don't actually frack up here, but still..."

Amora has posed:
The comfort and lush of these carriages can certainly beat those of the past, or even horse riding. Amora has learned to enjoy the comfort brought by it, even if there isn't the same kind of feeling from riding atop a horse. But these days, lush does seem to win out. So being inside a car doesn't seem like a new thing for her, even if she ignores most of the urgency of the drivers around them. Her focus seems to be solely on Jane.

"Are you asking if I am breaking Odin's protection of Midgard, Jane?" Now she is a touch amused, "I have no interest in doing so." for now at least. But no need for her to say it. The talk of Princes has her sighing, "Yes, they do boast quite loudly. But such is their nature. We all have ours. Even me. In part, many of what was said in the ancient times about myth, about who and what we are is in part true. Figments. Tales... But every tale has an ounce of truth to it no matter on how much one might spin it, or how many mouths it has travelled through to reach written finality." she says, her eyes then straying from Jane to look out the windshield, eyes turning a touch distant..

"Like here, for example. You are aware of the history surrounding these islands, are you not? The viking invasions of these lands. I feel there is a connection of a sort, though as for the seriousness. It all depends on how much you value the lives of those living here in the island. Morning is the safer choice for us. Night is .., not. But it might mean others will not be endangered." is she testing Jane now?

Jane Foster has posed:
"No, I do not imply that. Rather that might be a reason that Asgard holds an interest. What is so important on Midgard to attract his attention? Is it all it's made out to be? Ask those mortals some questions, and the like, that's how I assume the thought pattern has gone." A brief strike of a smile is short-lived, since Jane has more immediate matters to worry about. Swerving around a fallen branch, edging around a puddle that's sloshed up where a broken pipe spits water onto the asphalt. Other drivers are more hesitant than she is, but neither is she gunning to be the next Andretti on an uncertain or unfamiliar road. Threading a path that keeps advancing counts, and speeding might just scare the rest of her counterparts. Not having familiarity with her surroundings matters.

With a nod to the sorceress' questions, she replies, "I do. It belonged under the influence of Norway and that extended fairly deep into Scotland. Enough of the islands still have reminders of that, the ones ending in 'oy' anyway. That's a Norse term for island, much as I remember. There was something about a protectorate of the isles, a lordship that lasted fairly deep into the fifteenth century. I think so." Hey, when you can't teleport, you can read on the flight. That's six or seven hours to kill, and she certainly fills it. Her lips tighten slightly and bleach white in the corners at the monstrous proposition set before her by the ancient Enchantress. Ancient by her terms, anyway. A deep, long breath flares her nostrils lightly and she clears a stopped Vauxhall by swiftly maneuvering around it.

"Then you know there isn't really an option." A hint of acceptance already slides into the spaces between the words. "Though I thank you for considering there might be, you are thoughtful that way. I don't have a good idea on why there are quakes happening here but seismic activity aside, if you say it /is/ a risk not related to some sudden underwater slide or natural reason, I have to accept that as likely. As you said, there are old truths. Besides, it's not like trouble would just send a raven to point us in the right direction. Your expertise in the field is better than anyone else on short notice."

It's an offering of peace, as much as one can be, as the town forms a ragged line of shining diamonds on the breast of the islands, the slow rise of those sheep-denuded hills ahead.

Amora has posed:
While Jane isn't gunning to be next Andretti Amora certainly isn't trying to be the co-pilot either, not helping at all in warning about any danger on the road or anything of the sort. Such a charitable soul she is ... not. Instead she is focused on the talk about these islands past, her lips curving up into a faint smile. "Quite so, Jane. You know your history." as expected, "At the time, perhaps around ..., the twelth century.., there were quite the fierce battles for these." she gesturing vaguely about with one hand, "Scotland and Norway measured forces, or in this case their kings. And let me tell you, Alexander the third was quite the shrewd King. Quite a lot more than his father. He won a measure of independence from the viking war machine by stalling negotiations until the season of the storms came. It was a great win for him but also a time of great death. Some of that ..., still lingers. Which makes me think that is what this may be about. Some remnant of that past.." though no mention of Asgardian influence in these battles. But considering the time and those involved. They most likely were.

She listens to Jane's choice and then dips her head. "Very well. Let us be on our way then. As we get closer it should become more clear what is going on. For contrary to popular belief not even powerful sorceresses are omniscient." she says with some amusement to her lips.

As they reach the crossroads, where most of the trucks and cars are flocking towards the direction that leads to town another path presents itself, the one leading up to those hills, away from the safety of town, darker and certainly more ominous.

Jane Foster has posed:
Amora may not be charitable, but is making the assumption she knows nothing about driving four-wheeled explosive boxes with windows an unreasonable assumption? Jane has a license good for the UK via her US credentials, such as they are. Some things shall be taken for granted as they weave through narrow isthmus and hug the coastline, approaching Kirkwall at reasonably fast speeds. Some of her peers have peeled off to their B&Bs or hotels, some keep driving. No doubt a few are going straight for the ferry docks and waiting for the earliest boat to show up, if they can convince anyone to show up at all.

"Thanks. I try, especially where influences touch on current events," she says, watching the first thready signs of a ragged exurb pop up. Well, as much as a town has exurbs, its outer reaches thinly populated in two rows of houses and not much more. A few businesses, little stone piled up in ragged walls, greet the eye. It could be much prettier than some places, especially in the evening, but none of that registers. She just needs to get moving as the crux on the map where two roads merge gets nearer. "How close do we need to get to this? Do you want me to turn up towards all those fields?" She points to the middle of the island southwest of Kirkwall, above the great inland harbour where so many German ships lie wrecked at the bottom of the sea, their complement of men the war dead. British sailors, too, sleep in those cold, icy waters. A swift turn weaves down onto the main road cutting through, though it's really up to Amora to give a sense of proper direction between all two of the road choices they have.

