5772/1000 Faces: Resurrectile Dysfunction

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1000 Faces: Resurrectile Dysfunction
Date of Scene: 28 March 2021
Location: Kirkwall, Orkney
Synopsis: After saving some of Orkney from draugr, the Asgardian royal court goes to teach a draugr a lesson. One that starts and ends with
Cast of Characters: Jane Foster, Thor, Loki, Amora




Jane Foster has posed:
Sunset comes to Orkney early even in April. The farflung archipelago off Scotland's shore leads the broken march of a submerged landmass to Norway. Long ago the remnants of the Celtic kingdoms duelled with the followers of the Norse pantheon to determine sovereignty over these isles scattered around a deep, protected harbour where the ghosts of German sailors haunt battleship graves. World Wars scarred this land of soft green turf and low hills, eroded by wave and wind. A welcoming, beautiful place where the sun dips in the west, bloody arrows shot airborne, shadows rusty and dark.

What's missing isn't colour, a rime of frost, or music. It's life.

Solid stone buildings surrounding the harbour hold evidence for celebrating Easter, the arrival of spring, but no lights shine except where preprogrammed. Restaurants are shuttered, shops unmoving, flats and houses bedimmed. The dingy little fishing fleet bobs at the piers, though a number of empty berths and no sign of any ferries to the Scottish Mainland or outlying islands worrying. Few cars are parked in the streets. One or two show signs of rapid departure, door still askew, battery dead from chirping.

At least two bodies feed the fish, bloated and heavy in the lapping water. A savaged dog lies on its side on the main road to the north and west, route A965. Broken metal and makeshift weapons litter the ground thinly but enough to imagine how it might go. Fleeing under a hail of arrows. Broken metal heads, stained rusty with blood. Someone falling, dragged off. No sign of a corpse.

Orkney has no forests to hide in, not really. Sheep pastures where lambs rot and ewes stare sightless at the sea. Sheepfolds where civilians cower. Some pray. Some don't. The chants following warbands prowling through the pink-spotted heath and meadowlands haven't been heard since their five or six times removed great-grandfather's time.

Thor has posed:
It's rare indeed for the Norse gods to be invoked in a religious sense in the modern age. Though they walk the Earth again, known personalities all over the world in some cases, something about having a presence on social media and in the tabloids keeps the deification they endured centuries ago at bay.

At least, that's the case in most of society. Still, there are fringes to civilization, as there always have been: dissatisfied, reactionary people, reaching back into a misremembered past for a mythologized sense of themselves, a narcissistic, self-ascribed mantle of ahistorical centrality. And among some of those, the disused pantheon of the northernmost reaches of Europe holds a certain appeal.

Heimdall doesn't witness a lot of prayers from Midgard these days. But some catch his attention -- for good reasons and bad.

A brilliant column of whirling colors blasts the ground near Orkney, exotic particles burning a complex pattern into the pasture, and when it fades, Asgard has arrived. Thor stands at the forefront, Mjolnir in hand, leaning forward and seeking battle. He's not entirely clear on the details: there are bad people here, doing bad things in the name of the house of Odin, and he needs to hear very little more than that. He won't stand for it, and he's not the only one.

Loki has posed:
The Vikings had raided what is now the UK coast for at least 200 years, up and down, at times taking and burning, other times settling down and becoming part of the community. From these rivers, hills and valleys, stories rose of the Gods that lived in Asgard, each given a name, each given a personality. The stories had been passed down from generation to generation, the mirth and magic, the valor of battle all told within those words around a campfire. Eventually, someone wrote it down, but long after the last sword had bloodied, and the world had turned its back on the Gods to settle upon One.

Blame Snorri.

But oh those centures of battle!

Loki was a youth with the visits to Midgard, but even as young as he was, his ability with knife, sword and tricks was well far superior to those of Midgard. God, indeed. Stories about him, about those of Asgard were slightly different, as details do change in the story as it's passed down.

Loki has been spending days, a few weeks now ensconced in his library, the lanterns dimmed in the darkness that follows day, working on that trifling problem. His attention is cast towards the thoughts of death, of the soul, of .. the exact way one could fashion not only the seizing of a soul but also the trapping.

