6090/1000 Faces: Walpurgisnacht

1000 Faces: Walpurgisnacht
Date of Scene:	30 April 2021
Location:	Uppsala, Sweden
Synopsis:	Death comes to Uppsala. It doesn't go well.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Loki, Thea Queen, Sif
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

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Jane Foster has posed:
Old Uppsala is a picturesque village a few miles from the larger, modern city of the same name -- New Uppsala, by any measure -- in southern Sweden. Tourists love to visit the ancient stronghold of Swedish kings and Norse gods, a literal link to the Viking era preserved not only in an excellent local museum but countless fields and reconstructed longhouses. During daylight hours, the pastoral scene of rolling green fields and occasional standing stone echo ancient times when people made sacrifices at the great Temple devoted to Odin and the Aesir. By night, especially at a festival, it's much more exciting.

Aesir-worshipping times are long past, the Norse replaced by rather atheistic modern Scandinavians. But given an opportunity to celebrate, they'll raise a flagon of mead, feast on small strawberry cakes and nettle soup, and hum along to the many folk songs sun around the huge bonfires. A hundred thousand people usually congregate in Uppsala, and tonight the roaring flames dot the roads and parks around the village.

Dancers whirl together, maybe a bit more drunk than others. Children clap their hands to coordinated efforts by their parents. Lovers with their arms hooked together dare to leap over the smallest fires. Smoke swirls in the air. With the convivial atmosphere of a huge party, Valborg -- otherwise called Hexennacht or Walpurgisnacht in Germanic cultures -- is off to a delightful start.

Of course, that's not how it will stay.

Loki has posed:
And how those in Old Uppsala have no clue that the are visited by the gods of their ancestors. The bonfires' flames rise to Asgard itself in supplication for a successful transfer from the dark, cold months of winter to the warmer weather of spring. That and the promise of bountiful harvests, fertile cattle, and victories in battle.

(Okay, made up that last bit, but it IS the Norse that are being spoken about, after all. Going Viking one of the fun parts of life!)

Loki does walk the outskirts of one of the larger gatherings in one of the older sections; a place where he'd walked centuries ago. Many. Centuries. He's dressed in his usual green clothing, but almost as if he's 'slumming'. Tidy woolen tunic, breeches, boots all with hints of gold dotted upon it. In hand, a large mug with still a reasonable amount of mead within.

The Trickster God looks pensive, even as he takes another swallow of the honeyed wine as he stares at the bonfire from his vantage point.

Thea Queen has posed:
For all that Queen name sometimes feels like a curse to Thea it comes right in handy where it comes to travelling. Specially when she is feeling suffocated and needs a bit of time away. Normal people go off-country or, God forbid, Delaware or something... But no, Thea is a Queen. And what does that mean? Somewhere far. Somewhere exotic.

Sweden. During Valpurgisnacht. Delightful, and even if it's not the first time she has been in Europe it's the first time she is coming to Sweden. And it has just that little bit of mysticism and quaintness that she enjoys in her life, specially during festivals, she certainly feeling the vibration that these Norse celebrations bring to Uppsala.

The willowy Thea has a soft smile on her lips while she makes way across the various festivities, a brief look given to the flagons of mead which she quickly dismisses, going right to the strawberry cakes.. Not exactly a good substitute, but at least instead of relapsing into certain behaviors of the past they will go to straight her hips. She's fine with that.

She is dressed in a pair of leather pants, boots and a top, all framed by a leather jacket. It does sort of mark her as a tourist. But then again, that's what she is.

Sif has posed:
"You seem pensive, Your Highness," the cold voice, dripping daggers of ice, says from behind Loki. Sif holds no illusion that her soft tread arrived unnoted by the infamously sensitive senses of the not-crown prince of Asgard. "You hover at the edges instead of joining the festivities."

Sif's face is clenched into a perfectly neutral expression; the sort she's developed from centuries of courtly play and intrigue. In her hand is one of the finer goblets in her personal collection: transluscent, colour-changing glass, rimmed with finely-wrought gold and tastefully accented by Dwarven gems, cunningly illustrating, if one looks sufficiently closely, a scene of chaotic battle.

It was a bespoke piece.

"Why do you not join us in celebration, Your Highness?" She's really asking why he doesn't stop skulking and plotting whatever it is that he's plotting. She's just too courteous to say it that way. "We would be glad of your company." Where we can see you and not worry about a shiv in the back. Also unspoken.

Without further comment, the Lady Sif, Sif the All-Seeing, Vanir Goddess of War, dressed in her habitual outfit of war, with its leathers and steels, grand sword at her side, looking for all the world like the slayer of men she is, after a brief bow of courtesy, walks down the little hillock the pair had been standing on to join the crowd.

"WHO HAS THE MEAD!" she cries out on approach, itching to fill her goblet.

Jane Foster has posed:
The evening brings cold, though not so sharp as once might have been in decades past. Just further proof of human impacts on the natural world. People huddle into their coats and rely on bonfires, liquor, and physical activity to keep warm. Around the largest four pyres arranged in a diamond, the dancers and musicians throng together in the thickest numbers. Projectors mounted on the streetlights spill bright green, orange, and blue designs lifted from runestones and famous pieces of artwork. Stags leap in thickets of leaves in one rotating circle. In another, a gorgeously proud longboat leaps over the stylised waves, their crews forever driven forward.

"Come on and dance!" shouts a man dressed like a plowman in roughspun wool trousers and a tunic, very much the stylish look of 768. His better armoured friends from a century or two later show the steps to a simple enough dance, showing anyone interested how to step sideways while clapping their hands to a beat hammered out on leather drums. Anyone who understands Swedish might recognize the old threshing song, the lyrics updated from when it was a prayer to old Odin One-Eye and the beautiful golden twins of the Vanir, Freyja and Freyr.

A gentleman with an extremely impressive red beard and mop of ginger hair stands in front of a particular large fire and beckons. "Let us cast out the old year and our weaknesses! The fire purges the impurities within!" he calls out in a rolling, laughing basso. How much ale has this apparent master of festivities had? Quite a bit, as it happens, but he's in a fantastic mood. So are the others. One woman comes up, dressed in what must be some kind of neopagan outfit decorated with dozens of stitched leaves embroidered in gold and green. She tosses a hand trowel and a small spade wrapped with sweet grasses in, and holds up her arms. Many cheer. They're in a good mood!

"It's that easy!" calls the ginger, clapping her on the shoulder cheerfully.

Loki has posed:
Loki doesn't even have to turn around to know who it is that approaches, and his green-eyed gaze continues forward, his own drink untouched for the moment as he answers her words, "Lady Sif," he begins, "I'm really not keen on asking the All Father for a bountiful harvest this season." He smiles tightly and turns to face the Warriormaiden, and it's a lingering gaze before he looks back at the gathered near the bonfires, "This is more my brother's feast."

Still, Loki exhales in a softly audible breath and inclines his head in response to the brief obeissance, and goes to follow. Sif's bellow to the gathered below is given an eyeroll, though he's not above taking a sweet cake from one of the side offerings, a coin given in return.

Just wait until the woman with the cakes actually notices what sort of coin she's just received!

The mug is finally lifted to his lips as he stops just a little closer now, his attention shifting from Sif to the gathered, the merrymaking, the dancers and the feasters. As the dancing truly gets started, there are a couple of .. slightly drunken women, young and old, that are tugging at the sleeves of those in proximity to DANCE.

At first, Loki certainly refuses, his head shaking; he doesn't even have to be heard to know what it is he's saying, but the supplication of a younger woman gets his attention, and with an inclination of his head, there are a couple of steps that the younger Prince begins to pace. It's slightly different than what it is the rest are doing, a little more deliberate, with a hint of flourish.

