8098/This Is The Start (Of How It All Ends)

This Is The Start (Of How It All Ends)
Date of Scene:	03 October 2021
Location:	Kips Bay, NYC
Synopsis:	The disir find Jane, but they might not like who comes to help.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Blackagar Boltagon
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

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Jane Foster has posed:
New York is easy to lose a person in. Hundreds, thousands, of Americans vanish inside the five boroughs, trafficked or simply erased from official records by choice or not. How not when an intersection of 63rd and 63rd is a possibility? Millions of lives, counted and not, pile up on one another. A labyrinthine tangle of brick walk-ups and businesses ought to give one woman an easy out to disappear, if she needs to.

It doesn't do a damn thing for something that uses other signatures to track quarry. Blood, maybe, with a celestial bloodhound's nose picking out her particular signature across Manhattan. A scent, preferably not of fear, but Jane'd be lying if she admitted not being afraid.

Those hunters, millennium-old terrors, are out there, barely visible, flitting between the shadows grown thick on a cool evening pregnant with possibilities. Pedestrians and traffic for a Saturday night don't pay any heed to terrible feminine figures shooting black-fletched arrows or swinging dark swords. Nazgul, except Nazgul ride horses and limit themselves to swords and daggers. These bitches don't.

Unkind thoughts from Jane, as she forces a door open and practically tumbles through. The wounded shoulder wouldn't be obvious to anyone except the way she holds it. Her coat hasn't a hole in it. Neon circles flicker and gleam in front of a dim shop, the open sign shut. Even hiding in here is arguably a /terrible/ idea. The glass offers no protection. Pressed flat to a wall, she hunches lower and braves pulling out her cell phone. Antiquated technology her damn ass. It at least ought to get to Blackagar, though the typos are going to be something else. Numb fingers don't exactly operate the way she wants.

<Trapped near Bellevue Hospital. 1st Avenue/30th. Psychotic, armed ghost women.>

Another arrow skips over the pavement and slams into a parked car. The old brick building shudders as something lands on the facade. She slinks away, and hisses, "/Grani/."

No answer.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackagar looked at the speaker, his brow furrowed a bit. <<What do you mean there's remnants remaining?>>

"Your highness, the truth is that the exposure you had to this virus did some significant damage to your genetic makeup. We will know more as we're able to study further but at present, I am sorry. It is distinctly possible there may be other flares. Nothing as severe as what you experienced before, but lesser ones," the response came. The white coat Inhuman researcher was with a pair of others, the full trio briefing Blackagar on their findings to this point.

The crystaline colored walls of the science institute meeting area were dampened for full sound, absorbing voices so as not to cause any echo. The private conversation taking place was attended by the King himself, but as well as several advisors. "The king wishes to know if he is contagious to other Inhumans," a female voice asks.

"We do not know. Based on what the King has shared with us, there has been no issues with him and the Earth based Inhumans. But our own people..." He trails off and Blackagar's hands flare, <<But our own people could be. They do not share the immunities.>> The words are transalted once more and then scientist nods, "Yes your Majesty. At this time it is probably best to place you in quarantine."

There's a small uproar of disapproval from others, but Blackagar holds his hand up to silence them and signs, "The King states that he will remain on Earth for the time being. There are those present that can monitor him and he will not risk infecting those of us here." Another small burst of conversation goes on, the woman's voice lifts up, "Blackagar /Also/ reminds us all he is able to communicate with us and that we have been operating with him on the planet for some months now. This will not be disruptive to those ends."

There is conversation for several minutes further, but Blackagar has made up his mind and as they begin some discussions about what is to come he feels the vibration in his pocket. Pulling out the Earth device, he looks at it, tilts his head and frowns. Hands flash, quickly. Eyes widen among the advisors but they all nod slowly as the King turns and starts to walk out of the Science Halls, then runs. By time he steps free he plants his foot to the ground and jumps up, flying upwards into the starred sky and back to Earth.

Jane Foster has posed:
Time slips away into the deep end. Every minute counts when one's in over their head. Another volley of arrows strike through the door and bricks, uttering a dull keen audible to upset, baying dogs and those forlorn souls flitting about. One pierces the floor a meter from Jane's boots, another striking where she first pulled the phone. Leaving an open connection to ring has a risk, but the screen no longer leaks light when jammed into her belt-pouch.