There is a call, however. A call that he hadn't heard for centuries, that when Loki first catches the melody, it's difficult to believe that one still sings it, as discordant as it may sound in the present day.

It's a draw, a pull, and before Loki can even consider a response, the flash of light takes him, and in that moment of blinding illumination, he's yelling in anger,

"You didn't even-"

Dark leather boots hit the ground as the transfer completes, and his head is still aimed towards the sky, bellowing his annoyance at being interrupted...

"...ask first!"

It takes a moment for Loki to gather his wits about him with this unannounced bit of travel, and rolling his head, pulling at his varied green leather jacket, he huffs an annoyed breath. His gaze lands on Thor, and it looks suddenly clearer on his face, complete with an eyeroll. "Thor," he begins, "Did you- what have I told you over and over again? You really most stop-"

Amora has posed:
It's not like Amora usually comes into these forays. Battle? At the orkneys? Oh please... She didn't even care about coming to those centuries back why would she come now? Nope, she is normally too busy seducing a sorcerer or three to steal their powers. Or bathing in the sun in one of the many realms. Sure, she *sometimes* joined in but ..., those were very, very rare.

Yet *this* call she doesn't ignore. Why though? Well, she has her reasons. The main being she *has* been here. And she might even know what is happening. BUT..., all in good time.

She steps out right after Loki does, listening to that complaint, then up to Thor. Icy-blue eyes dance amusedly. "You know you'd never need to ask me..." her voice with that kind of sultry, teasing tone that is so full of promise...

It's also shameless. But that's Amora for you.

"My Princes. It is an honor to be here by your side." She gestures with one hand, her clothing starting to shift to one more befitting of a warrior sorceress, leather armor over her form, sleek and tight to her form, leggings that give way to a wider skirt. Heels are unfortunately changed to boots too but no helmet. Just that magnificient tiara. As for weapons? None just yet ... Or is she?

"Mmmm, the Orkneys... I imagine it's nothing good what we will find ..." some anticipation on her voice. Yes, she knows *something*. She is even eager for it.

Jane Foster has posed:
Who calls to the Aesir? It would needs be someone brave or foolhardy. Who would dare pull down the eyes of Asgard? Someone supremely certain of their place, proud and bloated by overweening confidence. At least that fits the standard.

Two kilometers outside Kirkwall, a spark flies.

Propitiations performed such that Heimdall turns his golden, starlit eyes to Midgard come in the old way: muttered words over fire and peat and water at the very moment when all is lost. Signals pass from fumbling fingers that reach for a latch. Iron lies thick on the evening air where a slaughtered sheep's blood soaks into the dirt, scratchings of the futhark plaintive for help.

Another spark fades at the southern harbour of Scapa where rusting steel battleships creak in the king tide. A stumbling fisherman cries out to the All-Father the once before meeting the sea. Ancient kennings splutter over the waves before they take him. What does he defend now, his homeland guarded by a circling hawk under the rainbow crashes to ground.

A third spark flickers at the edge of a bog five miles. Energy ramping up burns briefly like a flaring candle, the kind used to celebrate Independence Day or New Years the world round. Except the mana has a very mortal source, a burning overload that goes up like a single desperate beacon. Predictably it burns out shortly after the flare.

Three targets among so many in a land scattered by Norse names: Spinsey, Graemsay, Voy, Aith.

Where are they to begin?

Thor has posed:
"Oh, quit whining, brother," Thor retorts, glancing over his red-caped shoulder and rolling his eyes right back. "You'll enjoy this. It's like..." He thinks for a moment. What did the Midgarders call it? Ah, yes. "Community service." He hefts Mjolnir and gives it a twirl along the axis of the handle, arcs of electricity crawling up the sides with a noise like a revving dynamo. "People are invoking our name. Evil people. //Embarrassing// people." He shifts to cover what he expects Loki to prioritize with a little chuff of breath. "Besides, an honest fight might do you some good."

As Amora joins the conversation, Thor gives her insinuations a jaundiced look. "Aye, you never have been keen on asking," he answers her pointedly. A long history of temptations, double-crosses, assignations and confrontations unfolds in that short sentence. Thor isn't young or foolhardy enough to let Amora's flirtations distract him in the middle of an appointed task -- at least, not anymore. Not after the harsh tutelage of long experience.