Thea Queen has posed:
Well, that's certainly someone taking these festivities very seriously, Thea wonders while watching Sif make her way to join the crowd. And that armor looks incredibly realistic. Why, she is used to real armors now and ..., nah, couldn't be. Though the sword, those she knows like the palm of her hand. And the way it's being carried, That's from a fighter. And a good one to boot. Blue eyes watch the tall woman pace down yet at the booming voice asking for mead she grimaces..

Great, another reminder. She busies herself tucking some hair out of her face and letting out a sigh. But now the strawberry cake is done for and what's left? Dancing? She's good with this, so she gets of a mind to join in. A smile is given to the plow man that is teaching the moves, she remaining there to get those first steps. But she's always been a quick learner and soon enough she is moving about the crowd, dancing and letting those worries slip away, moving from partner to partner.

She spots Loki dancing about too but not recognizing him in the immediate she only smiles. Those more flourished motions do call her attention though so she closes in for a step of dance with the Prince of Lies. "Care to teach a foreigner a move or two?" never say Thea isn't bold enough to approach people to dance.

Sif has posed:
As with the clown Prince, Sif pays for the mead her goblet is filled with by tossing a coin into the pitcher, grinning slyly as she knows she'll be long gone before they find out what kind of coin was used in payment. She has no reticence whatsoever in joining in dances with the slightest invitation, though, again, as with the Prince, she doesn't dance the peasant dances the mortals are recreating, adding courtly flourishes to them, face beaming with artificial joy, guiding people into the slightly more complicated steps before spinning off to join another knot of dancers.

She's determined to have fun tonight, though tragically there's probably not going to be a good brawl to end it all. (Even if there was, she'd not be able to go all-out for fun.)

A local strongman catches her fancy, kitted out as an ancient blacksmith (though practiced eyes spot rapidly he has no idea how to hold that hammer, not to mention that blacksmiths didn't carry their tools into parties...), making her smile actually warm as she parades with him a while in the dance (finding time, somehow, to get her goblet refilled in the process), before finally winding up near the ginger, the 'blacksmith' by her side. Feigning breathlessness (with a smile entirely unfeigned), Sif watches as people throw things into the fire. Her 'blacksmith' companion makes a big show of throwing his hammer into the blaze, gazing across at Sif, besotted, but challenging, waiting for her to follow suit.

Sif pauses, staring at the flames, then looking at the goblet in her hand.

No. Allfather-damned way.

Instead the expensive red half-cape with the ermine trim she wears ostensibly to ward off chill (though it is mainly for decoration) is her choice. In a single, swift, practiced move she unclasps it, and flourishes it in a complex display (which those in the know will recognize as defensive movements for those caught without an off-hand weapon or shield) before throwing it into the conflagration to be consumed to ash.

Jane Foster has posed:
Mead comes from the local meaderies, and a few people who scored licenses to sell. Turn and look, those little wooden huts usually reserved for serving up heated glog in the middle of winter now have a brief renewal on life. Someone's going for fizzier mead shot by orange blossoms, another with northern berries used to cut the sweetness of sundrop honey with a gasping tartness. Gifts distributed on sparkly garlands add flowers to the festivities, and for a couple krona, a light-up crown or a pretty wand to wave in front of the flames can be theirs.

Several men and women wearing their hair loose and matted, runestones in pouches and staves in their hands, form a phalanx around the southern tip of the diamond pyres. They scare the children with screeches and growling masks that blend bestial features and human. One or two in the crowd wear rather horrific bone masks, or have their dark faces painted in white with leering skulls. Not exactly common in Norse times.

The comical 'boos' and howls of fear from younger children or startled teens just blends into the crowd.

Music swells as the hymn builds, an old song being poured out from several thousand voices as the rhythm builds. Sound swells as they lift their voices:

"Winter stormed out among our mountains,
Snow drifts melt down and die,
The sky smiles in spring's bright evenings,
The sun kissing life into woods and lakes."

The refrain from the scattered 'warriors' teaching the dancers picks up on the chorus, though there's a lot of volume and enthusiasm for less than a dozen people.

"Yes, I'm coming! Greetings, cheerful flames,
Sweeping the country, out to the shores,
Across the square and through the roads,
Man and woman and child, I want to see them burn."

Obviously it's not the traditional song. And obviously, the fires turning green and black one by one is also not natural. The modifications on the usual folksong get a few boos until the flames shift shade.

That's when screams begin.

Loki has posed:
The basic dance step itself isn't hard; it's like the English Simple bransle. One step one direction, one the other. Could get fancier and start a Double bransle, but again, all that would require would be a double step. Everything else gains a flourish.

Loki dances with his mug in hand, and when Thea actually speaks to him in the crowded, open, natural dance 'floor', he cants his head before inclining it in silent agreement. He doesn't speak English, does he?

Loki pauses in his step before catching the music again; it's a seemingly more formal step, but still holds the base of what everyone else is doing. There is a courtliness to it, a deliberate move with each beat, and should someone look across the way at the Lady Sif, she is virtually echoing his own motion.

The bonfires are warm, the flames licking to the skies, seemingly touching the clouds with smoke and sparks. As the singing begins, Loki ceases his step, and his brow creases in the words, and in the gatherings. The words have changed over the centuries, and in their change, their meanings. Prayers of supplication have changed... but yet, somehow Loki is certain the All Father still hears it. He knows that he can, and would be able to if he were anywhere. (After all, he still does have a couple of true believers still.)

The change of colors of the fires, however, that's.. and he whips around when he hears the screams.

Thea Queen has posed:
No matter if the dark haired Prince doesn't talk english. There's an universal language of dancing that's known by everyone! At least those that don't have two left feet. Which Thea doesn't, thank you very much. So dance she does, one step, one direction. Fancier moves? She catches on quickly, elegant hands and feet bringing her to keep up with the festivities. She is having fun, that much is visible in the mirth on those blue eyes, expression lit up.

From time to time she catches a glimpse of Sif. And those steps don't go unnoticed. Specially how similar they are. "You two seem as if you are dancing in unison." she calls out mid-step. An observant midgardian this one!

With the side of her face now 'glowing red' with the shadows of the bonfire bathing her it takes her a moment to recognize the commotion. The words, being said in an unknown language to her don't mean much. The boos do though, the rising tension..

Something is off..

That red glow that was shadowing on her face turns to a black one, her eyes widening, first to the fire but she whips quickly in the direction of the screams, hands closing into fists. What did Slade teach her? Scan the crowd, seek the threats. But she forgot the first rule, never go anywhere unarmed. She will have to improvise...

Sif has posed:
That moment when you realize that you'd only just discarded a defensive tool that you really want right about now.

"Never sacrifice things that you need, you fool!" she mutters to herself as the chant goes strange, the flames change to baleful and threatening, and the mortals begin to scream. "The Allfather will laugh at you when he next sees you."

Her 'blacksmith' companion, ludicrously, steps up to 'protect' her, causing Sif to wince. This is going to hurt the ego. Pity, he seems a decent sort.

"Get thee behind me," she commands to the man. "This is not a matter mortals need contend with." She punctuates this by lifting the massive, massively-muscled man and setting him down behind her before drawing her grand blade and racing to the source of the screams in an arc that takes her within earshot of Loki.

"I will attack the threat, Your Highness!" she calls out, "Unless you have a better plan. I recommend, that His Highness seek the source and ..." that battle lust she's famous for fills her face "...obliterate it."

And with that she's headlong in the middle of whatever it is causing the screams, ready to cleave; ready to stand between danger and those of Midgard she's chosen to protect at the spur of the moment.

