7181/1000 Faces: Friggatriskaidekaphobia

1000 Faces: Friggatriskaidekaphobia
Date of Scene:	01 August 2021
Location:	Port-au-Prince, Haiti
Synopsis:	Part 1: Hermod is threatened with death.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Hela, Loki, Balder, Sif, Morrigan MacIntyre, Thea Queen, Brunnhilde, Stephen Strange
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

---

Hela has posed:
Port-au-Prince, Haiti... The poorest city in the Western Hemisphere has known rebellion and ravaging earthquakes, defiance and demonstrations, hurricanes and hunger. Poverty clogs its unpaved streets. Shanties cling to the steep hillsides leading down to the Caribbean bay, populated by a proud, faithful people standing tall despite the numerous hardships they face. Starvation and diseases eradicated elsewhere haunt their streets along with the thin curs and aggressive spirits fattened on their suffering. This is not a story of Haiti's majority, singing their praises and scraping by with nobility.

This is a story of decadence. Tucked behind a manned gate with far too much security, high walls rippling with barbed wire, glass, and guns, there lies a compound worthy of any despot. Palms sway in the breeze, thick forest leading to a blue-green sea. Water swirls around an absolutely glorious craft moored in the harbour, a wooden ship with a broad belly and high prow. Flowers of every kind sheet off her sides, woven into a canopy that shelters those on the deck from the hazards of the sky. Sweet scents litter the air, thanks to countless waxy blooms underfoot that release a perfumed murmur of magnolia, osmanthus, or citrus blossoms when stepped on.

Rings of torches and fairy lights provide ample illumination to the grounds leading down to the chosen dock where well-dressed men and women of every imaginable extraction mingle. White-blonde Swedes and copper-skinned Brazilians join black-haired Indians and Mayan-Mexicans. The name of the game is beauty and wealth. Most here are young, exquisitely dressed to the nines. Some wear little better than bikinis and swimshorts, others in full tuxedo and party dresses. A drink is practically in everyone's hands: wine, rum, harder spirits.

The ship is the centre of the fanfare. Fireworks burst in the air, a multicoloured show hardly noticed by the important people mingling there. An oblong table made of stone, of all things, is laid out with heaps of flowers and green leaves. Fresh fruit interspersed with cheeses and platters of grilled meats and fish form a border for the open space in-between. Garlands strung overhead gaily suggest a party or a feast, something both. Musicians play the vibrating, rolling rhythms of the night.

It all has a joyous, lyrical quality to it, entirely at odds with the ruthless violence and promise of pain or death suggested by walls, soldiers, and occasional monsters lurking in the shadows. The real threats are the least visible, phased into the Astral, stalking in the darkness cast by armoured vehicles.

Loki has posed:
Of //course// Loki, Prince of Asgard, has found his way aboard ship. Who wouldn't want the man amongst their throng, even if they don't truly know who he is. Exactly.

Dressed impeccably in suit and tie, dark hair slicked back, he has a drink in hand, and surrounded by some of those bikini-clad women. Green eyes are keen, even for the amount of drink he appears to have; a measure of sobriety in a gathering of the over-indulgers.

Balder has posed:
Lo, another day in Asgard, another day to look up into the sky and see hope for tomorrow. In honor of the stability and peace brought upon all by Odin and the great life-tree known as Yggdrasil, Balder was in the planes with a great lute in his arms, his eyes close...and he begins to sing an old song...a favorite of his, actually, for once he sang it for Loki....or rather, to honor his brother who at many times was lost..and now found.

" I stormsvarte fjell, jeg vandrer alene...Iver isbreen tar jeg meg frem...I eplehagen star moyen den vene ...Og synger: ?nar kommer du hjem??

His voice rings in the air, the trees around him bowing in their splendor as if to either hug Balder, now before him, or simply protect him from the elements. But as he continues to sing? Something dark, something horrid and foul touches his mind. His eyes go pale, yet glow with a faint light.

A vision.

What he sees causes his skin to sweat. Fear. Worry. Confusion. A multitude of emotions flood into his mind and leave just as quickly, Brave Balder dared not hide his mind's eye from this foretelling of doom. There was joy here...now there is only a dark and terrible fate that he must swiftly end. Balder's song ends, and in an instant, the sun blazed brighter as its favored son rode to battle. It does not take him long until he crosses the rainbow bridge to speak with Heimdall to show him the path.

Balder arrives just off the beaches of Haiti, dressed in gold and purple armor, a fur cape from his pauldrons descend to the floor. Bifrost bridge announces his arrival. On Balder's head is a winged helmet...but with a gesture of his hand, he's in something far nicer in an instant: a fine black suit with a golden tie and a purple handkerchief on his breastpocket. European cut. Tactical tapering. The finest. He approaches the crowd and swiftly acts as he belongs, drawing eyes without giving his reason for being.