Mr. Horse is going on half-rations after this. A bitter thought, if there /is/ an after. Ever an optimist, she slowly shifts her weight onto her uninjured leg and examines the tacky, sticky finish on the back of her calf. The cuts on her thigh aren't quite so deep, but still weeping. Pain shoots up her spine, blinding her to anything except its presence, while sliding across the floor and inching through the dark of the closed shop for its back door. Jingling metal and scraping on the brick facade turns into a crack of floorboards, for even ghosts disturb the architecture.

All the moaning and baying keeps her from isolating the sources. Across the street, New York's own version of Bedlam is plenty haunted, which does not help. Bellevue's reputation is well-founded for it served as the madhouse for more than three hundred years. Even today, the medical services contribute to moaning ghosts and unsettled matters. Three? Maybe four total. One is in the building as the other two cover the front exit.

She reaches for a heavy canned energy drink from a rack, and drags it from its plastic ring. Then comes leaving cover, rising up and running flat out for the... where? Window. Door? Her shoulder collides with it while the disir on the other side crashes down through the stairs connected to the second floor, and the brunette hurls the can at the woman's half-helmed face. Right into the sharp lupine fangs, surrounded by a black mouth wet with blood. Or at least it looks like blood. It's not, since Jane has no actual such substance in her veins. The blackness burns beneath them when that sword comes sweeping down, and the gold bracelet practically rips the woman to the side before being impaled again.

They have thousands of years' experience on her. Not fun. The moon is an absent light when she's on her back, kicking with both feet to take the disir's knee out. One hobbled, for a moment. Run. Dead end. Where is she going? A confused moment, and then she has to dodge aside from a throwing axe.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The atmosphere ignites as Blackagar pushes through it, ignoring the flames that erupt around him from the re-entry at a speed he normally would never consider doing. Lockjaw could perhaps been faster, but in the haste of reading the message, he hadn't considered it. Dutiful planning, diligent preparation, those were the hallmarks of Blackbolt. But at this moment, those had been left behind. Because Jane was in danger.

The flare of his form blazing across the sky glows as he angles towards New York City, the tall buildings appearing on the horizon as he crosses the Atlantic, kicking up waves as he does so to dissipate the flames that are still clinging to his clothes in spots. Burning? Fire? He doesn't even feel them. The eruption of the sound barrier shattering around him ricochets as he breaks into the city proper, cars down a street beginning to vibrate and their alarms blaring as he leaves them behind.

The Digir chasing Jane having thrown the first axe winds back, the second being let loose towards the brown haired woman. Mid flight the wall nearby explodes into nothingness as Blackbolt crashes through it to land, crouched over before standing up and catching the axe in his grasp. Holding it in his hand for a moment, he turns and throws it back at the Digir with the ferocity he feels. Being told he was still sick? He can live with that. Jane being in danger? That he cannot.

Blue eyes nearly /glow/ with electron manipulated energy, the aura emenating around him with the smoldering of his skin even from the re-entry and immediate cooling in the ocean waters. First one booted foot falls, then a second. This man does not /run/ away. He starts walking to the unholy figures that had been hunting Jane.

Jane Foster has posed:
Dutiful planning and careful consideration may be well and good, when the situation permits it. Being stalked from Central Park over to the East River by semi-ethereal women expert in driving their quarry onward into corners and traps pushes Jane to the utmost, and that was before the snapping lupine tactics dogged her. She reaches for the throwing axe to turn it on a wall giving up on the locked handle and instead bashing open a hasty escape.

Splinters raining down before she reaches it is purely circumstantial. That wasn't her. Or that axe. How could it be? Three stunned figures and a fourth swearing greet Blackagar Boltagon, so armed.

In the other room, the stunned one calls to her sisters in words that won't translate for many except in mocking laughter. Alas, they do for Jane Foster. Identifying him takes her a moment, the uru bracelet reacting faster by turning into a blade. "Blacka--" Her voice is thinned, knotted in pain. Her movements come slower, hampered a dozen cuts. <<More are coming. You have to go. This is a trap.>>

The disir deprived of the axe has another sword at hand almost immediately, jabbing to force a defensive retreat and then stabbing for an opening through raining dust. Regret for the property damage falls to the wayside for Jane when the second seven-foot-tall undead Asgardian throws a loaded display case almost waist-height straight at Blackbolt.