Thea gets little notice beyond a brief scan and a firm placement in the 'to be defended' category. With an added notation of 'His Highness is slumming'.

Jane Foster has posed:
Prayers of supplication hold power, let that not be forgotten. One of the oldest and best-loved songs of May Day -- other than chanting about workers' rights -- goes back centuries, petitioning the All-Father, the Lord Freyr, and the Lady Freyja to bring warmth to the frostbitten lands again. Something has gone terribly wrong to cast out the traditional or modern chorus for that.

It burns in the bones. It stings the ears, perhaps only in outright offense. Like out of sync steps in a dance between a prince and a war goddess, something that stings like a sore tooth.

Black fire doesn't exist much naturally. But the smoke spilling up from piles of wood arranged into conical structures rapidly takes on irregular forms. Grasping claws emerge from greyish clouds that billow as darkly as the flames that fuel them. Eyeless monsters stretch multijointed limbs to grasp those closest to the fire and yank back with force.

Smoke that should pass harmlessly billows around victims, who choke and gasp on the heated air.

The green fires are another matter entirely, throwing off horrific amounts of heat. Snorting pig-headed beasts with skittering arachnid limbs roll out from the pyres, unfolding and springing up. Large as a respectable dog, they skitter into the crowds with no concern at all for whomever might be in their way. Sort of the point, as bites and scratches of those hook-clawed feet start splitting parkas and jeans, with predictable results of screaming. Mass panic is a thing to build /fast./

Loki has posed:
Loki's response to Thea's observation is simply him looking across the distance towards where the Warmaiden dances, and notices the throw that had been there is no longer. Brows rise before he looks back to his current dance partner/student.

Again, the dance isn't long lived, thanks to the shrieks of pain, turning to terror as creatures of magic begin to exude from the fires and attacking those merrymakers that are unfortunate enough to be close enough to grab easily.

Immediately again, Loki turns to where he'd last seen Sif, and calls out, "They're magic!" as if she didn't realize it? "Of course I have a better plan."

Spinning around again, his attention moves from Thea to the bonfire behind her. Standing firm, he pulls a dagger from his belt, and within the beat of a heart, it grows longer, to something a little more becoming. He doesn't use it, per se, but instead, more as a conduit; it's a boost to his magic, and he lifts his arms. As he does so, there is a swirl of smoke that had risen to the skies that fall to smother the flames of the black fire.. the one that holds corrupt-seeming magic. "Listen to me! Go back to the depths from which you came! I, Loki, command you!"

Thea Queen has posed:
This is too elaborate to be some kind of show. Special effects? Off the rocker. So it only means it's the real deal. The scanning of the crowd is swift, but not swift enough to dodge out of the way of one of those monsters unfolding from the fire, sparkles of it hitting her leather jacket. She rolls back on the floor quickly and with quite the trained nimbleness, arms stretching back as she gets rid of the jacket before the fire gets larger and catches the rest of her... Tendrils of smoke are already forming but she dodges out of their grasp, tossing the jacket onto the fire to distract whatever is out there...

A side look is given to Loki. Magic? Really? "Okay, Potter. Do your thing, I got your back.." this is right before she hears the man introducing himself while casting said magic. Loki? Did she just compare him to a children's book magician? Well, shit...

Perhaps she should had just panicked like the rest of the people are.. "Those people look awfully calm for what is happening..!" she shouts towards Sif, surmising she is on their side too, hand pointing to the red-bearded man and all the death mask users around.

But now, a weapon... She reaches to one of the discarded staffs some of the revelers left in their hurry to leave the place, picking it up. It's not a sword, but will have to do. She swings it around..

"Alright, Thea.." She murmurs to herself, "Time to get those teachings into practice..."

Trial by Fire. Literally.

Sif has posed:
Step one: resistance.

Sif, without pausing, scanning over the crowd and making educated guesses born of a thousand years of battle as to where the panicked people were likely to go, charts a course. Flaming pig about to hit a wannabe shamaness there. Big, bare-chested burly man with a beard as epic as his belly, ready to re-enact berserker rage without the magics and ensuing invulnerability there, just about to feel claws in his back. Those are the priorities.

Step two: repudiation.

A small cluster of the skittering boar creatures, having just struck down three revellers, form the basis of repudiation. They were next in line.

Step three: rejection.

All of the monsters she's got in her sights came from one bonfire, glowing green, baleful, in the night. It will be extinguished.

Plan made in two steps, it's a matter of two more steps and a leap for her to be in the air above the shamaness, dropping into the closing space between the frozen, terrified woman, blocking the pig's line of attack and emphasizing an implied "NO!" by striking it with shattering force with a blade strike that would cleave the Earth itself, or so it seems. Without pause, she hits the ground, leaps again, and knocks down the baresark-wannabe, taking his place to receive the charge of the creature, only instead of a broad, bare back, the beast has an armoured back that has sprouted a long, wicked blade as she pushes that behind her in a furious jab at its head.

Jane Foster has posed:
A hundred thousand souls mobilising to the revelation of something being wrong, very wrong, takes time. Chaos goes off like a stick of dynamite, taking all those around it.

Groups recoil from the open square where the diamond pyres burn so hideously dark and unnaturally green. Here and there, some run for cover and smash into a recoiling crowd instead. Running for their life down congested corridors walled off by low metal railings funnels them into narrow corridors, if they can't jump into raised flower beds not yet sprouted with more than daffodils. There spiders so easily take penned in victims, and the incoherent shouts turn into collective Swedish screams: "Help!" and "Stop! Stop!"

Smoke swirls in thicker, deadlier vortices fed by more than beech and pine logs. Attempts to stifle the weird blaze with a well-used fire extinguisher don't get far except to have the unfortunate volunteer firefighter engulfed himself. No blood falls. The red canister crashes to the ground, trampled by someone dodging out of the way. Those who fall add to howls of pain and fearful cries.

Panic convulses the crowd into a mob, and a mob acts on pure instinct but for those rare heroes. Aesir commands brought up by the Trickster throw a clean bar of magic into an already rising arcane stew, and the backlash of bourbon-soaked pipe tobacco and rum-dipped cigars floating above a dark incense base. It might just be eyewateringly intense against Loki's senses. Obsidian flames etched in white and cherry-red flicker flash, and two of the fallen, unmoving victims lurch to their feet with a ponderous, uncoordinated approach like someone just yanked on the puppet strings.

"Oh, oh, oh, look at the little lord," one speaks but the voice that rolls out doesn't match. Male, for one, when the puppeted body is female. A deep, intoxicating tenor rumbles with laughter. "Trying to rule? Does it work?"

Swinging the stave around will clobber that mocking woman or her friend, a boy of about 19 with blood sluggishly running from his ear. Throw enough strength behind it and Thea might bring one down, though they roll and scramble to rise again with a contemptuous ease.

The split pig when intercepted by Sif's mighty blow -- dolorous even? -- spills ichor over her. Black and green ichor at that, a sticky and mildly acidic compound that hardens to a syrupy, stinking goo with the strangest stink to it. Mistletoe. Opium. Yew. Where one angry boar is eviscerated, its body falling in two, the burning flames that ignite from its corpse just feed another merry green blaze. Smaller boarish skitterskulks careen out from the smaller blazes, proportional to the larger ones, squealing in shrill noises. Sif has taken one down, but ignites more trouble.

Loki has posed:
Potter?

Potter?

Loki has the courtesy at least to warn the unnamed Thea in regards to what it is she may be facing. "Have a care.. they won't die easily at your hand." Okay, not completely, but at least it's a heads up!

As Sif has given as example!