Festivity...now wherefore rises the shadow?

Sif has posed:
"Thea Queen. Dress for war and quickly."

The rainbow that announced her presence had shone through the windows of the club before the Goddess of War, dressed in all her blood-letting finery, face grim like Thor being given the challenge of adding two three-digit numbers without counting on his fingers, speaks this to Thea as she strides regally into the nearly-completed club.

Then, spurred by the Balder incident, she touches a gem on a vembrace and ... is in her fancy gown.

"But dress for war in a way that is concealable. We are going to a ball dressed for social engagement, but preparing for battle."

Thus was it that Sif and Thea found themselves arriving in Port-au-Prince, Sif bringing Thea up to speed.

"Hermod the Brave seems to be on the path to foolishness," she'd explained. "He'd misdirected my brother with that damnable squirrel, Ratatosk, and is now nowhere to be found. But he was last seen heading in the direction of a 'Hispaniola' which coincidentally is one of the places my brother can no longer see into. I fear the young fool is trying to do something brave and bold and will bring ruin upon himself and, perhaps, upon Midgard."

Once in Port-au-Prince, after fussing over Thea's outfit to ensure that the signs of battle gear are carefully concealed, Sif approaches the boat as if she owns the place, cowing the one attendant who tries to question the pair with a glare from her battle-hardened blue eyes before circulating, smiling pleasantly, as she peers into nooks, crannies, and shadows; as she listens to conversations and the movements of soldiers and others. Gathering information. Gathering intelligence. Preparing to find and strike.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan had really just followed clues like a bird with breadcrumbs. And low and behold it lead her here. Because this was the place to be apparently. "I wonder if John is here." she mutters to herself as she looks over the crowd. Her eyes hidden behind sunglasses as she was not wanting to deal with the brightness of things. That and she wasn't the happiest about the subject that she was tracking. She is dressed for the party, but she isn't sure when the shoe is going to drop and Hell was going to break loose.

Thea Queen has posed:
Decadence, alcohol abuse, drugs and who knows what else. This would had been Heaven on earth for Thea a few years back. But now? What a nightmare. Doubly so considering what she was investigating.

And then that message from Sif. Well, she might be surprised that Thea is *already* at Port-au-Prince. So the teleporting doesn't need to go far. But she could had saved herself a plane ticket and all that time in a plane. Ah well. Little victories.

"The Maine Phosphites Company." She is telling Sif, "They are the ones funding this..., party. And rumors are abound there are connections between them and the cultist groups that have been running rampant. So whatever is happening here? It is most likely related to that death god battle royale we have been witnessing last few months."

And while Sif goes all RAWWR she goes all elegant and with smiles, looking around all the same, looking for signs of anything out of the ordinary. "How does Hermod look like, then?"

Brunnhilde has posed:
A maelstrom of death surrounds the island. And at the center, in the eye of the turbulence, a ship rocks gently on the incoming tide. The Valkyrie answers the call of the dead.

But not her dead; no. She has ferried the souls of other pantheons, their psychopomps absent, their afterlives strangely cobbled together. The souls fear her.

And so Brunnhilde comes to this island, this gathering, this little ship, to answer the final call. But here there are no souls to be ferried, merely death. Death subsuming the twinkling brightness of the party-goers' laughter. Death swallowing the abundance of life spent recklessly and fully. A death that eats itself: ouroboros.

Stephen Strange has posed:
It isn't the trappings of the rich and oblivious that call the Sorcerer Supreme to the outskirts of the docks. No, there is another reason. Another purpose.

It started with a call. A rather upset call from a colleague in regards to voudon magic. Namely....it isn't working anymore. At all.

And..that is concerning. Terribly so.

The fact that there were violent blossoms of death energy. And....Port-au-Prince is right in the center of the biggest explosion. A large dome, just hovering over most of Haiti. Could this be the cause of the sudden malfunction? Could this have cut off contact with the loas?

Most likely. It is certainly worth checking out.

And, after Paris...Strange is not going to take any chances.

The swirling portal sparks into existence, allowing the sorcerer to step through. He...is dressed as he normally would, respendid in his blues and reds. However, seeing there is a mass of humanity, it might prove useful to at least attempt to blend in. A quick cantrip...and a glamour casts over Strange's appearance. He will look like he certainly belongs to the party, though easily forgettable.

As he intended.