Orkney, it's not very well-trodden with paved surfaces.

The gloomy dimness rolls ahead, shadows blue and inky, penned with a weirdness only in how dark they feel. Crystals of freezing rain spit on the windshield, urged on by the wipers. The ground is still solid, but slick, forcing even the Land Rover to slow down for its tires to get a grip.

Amora has posed:
Can we imagine Amora trying to earn a driving license? Specially at her first mistake and the unsuspecting instructor trying to correct her. Someone would get turned into a toad ... So it is most likely a very good assumption! Still, the drive so far appears to be going well considering all the circumstances..

Kirkwall is indeed a buzz-buzz of activity, or at least more than it is during the night. Tourists returning en masse, or those going for the ferry. It will certainly be a night to remember to most of the island-natives, along with those who chose to come here this day and night. A good memory though? That would still need to be seen...

At those crossroads, and the showing of the map by Jane Amora mmms, narrowing her eyes. "Here." she tells her, "Closer to the loch of kirbister." she announces, her eyes leaving the screen to look out to the night sky. "Yes, we will find our answers there."

The rain falling on the windshield, almost threatening to turn into a thunder storm has her commenting, "Can you sense their anger? They yearn to get out. To let their fury be unleashed. A luring call, bringing those unaware to their doom..."

But then she pauses as they continue on their drive through the night. "Why do you risk yourself for those you do not know, Jane? You could had chosen to go during morning. We'd most likely not be in such danger."

Jane Foster has posed:
Amora with a driving license would end the first time she was subjected to road rage and the road itself became a smoking crater. Not smart to involve her in the vagaries of driving laws, especially as those from other parts of the world can be just nonsensical.

A night to remember that would be, and Jane's already got enough on her plate. She turns away from the terminal into the sheep pasture and occasional farmhouses lit against the Atlantic. Here lies the bulk of those who are rural, though the outlying many islands around Mainland provide ample fishing and sheep-herding adventures. Not quite high on the list for her, nor is tourism or the other acts of husbandry and eco-agriculture they have. Greenhouses form spotted pools of misty light, weirdly on their own, illuminating the low-slung cloudbanks on days that aren't clear, as the skies are today. She watches one of those beacons off her right and then swings the car towards the loch, frowning a little as she goes, for it's rough and difficult. The chilly weather would steam up the windows if the Land Rover's formidable defrosting system weren't in play, whipped up with a press of a button by the brunette.

"I wish I weren't seeing someone's anger play out on an island that did nothing wrong," she murmurs, her voice tight. "Why are they angry? Was there some tourist encroaching on something they shouldn't? Up here they tend to preserve things, not destroy them, so I can't imagine what the cause for this is."

The coat isn't keeping her shiver suppressed, but the siren song smashing into the windshield just reinforces the wisdom of a snug house with a big cup of tea, cuddling up in a blanket near the radiator. Wait until morning. "The ferry won't be safe in these conditions. If it isn't normal, then it's my duty to do this, Lady Amora. The attitude to wait and let someone else handle it means nothing ever happens, because all of us waiting until someone steps up is a recipe for disaster. I don't need to know them, or earn money and approval doing this. It's because I would hope, in other circumstances, someone would do it for me. Thor did. Regular people in New York tried to keep everything together, when they were frightened, confused, and scared. more than once, and every time we find the means to move forward, it's better for society and us as a whole."

Amora has posed:
"Nothing wrong?" It's Amora's turn to lift a brow, watching Jane with a look that tells otherwise, "These are the descendants. The ones that profited from the demise of so many. Because for them it does not matter that they were the invading people and were rightfully turned back. That was never the norse way. And they remember not of what happened after, only of the anger. Of the depths, of darkness and death surrounding them. To those there is only one culprit." The Scots and their accursed King. As they are now getting closer Amora appears to be getting a better idea of what is going on. Certainly not ominiscient, but old enough to have those magical senses tuned up..

As they drive further in towards the Loch, one that is quite close to sea, she points towards a more deserted looking place. No agriculture here, only a few trees here and there, one visibly having being torn asunder by a lightning not a long time ago, along with a small hill.. Something appears to have happened there though, rubble and debris are spread across the ground, as if some blast from within had blown some kind of entrance open. "Stop over there. We are close."

And as they are still moving there she looks back to Jane, "You trust too much on the nature of humanity, Jane. I have lived long enough to know they have a way to disappoint us. There is so much .., dirt underneath." a faint smile coming to her lips. "Thor can be easy enough to follow. His heroics, the way he boasts and smiles and talks with people. But he is no example of who and what your people are. Sometimes I wonder how you have all been able to stay alive for so long." clearly Amora isn't a believer in humanity's spirit.

"But let's see if you can prove me wrong."

Jane Foster has posed:
Troubles ordained from a long ago time when the Viking settlers of the isles clashed with the Scots, and the two of them ripped apart a once pleasant domain. "So memories of an Orcadian kingdom no longer in their control are awakening things buried in the ground, who seem to be very unhappy with the fact the Union Jack or the Cross of St. Andrew is flying over a place they consider theirs. Regardless of who holds it, of course. Do I have the gist of it right? "

The words sound absurd leaving her lips, but that's just how it goes. Jane stares down at the dark lake, almost indistinguishable from the landscape around it. She throws the SUV into park once they get as close as she dares, insurance waivers probably not including lightning damage or wrath of God. Does it count if the god admits to it? Questions to ask her underwriters later. Just about everyone who knows of Thor probably knows her association there, though it's a tangled path to walk in Amora's company and still some. Her eyes narrow as she scans the slope, a pair of binoculars hauled out from their pouch before she fully abandons the car to its fate. "I always love when we come upon a disturbed landscape with no evident signs of trouble."