"There are those here still that speak my name in whispers. All they need do is speak my name." Loki isn't going to argue with shadows and shades; they're beneath them. Particularly magical constructs!

Loki can feel the push against him, against the smoke that he'd pulled back down and out of the sky. His expression is one of serious concentration, green eyes holding true to the work before him.

Suddenly, Loki calls out as if possessed, "Fire!

"Sif! Fire! Flame and give me smoke. Don't ask, just do it!"

The younger prince is a magic wielder that has few betters in the Realms. (Mostly..) Taught by the best, he's moved on to learn his own magicks, and for every construct, there is a way to not only dispell them but to destroy them.

From fire they come, by fire they'll perish.

"I'll hold them." Or try, anyway!
    rIn order to do that, however, Loki has to move, has to shift not only his physical body but some of his concentration. He's in a contest of wills; he can feel it, so that can't slip. Still, he needs to be able to incorporate more; to take in pure smoke from a real, physical fire in order to smother it all.

"Now!"

Thea Queen has posed:
This is what you get Thea, for nicknaming someone without actually *knowing* their real name. But she was nervous! And borderline panicky. All excuses for a rebellious tongue that rarely stays quiet and always has something to add... Like these zombies. Yet there are spidery creatures moving around, fiery pigs. What's zombies compared to that? Pinata dolls, that's what.

So that staff swings mightily, using all that practice she has had (this one mostly from her brother), twanking one of the zombies on the head to take it down...

Not that they stay down, of course. "My kingdom for a sword." she murmurs.

It doesn't dishearten her (too much), hitting legs and limbs to try and disable the creatures from continuing their frolicking around the place, arms vibrating with each strike as thwacks fill the air with a sickening sound of delivered 'pain'. If only zombies could feel pain.. But no, that's her arms getting pained with the effort. But she doesn't stop.

The call for fire, the sudden talk out of Loki, it means there is a plan. So she moves to protect the magician's concentration from being disturbed. And is that one of those large spidery creatures going their way..? Greeeattttt. But using her smarts instead of her brawn she kicks a table over, dragging it closer quickly as a makeshift wall, keeping the critter at bay for the moment with pushes from her staff.

Sif has posed:
Change of plan.

There are two keys to winning battle. First, have a plan. Second, ditch the plan when (not if) it doesn't work out.

Resistance failed. Repudiation is unlikely to help. All that's left is rejection.

Mortals attempting to douse the flames got eaten by the creatures, dragged into smoke or flame and consumed, apparently, accordingly. Asgardians might prove ... more difficult fare for the palates of these creatures.

This was going to be painful. And stupid. Painful and stupid. Mainly stupid. But if she can get these creatures focused on her instead of the Midgarders, then the pain (and stupidity, let's not forget the stupidity) will have been worth it. She is, after all, built of sturdier stuff than they.

"Your Highness, please, find the source and extinguish it!" she calls out to Loki. The woman she'd originally written off as 'to be defended' (with a slightly catty extra codicil) gets reassessed quickly. "You are only injuring the hosts!" she calls to Thea. "Find what binds them and destroy that!"

And with that she's on a run. Straight at the nearest bonfire, green or black, it matters not. What matters is she's about to rob it of its fuel. Again with a mighty leap, but this one falls short, boots hitting ground at a shallow angle, carving up a veritable tsunami of dirt and ice and snow, erasing a small hillock with the force of her weight and impetus, covering the fire only an instant before that very same weight and impetus slides straight into the heart of the inferno to scatter the fuel to the four winds, covered by stuffs that reduce its oxygen and its ability to burn.

And any creatures lurking within will face a silver blade.

And then she hears Loki's voice calling for fire.

"Well sh..." Forebearance, Lady Sif.

Sif scrambles to her feet, grabbing one of the white-hot coals in her hand and looks for the nearest flammable item near Loki. There! A kiosk selling ... What by Odin's Eye is a "beaver tail" and why does it have a maple leaf upon it!? There are no maples in this clime! No matter, it is gone, white-hot coals, hot enough to scorch Asgardian skin, get flung with mechanical precision into it until it is cheerfully alight.

"Your wish is my command, Highness!" she calls out.

Jane Foster has posed:
"Stop acting crazy, Beyonce," chimes in the one fellow corpse ambling alongside his feminine counterpart. Notably they are not coming to swipe at Loki but the pair give the horrified festival-goers an extra surge of fear.

Those running continue to find troubles all around. Spiders trying to gore them, flames burning through concrete and flesh with equal ease just to name a few. The crush of bodies piles up along one corner of the square. Able-bodied men and women try to drag who they can away, but it's mostly a lost cause. The open fields and rounded hills beyond reconstructed longhouses are so close, shrouded in darkness as night falls. Shadows conceal worse dangers for anyone lucky enough to escape the firelight.

Dogs with black eyes and pointed ears. Sooty birds eager to peck at skin and eyes, their wings silent as they open. A snap and a bite is all to warn of what hunts out there. Thea might catch glimpses through the fight, flashes of action well past the fires. She knocks down and flattens her mouthy opponents, who crawl or try to rise. Broken bones don't mend though. With concerted effort, they stay down and presumably that entity will have to find another mouthpiece to taunt them with.

Green flame turns acidic and sickly as Loki and Sif fight with the blackened pyres. Colour leaches away little by little in sight of the emerald ones. Into that damned light the warrior-maid of Asgard launches herself. Heimdall surely squints one eye, even if he cannot close it.

So carves the blade with terrible force, slipped this way and that. Rattled sharply. Coals snapped in one hand seethe and sure, they will /burn/ as Sif wishes.

Burn green, that is, when she sets the dessert on fire.

Loki has posed:
All Loki requires is that smoke; the fire can burn those inky creatures. He wants the pure smoke.

Laevateinn holds firm in his hand as a casting aid, a force by which Loki can continue to concentrate. The contest of wills is such that the prince feels that he can now incorporate the smoke in order to bring it down and smother the fire. Take out the gate, take out the creatures and best the caster responsible for it all...

"The black creatures can be killed by fire." Just in case she needs reminding that the food stalls don't need her attention?

Thea Queen has posed:
The spider trying to climb her makeshift is tenacious. That little bugger. But what happens when you get little hook feet and try to stabbity stab at Thea? You can get them tangled on wood. And a snared opponent is easy pickings for one Thea Queen. So she vaults over that wall when she notes the creature being stuck, hitting it on the head with her staff before a well-aimed thrust to the 'spine' makes the creature go still. Yay. One down!

It all feels .., pointless though. Those zombies weren't even trying to hit them, just being mouthy. And she can hear the people screaming all around. And feeling .., worthless to intervene. What can she do about so many? She grits her teeth and shouts defiantly at the whole situation.. Don't lose focus Thea..

"Time to put up or shut up.." She hisses towards Loki. Again, it's like that tongue has a life of it's own. But maybe it will get that Asgardian Pride going to help in deal with this situation quicker. She can deal with consequences later. Though .., killed by fire? Good enough for her.

She sticks her staff in the fire to get it burning and then .., it's time to go to town on those wraiths..

Sif has posed:
Fire! But cleansing, pure fire, not that filthy green stuff! Where to find it, though?

Sif searches around her for a source of flame, finding none that is untainted. But sparks she can make aplenty. Just need some ... THERE! A garden fenced in by rustic stone. Rustic stone that has a high content of flint! She leaps across, grabbing a piece of wood along the way, then, carefully placing the wood--or at least as carefully as she can given the speed needed--she strikes the stone with her sword to try to ignite the wood.

Which doesn't work.

At all.

But what does work?

The gas main. That the decorative garden covered. That her sword, having just struck enough sparks to ignite a rocket engine, clove deep into.