Hela has posed:
On the shore... musicians beat on drums, a soaring percussive rhythm around elements of merengue and Spanish beats. The rhythm rages in a surge at odds with the oppressive dark sky overhead, the very vastness somehow diminishing the beautiful people dancing on terraces or drinking in the gardens. The quickening beat drags many of them into shifting and swaying, high heeled shoes kicked off and fancy loafers abandoned to make it easier to move. Hands reach out for others, heedless of who they catch. A friend, a stranger, the dancers attempt to pull Balder into the celebrations. A dark-skinned man with dreds to his waist would make a partner of Loki. The rum and wine slosh around in glasses, thrown back and the vessels flung behind them.

Hela has posed:
On the party boat... No one seems to think anything of a few of those important personnages approaching the table. Seats are pulled out for them by beautifully coifed and dressed waiters dressed in flowers. Five, six, seven, eight. Thea stands a good chance of recognizing one of them: the woman who screamed a name in a crowd at Eurovision when an attack began.

The music whirls and a singer raises her voice in French: <<For all we have given, let us receive in kind. These gifts we offer you for the gifts we have received.>>

The air thickens and tears with some kind of teleportation spell in action. Flowers shimmer. A man rests in the middle of the table, crushing the petals. Tall, long, bound and carved with countless runes and symbols and sigils around his wrists, ankles, neck, arms. Wide eyes are black with terror. His tongue is nailed to his torn Asgardian tunic, pinned by a length of hammered black iron.

Hermod.

Another diner has an odd familiarity to Brunnhilde, though she might be pressed to recall why. A swarthy man with a sharp, fine beard irritably taps the table, and produces a glittering black knife from the sleeve of his tailored suit. It's a lead grey shade. "Let's get on with it." How fast until it hits Hermod's chest or neck?

Loki has posed:
Loki may have missed the spectacle that was Paris, but it doesn't mean the Prince was lazily whiling his days away, ignoring all that passes before him. Not him, though he may be accused of such, and he often is.

The music, the chatter, the drinking all forms a backdrop that would easily lull a person into a dull-eyed partier. Not he, however; the drink is had sparingly, the amounts taken away bit by bit (unless charged with a DRINK! necessity). He can //feel// the gathering, both of his own Aesir and the magicks in the air that crackle with its own unique static.

One.. two.. and green eyes look over the side, gliding past those that he recognizes intimately. As he stands, he's pulled into a dance, and after a laugh or three, manages to side-slip with something of a two-step, drinking and toasting at his 'friend' before he's hit in the 'magical' face with the appearance of-

Oh.." is murmured before he prance-steps towards the table with the stricken Hermod. Loki affects a gait that seems a little unbalanced, and his voice rises,

"What is this? Oh.. do share.."

His daggers sit hidden.. and ready.

Balder has posed:
Balder does not spend long on the shore, swiftly managing to board the ship with but subtle magic and a carefully drawn rune or two. As Balder walks Along the boat, a few strangers in their festivity try and pull Balder into their arms for dance and revelry. His goals were overwhelming, and duty and love for Hermod allowed Balder to deny the temptation, often brushing by folk or twirling them into the arms of another. He sees a few others on the boat, but does not dare dwell upon them.

He feels it in his heart before he sees it with his eyes. A spell, magic rustles through the craft as Hermod himself appears as though he was an offering to some terrible beast....and the man beside him that dares to draw his blade against Hermod.

Once in a millennia, they say the sun releases flares capable of destroying all it touches. Beautiful, yet deadly. For there to be peace, the god thereof understands that one must be prepared for war. Loki falls into his sight, yet he does not care. It's his brother at risk, maybe now both of his brothers lie in danger.

A long axe conjures itself into Balder's hand, and a scene must now be made. Aesir wrath must now be forsworn. Balder lifts his weapon and -throws- it with unerring accuracy as he draws near lie the cold hand of fate upon one's nape, intending to strike the knife-wielder across the neck and chest as if to vault him backwards.

It's not cleverness, it's not tacticality...it's vengeance. It's rage. it's urgency of swift blooding.

Weighed...measured..and found wanting.

Sif has posed:
"Hermod looks like a baby," Sif says gruffly. "The young fool. Blue eyes and brown hair and the physique of a youthful warrior, but slimmer, more streamlined. He is a half-hand shorter than I." Unlike the strange doctor, Sif is, unfortunately, not the kind of person who can fail to attract attention, given her extreme height, the unnaturally black hair that looks like she's rimmed with the night itself, and the preternatural beauty.

So she doesn't so fail. She uses it to her advantage, her attention-calling simultaneously making it easier to catch the unwary as they stare at her instead of performing their tasks, guarding their tongues. She's still circulating, still smiling at the right time, laughing at the right witticisms (without giving away that she's listening to conversations at the other end of the compound while so doing). And she's instructing Thea, now, in the nature of their quarry.

"If he is imprisoned ..."

Sif's voice dies in her throat as the drums begin and dancers start to arise as if drugged and entranced. A woman reaching for her hand to drag her into the dance is curtly rebuffed. The second time she is bodily thrown back. She looks about, trying to ascertain what is happening when...