Jest fallen or not, she sets out to crunch across the ground, keeping to the softer peat deposits or grass where she can. "I believe humanity is flawed, but essentially worth the trouble. We have countless everyday acts of courage, kindness, and friendship. Yes, there are always the outliers, the monsters like Hitler or Stalin, who harm countless others. You can say we're not worth it because our own interests will always win out over others. Of course we're mildly selfish, that's survival. But we rise above that. We keep growing and developing new ways to handle our problems, we innovate and care greatly about people we've never met. Celebrity culture, for one. People mailing me all the time hoping I was well, that last appearance I seemed pale. Even children, people worrying about one another and their communities. This is life, Lady Amora. To bleed, to care, to cry, to laugh."

Amora has posed:
"No." Amora replies firmly at the cause, "The cause ..., is something else. It began when Strange disappeared a few months back. Since then there have been magical disturbances here and there. Smaller ones at the start, but it's been growing." she explains. "This..." and she points to where they are, " .... is perhaps the biggest of them so far." she then smiling faintly, "As for these.., restless ones. Their wrath is in their nature. That of those that have not found proper rest. But hopefully we are not too late." too late for what though? She doesn't go into it in detail. A sorceress always keeps some secrets!

Amora also steps out of the vehicle and even remembers to close the door behind her, eyes going over that slope and she glancing about, scanning, seeking.. A whispered word later and a staff comes to appear on her hand, shimmering, a gem atop it and blazing awake, producing light about that spreads unnaturally, at least more than if it was but a simple flame. It's a rather handy incantation for these dark nights! Or for those that don't make it a habit to carry a flashlight with them. Damn technology!

"I have lived among you long enough to know well about life. To celebrate, and to laugh. To come united when there is great peril. But isn't that the problem? It always takes a catastrophe until your people sees the light. Until they move to action. Unable to do past what they have in front of their own eyes." of course that for someone with the gift of a Seer like she does it's easy enough to say!

"As for the monsters. Would they truly be able to strive if it wasn't for those willing to follow their ideals?" Hitler and Stalin though? Even to Amora standards those were true and veritable monsters. She points towards the slope, starting to walk up towards it, "Let us go.."

The Asgardian walks past the broken debris, right towards that entrance that leads further down into darkness. Within? Expanding cavern ways that lead further down.., towards the sea. From that point the clear sound of crashing waves can be heard even if they aren't exactly close enough that it should be heard just yet.

There is clearly something wrong here, something that perhaps those who can perceive death can get a glimpse of. A glow very deep and inside those caves, of souls that could not find their way as they should had.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Strange... you mean /Doctor/ Strange disappeared. What caused that?" Pulling her hood up, Jane takes what protection she can from the cold weather, the biting breeze. Clear skies mean frigid temperatures, and it's only worse when spitting snow and frozen rain are thrown around by a preternatural storm. If this is, in fact, a storm. The brewing tempest leaves her cheeks stinging, a decided wish for some kind of scarf or mask to cover her face below her eyes. None of that is at the ready so she just zips the coat up higher and does her best to trudge through the slippery landscape without keeling over into a bush or ending up shoved into the loch itself. Those bitter, choked waters are not her idea of a good resting place, even for a few minutes.

"Proper rest?" A twinge of doubt pinches behind her brows, a headache beginning to form, but not one she intends to tell Amora about. Her breath puffs out in white clouds as she gamely follows, because it's an act to follow. After all, the lady with the glowing staff is also a helpful glowing target and surer-footed. Easier when one can fly, as opposed to being a goat. Never mind the quivering temptation shining somewhere deep in her unconsciousness, the parlay between sleeping mind and collective weight of a universe snapped around her wrist, a hammer hiding its guise.

A child of the Mother of Storms, that hammer. No wonder it shivers with delight and restless affection when the atmosphere ripples, churning in a microcosm what could spin the whole of the cosmos into an electrified frenzy.

"People can be misled. They can believe in the wrong things, and I've never met anyone or heard of a race impervious if it has free will." Please, Lucifer Morningstar, don't take this moment to stick your head out of that bar and hear the siren song of a Believer In You (TM). That might get bloody awkward. Especially given the tilted destiny winding them together. "Nothing excuses Hitler. Not everyone /is/ Hitler, and not everyone who followed him is a stellar example of humanity's general nature. For the millions that did, there were /billions/ who did not. Millions who raised their hands and pushed back, saying no to the ideals they knew were wrong. Who fought and bloodied the earth to ensure those thoughts wouldn't flourish. I'm not a war historian, though, and I suspect that Thor would know more about the finer points of fighting at certain times than I do. But just know that, our own darkness is no greater than anyone else's. Nor our capacity to innovate and overcome it."

The silence reigns as they approach that cavern, a jerky cut burrowed into the ground where it has no business being. Sea caves might underscore ancient bedrock, but it's still suspect. "Calling up any Atlanteans?" she quips, though it's not exactly proper. Her throat twinges, eyes narrowing as she stares into the shadows beyond the expanse of Amora's light. This is where the average adventuring party draws a sword, some chalk.

She has an ICER. An ICER will have to do.

Amora has posed:
"Yes. Stephen." Amora confirms. Stephen. "As for what caused it, I do not know yet. And nor does he apparently." a brief roll of her eyes. "So much for sorcerer supremes, mmm?" a little bit of a jab at the powerful sorcerer. But what would mages be without rivalry at every corner? Better rivalry around every corner than a magical blast. Always a good thing. "Though what I know is the balance is not well. The magical pathways are not aligned properly."