A huge fireball erupts with an Asgardian Goddess of War at its core, sending even her sturdy mass flying to fall crumpled at Loki's feet. The flame from the gas explosion engulfs the garden, crisping all the plants and shrubs in it with proper, normal flame, generating enough smoke to cover a small city.

Blackened and more than a little burnt, with skin peeling, Sif looks up and sees Loki. "Your flame, my Prince," she mutters. Then...

"Ow!"

Jane Foster has posed:
Uppsala occasionally deals with bouts of excitement or the odd mob. The Swedish hockey team winning at the Olympics, students at the famous university going on pub runs to celebrate their graduation, their exams over, the colour yellow, IKEA sales... But nothing compares to this horror committed on sedate village grounds.

Men dressed as Viking soldiers and peasants flee for their lives from creatures scything through their arms and their bellies open. Not all have escaped. Women in traditional dress or pagan witchery shun their stifling masks, hiking up their skirts to race down alleyways or hide in the businesses unprepared for the onslaught. Those who can run find themselves chased by black shadows in canine shapes or birds with silent wings descending from the night. Spots of wickedness blot the landscape magically, though drowned out by the deathly pyres radiating fell energy and spellcraft.

Flames roar up the treated wood Thea holds, moving almost /too/ fast. Whatever burns is supernaturally hot, and she might need to work fast before finding her hands a bit toasty. So far, the wood chars but doesn't openly flame. Ghostly swirls converge from blackened flames, convulsing and shifting, as Loki fights against a divine intervention that smells of bay rum, grave dirt, and bourbon-soaked tobacco. The overwhelming scents roil around him, potentially wonderfully pleasant or eyewateringly intense.

Black flames char white, eyes peering at him through the dark. Smoke-wraiths shriek protest in silent fury.

Jane Foster has posed:
A street or five over...
The thing about gas line explosions is they tend to be abrupt and impressive, but not about to wipe out a whole city block at once. Thanks a lot, Michael Bay! Nonetheless, when one of the 19th century houses goes up in black smoke, the shockwave rolls out and shatters windows. Buckets of pansies and other early blooms crash to the ground. Further chaos ensues, causing many revellers to fall to their feet with hands over their heads or just fall back altogether.

Loki wanted smoke? He got smoke. Wild clouds of it billow into the air, stained in swirled shadows. Sif may have cleaved through a significant amount of unwanted shrubbery in her attack, but now she's got roofing tiles raining down and screams aplenty.

Loki has posed:
Loki is most definitely concentrating; he's not listening to the screams, the shrieks of pain and terror. His attention is on that accursed black flame, limiting that which attempts to depart in order to create more death and destruction. In fact, not only is he doing that, but those that had escaped, the Prince of Asgard, the one that holds the magics dear to him is pushing back, attempting to pull those that had been released back in. And those he can't?

He's making them corporeal so the unnamed Thea can smack them with the firey poles, sticks, whatever she can find so they'll go up like tinder.

Off on the distance, then, plumes of natural black smoke rise into the air, billowing up on the winds of high heat as gas mains split and flames lick into the air, giving the area a glow.

"Flames and smoke!"

Loki almost laughs, the sound strained as he works to wind his magic, his arms held high in the air as he manipulates those seen and unseen forces. Smoke from the natural gas begin their movement; Thor isn't the only one who can manipulate wind, though his help would be appreciated 'round about now.

Thea Queen has posed:
Thea's advance towards the wraiths is stopped when that loud explosion happens, the tremor of it still felt by the young Queen and she looks at it for a few moments, teeth gritted. It's enough for that hand to get a bit too close to the flame and she lets out a very ladylike, "Shit fuck..." biting her lower lip at the pain but quickly adjusting her grip on the staff so as to not get any more surprises. This is burning a lot hotter, and faster, than she expected.

No time to think on that now though, the Pott--- errr, Loki! said they would be affected by fire, or something to that effect. So it's time to see if it works..

The shrieking approaching wraiths are the ones she targets. The black creatures she hopes Loki mentioned, moving at a running pace before she twirls and spins about herself to swipe her staff across a couple of those wraiths that are gathering to go their way. Will it work?

If it doesn't she might get in trouble. Ah, well. Story of her life. "Get back to whatever hole you crawled from, ghosts!" she shouts in defiance at the creatures.

Sif has posed:
No rest for the weary. And crisp-fried. Sif groans as Loki, instead of giving a simple 'thank you', the courtly thing to do, yet here we are, just laughs and waves his arms around.

He's probably busy.

She flips to her feet and raises her sword ... arm.

The sword is somewhere between the explosion site and here. Or perhaps beyond. There will be no sword for her.

"well done, crumpet!" she says with a grin to Thea as the latter takes on a couple of the black wraiths. "That looks like fun, let me try!" She draws her dagger, really more an implement for food, but it serves at need, grabbing any sturdy piece of wood she can find in her other hand. Standing alongside Thea in battle order, giving both women room to manoeuvre, she tries both slashing and bashing at two more of the black things, one attack on each.

It's a sort of experiment you see.

Which weapon is most effective?

Lifelong learning it's called. Look it up.

Jane Foster has posed:
Bam! The crunch of wood singed by flame should normally pass right through smoke with a harmless ease, stirring up eddying coils. Thea will certainly struggle with heat and the caustic smoke if she breathes, lacking a mask or a collar pulled high. When she spins, the thickening substance rushes over her skin like concrete. So too the wraiths move with sluggish reactions, fighting magic that would bind them into coalesced, material forms. No faces. No yawning maws.

Only the flashes of black rippling through them with each contact to signal what happens. Whirlwind vibrations crash down as claws scythe one victim in reach, but the rest cannot escape from the flame-clad prison.

Loki's magic seethes in the flow and ebb of power around him, the reactions from whatever moves through the fiery portals contesting his grip. He feels something break, a multipoint snap, and one of the pyres collapses on itself in crumbling ashes. All traces of the prepared wood vanish.

Roiling clouds of smoke take as one of the burning houses feeds its neighbour through a shared wall. More soot and burning materials fall to the ground, pelting anyone not protected from it. Sif's deadly whirlwind of motion makes rather short work of far less deadly combatants: spidery monsters coming forth from green flame, for example. The wraiths are untouched by the blade, but fire licking up a wooden pole or even heating a metal railing turned into a quarterstaff or mace works beautifully well at that.

But something is wrong, terribly wrong. Those brought down by the initial attack or thereafter lie supine on the ground. Ghosts jerk forth from their bodies in a vaguely greenish shimmer, and they lurch towards the long line of verdant flame burning in smaller amounts. Not in slow processions, but reeled in fast, snagged one after the other like someone stuck a hook in their backs and a motor yanked them to their terminal end.

Loki has posed:
Loki can feel the *snap* as he jerks forward; part of this is most definitely physical, and if it weren't for the fact that he actually //is// in good physical condition beyond his natural physique, this probably wouldn't be possible, or at the very least, as successful. But, it is, and as he winds and wends and weaves, he's pulling in, bringing in that to choke the darkness with another.

And it completes.

Loki shudders, and for a heartbeat, those green eyes don't quite take in all else that is happening on the field of battle, as it were. There, the man in green is backlit by the eerie green fire; green upon green, as he turns to take stock of what it is that is happening, and where else he is needed. Laevateinn is folded back upon itself as the Prince spins in place to move towards that .. glow.

He has to take out that green fire next, or the souls that are being pulled in will be lost. Pointing now at the greenish burning pyre, Loki calls out, "That one!!"

Thea Queen has posed:
Crumpet?! Well, she might deserve that.