"He looks like that," she says in a dark voice, dripping with fury, finger pointing as Hermod makes his appearance. "It is time for war."

Words she lives by. A touch on her wrist and her armour and weapons make their appearance. Her axes are already in hand, spinning, ready to let fly at the man with the knife ...

Only to be forced to hold as Loki lurches into her line of fire. It would be bad to kill the second prince. She would be able to leave her job almost immediately...

"What the...?!" Balder. Balder just did her job for her. This is serious and it is time for serious action.

Adding her fire to the mix, Sif issues forth her battle cry, calculated over millennia to strike fear into mortal souls, leaping in a flat arc forward, eschewing the throwing of her axes in favour of swinging them with cold intent to behead the very man Balder attacked.

When the royal family attacks, she is there to give them force of arms.

Thea Queen has posed:
"There." One of those eight sitting to watch the 'show' is recognized by Thea, her eyes trailing to Sif, "That one was at Eurovision. She is with the cultists..." or maybe even more considering she has some kind of honor seat there.

"They must be about to....--" And then someone gets teleported in. For a ritualistic murder. "Guess that's your Hermod.." she mutters. Hands *are* starting to go under her dress for her blades. But then she spots a familiar face. Loki. And an axe flying past...? Her eyes go wide for a brief moment and with Sif doing her thing of relentlessly charging into battle she sneakily goes around to try and approach Marzanna during the confusion that is sure to begin, a small blade being drawn.

"Second time I see you in these places. You are going to tell me what's going on and who is behind this." does she know she is talking to a God? Well, no...

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan's not really sure why she's decided to get in the middle of the death gods waging war thing. Maybe it's because the balance issues that it's causing. Maybe it's because others were drawn to it as well.

Could be she's named after a goddess of death herself? Who knew.

When Hermod shows up she looks over the top of her glasses and there's a bit of a low whistle, "Well, this just got interesting." she mutters to herself as she start to gather power to herself as the Asgardians attack. May as well join them!

Brunnhilde has posed:
Brunnhilde takes a drink from a passing server. And drains the cup dry. The identity of the bearded man niggles in the back of her mind. She can't place him, but he makes her want to drink. So she takes another. And another.

And is two-thirds through that glass when Hermod appears on the table. She doesn't spill a drop. But pours the last of it into her mouth. Then places it on the tray with the others that she'd emptied moments before.

She grabs a knife up from the table.

Hela has posed:
On the shore... Dancers keep spinning and grooving to the music. Those who don't stand out, like the waiters carrying trays of drinks keep their shimmying to a minimum. The man in a deep amethyst suit who only smiles when dark limbs brush his sleeve, pale hands stroking the white carnation in his pocket.

When a man is shoved away and falls, he lands hard enough to bloody his mouth. It runs red over his teeth, and he lurches up, aided by many hands to rise.

Sif's cry is loud enough to send the dancers scattering around her, drawn into tight knots where they cling to one another and whirl. Drums thunder, feet stamp. The waves slosh and heave. Earth trembles, adding to the basso rolling note too deep for most to hear. When Thea and Brunnhilde converge, that only adds to the disruption in the party as they have to practically push people away.

Hela has posed:
On the boat... The diners seated at the stone table with Hermod laid out among flowers, fruit, and platters hardly move when the bearded man draws the knife. The Asgardian messenger would scream. Having his tongue ripped out reduces the sound to a horrific, incoherent gurgle.

An axe conjured up by Balder's hand brings sharp looks, few cries. The weapon loosed from his hand goes sailing
    and
        hangs in midair not a few inches from him. Quivering force runs down the haft, evidence for how hard he threw it.

Loki might seem to sway, but the fall he pretends at never quite lands, his foot going down, sinking with inestimable slowness. His sway into the movement comes at a greatly reduced speed.

Brunnhilde, Sif or Thea might see both these things before she dashes too near, watching the Asgardian princes suspended in molasses. For in the cover that the Queenly Arrow seeks, using chaos to guard her, chaos might be finding her when a shining surface off her shoulder blurs. A slender shape halfway phased into the world reaches out, a bone-white appendage with multiple joints coming down with a hooked claw at the end eager to swipe at her shoulder.

Shadows buckle. Shapes come forth from them, and the silhouettes are less black than grey. And for Morrigan, pulling power is like trying to drink concrete through a coffee stirrer. It's there, but convulsed, stony and hard.

Loki has posed:
Aaaaand, there goes any chance of subtlety.

Loki stops short and stares .. dumbfounded. He only normally has Thor to contend with, and that man, while infuriating, actually does stop to discuss tactics. In fact, the pair have things down to almost a science over the centuries.

This one, however?