"Did you say something?" Amora questions about that murmur of 'proper rest'. She most likely was too busy to hear the murmur, a brow arching just so but then she simply shrugs. Headaches go unnoticed and perhaps those words that were spoken she not caring about not having heard. For if people are not praising her or giving homage she doesn't care *too* much to hear. It's that kind of self-love and confidence that can be a strength, but also a great flaw. As all Asgardians do.

But listen she does when Jane speaks about what makes humanity strong, their fight for the right thing. "You are not a war historian, no. But you look into the past, and that makes you understand the mistakes your people has done in the past. More than many others." she concedes with a slight nod of her head. As for people being misled..., well.., she doesn't comment much. It's what she does afterall. Even if in her mind it's all in name of the survival of her people. (Well, maybe not *all* of it)

The comment on Atlanteans has her answer, "Perhaps. If I had any I wished to see die." As if the place they were going into was *dangerous*. Or she might be jesting. Which would be a terrible place and time to do so. Maybe it's what passes as Asgardian Humor.

Without further ado she begins her descent, moving further in, the light on her staff a bastion in what would be a rather dark, damp place. Water drips down the walls and the further they move the more those waves are heard, ominous, a tale of a past long gone and forgotten by many. But that whatever is lurking down here still remembers..

They walk further below, under sea level most likely, Amora saying, "This used to connect to sea, these caves were all part of the same, the loch but an extension further inland." she explains.

A wail is heard from further down a tunnel. One Amora chooses to go. And it starts to become clear that they may just be in one old tomb, created by the sea as they open up to a larger cave, some large blocks of ice visible. Dark. But within the shadows there seems to be forms inside.

Jane Foster has posed:
"I'll take that under advisement. Supreme anything causes me no end of questions or headaches." That's not explained further, but matters of sorcerous import are left to the sorcerers, not the Nobel winners in scientific fields familiar with piercing the realms of space, not so much arcane mysteries on a book. "Anything out of balance is concerning. I mean, we hear about that all the time. Economy, countries, environment. If we can put this to right, then we're on the proper track and I am thankful you thought of me."

Well, mostly thankful. She can hope not to end up dead if this is some sort of trap, and her shoulders carry that tension where the rest of her body protests the cold. Just keeping moving is enough. Her footfalls are steady enough until they reach the cavern, and through it, she can spy what probably amounts to a path. A pathway leading into the dark speaks of all kinds of troubles, especially when dead Atlanteans are brought into the mix. An eye roll would be Darcy's thing, not Jane's, so she fixes the blonde sorceress with a steady look. "As you have the light, it would be wisest if you go first. As I imagine you'll want to have a look at anything written down there."

Written? One too many adventure books this is not, but she knows better. The smell of the brine pools in a foetid way, stinging, bringing her eyes to well up a bit just for the short impulse. She doesn't bother to wipe them away, holding her arms out slightly for balance. The pounding melodies grow eerie and strange, elusive to the senses, warped down the tunnels and all the walls. Like light can't be trusted, neither can sound, and even touch is made odd where smoothed rock turns into something decidedly else, almost wet, almost glassy. Until maybe it feels fused, and that leaves her peering around the glorious halo of radiance cast by the woman's staff.

Her dark eyes blink. Shadows that linger in dark places rarely want to open up and say hi or present themselves as friendly. Her mouth tightens, and she feels for the ICER, loosening it. "If you see me fire bolts of light or energy, stay out of the way and know they're temporary. Not like you or Loki," she whispers as softly as she can. The charged battery is warm, a compelling friend, but it may be all they have. A swirl of frenetic darkness looms large, converging, splitting apart like a three headed monster into three separate beings. If they can be called that in their distortions. All from the shifting shadows, the gloom beaten by needles of illuminated magic.

A gesture to welcome her on, as if Amora really wants to go down those smoothed terraced steps shaped by endless tides.

Amora has posed:
Amora lifts her chin as her blue eyes narrow, taking in those shadows, that welcoming allure of death. But also power. The sorceress taps her staff on the ground. A simple gesture, but it makes it so the light expands further, seeking those shadows. << Reveal that which has hidden from the light for so long >> Asgardian words coming out of her lips, imperious and filled with power. Tendrils of that light expand, seeking, trailing through that ice and forms become visible, of dead and rot. Those that have died still standing, or drowning. Debris of old norse ships are still visible, along with long-deteriorated armament. Swords. An helm here and there. And the people. Eyes open and staring into nothingness, waiting to be taken to glorious Valhalla that never came...

"I see you are not without your tricks, Jane." A faint smirk. If one could call an ICER a trick. "If any of these are out I do hope your aim is steady." those SHIELD trainings at the gun range would most likely come to help!

Yet as for any writings? No such thing. Not an adventure book unfortunately, or not as traditional. These seems to be more of an 'improvised' tomb, one they drifted in without noone to vouch for them. Forgotten and brewing their revenge.

A voice is heard further down the tunnel. << Asgardians. >> The voice old but .., not mindless. For Draugr are not mindless undead. Never so. They have purpose. And more than that, they are *dangerous* << We were promised Valhalla, but we were never given it. Forgotten promises. But the dead still remember, as will they once we resume our war. Will we be worthy then? >> the voice is full of resentment, dripping hatred. Figures are visible walking down the path ahead, towards them, just on the edge of the light, eyes shining.

"Seems some are awake. Unfortunate." Amora says in a non-challant manner. But she can't hide the faint doubt in her voice. This is dangerous. Even for her. All around the intensity on those glows is larger, nearly burning. Of unfinished business. Of warriors that perhaps deserved better.