Instead, he focuses on the beacons propitiating their assistance. "Should we split, or go together?" he asks the others, glancing from point to point. "Perhaps together first, to gauge their strength, then apart to respond more quickly if we can?"

Loki has posed:
Loki brushes the dust from his green leather collar, and as Amora lands beside them obviously somewhat prepared for all of this, emerald eyes narrow in light suspicion. Still, it's short lived as he catches the cries, the exhortations, the pleas focused in languages riding upon the winds as he hadn't felt them in centuries.

He'd complained to Amora only weeks ago on Lindesfarne that no one followed the old ways, that it seemed that Midgard had passed them, and it was a melancholic feeling to acknowledge such.

"Amora, lovely as ever. A hint, perhaps? Your doing?" He's teasing, of course. Mostly. "It did draw me from other pursuits, which you are mistress of."

As Thor speaks, however, Loki's features take on a studied gaze at his brother. He's reading.. what? Who now?

It's strange, the air here. It's passing familiar, and in it, holds a strangeness. The incantation of runes given power by the blood of a sheep rises over him with both warmth of godly affection and anger.

"I hear the cries for help, brother," Loki says softly. "I would see what it is that assails them, exactly." His expression soon enough turns towards the troubled, an honest (as he can be, anyway) reflection of his thoughts, however fleeting they may be. And such compassion is decidedly there and gone, replaced with a hint of a smile, though not of amusement.

"I think I'll find the sheep blood scholar." The one scratching the elder futhark into the ground in supplication.

Amora has posed:
Community service? That has Amora turn her beautiful nose at it. Eeewww. So mundane. What is Midgard doing to Thor?! "Your brother needs an intervention, dear Loki..." and fast. She also speaks of Thor almost as if he wasn't there. So rude! But that's what he deserves for rebuking her approaches all the time. If only he knew how -big- her heart is. Alas .... Deep sigh.

"You hurt me with your words, Prince Thor." Not really. She knows what she did. And still does! And just as each of them has their own nature. Thor being the valiant warrior and Loki the Prince of lies so is she the Enchantress, a seductress. And she does not deny it at all. Still, she knows to hurt where it matters. "Yet perhaps you should had asked for me earlier, Odinson." just that little touch of a jab on her tone. ".. And I could had told you this was where Jane fell." there. Bomb drop.

"In fact we are facing the remnants of the draugr that woke here in that fateful evening. One in particular is quite powerful." her eyes turning to look at Loki. "An old sorcerer, entombed here but now free. The rest should be easily handled.. I advise that we moved together at this." her feet slowly start drifting up from the ground, prepared to move. "Let us go with Loki's suggestion." she then says.

It was time to fly!

Jane Foster has posed:
Loki's spark tugs to the southeastern shores of Mainland, the main Orcadian island. It gutters lies along the southern lobe practically resembling a dragon taking a bite from the sea.

Travel by foot might be slow, even with the benefit of a semi-sealed road, weaving along the steely waters of the Scapa Flow. Low hills ring the road, sandwiching trouble between sky and ocean. Nowhere to hide when the tallest structure is a warehouse or a barn. Somewhat prosperous farmland by Scottish standards climbs to the hills, someone's jacket caught on a fencepost and a clear sign of a struggle dotted in blood. No victim, no assailant. Dark power drips on the air, all the same, like ink dropped in a pitcher of water.

Too early to make out clear paths through the grass, but clearly at least someone ran with another in pursuit. Signs of hounds chasing another in a different direction, broken earth signalling a slip, a fall. Keen senses might catch the thump of footsteps, the wheeze of a gasp, people somewhere over the rise.

The body that brought them here in the firstplace naturally hangs at the crossroads, literally above a white and black sign reading "Kirkwall < 2. St Mary's > 2. St Margaret's Hope > 10." Behind it is a barn, door open, futhark scribed on the ground. The writer spasms on a pole, as though hurled there.

Thor has posed:
That's a relief. Thor hadn't been dishonest, exactly, about wanting to keep them together for tactical reasons -- it's sound strategy not to split the party -- but he also had the ulterior motive of not entirely trusting the others to be as benevolent as they might claim to be while out of his sight. He's less concerned about what Midgard has in store for them than what they have in store for Midgard, as a general rule, and he suspects that as long as he's there to frown a lot, the others will be on their best behavior.

