Owner	Pose
Sera	TWO MOORE SCOOPS BROOKLYN, NEW YORK NOW "... just... ''so'' important that we cherish these moments, Angela..." Sera ruminates, soft and somber. The angel pauses long enough to suck a small bite of cherry ripple from the tip of her spoon while she meets the eyes of the woman across from her. "Animal products are going to be ''so'' gauche by the 30th Century-- we won't be able to enjoy treats like this forever...! Sure, they'll have ''alternative'' milks, and ''alternative'' ice creams, but... it won't be the ''same'', Angela. It won't be the ''SAME''." Several booths down from theirs, a tiny bell -- and a precipitous temperature drop -- signal the entrance of a very tall, very pale man dressed in a velour track suit that seems to just ''capture'' whatever light happens to meet its dark violet surface and hang on greedily. The ice cream shop has a retro aesthetic meant to evoke 50s and 60s-era diners: a long counter with stools, a cash register, and a built-in display case full of various flavors, several tables, and several more booths, all in crisp, chrome-accented blacks, reds, and whites with a black and white tile floor beneath it all. There is a small line of customers waiting to be served; the newcomer plows right past them until his hands rest against the counter. "It's... '''Friday'''," he pushes out, as if still grappling with the concept on some level. Despite this, he wears a gleaming, predatory smile. "You know what ''that'' means." Soft crackling starts to fill the air. Hairline fractures spread through the glass countertop in either direction, beginning from his hands. The tense, straight-backed twentysomething behind the counter does indeed know what Friday means... but before she can act on this knowledge, a middle-aged man in an ice cream-spattered smock sweeps out from the back to gently edge her aside and address the stranger. "I already sent word-- these past weeks have been ''slow'', Mr. Ivor," he carefully states. "The last several payments have just about cleaned me out. I won't be able to afford rent for the month if you don't give us a little bit of room to ''breathe''--" Hairline fractures turn towards shattering glass, sending the three customers occupying stools ''fleeing'' just before they catch stray shards-- of glass, or razor-sharp ice. The two behind the counter stumble back, with the apparent owner taking pains to place himself protectively in front of his employee. "That... doesn't sound like an '''Ivor''' problem, Mr. Moore..." rumbles through the tall man's smile while icicles begin t accumulate along the display case's frame. Several booths up from rapidly building trouble, dark brows slowly rise and Sera traces her finger over the table. '$$$ ???' softly glows in her sorcerous purple light.
Angela	Slender red brows lift above white eyes as Angela regards Sera and her forcast for ice cream futures. The mercenary gives a slight shrug as she stabs her spoon back into the plain strawberry ice cream she's nearly finished. "You're assuming the planet will even be here. Given how many times someone has tried to destroy it I am not sure I would bet on the planet lasting that long." A shrug and the battle bikini clad redhead offers in consolation, "We will find another planet with something like this." The sudden drop in temperature draws those white eyes towards the door of Two More Scoops and Angela heaves a sigh. Then there's a glance to Sera as the very chilly track suit mafia member starts putting his foot down about what day of the week it is and what happens on that day. Really, she doesn't even watch and instead scoops up a large mouthful of cold strawberry creamy goodness into her mouth. Nope. She can't talk right now. Ice cream. Angela looks down at the writing on the table before giving a slight shrug. Then the brain freeze kicks in for a moment and the treat is hastily swallowed. "Gah." Then far more loudly, almsot a shout, "I really do not appreciate being interrupted while I eat my favorite ice cream." Then a moment later, she adds just as loudly, "It would be a shame if someone offered something in trade for me to remove this unwanted Ivor." A hand reaches down to grip the sword at her side as she twists around to finally look at the disturbance. Her eyes look at Mr. Moore instead of the track suited Ivor, though.