Jane Foster has posed:
Aesir isn't easy to understand for a non-native, especially someone who isn't a native speaker of Icelandic, the closest thing left to Old Norse. Bokmal Norwegian isn't helping, nor is Nynorsk, and besides, it's not like Jane speaks those. She does, however, command reasonable fluency in a tongue not of her birth, nor her realm, but bound up in the sacred bark of Yggdrasil.

All to say that Amora's impressive work has mild appreciation from a bystander, though the same might not be said for the corpses. The withered creatures entombed there have no glory, no eternal battle and joyous friendship of their peers beyond. They have not the pleasures of Freyja's half or the monotony of Helheim so perhaps there might be worse fates. The flip of the stomach that wants to accompany the brutal wrongness isn't there, but her arms are leaden and hot at once, the puffy winter coat almost stifling in a way to the itch climbing her shoulders.

No writing here, no scratching of the dead marking off their time mired in ice and stone. No signs of Thor's hammer or a bit of Christian treasure helpfully dated. That's just too bad.

"Thank you for the light," she says, and means it, for all the tortured fire writhing around in a golden bangle has opinions as chilly as they are ozone lashed. "Tell me, do contracts with your people ever expire, or are they considered eternal until fulfilled? Like the old oaths, can they be bought off?" She's headed somewhere with this, for all that her eyes narrow to pull where those shapes are found. Danger simmers and burns, and she tilts her head. No telling if they can speak Aesir or English, even. The times overlap too well. Fortunately, on a lark, there /is/ another choice. That would be Wakandan, a place sea-roving bandits habitually fail to do well in. See also Namor and Atlantis.

<<They have fatal wounds already. I am not sure my energy bolts can keep them down.>> Did Jemma ever configure ICERs for undead? Calibrating for the shadows of the Hunger, sure, but not embodied things on the principle of animation. Then, back, she turns to English. It's the easiest. "Which war?"

If they're misplaced Aesir, it won't make a difference. If they aren't, she's speaking the language of the southron enemy, too different from Scots English even in its time to really be part of it. The world is a strange place, and her arm aches with the doubled-light of a harbinger to be. <<Lady, can you close these doors?>>

Well, 'lady' translates more into 'princess' or 'noble chieftainess' but that's mostly semantics.

Amora has posed:
"An oath is an oath." Amora replies, casting a look across towards Jane, arching a brow. "They were promised Valhalla if they fought, but this.. It seems they were forgotten and not taken up. Storms? Magic? Who knows what went on so long ago... But what's real is that they are here now." and hungry for revenge apparently. Or release. "Yet what do you mean by being bought off?" She inquires Jane.



Yet when she asks 'what war' the answer comes from that same voice of before, << Haakon's war. Inept Haakon who waited too long and lost us the war. >> It might be referring to the scottigh-Norwegian war on the 13th century, where a fleet was ambushed during the storms by the Scots and taken out, having King Haakon limp back and away. Yet it does seem to say these are not Aesir, but humans. Yet there was clearly Asgardian influence in this war.

A group of them moves forward, aggressive. Just a couple, but moving fast, perhaps tired of all this talk. Maybe wishing to unleash their rage once again.. Amora swings with one arm as a bright green glow surges in her hand and she points it to one. It pierces through the creature, sending it sprawling to the ground.. The other continues it's run towards Jane though..

Jane Foster has posed:
"Weregild or a form of it. If the promise if owed to someone who couldn't fulfil it, we might find a different route to settle the obligations. Thinking on all angles that might resolve this peacefully," Jane murmurs under her breath, doing her best to keep it swift and still. Just chattering in Aesir isn't going to make it any easier, though she collects her thoughts as swift as she can.

Those dark eyes flick towards the speakers all around them and the blood that already drained slightly from her face from worry is pooling somewhere in her stomach, worse. Haakon. Only about a million of them in the epics and sagas she's pored over, and she takes a slow, steadying breath. Anger stirring around them earns a pointed look to Amora again and then back to the draugr, who may or may not represent a clear and imminent danger. None of the black-violet skulls are blossoming in her vision again, but the itching at the spine and the vitals isn't getting any better. Could just be a product of magic.

She backpedals four steps, fighting that urge to run. The one coming for her meets her hands coming together, closed around the ICER held at her side. No time to argue now, especially as it moves with the knowledge of a melee fighter from an age where pillaging and real combat was settled up close, personal, and bloodily.

Light explodes, three bursts of blue like the heart of a lagoon. They take the same general path, her fingers squeezing tight. Not so impressive as magic, but SHIELD has its own kind of technology.

"Get /back/. You want to talk terms, we'll talk terms."

Jane Foster has posed:
Of course, it bears noting if the ICER predictably does nothing, this is going to be messy. Messy may be indeed the course of the day.

Amora has posed:
The blasts of light do hit the creature. But ICERs were indeed made to stun the living. Nervous centers.. Something that is lacking quite dearly in these draugr.. There is still some impact though, which slows the creature down but not by much. It continues to lumber closer, sword at the ready. "Your trick isn't very good, Jane Foster." Ms. Obvious! Amora is already weaving another incantation, a protective one, runs appearing about her as she flings a shield outward..

<< TERMS. WE DO NOT BELIEVE IN ASGARDIANS ANYMORE. >> Apparently whoever it is they are putting Jane in the same 'bag' as Amora. Asgardians! Which in a way.., is sort of true. Sort of.

Spears are tossed, some hitting the shield she created but then it shimmers as words are heard, corrupt but also with power dripping from them. Countermagic? There were rumors of powerful draugr able to do magic... But to find one here? That surprises even Amora. It's enough of a surprise that she can't raise the shield quickly enough for another spear to be tossed through and right towards the Asgardian. Not quick enough to also stop the creature advancing towards Jane to resume it, sword held high....