Loki exhales in a sort of 'what can you do?' before he catches the molasses effect; slowing his pace, though not slowing his mind... and that is where mistakes are made.

His glass is dropped, his daggers drawn, the glint of Laevateinn in his hand as his arms raise into the air.

"Hear me now," at least he can talk, "You have chosen a most unfortunate path.."

There are only one, two people who have truly experienced what the Prince can actually do with his magicks. Chaos magic, he has been taught by Frigga, and his ability is only curbed by his imagination; and he has a very good imagination.

Slowly, deliberately, the boat begins to shift under foot; the boards, the rocking of the ship ceases, only to have form around them a castle; a formidable, bone-chilling cold castle. Hermod is gone; and if one was to search, there are multiple Hermods in multiple rooms, though only if one //perceives// him, however. And any who walk into a room, shall.. unless very, very good.

Loki himself is also changed; he appears in multiple locations, dotted around and wearing an extremely dangerous face in the, well, face of this evil.

Normally, with some expression of magic, there would be exposition, but right now? There is none. Instead, there is intense concentration, anger, annoyance.. and he is //really// going to be hurting soon enough unless his compatriots do something, and quickly.

Balder has posed:
Balder threw his mighty ace, yet some force stopped the weapon in mid-air! Staringywt ahead with fury, Balder growls. The same energy as that day against Apep, the dark serpent performing similar powers to bring disorder to magic..but a god is more than a spell. A human is more than a spell.

So Balder charges forth with only his own strength to push him forward. If he could not draw from without, then he will draw from within. Even when he slows to a crawl, Balder continues to try and try and try...but he can't move. He feels slowed by evil. Yet his eyes grow with a rate he has never shown towards anyone, even his enemies.

But Hermod is at risk..and dammit, death will release!

"I am Balder, son of Odin, Ragnarok-Spawn! You dare slow my hand, lathspell? You dare deny my vengeance on my blood's behalf?" Balder continues to move, unfazed and challenging the power of multiple entities of death and shadows. "I have as many names as there are ways to die, and Death: You will yield!" Balder shouts with the force of a battle drum that makes enemies flee as if Ragnarok was upon them! Even as he clenched his fists, his nails dug into his palms, cracking skin as the light swells within him.

"Begone!"

Sif has posed:
Shit.

It's OK. Though a Lady, Sif is also a warrior with battle honours trailing behind her like sexual misconduct charges trail behind Bill Cosby. She's allowed to swear. In fact, she will.

"Motherf...!"

She doesn't have time to finish that thought as she notes the princes suspended in gaffa. Nor does she have time to stop her advance, so committed is she to the rush forward courtesy of the conservation of momentum. What she can do, however...

Sif throws herself downwardly, letting her impetus carry her forward, tumbling, on the ground, aiming for the legs of the table, trying to snap them with a combination of the impact of her body for some and the impact of one of her axes for one more. The man with the knife is protected from attack. How well protected is the furniture?

Can she, in short, dump Hermod to the floor with a table between him and the knife?

...

Nope. Sif finds her motions slowed to nothing, like bad slo-mo in movies...

And she hits the ground in a courtyard, rolling before hitting a wall and stopping.

"What the...?"

For the second time Sif is taken unawares, an experience she finds disconcerting. She's on her feet in a flash, axes in her hand, and ...

She stops.

She looks.

She listens.

She reaches out with all her senses, looking for the clues. This is witchery, but the latest smells familiar to her.

"Loki Odinsson! Guide me. Command me," she calls out. She knows who's reponsible for this now and knows he has a plan.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
"Ah shit!" Morrigan hisses out as the magic in the area is...not really wanting to be drawn upon. Morrigan without magic in this situation is not good. Or well...she'd be hiding under a table shortly.

Then the Asgardians are doing their Hamlet on the lawn thing and she looks Loki and then to Balder, who she has witnessed in action before, "Come on, let me get this spell going." she mutters to the magical forces that are being drowned out by...whatever it is. There are little sparks of violet energy that die out on her fingers, "Just performance anxiety...one sec." she whispers as she stands in the cold. "All this death might be a good thing another time." she mutters.

Thea Queen has posed:
This is ...., a lot of Asgardians per square meter. And waving magicks she certainly can't begin to comprehend. All the images of a Loki appearing about, along with a brazen declaration by a Balder. Sif has been lost to her sight with all the commotion, bodies of people trying to get out, or to escape the confusion. The more to help her skulk closer to Marzanna. And she is so close now... Just a few more steps and--

A flash of something. And it's not as if Thea doesn't have the reflexes to move fast but the creature is certainly faster. A spider? But that's just no ordinary one. And larger than her hand! Ugh... She twists to get out of the way but feels the sting on her shoulder, along with an immediate burn that tells of poison, shoulder already going numb.