Nothing like being attacked by a crumpled, dented metal coffin, beard oils, hair waxes, and men's aftershaves rolling around. The stunned disir is up, crashing through the wall and her sister via the door, wading over stock hidden in the back room. Car alarms add to the wailing dogs.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Blackbolt glances momentarily at Jane, his blue eyes with that hue of energy in them regarding her as he shakes his head slowly towards the woman. <<It is a trap. For them.>> There's assured confidence in his thoughts as he looks back towards the Digir that throws the display case towards him. As the object flies he lifts his leg, driving his foot back towards it to shatter the object in front of him and begins his advance towards the Digir that did such. If they are anything like Jane, then they may be able to understand him. Only if he wanted them to. But he doesn't.

They're hunting her. The woman he loves. And they do it without expecting repurcussions? He can tolerate quite a bit. Patience driven to the point of steadiness and restraint. This does not lend itself to restraint. If these beings are strong enough to chase Jane, to cause her harm, then he does not consider them idle threats.

As he moves it is a blur, the energy flowing around him like lightning itself as the movements become distorted to a plain human eye, the enhanced of all around could follow. The sequence of punches and strikes that are delivered to the Digir come with supernatural speed and are given with the force of the nature of universal energy itself unrestrained in his body. Blackbolt is indeed fighting now, on the offensive, and doing so with /fury/. It is meant to be a display. To be intentional, to lay bear for all of these beings that to stay will be to invite him to conflict; and if they choose to do so? Well then he will simply have to speak with them about it.

Jane Foster has posed:
It's so damn hard to think. Clarity in battle is often a gift, but Odin One-Eye must be busy in the meadhall. The disir make Jane's very life their warpaint, and one's more than pleased to lick her sword or an arrow in the fleeting moments. Shattered metal and broken bottles at least make it smell fragrant, if in a masculine way. Her addled pleasure at that might be worrisome, if her mental voice weren't so distant.

They're hunting her. Him, as an aftereffect for interfering, but the other two on the loose hone in on the bloodied huntress.

"Just like veal. Tender, sweet. We will gorge ourselves but you make an excellent start to the feast," mocks the once-stunned one, her knee out of joint but there. She, like her sisters, wears archaic clothing and armour in relatively odd shape. She carries a spear and axes, her sister the sword. The archer outside casually nocks another arrow to her longbow. The glass is still intact, those missiles passing through the window and wall with effortless ease when she hauls back. A string made to withstand the puissance of an adult Aesir is no mean matter, thrumming a banshee moan when unleashing its load. Another follows in succession.

In Blackagar's favour, that terrible strength and purpose. The disir, though, are berserkers through and through. Answering his fury with unaccountably horrific speed, Brun -- the one with the sword -- almost gleefully drives forward to meet him while the other flies at his side, looking for an opening. A third entering the fray from above, crashing through the ceiling, completes that harrying of the king. Vicious strikes and feinting features as often as using deviously efficient blows and backhands pulled up short to confuse.

Copper wings jarred from nowhere make for a protective barrier, rolling around her sides and guarding Blackagar's back. Undrjarn's answer at least is useful for catching the arrow between razor-edged feathers, though it's not perfect. She can at least keep in tandem there, though in sheer skill, the ancient, accursed disir move as a unit whereas she's just one person endowed with a hell of a lot of cumulative knowledge keeping out of her beloved's way.

They might hurt him. He would return the favour to guard her. And that alone keeps her there instead of hauling them both outside. Transparent thoughts weave across a bond frayed enough he can probably feel the wounds as gaps.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
It is not hard for Blackbolt to think at the moment, because he is flowing from one form of martial arts to the next like a river rolling down a mountain, cascading in the direction of the Disir that had the audacity to interject themselves into Jane's life. The darting of swords, arrows and daggers that are all launched at Blackagar at once creates that flurry of deflecting strikes, the swing of a sword jarring him as his bicep absorbs the blow, enhanced through his energized presence to strike but not dig very deep into the flesh. The strength of the blow does not surprise him, not this time. He was prepared compared to what he had seen within Central Park. That day, he had been unplanned for what was coming. This day? He is not. He is ready.