Jane Foster has posed:
ICER technology needs to work on awakened flesh animated by whatever force works here. Magic, that's something to take to Doctor Strange or John Constantine, the shabby fellow at the Swordfish. Maybe it's just for Amora. The crackle of blue light works like a bubble imploding, very pretty but not a great deal more useful. A flash of thought cleaves down the centre about a midnight-black blade, an armoured shield, a horse. But Dane Whitman's many useful tools are not her tools. Neither is there a sudden idea of how to juryrig three blocks of granite to Amora's staff and create some kind of functioning modulation device that Jemma could do, so her choice is her own.

What do you do in such things? Moving back swiftly up the path she came, Jane raises her arms in a defensive position commonplace enough to most martial arts, the kind that uses speed and momentum to advantage. Not that she has them. "I'm from Vinland, not Asgardian. Skraeling?" It's not accurate exactly, but Foster is a contraction of being a forester, close enough. They don't like Gaels, they don't like Irish, it's the best she can throw down. "You want rest, this isn't rest!" The ICER comes up again for the draugr closing on her, scrabbling at the distance as she discharges another volley of bolts at it. Slows, not stops that sword with rust and mire from landing, unless somehow it remains pristine from being entombed in ice. There are worse fates to go by, but the first dash of the draugr's arc should go clear of her. It's a narrow thing, when she wheels away under its reach while bringing up clasped hands around the ICER to smash under its arm, hoping to knock its guard further wide. Run, run, that's what all her training screams.

No lifelong swordswoman here. No Black Knight.

No thunder god.

Raven wings rustle and she doesn't have a chance for the second draugr from scrambling around the shield to get that neat steel through black polyester, down filling, sweater, flesh.

They live and die on borrowed time, an old kindled wrath ribboning through their stony crypt. A tomb for the living, a maw for the dead. She doesn't feel it, at first, clapping her hand to the sticky mass spreading along her side. Everywhere blooms purple, scudding around them. A pained shout of warning isn't much help, but she grits it out. "Go back, Amora!"

Amora has posed:
The spear is flying true. Deadly aimed at Amora's charitable heart. Yet while she is indeed more of a sorceress than anything else she HAS trained with the best Asgard has to offer where it comes to combat. So she moves. Fast, impossibly fast to a human. It's a very close affair, as close as many affairs she has had in her long life. And just as deadly (normally not to her). Still what the spear gets is nicking the woman on the side of an arm, a small cut, but enough to bring about the wrath of the sorceress. Drawing blood on Amora? That's a capital sin...

Eyes flare and she for a moment appears capable of bringing down this damnable tomb down on these creatures. Maybe that's the plan, go back to the original idea that Jane mentioned. 'Close the Doors.'

It's the pained shout, laced with the warning to step back that has Amora glancing over a shoulder. She moves fast, taking the draugr by the neck and pushing it up against an icy wall, head being crushed in, she letting all her wrath starting to come out..., and letting these creatures know who exactly is Amora the Enchantress.

It's one of those flaws, arrogance and superiority. But as again she attempts to conjure her magic she finds it lacking, sapped out from the powerful creature on the other side who feeds on rage, wanting it's revenge..

More draugr advance, spears and swords. "There is nowhere to run, Jane Foster. Take one of their swords." as they start to surround the duo. Amora prepares herself.. Getting killed in the middle of these forsaken islands? This was not how it was supposed to go.

Jane Foster has posed:
Can't not think of the cost,
And the things that will be lost

"Amora, go!" Jane's words run harsh and quick, her dark cinnamon eyes drowned beneath a rich amethyst shade that blurs beneath the rising tears. The pain hurts, fueled through the first thin annals of shock. Swords have a startling sharpness, and the parted flesh impresses its demands. Pierced muscle won't respond except for a sharp burn and the blood leaks out when she moves too fast. Her arm clamps to her side, which hinders just how well she can turn. They never tell you a 'minor' scratch isn't anything but minor. Not being run through looks a fair sight better, but the physicist has to compensate for that damn cut. "We get to the car, we outrun them." That wheeze isn't good.

Oh, can we just get a pause
To be certain we'll be tall again

The curse of being almost a doctor of medicine is self-diagnosis, in the blur of ducking and using the stone wall and icy footing to defend herself. Her diaphragm is pulling, breath leaking from the hole in her side. The shirt and coat help cling. Saran-wrap and tape will have to do, the remedy for a broken window. It would make her laugh, if she weren't back to a wall, circled by things that should stay dead and don't.

Whether weather be the frost
Or the violence of the dog days

"Sue for peace." Just a suggestion. There's no picking up a sword, not winged like that, but Amora's fire and light faltering somehow are a cruel joke played on them. Her jerk away from another blade waving too close costs her, jarring, feet slipping and forcing her down to maintain her balance. Sea caves smoothed by the waves, rimed in ice, are a deadly place to be. "I sue for your terms, by blood, in the Sigvodr's name." That ancient kenning of Odin clangs off her tongue. "Hold your weapons, name your price."

It's probably not the finest gambit but it stands for the moment, as they close and she slides back, reluctant to leave Amora, reluctant to stay in blade or spear's reach. <<Amora, get to the vehicle.>>

Amora has posed:
<< COLD DEATH HANGS ON YOUR SHOULDERS. WHY SHOULD WE DEAL WITH ONE WHO WILL SOON JOIN OUR RANKS? BECOME ONE OF US. >> Another figure is approaching, the source of the voice. And this one? There is a tunic about it, rotting but there are clear asgardian traces there, perhaps a lost member who travelled with these vikings. The one who most likely has been dampening Amora's power. For this is their 'resting' place, where they are most powerful. Others' magic is not welcome, nor as strong.