With a cry she swings wildly with her short blade, nicking one of it's legs but not felling it, the creature disappearing instead but leaving that burning feeling on her shoulder. "Fuck.." she puts one hand on a nearby table and again seeks the crowd, trying to find Marzanna again. Harder now as she feels those muscles starting to fail her.

Brunnhilde has posed:
Visions of death overwhelm the Valkyrie's sight, her eyes almost going black. The boat calls to her with its death song. And death means one thing: a battle.

Brunnhilde charges toward dock, blade ready, despite the magic and chaos that ripples around the boat -- the castle? Fine, the castle. She'll have fun storming the castle, then. She will hunt down death and force it to fight, honor or no.

Hela has posed:
Before the boat turns, there is havoc.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" A bored woman seated at Hermod's left side lifts her eyes when pronouncements of title are made. Braids falling sleekly past her shoulders sway when she flicks her hand dismissively at him. "You are denied vengeance or sweet mercy of death until my husband reclaims his blood and marriage." She's speaking a tongue so old humanity barely knows it.

The boat transforms. One of the waiters crashes away into the shallows and lands with a sickening crack as he loses his footing. At once his soul come untethered, a signal for Brunnhilde. A soul burning with black fire begins to scream unheard by any but the psychopomp.

A wet sound radiates out from half-a-dozen different directions. Dark magics erupt along narrow corridors and wide rooms. The ground tears apart, fissures cracking open to swallow trees, drinks, people. Hispaniola is a playground.

The tattooed man last seated at Hermod's feet grabs a breadfruit before Loki transforms it. Hey, fruit's expensive. His teeth rip into the fleshy skin, and juice runs down his inked chin. He spits out the pulp, hissing in Te Reo: <<Sacrifice yourselves.>>

Dancers and partiers stumble. One kneels and starts smashing his head against the ground. Another grabs a knife from a tray and buries it in her throat. Two dancers throw themselves into the sea, and hold one another down.

Nine death gods, how many rooms? They run to find dinner, now that dinner's hidden. The castle offers cover, but does it give their audience cover? The advantage still is to the nine, not to the Asgardians or the mortals. For every moment they press inward, every moment that tends by a magnitude.

Loki has posed:
Though cold and formidable seeming, yet there is something of a familiar air to it, or should be to the Aesir who have spent their days in the Palace. There are corridors and rooms large and small. It is a delaying tactic, yes, but in a way that is meant to give those who can do something with a better footing.

"Close your eyes. You're home."

The words perhaps are dreamt, or perhaps they're spoken over an expanse; who knows what Loki can do, after all? What he can't do, however, is save those in the thrall of death magic, or poor Thea. He had intended to run interference for her until his world slowed; and he still would have failed in saving her, and without giving the others a chance.

He can only keep this up so long, his 'original' self in the dungeons (His study would have been an obvious choice!), with other dotted around, though not in a fully present way. The illusionary castle is difficult enough, making sure the perception of others is exactly what he wishes it to be, on that grand scale.

As is the form and figures of Hermod... and the 'original', which is hidden away, his location only known to those who know him, should they figure out the lay of the land...

Balder has posed:
"I care not of you."

Yet he hears Sif's call in the darkness, he hears Morrigan's exclaim, he hears others cry their havoc.

..let slip the dogs of war. "I care little for your name, nor will I remember it. Undo your harm upon my brother and release him into my care." It's a command, even as his eyes look to Hermod, filled with love for his brother. Protectiveness, willing to sacrifice his own personal health. "Father...give me strength." Balder prays to Odin, his gaze shifting around him as revelers, dancers, even guests are committing suicide on the spot.

"Cease this." Balder requests of these death gods, dark creatures. "Stop this!" He tells them once more, emotion bleeding into his voice as he finds his heart compromised at the death around him.

He even tries to release his inner light to blind, maybe even contain, the space around him. To intimidate death, one must be fearless to its clutches. "Enough of this..go back into your shadow and dwell here no longer."

Even as the scape changes..even as the battle shifts. They are all at a disadvantage.

Sif has posed:
"Home."

Sif repeats this to herself in a murmur. It didn't look much like home. Far to dour and dank but...

Hold.

The layout is startlingly reminiscent of home. Strip away the grandeur. Focus only on the corridors and pathways and ...

Got it!

Nodding a silent nod of respect to Loki's brilliance, Sif starts for the barbican with purpose. Hermod was going to be, like all the warriors his age, in the whorehouses outsi...

No. That's wrong. Sif pauses mid-step. Think, Sif. Where do you usually find the whelp? Her eyes stray in the direction of the privvies, from whence she's seen him exiting or entering too many times to count. That's what happens when you eat so mu...