The swinging blows cause him to dance, move fluidly around the berserking Disir. This is the first time, truly, the Blackbolt can remember feeling the thrill in his pit of challenge. The anticipation of continuing conflict that dances within him and he actually /smiles/. That look grows as he exchanges a gaze in the direction of Jane where she is at and within those glowing blue eyes she would see that he is at peace. Calm. Focused.

A deadly combination. The Disir simply do not know. Even his dearest Jane does not know. How does he explain to her the training of the Inhumans? That his own strength is not all he possesses but also the wisdom of his dear mentor, the one who taught him to seek those spots. The blade of the Brun swings and the Inhuman King strikes. The sound (unlike him) echoes loudly as his palm strikes the blade at a point his mind places. A fracture point, the shatter point, a location where all of it is held together and the blow causes him to slide backwards, doing the same to the Disir with the impact of the strike. A blade forged by a hammer, shattered by hand as the soundwaves cause the walls to vibrate.

A few paces back now after that, Blackagar slowly rolls his shoulders and turns his head to loose the muscles in his neck. That first engagement was a dance, an introduction to the Disir. He glances at his arm, the faint imprint of a line where he was struck. <<They will not touch you, my love.>> he impresses to Jane without looking at her. <<I do not care what they believe they are. I will rip them to shreds with my bare hands.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
The Silent King may very much realize his role as an impediment to a goal, a nuisance gradually growing from simply a wall to a whole legion of men refusing to let the army pass by a bridge. So did the Spartans harry the Persians. The trio take their turns circling and striking as lionesses weaken a bull elephant, dancing in to thrust a swordpoint at his face or hurl the cologne and beard oil flung across the floor into his face. A stock room is a confined space to whirl and dance within, the high ceiling little advantage unless Blackagar mens to use the walls for free-running.

Undrjarn resides on her wrist and dances into Jane's hands when called, practically exploding from a slender golden orbit to a sabre, all the better to intercept axes or worse. Worse is almost certain to present itself. Her wings should be an impediment to battling, but they react as an extension of her, sweeping along the length of her arm to deny a partly-phased axe-blow from taking the limb above the elbow. <<They are undead. I haven't seen anything like them here before.>> The interception jars her, hard, rippling over her body and shoving her back across the wooden floor. Nothing is more beautiful than him in motion except him smiling, and she stills in a defensive stance for a second to watch through the haze of pain. Love sings in a hazy patchwork, stronger then weak, flowing between them. A great way to almost get brained by the haft of the axe, Herja -- the axe-bearer -- pressing an advantage to kick at her. She swivels against the brick wall and snaps her wings open and forward, thrusting and stabbing with the rapier.

He may be calm beyond the cuprous racket of her feathers, but his opponents fall into a primal frenzy fed by the ichor dripping from their wounded prey.

With just a little taste, they split, one diving low to upper cut with the axe in one hand and a short espada in the other, trying to get him through the thigh. The archer's bow twangs in close proximity, two arrows released at digressing angles, the better to hit something. They're disturbing enough passing through wood and glass, but flesh is another matter. Brun may have lost the sword -- at least in the mortal realm, the astral entirely another. Her blood-streaked lips stretch in a smile, showing sharp teeth that have known his beloved's life, her flesh if nothing else. She throws her elbow at his face, to force him to flinch.

For the worst? The fourth disir on the roof of the building joins Bodil the archer, Herja the axe-queen, and Brun the swordswoman already closing on Blackagar with the intent to get around him. She just drops straight through to try and crash down onto him. Jerk!

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The speed continues, fluidity that the naked eye would see as just the flashes of presence. Her dearest is moving with an intensity and focus she has not had to witness, nor has he had to exert. Attempting to be in multiple points at the same time is impossible, but Blackagar's movements would seem to were a normal being to see the display. A hand blocking a strike, turning to brush aside one arrow the second striking against his leg to drive in barely before he slashes his hand downward to dislodge it. He is in God-Killer mode and mindset, pulling and driving the electron energies around him and harnessing them in ways he has never done outside of training. <<Can you escape?>> he posits to Jane, hand flat palmed smashing against the elbow sent to his face, not a flinch but a counter blow. He is not tired.

Is she able to focus upon him? To /feel/ what he feels? Could Jane feel the raw power coursing through him at present? The surges of strength that are not diminishing but growing? They have been together sometime, but he has never been in this mode, the mode of a protector. Of what he was truly born to do, perhaps for the Inhumans primarily but it is present here, now. Protecting.