Amora lets out a rather unlady-like curse upon noticing the approaching figure. Retreating *is* an option but then there is Jane bleeding to death nearby. Magic could perhaps heal it depending on the severity but right now she cannot do so, "Stupid human.." she tells Jane but it doesn't carry the bite behind it nor it seems with the intent to insult her, ".. I won't be leaving you here to die. Guess your earlier talk rubbed off on me." she frowns deeply. As if her choosing to stay here was all Jane's fault! "Besides.., Thor would never forgive me if you were to die." another *good* reason to not let the woman die.

So instead she fights, staff swinging as she takes one of the draugr, then another, those near the entrance of the cave so they can run, making them crunch out of the way and towards a wall. Numbers do have a tendency to win more often than not though, and she gets a slash across a leg for her troubles, making her stagger and stop her momentum of running out.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Thor will get over it." But will he? Jane isn't up for determining that, her hand to her side. It's partly the cover of a swung staff in Amora's hand that knocks the one draugr with a bloody spear wide, but for her part, simply retreating makes for a bit of a spell. Cold death indeed. The diplomatic route isn't working and flat out running isn't either, but she takes a chance on the creature ranting at them in detail. Poisoned lines of pain cause her off-hand to tremble, but the joy of an ICER is its simple functionality. Pull, shoot. Hope that the strafing fire is fairly fast.

The range isn't eternal or half as good as a sorceress'. But it will do as she sends a line crookedly veering towards Amora's assailants. One, blap. Two hits an ice-rimmed extrusion of rock. The third goes pretty true, as far as these things go, slapping into the one that tried to get too close. Lightning and thunder might be ideal, but they have a slope up to the open sky -- praise the open heavens, barely visible over a shoulder, though her side is aching and the wetness running into her jeans isn't exactly a promising sign. Neither is a blade that can actually cut through anything more than Amora's clothes.

Turn tail, run. It'd be the smart thing to do. Sadly smart and brave don't mean leaving someone behind. Even if the woman can teleport around or do a number of feats a bog-standard mortal can't. "Drop the damn ceiling, lady, go!" The loch's bitter waters smell nearby, the waves crashing, and ice and snow a blurry vision. Or it's just hers.

Two steps, three steps. Wait, gasp. Note the cold is closer. Shoot... it's all a rhythm. Faltering, faltering, but green goddesses ought to be able to run from that. The call is pulling, teasing, and her teeth grit against it, rimed in blood.

Amora has posed:
"No...." And Amora slides her staff across another cheeky draugr that was coming for a swing, "... He...." she dodging aside another blow, taking one of the creature's balance out and crushing it's skull with her staff when it falls. ".. won't." she breathing more heavily now as they continue to be assailed...

It's when those shots come, strafing through the ranks of the draugr, most just stepping back when hit but as one goes close to the one that has been ranting and it hits there is a cursing sound out of the man. It's a momentary break in it's concentration. The one it had to be keeping to not allow Amora to focus her magic...

The reaction is immediate, Amora hitting the butt of her staff on the ground hard as a shockwave spreads from it and around both her and Jane. Hard. Thundering. Maybe it would even make Thor proud! It sends them flying... And cracks are seen on the blocks of ice, along as in the ceiling as the whole cave starts to tremble..

<< WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? >> Again the voice, scrambling to regain it's footing, << DIE. >>

Amora reaches for Jane then, strong arm wrapping about her form and pulling her up. "Do. Not. Die." as if she was giving Jane an order. People tend to obey her orders, it should work this time too right?

And then she is moving out of the cave, slow but steady. Teleporting? Maybe when she can focus through the pain shooting through her leg.

Sounds are heard in pursuit after a few moments, the draugr climbing, trying to get out before the whole cave collapses.

Jane Foster has posed:
There's really no point to arguing over what a god can or cannot do, especially when the whole concept of free will, freedom of choice, and personality of said man is open-ended. Jane might just be spurring Amora on with that mordant humour shared at the gallows, or convincing herself of the price of letting go. It could fall to either way.

Asgardian women, even the non-combative ones, probably might lay waste to a whole mortal battalion on their own. No doubt one of them competent with a staff or a sword would be fully capable of fixing things. She doesn't have time to smirk as the thunderclap radiates out, a sound so jarring that the hemorrhagic shock teeters end over end as she simply stares with those wine-dark eyes at the crumbling facade of the world before them.

Draugr with reason as much to live, avenge, advance into the breathing realms they were deprived of. No doubt that crashing, cracking rooftop back down reminds them of the long wait.

Of the grueling hope for escape dwindling in the dark. Of their prayers unanswered, of Haakon never bloody well rescuing them. That landing gone awry and the lords of Scotland and Norway sealing their pact in a position of misery all those years later. No trumpets for them.

Jane takes a few steps under Amora's dragging pull. Something not to be resisted as she slides into place at the sorceress' side. Every step is an inferno, but one that breathes warmth, breathes hope into fluttering lungs losing too much oxygen. Ugly bit to patch up, but Jemma's always been good at that.

Or the NHS. Kirkwall has a hospital. Airlifting to Edinburgh on SHIELD's dime will be a testament to the benefit package she's rightly earned. Off-duty, no less, showing people the stars.

A wash of cold stings their faces. The storm out there isn't so violent as to hide the Land Rover from sight. Amora's only got to get there, doggedly legging it over the terrain, and hurl herself in. "Keys. Pocket."

A reminder to herself, maybe. She pats her side, fingers glistening, shuddering as the mildest movement of her arm sends a threnody of something awry. Blood soaked ring, a second try latches a finger around it, the fob in her wet palm shifting around.

That moment to look down, find the pocket, stare at it is enough to see the tunic-wearing man, scrambling, hurrying. Something in his hands, it's all a blur, something to fall into by delaying on the keys and the keening death's head blossoming over them both.