That's a personal best, of course. All things are relative.

Because while she may have been insincere about her own wounded feelings, the twist Amora reveals is a twist of the knife for Thor. He gapes, taking a step back, shock rolling over him as he absorbs her revelation. He starts: "These things were...?" But Amora is already aloft and out of earshot.

So much for not losing his focus. With her main gambit always in play, he has a tendency to forget just how good she is at emotional manipulations beyond outright seduction. He clamps his teeth together, takes a few sharp breaths, and then swings Mjolnir through a few warmup loops before he's off like a shot.

His arc across the sky terminates just above the grisly scene at the crossroads; he swings his hammer like a helicopter blade above his head to gyroscopically slow his approach. He catches the pole in one mittlike grip, hanging from it by that hand and a dug-in boot. The other hand takes a gentle hold of the twitching victim, attempting to lift them free. It remains to be seen whether this is a rescue or a recovery, and whether his presence will draw some attack from a hidden assailant.

Loki has posed:
"You really should share more often, Amora," is given wryly, that ghosted smile still pulling at his lips. There is no humour to it still, but something of bemusement tinges those tones. "I am wounded."

Wounded he may be, but Loki is paying complete attention to his surroundings, the gripes only half-hearted in an attempt to remain above it all.

It's no secret, however, to what the information does to Thor. Brows rise, and it's actually a word of caution and concern that is given, "Easy brother," is murmured. At the same time, his hand extends to touch him on the forearm even as the God of Thunder begins to lose his focus, and with that possibly his temper as he rises into the sky. Loki lifts his gaze to those self-same skies, fully expecting a response from nature... and it's never good. He really //hates// those storms.

Now, what Loki really wants right now is a good mount. Where the hell are the horses around here in such a pastoral zone? He exhales in a frustrated chuff; he'd felt the place was familiar, he had. And this, this is why. So, Loki begins his walk, quick though it may be, watching and looking for signs of passing.

As he does go, he catches hints and glimpses, and in leaning down and pressing a hand to the earth, seeks to scry, to wrest that information from the earth and tracks up the rise to where the sounds may come.

Amora has posed:
"Perhaps you should ask more often for me to share, Loki." A golden brow arching just so back at Loki. A challenge? Something else? But her work had been done. Yes, she knew what she had done to Thor. But it was also needed if they wanted to focus here. And with Thor knowing these were the same that had taken Jane's 'life'? Oh yes, there would be a reckoning. For the ages. She counted on that. She had a score to settle with a certain draugr.

To Loki though she adds, "This mage. He has powers that can strip magic away. One would be good to count on other faculties when fighting it." a warning. She's generous when she wants to. She doesn't even charge for that advice!

She casts another look around while they continue to investigate. She doesn't really bother with the corpses, instead looking for signs of magic in the air. For that source she already knows of that particular draugr..

Jane Foster has posed:
Horses on Orkney are like horses in New York: expensive to feed, house, and entertain. Cheap cars are more popular, the occasional ATV, but those were snatched up or buried away for the winter. Loki's not likely to find much at a glance, though the farm buildings might harbour something mechanical.

The damage done outside the nearest outbuilding doors marks the earth with blood. Prayers scraped by an imperfect hand, one trying to get it right, even if the spelling and shape are clumsy like a child's printing. Runes break the surface, spilled by sheep's blood with an obvious purpose to call. To appeal to the gods.

Hrani. The Blusterer, a kenning of old for the All-Father. Thrasarr, the Argumentative. Another kenning, and as to whom... All but Amora might fit /that/ role of the assembled.

The man impaled is /there/ if barely, last vestiges clinging to flesh and bone. Life shouldn't have clung but it stays. Limbs twitch and tremble. His mouth weakly moves as blood and foam spill out past greying lips. Too grey for someone not that far into Death's country. He bleeds badly where the pole rams through his trunk, his leg, emerging at his back. Thor's kindness is rough despite trying, and he is barely recognized by one bloodshot eye. Run. Run. Run. The mouth shapes that thought in the travails of death.