The drop of the one from above crashes into Blackbolt, sending him tumbling to the ground. He rolls and then springs back up, closer to Jane than he was before. Despite being caught off-guard, he still feels fine, in control. Blue eyes survey the Disir that surround them and slowly he smiles. <<Then if they are Undead, I shall have to make them return to their realm, hmm?>> That confidence. He exudes it despite the numbers and odds. A glance goes towards Jane, reassuring and then he does not retreat. Once more Blackbolt casually enters the fray but this time he does so while levitating his feet across the ground, speeding him further to launch into a furious attack at all four of the Disir. They strike him, yes. The blows will leave marks across his body, but for those he simply retaliates. The conflict continues, blows glancing, weapons smashing into the ground as he moves and angles himself. Their excellence as warriors and hunters only being thwarted by Blackbolts own gifts. Do they realize he is attempting to distract? To buy time?

Jane Foster has posed:
Two points at once isn't impossible, given the speeds the disir can move at. A speedster would surely laugh, but those not quite at those levels would see only translucent aqua or cobalt blurs superimposed on the air where the undead soldiers dodge, pulling their arms in or bending back to bring a weapon up in their defense. They braid movement in explosive force to counter Blackagar's seamless efforts, strangely united in purpose, clearly experienced in using teamwork for a tactical advantage that must seem nearly preternaturally smooth and clear. Even seasoned units don't swivel and press advantage that smoothly so well that the choreography boasts its own vicious beauty to the mind's eye. Bodil fires over Herja's shoulder, driving in from the flank to leave its vulnerability exposed for Brun to bear on, even with a palm. But his defenses too are an artistic melody, playing against their harmony, disturbing the patterns to give fullest advantage.

<<They will follow tirelessly.>> Not despair there, only exhaustion. Her mind lacks the crystalline clarity it usually would, muddied, stripped of some of its light. <<I ran. When they... stop, I shifted and that made... worse. I saw them in Staten Island, then... the way to Manhattan. She jumped me at work.>> The uru-forged weapon is nothing of the sort, pristine when it grazes a sharp scratch across blue-gray undead flesh. Bodil shrieks a sound of a banshee, so terribly loud, plunging into a deep stance with arrows in her fists to stab into Jane's shoulder. Asgardian metal meets corrupted Aesir metal, producing flashing sparks. Maybe they graze, maybe they stab, the spiralling anguish blooming from the human.

The valkyrie's anger is enough to dive past the disir archeress, taking the hint from Blackbolt. He said run? Run then. Run as far as they must go. <<I'm sick of them playing with their food.>> No sooner can she weave around entangled legs and flashing weapons than the archer grabs her, licking the wet arrowhead and shaft in a taunt. That won't do. Slamming them both bodily into the floor, Jane collapses the splintering boards, the subfloor cracked. Both of them tumble against a weakened wall through the main chamber. An ugly little fight there isn't much to speak of, through growls and laughs. <<...meet by the red light. I teleport us out?>> No matter how hurt she might be, the brunette's patience finally, utterly gives.

It isn't in Jane's nature to run from someone in need, even if they are doing exactly what nature intended them to. Running from him when the assassins struck or the building fell was alien, revealing herself. Even now, the agony sings; abandonment is not right. Not when he fights to give her a chance, taking on her burdens as his own. For good or ill. Sickness or health. Disir or tyrannical aliens. Getting a hand on Bodil means being bitten, more of her soul chewed away in small pieces at the profane thought, but the least she can do to help Blackagar is hurl the disir out the front window, weep for the cost, and run to the street. Run, streaming ichor and divinity, praying she remembers what it was all for.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The tipping point.

It comes as he watches that accursed Bodil sink teeth into Jane, eating her very essence away. Somewhere within Blackbolt the flare of rage snaps, rather than just patiently buying time, being steady and unflinching anger he has never felt boils up in him. He turns, eyes of blue like steel as the swing of Herja's axe comes crashing down towards him. There is no dance this time. Instead, Blackbolt reaches up his hand to catch the arm of Herja midflight. His arm flexes, the strain visible for a moment and then he begins to bend, to truly exert his truth strength into the Disir.