Sometimes the door is just like that. Step right through. It's hard to say what impacts them both hard as a draugr can throw, if it's a reply in viscous black energy summoned up by a broken promise, spite, an old bit of nasty spellwork. Necrotic and expunged of hope, what magic would be left? Or if it's just a spear with a rusty point, or a keen fine one. It feels the same, either way, slamming through flesh and bone. Even if it's just an impact that Jane turns into, a matter of choices. Hit the Enchantress with her back turned or take it face on?

Face on, with a cost, is only fair.

Amora has posed:
Amora has made way to the car now, breathing starting to steady, things now coming back under control. Yet there is a calculating look on those blue eyes. Is she waiting for something? For the split of a second it seems like so, she looking at Jane attentively. Thoughtful. One ridiculous thought could be .., is she behind any of this? Nah, that would certainly be ridiculous, wouldn't it? But saving Jane's life would mean she'd owe her a favor, wouldn't it..? Yet no time to think... The keys are taken and she is just about to open the door, saying, "I will brew you a healin-" when there is that strong impact that jolts pain through Amora as well...

She glances over a shoulder to see that spear through the other woman, blinking once. At the choice to get in the way of it? Or that it appears to clearly be a mortal wound? The Goddess becomes incensed even as she staggers, the poor land rover shaking violently due to that impact..

She turns and power begins to gather in her hands, eyes burning fiery green..., as the world seems to slow down..

Jane Foster has posed:
The world slows. Draugr, at least a few, scramble over the landscape. They are shapes of men in the likenesses of life at a distance, but the wind blowing flakes around and stinging the soil with small tektites of ice won't make for a clear view. The lone light is Amora's, if not the car when it starts.

Keys in her fingers, slick and rusty, smell of steel and copper. A click of the one big button will unlock the car, a smaller button for the back. Easy enough to use and summon the engine to life with a remote starter, which offers a warm steel box for the Asgardian sorceress to hide within. Even injured, it's all a matter of turn wheel, press accelerator. Enough movies and shows to steal on that, and it's likely a few sword blows won't hurt the bonnet or the sides, reinforced as they are for the weather. Well, won't hurt much. There will be dents, things that rental insurance might have a bone to pick over. Minor quibbles, really.

A draugr's damn strong but a draugr isn't going 60 km/h if it needs. The loping pace of the undead is nice and all, but a gas engine laughs in the face of antimagic or energy-sapping attacks, the kind that rip bodies and their living souls. It's another kind of option, the technology offering shelter and a shield.

The energy spear that struck Jane is, after all, dissipating. Black entropic power folds in on itself, bleeding away, a stain on existence with hate and rage sparkling like a bad scent.

A hell of a spell. (Hel?) But the draugr magus isn't likely to immediately follow it up with another. He got the wrong target, so what follows is a matter unto itself.

The body in Amora's arms isn't responding other than a faint trail of breath.

Amora has posed:
The fiery green blast that leaves the sorceress is a powerful one. Almost enough to end the magus right there and then. Yet more draugr come in, piling in the way, being disintegrated instead of her target... It's a contest of wills for a moment before they are both brushed aside and get into a lockdown. A lockdown Amora isn't too interested in staying in right now. So she gets into the car, turns it on. She had been watching Jane operating afterall. Observant.. And it turns out that indeed one will see Amora driving. Road rage? Quite so... But unfortunately there are no other drivers for her to loose her fury onto.. Instead her eyes go to the limp body on the seat next to her, unmoving. Dead? Perhaps..

She drives for a time until the draugr are left behind them. A sad memory, tires bumping over debris on the way until she finally brings the rover to an halt, it screeching...

Magic is returning so she focuses, eyes closed, words murmured... A vial starts to form in her hands, conjured out of her personal tower. A vial that, if all goes well, should help with those injuries..

She opens the woman's mouth and lets the liquid start trickling down the throat.

"I should not had let this go so far." she clicks her tongue, annoyed. But she *knew* there was something important to find here in this island. And she would still find it.

Jane Foster has posed:
The draugr doesn't stand a chance. Others fling their spears, but lacking a weapon except a sword means closing the distance. They who can gather themselves will try to pursue, but their numbers are few, most locked in the cave. Maybe they should think of digging out their compatriots, evening up the score. It's not a perfect strategy for them, but does wrath overwhelm reason? At least for one, no! Gonna fling that spear and hope Amora catches a raw deal, because there is always luck.

Right until your arm falls off, right? The spear goes deliriously wide and lies in the road, long after emissions from the tailpipe swallow up all memory of monsters. Of troubles past.

Amora is an impressive bat out of Hel on a slippery road. Macadam gives some traction but not much nearby, the slither and hiss finally giving way to Kirkwall, a quiet little town named for the church that stands there in defiance of pagan gods. Like it had a choice. Like it matters, but those spires announce the coming dark. The rest huddle low, afraid of the night. Mortals know to dread what lies in dark waters, in swallowed caverns.

The blood leaking from Jane's side stains her sweater beyond repair, the slashed coat in no better state. A raw mess of gore where the skin splits, muscle tears, white of bone flashing through if rolled. Her lolling figure has no support but what the effort of gravity and that seat offer, slumped over. The magical blast to the chest is a bit worse, freezing her skin fairly white, greyish in a harrowing kind of mark. Not large; Amora's palm would cover it, but the blow is a messy thing to see with enchanted eyes.

Fixing the body is one thing. Knitting up damage at an ancient sorceress' fingertips is one thing.

But there's no one home inside.

And that bangle tucked under her sleeve is mute on the testimony, slithering with every sway of the car, lurching or not.