Loki's hand drags up prints in the dark, stains of shadow and the lighter, frivolous oil-stains where human feet struck. Boots, running shoes, they split away. Dog's paws look like muddied blobs, racing in parallel of the booted victim, driven ahead of the shadowy night. Paths that flow away from the sea knot, turn, giving the clear sense of being run down by tireless hunters. Tactical in every sense; the humans', however, are not. A flight of fear.

Thor has posed:
Thor doesn't answer Loki's words or his touch, but if thunderheads weren't gathering as soon as Amora got under Thor's skin, they certainly are as he flies over the island, witnessing the swath of destruction cut across the landscape by the anachronistic warband. By the time the thunder god drops to the crossroads, legs buckling under him to cushion the body he is cradling, the clouds are dark and grumbling the fury they are eager to unleash. He lowers the victim gently to the ground, icy eyes scanning the field and sweeping toward the barn and beyond.

"This one is beyond my ability to help," he says, straightening back up as the others join him. "One of you might fare better. But from the air, I saw more. One fleeing a band of dogs." This is not a good day to be one of those dogs -- there's lightning in Thor's mouth and eyes, now. "I will save who I can. Find me the one responsible."

Whatever the man said to him, Thor does not run. He flies -- no dramatic hammer-swing or called whirlwind. Thor is past showy displays and bantering adventures. He's there, then gone, then lands among the braying dogs, riding a literal lightning strike that explodes in their midst. If they don't scatter immediately, the whirling disc of Mjolnir, crackling with electric rage as he spins it from its strap, swings around him like the nunchaku from Hel, bursting with lightning with every blow it lands.

Then he flings it, a flat line of deadly mystical momentum at and through one dog-driver. He sketches a turn with two fingers, and the now-distant hammer follows his direction, rounding a high-G curve and then boomeranging back to him through the second undead hunter. "Where are the rest?" he calls out to the people he's protecting. The rest of their neighbors? The rest of the draugr? It's not immediately clear, but Thor is furious and raring for a fight.

Loki has posed:
Loki looks back at Amora, and with a sigh, goes about his own part in this business once information is gained. He, too, has an imprint of this mage, this... dark, malevolent magician. He's taken the warning from Amora; something, something, strip magic away, something.. but the younger brother is nothing if not touch arrogant. It's not magic, however, that Loki turns to once his scrying is done, to feel in order to track the draugr.

No, it's actually more to protect Thor. His brother's departure without so much a word wounds the man more than would appear upon his face; it flickers behind emerald eyes. There, and gone before it can be commented upon. Instead, he turns his attention to the wounded man, and kneels by his side once Thor is departed. Softly, the God of Lies and Deceit looks honestly earnest, and murmurs a soft .. command? Request? to the Valkyrie in the ancient language of the man's ancestors. <<"Færið Valhöll sál þessa manns, þar sem hann má meðtaka hátíðir stríðsmanna..">>

'Bring this man's soul to Valhalla, where he may partake of the feasts of warriors.'

So the Prince of Asgard decrees it, and so the Valkyrie may hear his words.

Loki rises once more, and can hear the chaos created by Thor, and exhales in that sigh of his once more. Instead of brandishing magic, however, the younger brother pulls his sword, the tip *pinging* with magic, and he approaches his brother, ready to stand shoulder to shoulder.

The look given the Thunderer is simple; it's a question.

Brother?

Jane Foster has posed:
Bring this man to Valhalla. If they listen, the white-winged battlemaidens, a prince of Asgard should be a very hard answer to ignore. Words that hum along the backbone of the World Tree, carried on far branches, would surely reach their ears. Space is no issue, when service to Valhalla is due.

No one comes.

The man in his bloody paroxysm jerks. His body lifts like a hook snagged the soulstuff within, and cleaves back to the dirt of the byway at the crossroads.

Dangerous thing, crossroads.

Where lightning crashes, dogs yelp and scrabble if they could get out of the way. A band of no mere curs, these specimens range from sheep-herders to guard-dogs. Like the dogs, the two Norsemen share the imposing presence of their kind. Crackling cascades fling their dark and brindled bodies away, sending them tumbling. One draugr hurls a black-tipped bolt at Thor's leg, another slammed off his feet by Mjolnir and traveling quite some way. The bravest yelp and snap to no avail, driven off when they come too damn close. Teeth gored red bared by snarling lips suggest they have dined -- and dined well.