<<Let them see. The price.>> he thinks mostly to himself, knowing Jane could hear it. She is attempting to escape the way he asked her to. The reason he had asked her to becoming increasingly visible. A swing from a dagger towards his side, it strikes his side and strains to gain into his flesh. The heightened durability of the King's flesh coming to fruition. This is who the Kree had feared, the Midnight King.

Still holding Herja's arm, he pulls the Aesir closer to him, reaches with his free hand and grabs the creature by the neck, turning its head and leans forward.

"Enough," he whispers right into its ear.

Jane Foster has posed:
Let them see, and know, for theirs is a sisterhood as much as the Valkyrior stretched across the stars and realms, those two or three on Earth, feel the rapturous agony flaring across their sister's mind. They may not realize its source, but they know of it.

The disir, fewer in number but far older and tighter in their accursed community, collectively scream. A scream brought forth from withered lungs as those leathery bellows drink the air and push it across snarled, knotted vocal chords. Teeth shred sound, tongues curled in a paroxysm of fury and loss. How strange, for those blasted by their misdeeds, to know again the exaltation of /feast/ and then the familiar gut-punch of famine. For their accursed minds register something rare, fleeting and immediate, when Herja thrashes and twists in an implacable grip to free herself from the Midnight King. When she cannot, those struggles become upheavals of flesh and metal under rotting clothes. And then...

They see nothing for there is nothing to see as she is shredded. The very substance cursed to the enduring immortality, denied life but by a god's life force, does not merely come undone as her sisters have to slip their noose before mighty foes. This shakes her to pieces and scatters the remains, forbidding their reconstitution. No Isis will come to gather up the components to build her anew. And perhaps Brun, Bodil, and Gunvor are wiped off the board, for such truths are shattering when they fall.

A small wonder the three-storey shop of brick and plaster doesn't collapse on their heads, but the shuddering surely must radiate out from the epicenter fiercely.

Enough force sends the semi-mortal woman stumbling to her knees, crying his name through bitten lips, and turning sharply back. She cannot drop the guise she wears, but the wings furl back to her gauntleted wrist. One sharp slash opens reality in half, a narrow, wavering line. It opens, and the other side gleams green in the night as the lights around her pop and hiss, blown out. On her knees, Jane waits in the intersection. Any car likely to hit her will regret the choice. <<My love to me, and we shall be free.>> A thought spun over and around, the mantra keeps her vaguely tethered. Distance has maybe been an issue, but she sinks to her knees there, waiting, the dutiful sentinel.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
The shaking of the building begins with the parting of Blackbolt's lips, the area around reverberating with the energy he unleashes with just that hint of a whisper directly into the presence of that Disir. To withstand such force as an individual is a feat fit for any. But a message needed to be sent. That this was not a very simple moment, not a casual dance or some easy prey for the Aesir. This is death in turn. A different threat for them to be wary of.

The building itself cannot withstand such an energy however, even if it is absorbed primarily into Herja. AS it begins to collapse, Blackagar in his casual fearlessness ignores the brick and mortar that begins to collapse, instead breaking free of it as his rubble dusted form rises from the destruction he has wrought.

Pain fills him, not the pain of physical sort but a personal pain, for that is how much he loathes this. To be forced to destruction in order to save. A decision he will make again and again, but to suffer damage, a damage that radiates from that spot further than just the building. Broken windows, cracks in foundations. He had /opened/ his mouth and breathed a word. To barely speak and cause this. The lingering remains until he turns to seek out the sentinel waiting him.

Jane Foster has posed:
Damage Control and other insurers earn a healthy amount of pay for such moments as these. Hulk rampaging through the city, Super-person's death ray stare, and the titans of power coming out to play politely rearrange New York real estate all the time. They very well might have matter manipulators on their payroll to reconstruct in weeks what would take years of building permits, environmental assessments, and city hall's sign offs. But there can be reason to take hope.

Regret, though, is the measure of a person's conscience and their goodness. She did not want to leave him. He did not want to unleash what biologically he was engineered deliberately to do. They stand at those crossroads again and again to make the choice that must be made. Right does not always mean easy. It never means without an emotional consequence, even a universe away from one another.