Eyes burning, throat catching. Thea lets out a rasping cough as smoke starts to get in the way of her fighting... She brings the collar on her shirt higher to cover her face but a lot has been done to hamper and fighting condition, her motions slowed. Slow enough that she gets a cut to the side from one of those spidery monsters. That hurts like hell.. But at least she doesn't lead with more colorful words. That would take too much air to produce.

It's good that it's the time Sif joins in with her, most of those creatures drawn to the stronger combatant. Or down by it's blade. And Thea is used to this, supporting a superior fighter. So she moves in to fill those gaps, a strike here, another there, back and forth in a dance she is well versed in, focus being on those wraithly creatures to send them back. It goes until she isn't feeling her arms anymore. But she can't stop. It will mean more people will die, and she won't have that..

So with this first staff already burning up to ash she tosses it away but soon she replaces it with a pole, or two in this case, swiftly setting them on fire and tossing one to Sif. "Use this!" she offers. Fire it up and back to business!

With those souls being pulled she blinks, a glance to Loki, then to Sif. A nod. It would be up to her! "Go get 'em!" Besides, she saw how she took out a fire earlier! She focuses on helping any survivors that may still be alive, thwacking at creatures to get them to scurry off from finishing off the wounded.

Sif has posed:
Sif gives Loki a 'what, again!?' look from behind her crisped visage (starting already to visibly knit closed) and equally crisped outfit. Groaning she looks around for a better source of dispersing fuel than using her own body this time. What's here that doesn't burn and masses a lot?

The various kiosks and sheds are dismissed. Too much wood. Even if they dispersed the fuel, they would fuel it themselves. There isn't really time to disassemble that church to get to that massive base stone. Which is a pity because that would douse a small house fire. No, she needs something large and stone or metal....

Like that vehicle over there. Large. Boxy. Made mostly of metal. That would do the job quite nicely.

Glaring at Loki... "Will you be giving a hand here, Your Highness, or is this on me? Just me? Very well." ...she staggers over to the camper van, finding its centre of gravity and lifting it.

The top rips right off.

The innards exposed, now, the surreal picture of a chintzy living room and kitchenette scene done in miniature skylighted by garish flames of unusual colour, she tries again, lifting it by its frame. One twirl in place, like a weight throw at the Highland Games, Sif leaning back, heels digging deep into the pavement to keep her footing, she gets the camper moving at a decent pace and throws...

...in a perfect, beautiful arc that lands in the middle of the green pyre, scattering fuel all over, breaking up the flame into far smaller little outposts that can be easily managed by routine activities. Like blankets, extinguishers, and straight up kerb-stomping, the latter of which being the tactic she chooses as a follow up.

"Will you join me in a dance, Your Highness?" she calls back as she stomps her little war dance.

Jane Foster has posed:
A thousand years ago, they raised their arms in defiance of the Christian church and sang their prayers to older gods. Gods who have forgotten them or been forgotten in time. Europe reshaped to the domination of monotheistic rule might have buried relics of a pagan past, but the pagan past doesn't forget.

Battle given in honour of the gods isn't out of the ordinary, though the creatures here never graced the landscape naturally. Wraiths consumed in black flame convulse and jerk as the eldritch inferno consumes them. Nothing remains to be seen when they 'die,' for they come undone into so much ethereal soot floating under Loki's cracking spell. Haze hangs low to the ground along with that most peculiar stench of cigars, liquor, and dirt.

Small spot fires are nothing compared to the explosion rattling through again, sending more damaged facades spilling onto the street. More souls by the handful get yanked to an epicenter in the square. Any of the boar-spiders remaining don't stay close to the leaping flames, though they scatter violently. Almost driven forth by something akin to fear, if their squeaking brains know it.



Thea circles the remaining pyres reduced to ashes and dust that suddenly blows over her, though there's no wind to speak of.

A signal flare of magic rips through reality loud enough that a continent away, the Sorcerer Supreme probably drops his teacup.

A torn camper heads for the ground at impressive speed, spilling the detritus of festival-goers in a wide radius. A jar of lingonberry jam smashes open, sticky contents spread like gore over a burning corpse. But the chintzy metal vehicle never lands, perforated by no less than eight black blades flung like the quills of a particularly enraged porcupine. Save every one of them gleams with scrawled green fire, hurled in an outward fan. One laughing Norse soldier dancing near the margins, cheering on the mayhem, laughs no more when forty inches of Niflheimian iron rams through his chest. His ghost doesn't even run to the fire. It dissipates in pale fog. Those already called form a mist shrouding the viridian-kissed pyre, the dark figure blotting out the flames that writhe helplessly upon its armoured body. Over branching ebon tines of a crown or helm echoing the flames themselves.

Loki has posed:
Sif's request for a quick stomp-dance is given a quick shake of his head and a hand to wave it off. It's not a dismissive gesture, not by any means. The Warrior maiden would know that her prince, her friend, her sometimes companion in battles is fatigued by the earlier exertions. It wasn't easy, that black magic battle; whomever it was had a target rich environment, and the only reason he'd won it was because he wasn't worried about sparing lives. They were collateral damage. And that he pulled in a couple of cards that shouldn't have been in his deck, as it were.

But now? Loki stands in front of that green-tinged pyre, even as it gets dashed around, his head follows the tracks of damage dealt with each whip of knife. His form is silhouetted against the dimming light as he looks up, his features showing immediate recognition of the figure that rises before him. Twisting around, he lands emerald eyes upon Thea, his voice low and deathly serious, "If you value your life, be elsewhere. Now!"

Two daggers seem to fall from his sleeves, and immediately they're in his hand. Not much protection, really, against the Queen of Hel as he turns back to face her.

"You don't belong here," Loki calls out. "This is not for you."

There's no escaping the fatigue in Loki's voice, even as he seeks to hide it. As he speaks, there immediately appears several copies of the Asgardian Prince in different locations, each with knives in hand, looking very, very real.

"I've already banished your toys."

Sif has posed:
The newcomer to the scene freezes Sif in place, the chill that freezes her limbs reaching deep into her soul.

"Allfather's. Left. Tit."

The three words slip out. Deadpan. Not even shouted, whispered, hushed. Just plainly stated. As if answering the challenge, 'give me three words with no relationship to each other'.

She snaps out of it, then, glancing across at Loki with a jaunty, albeit obviously false grin, eyes filled with raw terror. "I was tired of being quickened and alive anyway," she says with artificial cheer. "There's worse times I could go."

And she without her sword. Damn this is going to suck.

Her eyes fall upon Thea. "Mortal, this is not your battle. I would gladly have taken your soul to Valhalla with me, but ..." She gestures to the approaching Hela. "...I will not be in a position to do so since my soul is about to become forfeit." She pauses, then, continuing in an unnaturally calm voice after a moment, "I think what I'm trying to say, as with the Prince, is..." Her voice raises into a loud shout, signalling to any in earshot, "...FLEE YOU MORTAL FOOLS!"

Then, a pained glance at Loki later, she adds, "Farewell, my Prince. It was ... an intriguing life."

Thea Queen has posed:
Smart Thea. Wise Thea. Not rushing to try and take out that green fire turned out to be the best choice, she avoided getting a van in her face. She is half-expecting the explosion to take off that last green pyre. The end of it? She is just about to exhale, having stopped the hunt for more creatures as they scamper away... From the fire? Or...

The rush of ashes and dust is ominous. No wind. It brings her eyes to the ..., are those blades? Going through the vehicle? She lets out another cough, stabbing her staff on the ground to keep herself standing, her side a searing pain now from the cut.

"There is someone in the middle of the fire.." She murmurs, eyes squinting, that attentive gaze taking in the form as it gets more .., corporeal. Antlers? Shadowy? Perhaps she should had studied her mythology better to know who it is in front of them.