One bloodied wound is a calf, another an arm, a choice chunk of thigh. A fallen man doesn't stand much hope without medical intervention, but he keeps crawling on. Thor's presence leaves the younger two victims a couple yards ahead collapsing, arms over their heads. One tries to point, gesturing to the slopes weaving past a creek into a bowl occupied by very few buildings. Height gives the Thunderer advantage; he can surely see the dark shapes, the sword and spear flashing in a rallied retort. Draugr, their faces cracking in a grin. Amora's senses as much as Loki's will shriek of trouble, the poisonous hate wrapping around the few Norse warriors immediately to their east like a serpent pulled out of their leathery limbs and their salt-crusted armour.

The two sorcerers can taste darkening pall over the dragon lines crossing the island. Leys seep with a dark, clotted power wrested from the soil and congealing into a pale mist as lightning falls. Other sources of power familiar to Amora at least -- the draugr -- are further out, lined up along a telling path. Along ancients' creations of the stone circles and barrows -- the oldest and largest in Europe, recognized as World Heritage sites and places of pilgrimage to modern pagans. Places used to pray and mourn and celebrate for six thousand years.

Coincidence? Totally.

Amora has posed:
With Loki moving to give the man his last 'rites', or at least how it goes for Asgardians she watches with an inscrutable look, attentive. Does she expect it to work? Or what does she expect? But then they are moving, flying, or running. Joined together in battle. Brother with Brother. Of course that Amora does turn her gaze westbound, not exactly the direction they have decided to go .. but, she follows in..

Aerial support.

A couple of bolts are sent from her fingertips, cackling with green energy, unerringly towards the draugr that decide to threaten the Princes. Not stopping them directly, but at least running interference, giving aid from above.

Yet soon enough she tells them. "We must go west. To the standing stones. It is the focus of the power. And where we will find the one we seek. The one responsible." just a pause. "The one who took Jane's lifeforce."

Magic words.

Thor has posed:
Mjolnir reaches Thor before the spear, tilting just in time to be caught by the strap and pulled back into a constant spin. The air rushes in the hammer's wake, spiraling into a wall of wind. Thor rushes ahead of Loki and swings that leashed tempest like a shield, battering aside lofted spears and giving Loki free rein to charge unimpeded. It's a wonder to see the so-often-estranged brothers fighting as one; their youth spent doing exactly that shows in their unspoken coordination. Thor makes an opening he knows Loki can exploit; while he does so, Thor will see to another threat.

As the few massive dogs not scattered by his ferocious assault rush anew toward the fallen man, Thor catches one by the scruff in a meaty fist and flings it bodily away. A second he tackles from the side, sending it skidding across the grass. He drives another bolt of lighting into the ground, then another, the noise and light (not to mention deadly shocks) sending even the hardiest hounds scampering away if not into the afterlife with the people they have so recently mauled.

Seeing the survivors point him toward the leader of this incursion, Thor gives them a swift nod. "This will be over soon," he assures them. He raises his eyes to Amora, shielding them with one hand. "My thanks," he tells her grimly, answering her direction. Then, "Watch out for them." It's not a question, but it has the intonation of a request. He knows far better than to issue her an order.

"Loki, a portal," he says, rushing forward again to clear a space where his brother can bridge through space to the standing stones. If these draugr have any memories of Thor, even just secondhand from the skalds, they know to fear Mjolnir in full battle wrath. If they need to learn, Thor is an eager tutor. Light glints off of battle-weathered Uru metal; lightning roars through ranks of the undead. Thor was not idly thought a god by the fearsome Vikings.

Loki has posed:
No one comes.

Loki presses his lips tightly together in annoyance, but to see the man jerk and seemingly dance as if pulled at by strings, the magical brother remains that moment longer beside the shepherd, beside the Midgardian who called out to him in his hour. The call to Valkyrie didn't work, so the Trickster god has another trick up his sleeve.

It's not something he's actually //done// before, but Mother always said that his imagination is his best weapon as well as his best defense.