Clear blue eyes shut and reopen as the Valkyrie assesses the damage to herself. Not dead yet. She guards that gash in reality until Blackagar emerges to the street and to her. A honking vehicle veers past, uncaring altogether what's going on, slewing through the intersection and rushing past. Another slows, then bolts through to the other side of the street. She forces herself up to her feet, one knee first, then the other.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
This time, when his steps fall, they are purposeful towards the woman hand reaching down to pick her up; to scoop her up as she attempts to force herself up. <<You are not alright,>> no question if she's ok, it is a statement. He can see the movements and the injury. The damage she has suffered. <<Where to?>> he asks silently. Any looking at them, cars that have stopped or foot traffic, they are both ignored by the man as he puts his full attention on getting her up, getting her into his arms and determining where she would feel safest.

<<Home? Work? Elsewhere? Tell me where and I will take you there. They will not come back. Not if they have any semblance of wisdom.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Why argue truths writ plain in the flesh? Blackagar is not an uneducated or foolish man. To look at her clothes is not to gain an ideal sense of her state, but the weathered, frayed bonds of the mind or the injuries under the garments left by the disir are plentiful enough. The damn arrows were insult to injury, and she has half a mind to put fingers to the gouges, seeing whether she spills some other substance that clots. Can faith stop the bleed? A dark chuckle on her lips doesn't dare push the notion further. Psychopomps can be maudlin or morbid at another time. Usually it involves liquor, surely?

She reluctantly tips herself into movement, rigid at the knees to avoid buckling, for all the stamina and prodigious strength he offers would protect her from such ignominious ends. Blackagar can easily span her body with his arms, but she wraps the right around him, left still bearing the gauntlet, the sword, the shallowest scratches on her upper body. <<Anywhere with you. I'm tired, love. So very tired.>> One step into the rent pushes through planes, finding a quiet spot that might be bewildering if he was expecting to dance right into their living room.

That requires her /remembering/ their living room, and quite frankly, she doesn't fully enough to dare it. A horrifying fact, if she weren't truly so tired to stand beyond horror. <<Name somewhere we can go where it's safe to rest with you and not cause you discomfort. That's enough.>> Instead, ash leaves gather around, the wide, light-suffused branch stretching before them. Worlds are at their feet, Midgard a byway accessed in another step. Here, they are at arm's reach of the Dakota or the Moon or the back alleys of London with ease.

He might well know the place. The Midnight King stands at the very branch where she hung. Not for nine days and night nights, but turns of the moon.

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
Arms around her, he rests his hand on the soft fur. Yes, fur. Summoned with his mind a familiar friend has come. To fly someplace at this time would be too long and to depart quickly is a need. Would she feel the soft nuzzle from Lockjaw? His lick upon her hand of concern? The Inhuman, for that, is who Lockjaw is, not a dog, knows the concern Blackagar feels. There is a soft press of hand, a shift, and soft white walls envelope where they are.

Carried, he softly lays her down on a mattress that feels like air itself, the softest imaginable and she is settled in. The air is warm, warmer than it was in the City, fresh as well and the sound of waves slowly rolling beyond can be heard. The sun is still in the sky and it drifts through windows with curtains that billow with the breeze. Leaving her side, for only a moment, Blackagar kneels next to Lockjaw, speaking with him telepathically for a few moments. His old friend nods butts his head against his leg in an affectionate gesture and then vanishes leaving the pair behind.

Walking back to Jane's side, he sits and places his hand on hers tenderly. <<You are safe. We are in a place that is as far away as I could think of. Should they come here, there is no hindrance to me dealing with them with whatever strength I choose.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Would she accept a soft nuzzle from a giant dog? Jane owns a dog, a rescue golden saved from a Metropolis rooftop when one of the cruelest monsters ever to cross into their dimension. One that took Loki, Superman, a horde of superheroes to defeat -- and in the process, the cult willing to sacrifice a very good girl to strengthen an interplanar presence found themselves overrun by SHIELD. Eowyn is a much loved little member of Jane's menagerie of three, together with a pegasus. Another such beloved addition makes four, for the big, velvety-soft Inhuman so beloved of her own beloved simply gets swept up into the joyous relief and greeting. She offers a hand in greeting, aware of at least some customs, and breathes out a vaguely delighted, "Hello, dear friend. You know I do not deserve such kindness, but thank you all the same." Her eyes shine a warmer blue, closer to the endless indigo of a starry sky, gaining shards and hue that were lacking before as the memory weaves through broken hallways and analyze the familiar." I'm sorry to trouble you. Truly."