Instead she is just the responsible for this. But as we have already established Thea is smart. And this new challenger reeks of bad news and a power she can't hope to match. So she is keeping her distance. The words that come from both Sif and Loki help corroborate it even as she blinks..

"That strong..?" She murmurs. But she frowns. She isn't the type to just run off like a good-behaved Hobbit when Gandalf asks then to RUN! Nope..

Or is she? She steps back and starts to run off.. Or is it stumble away? But she isn't exactly running from battle. Instead her aim seems to be getting her closer to where that explosion happened earlier and she last saw Sif's sword. She may not be able to fight this, but she can help even the odds by finding lost weapons!

Jane Foster has posed:
Midnight forges a lightless slick awash over the Aesir goddess' body. She wears armour in ebony with the faintest ophidian highlights accentuating a spinal column, organic arcs that would suggest weakness where none exists. Razor-tipped horns grace the headdress crowning her body. To an Asgardian eye, she comes in her aspect of death's ruler rather than battle queen or sorcerer.

Her hands curl and the fog evaporates in places, the sustaining life-forces plucked out. Souls vanish to their final reward, the only thread tethering them to the world dissipating. Thinning mists prove hard to distinguish in the dark with so few bonfires remaining except that savagely sensual one lapping at her fondly as a cat. Whilst Loki manifests knives and himself in manifold forms, she remains on the threshold of Midgard and another realm entirely.

Her will alone sustains that short tunnel burrowed between two worlds on Yggdrasil's mighty branches.

"How swift you are to declare what is my bailiwick, and what is not." The headdress masks her empty, blazing eyes, extending the inhuman aspect that leaves a few staring revellers unable to move or form words. A few shudder, and the tannic bite of urine stinks from a few directions.

"Does that pass for proper etiquette? I would expect better from someone raised by the Queen of Asgard. *She* acknowledges the forms with due dignity and respect," Hela replies, pointedly addressing the Odinson first. "Out of recognition for her, I will afford you an opportunity for correction." Her black lips lose the slight smirk they hold, falling to a neutral line in no way beautiful or appealing. From the fire, she strokes a languid arc with her fingertip and conjures a plain pair of shears. Utterly unremarkable as a tool, they can be found in the garden sheds across much of the known world. Sif is dismissed with a flick of her wrist, and a blade long enough for the Asgardian hunter's long arm slams into the pavement, sinking two feet straight down. It barely quivers, inches from those very fine boots.

Disdain coils through her reply. "Cease your mewling dramatics, like a green player in a cheap pantomime. The least I can do is afford an honourable end to cease your mewling." The sword is an open invitation, bitter-edged and brutal, eager to cut. In her other hand, a casual squeeze of the handles pinches the shears' blades together. The dead hearken to her call, fading the faster.

Certainly she knows the mortals around her. One running around looking for a sword is just like another pissing himself in terror. Gandalfesque declarations have no interest, but unlike Sauron, she's not going to ignore hobbits prowling around Mount Doom.

<<Come.>> It just takes one horrifying word to lay bear the truth. The dead answer.

All of them.

Regardless of faith.

Loki has posed:
Loki does indeed recognize the difference in raiment, just as, no doubt, the Queen recognizes that Loki has not changed into his own armor, complete with 'cow' helm. This moment seems, for him, to be a 'come as you are' party. One by one, his illusions fade into nothing, disappearing as if they'd never been there.

It's a wordless concession, certainly. The daggers don't depart from his hands, however, but he does incline his head. "Your majesty," Loki begins, and then the ghost of a smile plays upon the Prince's lips, "you do understand that Midgard has been claimed by Asgard, and as such, is under the All Father's protection." Is Loki claiming Midgard? Again? "You have no claim." There's a pause before, "And I do say this with the utmost of respect." Why you silver-tongued devil!

"You take those who were calling to the All Father for the turn of the season." Green eyes look towards the heavens, searching for the bifrost that is currently hidden from his immediate sight. "He won't look with pleasure on that, surely you must know that.."

Thea Queen has posed:
It's not as if she needed it, but a glance over her shoulder tells her she is way over her head now. Eyes go wide when she notes the full form of the death Goddess in it's glory. For someone who has been on that knife's edge between life and death (and close to choosing the latter), it has a strange, terrible allure to Thea. In the same way that it makes her want to just curl up in a quiet corner and shut down her mind from all that's going on.

Like when she did when she was an heavy drug abuser. In fact wouldn't they help right now...?

That makes her angry, she *won't* go back down that rabbit hole again. And it perhaps helps in keeping her sane through all of this. Ash clings to throat, keeping it hard to breathe but she doesn't stop, tripping and stumbling but going on towards her target. The wrecked explosion site. Dirtied fingertips dig into the rubble, starting to toss debris over in a frantic search for the blade. Some whispers reach her though.. They are talking. Good. But will they break bread or break each other?

That's still up in the air, so she might as well search for that damn sword. And faster!

Sif has posed:
The sword sticks into the ground near her foot, so precisely placed it doesn't even quiver from the slightest side movement in flight. Calmly, showing courtesy to the death goddess, but not respect, she steps over and past the blade, choosing instead to walk to stand by, and slightly before Loki.

Bodyguard.

Meat shield.

Champion.

Wary, still, and still, too, gripping her dagger, she faces Hela wordlessly, letting the silver-tongued prince of lies cast his distinctive magic with words and half-truths.

If she survives she can go back for the sword and see what fell charms Hela thought to place in it. Let Loki figure it out and remove the more troublesome of them.

Not that she's coming out of this alive.

Her stance beside and before Loki is courteous, but clearly a combative one. Her voice, murmured in a backward glance at Loki, says, "When it comes, flee, Your Highness, and seek aid. I will give you the room you need."

Jane Foster has posed:
Snip! Snip! Two pinches of the shears and a whole block of fog fades away, the dead called forth in their numbers. Hela scans the heaving mobs fleeing at a distance, finding little sanctuary in cafes or bookshops and those fall hills. Longhouses raised in a modern variation of their ancestral buildings hold spots of light and darker, murkier patches thrumming with violence.

She minutely turns her head back to Loki when he speaks. "I assert the claim by divine right as is promised to me, Prince of Asgard." She does not mince words. "The Allfather can dispute my portion in Niflheim before the judgment of those who sit below. We are agreed, this is *mine.*"

The subtle shift of her body announces altogether too much awareness for the battlefield, the ambient necromantic energy flowing around her heightening that tense sensitivity. She has not claimed another blade for herself yet, but the spells heralding the dead heading to her dread realm of Helheim move with keen speed. And those garden clippers make a lovely focus for pruning, though she isn't snipping any living souls accidentally.

Thea might find the discarded sword among soot, blood, and discarded flags or bottles. The camper serrated by several long blades makes a good hiding spot, if needed! Who would look under that hideous paisley?

Sif's show does not impress the goddess in the least. She might just dismiss it. The deadly blade in the concrete won't be wasted, nor the others used to slaughter harmless vehicles. She lifts her chin, and then smirks again. "Do tell the Thunderer the agreement is set. I do no more and no less than allotted to me. There is some mercy in that. Others have not the respect I do for the dead. They annihilate them or harvest before their time. Consider whether you want to rattle your sabres for so little. And tell the woman there she need not scrounge in the dirt. I will provide if she's so eager to fight."

Loki has posed:
"These who celebrate belong to Odin," Loki repeats. "The fires lit as they had been, beacons in the night to fend off death and decay." He cants his head, a smile ghosting upon his features, "To fend off cold and death, and welcome the warmth, and growth." And fertility. "Surely I don't have to tell you of our ways here on Midgard, my Queen. Countless feastdays are here, and this is spring's, not the harvest of the fall." When those //other// fires are lit.