The man, his 'servant' that pleaded for his presence is given Loki's full attention. The sword turns to a dagger in his hand, small, lithe, and equally as dangerous to magic, as well as one of his best assets. It takes the younger brother a full few heartbeats to bring the spell around; shielding the man's soul, preventing the soul from departing in terms of binding, while at the same time, cutting the magic, breaking the hold that it has upon the simple man.

If he had been present at the theft of Jane's soul, could he have done something similar?

"This is not yours," is growled to the aether.

Should it work, or not work, it is what he can do. Shield, bind, banish... with some hastily scraped runes set into the dirt beside him, drawn by the magical sword to give it power.

Once done, he's beside his brother, the dagger a sword once more. The wall that Thor creates is used by Loki to feint, dodge and spin into his own version of what would look to be by onlookers as something decidedly NOT a style fancied by Asgardians. Loki has learned that brute strength isn't where his successes lie; it's speed, finesse, and get in close to deal the blow. This, coupled with his magic is very much his own.

Loki and Thor have honed their fighting over the centuries, and there is something of a relief upon the younger brother's face when Thor falls into old habits.

It's predictable, or rather, it's practiced.

Spin, feint.. and the sword finds flesh, rending it with a flair that only a magically defined blade can. The cuts are clean, deadly.. and final.

Loki, reading the grounds, doesn't need to be told how or where once the idea surfaces. He does hear Amora; takes her counsel with an air of trust. There is nothing to be gained to betray, and with a circling gesture with the tip of his sword, the magic is amplified, and a hole in the fabric that is Orkney is opened, leading through and beyond. Once again, Loki raises his brows to his brother, and with a gesture born of sibling.. humor, he offers his teleport, stepping through the same time he does.

"Coming, Amora?"

Jane Foster has posed:
The aether ripples. Something deep and beyond stirs, a shiver of disruption in the fast-flowing, chaotic currents wrapped around an island in tears and torment.

It isn't here. Not immediately. Something stirs beneath the surface, a tremor even the dimmest Aesir child still in a diaper could name as a terrible thing.

Magic shreds and splinters in the whirlwind of battle that makes the draugr troubling, but not ultimately fatal to either Odinson. Amora's sparkling green energy seethes and screams its way through unearthly flesh. Where it impacts, though, the armour almost drinks its fill. Likewise the burst sand concussions leave chips of some pale substance flying away where Thor and Loki carve their way through. Something light, forgettable, like bits of fingernails.

Easy to ignore with much more exciting possibilities of a burning portal inscribed on the air. That brief use of magic is easy, and on the other side stands a gently curving plane surrounded by the sea on three sides. The isthmus between Orkney's mainland and these wilder, older lands is familiar at least to Amora with its ring of high stones. It's no Stonehenge: more weathered, whittled, blasted by the storm and standing proud still. Higher than any of the Asgardians, the tallest of the menhirs peers over scrub and heath. Nothing concerning. Nothing at all off about the place, visually.

But other senses can reel, the hairs on the back of the neck rising and something sickly pooling in the space of the stone circle itself, even through the portal. Somewhere, a hate-fuelled draugr sorcerer ought to be nearby.

The body of the burnt-out mortal tied to the leylines is much easier to spot; just find the older woman in a tweed anorak lying facedown on the path.

Amora has posed:
Really? Babysitting some mortals? A twisted little thought comes to Amora's mind of just disposing of these mortals where they stand. But it passes quickly. No, focus. Don't be petty. You know Thor doesn't mean those things. Breathe in, breathe out. And while she doesn't understand his care for these Midgardians she does something about them. Protection? Apparently so. Words echo in the air, powerful asgardian words. A barrier starts to form all around the survivors, riddled with runes. Warning runes. These are protected by Asgard. Strike them and risk their wrath. Though even if they do feel like risking their wrath they'd need to go through one of Amora's protective shields. Not an easy task.

She finally comes to land next to the Brothers, a nod given to Loki when he extends the invitation. "Of course." a smile.

She steps out of the portal after them, her eyes wide, brimming with anticipation. Reckoning was at hand. It was time to take this draugr down. She smiles in delight, eager for battle as she hasn't been in a good while.