"OF COURSE!"

This she shouts in glee as she breaks in a run for the kitchens. That's where Hermod will be concealed by the Prince!

She calls upon her youth of bravado and proving herself in the face of men who refused to accept she could be one of them. She runs the familiarly-shaped, if not decorated, corridors, using the shortcuts, the turns, and even some of the trickier leaps and 'wall-walks' she'd practiced a thousand times to win races with her fellow warriors in training. A quick slide and roll into this side corridor. A leap down that balustrade. The course is not direct. It is FAST. She bursts through the kitchen doors like she were in a race and dedicated to winning.

Which is not far from the truth.

Hela has posed:
Haiti is known for its earthquakes. It certainly is now as the faultlines riddling the coast outside Port-au-Prince awaken, heaving and buckling. Localized tremors make walking that much more difficult even for those used to being light on their feet. Trees sway drunkenly. Brick walls collapse. The waves drag back and throw themselves to the shore in confounded currents, and where the sand and water mix, liquifaction means swallowing up structures or people with indiscriminate care.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan's a little absorbed with the deaths happening. Because it was a lot. She sees the change of venue before her eyes and she's not familiar with Aesir and she's definitely not familiar with this place. She turns to say something and smacks her face against a wall. "Mischief..." she mutters as she rubs her forehead. She is the one that's at a disadvantage here and the mage tries to reach out...

Was that an earthquake?! "We've got another problem that just hit." she states to...well, whoever is around.

Thea Queen has posed:
Well, there's a familiar voice. Thea looks at Morrigan with some strain on her features, "If you got anything that can break this enchantment forcing people to kill themselves..." she suggests. Not Thea. She has no such spells. What she has is a stick that she brings out from the folds of her clothing. Or should we say a baton? It's good to put people unconscious.

And that's what she starts doing. Someone attempting to kill themselves with a knife? Baton to the head. Smashing head to the floor? Baton to the head... Tossing themselves at the nearest Asgardian in a suicidal charge? Baton to the head... Well, you know the drill..

But she is one person, trying to stop a large crowd. So she does what she can to stop the madness. Until she falls on her knees herself at a particularly nasty earthquake shake, muscles starting to refuse to move from the poison. "Well, you crazy fucks.." this she says to the supposed 'Gods' over yonder, "... I hope you are happy by creating this chaos while whoever is behind all this is laughing at your expense." breathing heavy now.

Brunnhilde has posed:
The souls of the mortals sacrificing themselves swirl around her. She feels the liquor churn in her belly as it bids her to die as they do. A poisoned cup. Or three. Or four. Who's counting?

But if Brunnhilde dies tonight, it will be in combat. One of the nine best slay her with their own blade, or be chased back into the hells where they belong. She charges on, screaming a battle cry.

The hallways nag at her mind, an eerie familiarity, long forgotten. She need not rely on memory to give chase to the intruders.

Hela has posed:
A leap down the balustrade leaves Sif hanging in mid-air. She, too, falls prey to the unalloyed curse that lies over this section of the party. For no longer is a boat a boat. The folded illusion grants a blessing for her to pursue her way through the complex created by Loki Odinson.

It has not halted the ground from shaking. It has not alleviated the crushing, gasping weight that drags out every breath. She bursts through and time simply ceases to work the way it should. One second is dragged out gaspingly long.

Balder's light sends another pulsating wave through the illusory castle, igniting the evening darkness. That makes the mass deaths easier to see, sending the shadow-woven guardians prowling the chaotic scene to hide behind trees or lurk among bodies in hopes of protection. Several smaller shadow animals dissipate as their darkness cannot hold, essence swallowed up into the storm.

Morrigan's placement puts her an advantage to see the woman with braided hair briefly haloed in a burst of magic behind the spell Loki holds up. Her wings open from her back, and she extends both hands around her. Ereshkigal rips jagged chunks of earth and rock, blowing them outward. No wall is likely to stand against that kind of bombardment as she moves and lays waste to whatever is in the way. Whatever slows Sif or Balder doesn't touch her. Or any of the other death gods ransacking the rooms, finding their way.

Moving inward to the castle slows everyone else. The risk is high to lose momentum. Thea's many smacks and slaps in the garden have the desired effect of stopping quite a few of the partiers from killing themselves. They can't do that if they are unconscious, but then they also make excellent targets for several huge owls, a snake made of scrap metal, and the phasing huntsman spider who tried to snack on her.

The intruders being chased by Brunnhilde aren't thrilled by it. The Maori god of death hurls that breadfruit in hand at her with force enough to plow through a sheet of steel, warping and twisting the very air to vibrate with sheets of force that just don't move. It stops him from searching, but that's seven or eight more hunting, some down, some up. Some for the Hel of it, right?