"You have your souls," Loki begins again, "and I'll not follow them in to argue, but my father may." It's been a long while since he's referred to Odin as 'father', but.. nothing to that now. "It will be disputed."

Loki puts a hand out, the daggers having disappeared once more as he reaches to touch the swordmaid, emerald eyes looking to her quickly with a quick, genuine smile, fleeting.. there and gone before he looks to Hela again. He won't run; he's a Prince of Asgard. Well, for all intents and purposes, regardless of how Odin feels about him at any given moment.

"I'll pass the message on to my brother. No doubt he will say the same as I."

Thea's search for the sword hadn't really come to Loki's radar, as it were. Twisting around, he looks to the middle distance before coming back around to Sif, brows rising in askance. Still, not going to speak on it. Instead?

"You may also speak to the Valkyries; some of those souls may have been allocated for Valhalla.. those children of Ours."

Thea Queen has posed:
Eager to fight? Oh no no no. Thea certainly isn't eager for a fight, but she won't just run either! So search she does until fingers find the blade, fingers wrapping around the handle. Damn, this weight feels *just* right. There's something to be said about quality swords. But this one? It breaks all the records. It has Thea quirk a brow, a touch surprised on how it feels. She knows at least one one-eyed assassin who would be reaaaallly jealous about this sword. It would make her chuckle if she hadn't just heard Hela mention ..., her?

That means she is paying attention to the lil hobbit?

Fleeing starts sounding a lot more reasonable, but she finds some kind of hideout behind that cut-up camper, dragging the sword with her. Yet now how to get the sword over to Sif without getting skewered by flying blades? It's an hard proposal but ..., they appear to be getting to some kind of agreement.

So instead of running forward in some kind of suicidal 'take this sword, Lady Sif!' moment she remains against the camper, partially visible, the hilt of the blade also visible for any who would look her way. As if in offer would it's rightful owner wish to claim it.

Yet she also appears exhausted, breathing hard, her other hand clamped to her side to staunch the bleeding. Legs are heavy enough now so she won't be running away anytime soon even if she wanted to.

Sif has posed:
Loki's touch takes Sif by surprise, her head whipping around to stare querulously at the prince of lies, catching only the ghostly tail of his smile, so fleeting a glimpse she wasn't sure if it was real. Furrowing her brow she tried to decode what the message might be, noting the absent daggers.

Taking a deep breath, closing her eyes and inclining her head to her suzerain's son, she expels her breath noisily and turns to face Hela again, stepping a pace back to stand, now, beside and somewhat behind Loki. Still the bodyguard. Still the meat shield. But the dagger she ostentatiously slips back into its sheathe. A gesture of goodwill.

Which is somewhat undone as she adjusts the sheathe for easier withdrawal.

Baby steps.

"You had better know what you're doing, my Prince," she murmurs. "This could go even worse for us."

Not 'go badly'. 'Go worse'. Badly is already a given.

Jane Foster has posed:
"No."

That's all Hela has to say in response. A single word, denying or acknowledging something in kind. Disbelief is distinctly absent, and so surprise. She steps back through the green fire and the lascivious flames hungrily shift inward, the only thing there aside from the woman herself rimmed in any colour. The frost-bitten ground and barely defined shapes visible beyond her silhouette carry hardly any hues at all; watered grey and dun fade even further as the light thrown by the fires obscure them.

Her work in Uppsala is done, after all, and almost none of it directly by her hand. Bodies strewn about the ground mingle with the smoke of a burning house, another garden wrecked by flaming wreckage. Those trampled by their own fearful neighbours aren't her responsibility either, but the reaping of a fruitful harvest nonetheless leaves its marks.

Over a hundred people in the square alone, dead, mark the tragedy. Those blades plunged into the concrete shivers violently. If it's not Sif's or in Thea's hands, the weapons turn end over and, reversing course to strike the green fires burning liberally about. Soon as they strike, the Niflheim steel melts away from sight, and takes the fires with them.

Air pops back into where she was.

Voices come back into focus. Concealed shadows melt and blur. Sobs and cries mingle with the strobing wail of an emergency vehicle careening in from the larger city. Police chatter on radios will be loud tonight, trying desperately to coordinate the impossible feats before them.

A brief flash of energy ricochets lie a flare shot high above a field where several badly bleeding, prostrate revellers lie above ancient graves to kings and high nobility from Uppsala's pagan days. Only in one dimension, mind, but a sorcerer of Amora or Loki's water ought to identify it immediately.

The cool, storm-bright clarion of Mjolnir.

But Thor isn't here.

Loki has posed:
Loki may not have been aware of it, but he was holding his breath. The rule in Asgardian court, of course, is 'never let them see you sweat', and he might have done Odin proud. Of course, there's no doubt the Allfather will find fault in either what he'd said, what he'd done, or not done or not said as the case may be.

Always finding fault.

Regardless, it is Loki that has remained standing, and with him, Sif. (So he won't be blamed for her unfortunate demise either..)

Watching Hela withdraw, Loki finally does take a deep breath, and turn to face Sif. He doesn't say a word, no. Instead, he offers an unamused, tightlipped smile before he begins a path away from the scene. Emergency vehicles are on their way, and no doubt, so are helicopters. There is no reason for him to remain; the blot has concluded. There are no more revellers, no more to ask Odin, Frey and Freya for good planting weather, for a good crop of animals..

The comet-like run across the night's sky, however, gains Loki's attention, and for a good few moments, he's locked in place as he tracks the progress. "Oh..." is all he says.

Thea Queen has posed:
Just like the Lady of the Lake holding the sword for the fabled hero so is Thea sitting there against the camper. Sure, not in some elegant pose but more in a sort of exhausted, slumping posture. She is a more budget version of her.

The sword stays there in her arms but she is close and closer to drifting out to unconsciousness. "Hey, you guys did it.." Thea murmurs, noting the Goddess's departure. She exhales in relief, attention going up to the skies as well at the clear clarion..

Blue eyes watch it, perhaps wondering on what it is just before it's the last thing she sees for now before tiredness claims her and she falls unconscious, head slumping forward.

Sif has posed:
Weary. Burnt. Bleeding. All three fading, to be true, but still true in the here and the now. Sif slumps.

"Fine revelries," she says sardonically to Loki's back. "I must remember to make this an annual event. Your aunt is a wonderful person I could stand seeing more of."

The sarcasm is so dry an ocean couldn't quench it. It's so dry it could be a county in Utah.

Having seen Thea with the blade, she wends a weary way to where the injured mortal had hidden.

"You did well," she says with a smile, meant to be reassuring but through the scorched and battered flesh looks more like predatory nightmare fuel. "I will talk to the Valkyrior and mention your name to the skalds. If you wish, when you pass, you can awaken a goddess in Valhalla."

It's a bit more complicated than that, naturally, but she's not going into details.

Of course it falls on deaf ears as the injured woman slumps into unconsciousness. Sif snorts in mild amusement, finding a moment of subtle joy in the field of sorrow. She recovers her blade, cleaning it by habit, albeit briefly, before slipping it into its scabbard. Picking up the unconscious mortal, gently cradling her, she looks around for the healers that will undoubtedly be arriving soon.

"This one has need of attention," she says, approaching a knot of what looks like officialdom. (You can always tell by their stance and behaviour.) "See to her. She has done more for your survival than the next dozen of your kind."

Then she too, after laying Thea down gently, wanders off, heedless of any officious calls for her to stop and explain herself.

Life's too short to deal with bureaucrats, even if they are mayflies.