A woman whose job is service to the living and the deceased, escorting those between, should concern herself with being bothersome. She might also be British in some way, not actually an American at all. But for that sweet pup, a smile. Doesn't matter if he is the size of a dumptruck or a puppy who would fit in a coffee mug, the affection remains, not merely stolen from the king who has his own care about it. Location scarce amounts to much as she sighs at the sun and the heat, almost willing to relinquish the grip on the divinity she's clothed in for mortality alone. Remnant fear that she might lose parts of self that way flit across the bond and fade back while time flows erratically and Blackagar arranges matters as he will. Then there's a simple act to fulfill on her own, one that must be done where she avoided before.

<<Hello, love. It's enough for me. A tent in the woods together would be, really.>> Dark, profound amusement swirls through her tone and the gentle caress of her fingers to his shoulder, higher. <<They hurt you. You took them on for me, and for that, I am truly sorry.>> A stricken thought of injury, blood, and the disir delighting in his suffering crackle with a deeper swell, the current within dangerously infuriated by any who would dare.

Mite protective? In the same way the sun keeps its planets close. Just a smidge.

Her dark eyes tinged violet open to the world, the light swirling through them. "Hi," she murmurs. "You look amazing this way, you know.>>

Eyes open to the truth, infused by the kenning that she -- as Odin -- gained the hard way by hanging from Yggdrasil, stains her every sense. The clarion bell isn't normally as bright and sharp as their mental bond alone, but it's better than the filter before. <<The world's more intense looking at it this way. If I get dazzled by the sun, whack me with a pillow.>>

Blackagar Boltagon has posed:
If she is a mite protective, then he has certainly earned the title of the mountain of protection this day. AS he sits on the edge of the bed, soothing her hand with his own there's an amused look at her when she comments that he looks amazing this way. <<Which way?>> he asks with a small curiosity, unaware himself of the changes brought about from exerting himself and drawing further upon his strength than he has before. A glance is given about the room, a mirror spotted and he tilts his head looking. <<Interesting.>> he considers mostly to himself before he releases the energies that fill him and let it dissipate away, starting to deviate back to his rather plaintive, if royal, appearance.

Attention returns to Jane though, looking at her and he settles. <<Who do I need to bring for your health. I do not suspect a doctor would be of much help. Would the Asgardians be able to assist?>> The concern is evident, in the tone of thought and expression. <<Rest alone sufficient?>> The playful banter set aside momentarily with that concern, however, upon the end of it, he does smile just slightly. <<They hurt me. But I do not mind. I had to be restrained in that place, there are so many civilians.>>

Jane Foster has posed:
Mite is the understatement of the week. Maybe a year.

Her eyes glow when channeling the kenning she so suffered to earn. Staring at a wall is probably safer than the Midnight King, but she turns her gaze to him in calm regard. <<It's hard to explain without sounding trite. I see everything as it is this way. Sometimes I can discern the truth of a mystery or find the concealed lie in someone or some place. Loki won't like it much.>>

Her tongue runs over her lips, and she sits up while he spots the mirror, her cheeks slowly flaming pink and other forged links still hot from the quenched bath. Flames that dance and wheel around a question of why resolve themselves with a practical, bell-clear answer.

<<I'm not in a vessel with a body,>> she thinks slowly. Holding up her hand reveals the injuries not concealed by the gauntlet, the long glove, the other details. Peeling them back is not fun, showing scratches and, yes, that unpleasant bite. Or a few. <<They took pieces of me like a wolf, but not flesh, because I am made of... will. Thoughts. Life. Love. Emotions, other things, all the pieces that make a person in their identity.>> Her fingers flex. <<They must have eaten some of them. Ripped them away? I do not know we can put a bandage on and think the gap will fill in.>> Her lips flatten at the notion, though she shifts, the better to look at Blackagar clearly. <<You were restrained. You /did/ spare them. The minimal use of force necessary to achieve a...>> Puzzled lines turn, the word eluding her, causing a flash of irritation and a jot of fear to chase. <<I mind they hurt you. They ache with such hunger, like starved dogs gone completely feral, and found in me something to satiate them. It will drive them mad. How will they not give chase until destroyed?>>