Loki has posed:
And Loki appears by Morrigan and Thea. Just.. appears through a wall, and cants his head, presses lips together as he looks at Thea. The apparition, for that is what it is undoubtedly to Morrigan's eyes, tsks softly, shakes his head, and looks ready to lead them to some semblance of safety, if not a spot that might appear to be a study. It's the least he can do.. but should they follow him, the figure of Loki is becoming a touch more aetherial until he pauses in front of a door before it simply blinks out.

Below, in his home within his home as it were, Loki is the conductor to this vast orchestra; the tracing of paths and patterns, but the earthquakes certainly aren't on his list of 'what could happen'. As a result, it takes a great deal more effort to maintain the solidity of the cold building, losing some spots, shoring up others even as the desire at first washes over him to simply end himself. Sacrifice himself. Kill himself.

Scores of thoughts rise as to why he should; hundreds of doubts he's wrestled with in the dark of night all rearing their heads, in danger of breaking his concentration should they truly take hold-

He is unworthy.

He's a monster.

Always an outsider, he'll never truly be 'like them'.

Give up this fight... and Loki is growing tired. Like a warrior with strength to remain in battle, so it is for the Aesir sorceror supreme and his own gift to the battle.

The knife comes forward, and green eyes stare at the blade, his blade.. before he glances up once more in order to catch Sif before she falls through a weakness in the build and tightens his jaw.

That knife, however.. those words that call to him, that mock him, that demand that he at least makes something of his life in his death... and it's all he can do to keep his world around him.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan gives Loki a look when he blinks through a wall, "Bells. Bells everywhere." the Irish woman states with a grimace. But she does follow the man, because she's not wanting to stay there. She motions for Thea to come as well. Safer in numbers really. Or a bigger target.

Though once she's where the real Loki is there's a look around and a look up to Sif before she looks around. The woman turns in a circle and extends her hands and closes her eyes, "Where...are you." she grits out. She just needed to power through it. But this time there's no violet energy that comes from her fingers. There's just the inky blackness that slithers out and goes in search of what she wanted. It takes a moment, but then Morrigan's eyes open, eyes glowing. Her hands close tightly, like she's crushing something, "Found it!" she cackles as she starts to rip the enchantment apart.

Balder has posed:
"Brother.."

Balder looks around this complex that Loki has managed to craft, even as his light makes all much easier to see. He's...lost here. He has no idea where to go, where to turn, so he just gets to moving. Complex shifting, waning, rebuilding. Maybe he will find a god...magic is very difficult here, and Balder is not the caster that Loki is. Yet he -tries- to bind -one- of the death gods if he can, maybe enough to dispel it...or channel his power, what inconsequential power it is, and limit the chaos of the area.

Anything he can do to help. To survive. For all present, for all vanished. He feels slowed as he moves, yet ancient tongues of Vanir magic echoes in his throat as he speaks.

What can he do? He might be powerless, but some magic can fight against others, and he replies simply enough in a language few mortals can understand. He tries to bind these horrible creatures, banish their power and influence, to fight back against their casting so his allies don't have to...and he's willing to pay that price.

No evil deed may go unpunished.

Thea Queen has posed:
With 'ghost' Loki calling on them to go Thea does move out with Morrigan. She had done pretty much what she could here. Anything more? It would have to be up to the Asgardians.. She can't face the Gods, and they seem out on a rampage. She mostly just hopes her friends are alright.

"Have you seen Sif?" she looks around with a small frown and takes position near Morrigan, blade and baton in hand now as she readies herself for danger ... But now she is on the lookout for any stray spider trying to come at them. Or any other such creature! At least in her reduced mobility/slowed reactions.

"Good!" she says with a strained grin when Morrigan says she found what she believes may be the enchantment making all this people go crazy. Maybe there's still hope.

Brunnhilde has posed:
The breadfruit hovers in the air in front of her, daring the Valkyrie to poke it with her stolen knife. But instead she skirts around the slow space, daring the Maori to fight her where their speeds are equal. And if he will not, she can find another. There are six or seven more. One will face her.

Sif has posed:
It's frustrating. She saw the princes captured in amber and started to feel it herself before. She knows that movement stops, but thought doesn't. (Were she more deepened in the ways of magic she might even use that as a clue as to what they're facing and how to fight it.)

But Sif is no mage. She is no witch. No sorceress. No enchantress. So she is left instead with her thoughts in a world that has come almost to a stop around her, coming up with synonyms for wizards.

Not productive, no. But nor is trying to force a body that won't move to cleave through the air faster than, seemingly , the very universe about her will allow.

She instead reviews in her mind the thousands of hours of battle experience. The strategems, both successful and failed, that have put her through her life. Waiting for one of those whose realm is magicks to end this timelessness about her.