Sera	Ivor, in turn, looks towards the very tall woman who appears to be on her way to/from a sci-fi convention, and her much smaller companion wearing a vintage Dr. Who shirt that does nothing to help this impression. And then he sneers, rolls his eyes, and turns his attention back to Mr. Moore. "Oh, do you hear that, Mr. Moore...?" he smugly purrs. "A ''woman'' has offered to ''remove'' me. Even though it is ''me'' who keeps your store ''safe'' in this city of bandits and brigands in bright garb." The accent is -- it would be alien, if Angela weren't so well-traveled; Jotunheim tends to lend a distinctly brutal, cruel tinge to whatever its natives say regardless of language, though. "I-- would-- '''GLADLY''-- offer free ice cream for one year," Mr. Moore ''immediately'' states, meeting Angela's gaze with wide, fearful eyes, "to anyone who--!" Ivor snatches him by the collar and hauls him off of his feet before he can finish the thought, prompting full-bodied shivers as he's treated to a more direct taste of frost. Even the instinctive scratch and grasp at Ivor's wrist forces him to jerk his hands away with pained groans due to the sheer depths of the towering bully's body temperature. "DEAL!" Sera ''springs'' to her feet, index finger raised-- and then glances towards Angela for confirmation. "... deal, right?"
Angela	Apparently not feeling like waiting, knowing that there will likely be a deal struck, Angela twists and rises out of her seat. There is a look cast back to Sera, "Can't we just call Thor and have him deal with this idiot? I mean, I am his older and more dangerous sister." A smug grin is cast back at at Ivor as she unsheathes Xiphos and those ribbons around her start to slip up in a far more agitated state. At the offer Angela glances over to Sera who apparently likes the deal. Who is she to argue with the angel? A shrug is given as Angela states, "Deal accepted. Now this ice cream store is under -my- protection." Its completely deadpan and resigned. Not exactly a lucrative contract. Despite that, her direct approach to dealing with problems leaves her suddenly bursting forward faster than most people blink to close the distance as she brings that gleaming sword up, then down to simply remove the hand of the jotun while those ribbons reach out to try and catch Mr. Moore and set him aside safely.
Sera	Angela is faster than lightning. "Oh...~? YOUR protection? And what, pray tell, does y" And lightning is MUCH faster than frost. "-- BITCH! ''SLATTERN''--!! I will-- nnggghhh--!" Blood pools beneath a pale, severed hand; ice and frost begin spreading across its surface it in a matter of seconds. Mr. Moore is -- to say the least -- ''surprised'' when his desperate offer is not only accepted, but accepted with vicious, disjointing authority; there is some squirming as he's lifted by those ribbons, but it settles by the time they set him down. "... I will have your SKULL," Ivor roars, clutching his wrist -- clamping his hand over all of it he can -- and stumbling away from Angela, "for this INSULT--!" His eyes flare with arctic blue light. The temperature ''plummets'' while customers -- well. They do ''hide'', and seek safety... but also, a number of them pull out phones to try recording whatever they can of the ruckus from their hiding places. A heartbeat later, it's so cold in the ice cream shop that breaths become hazy white puffs while every glass surface on the premises is overtaken by a frosty coat. Ivor swells; the tracksuit swells with him as a human face is shed in favor of gradually unfurling Jotun might. Reaching ''full'' mythic proportions isn't an immediate thing, but there's no way the store will be able to contain him once he does-- and to complicate matters further, he whips his wrist stump towards Angela while he grows, flinging a shower of wickedly sharp, impossibly hard ice crystals intended to impale the godling-turned-angel, the angel-turned-Whovian, and anyone else who isn't sufficiently hidden. A loud, melodic shout from Sera erects violet barriers in front of those civilians at risk, but the woman herself ends up thrown backwards by the force of weaponized ice slamming into her shoulder, dropping her to the ground with a grimace.
Angela	"You really are stupid." Angela remarks dryly as the jotun makes threats that he is very unlikely to keep. "Mr. Moore, hide." Angela starts stalking after Ivor purposefully while he retreats and as her breath starts to fog her expression turns into a more annoyed grimace. The sudden growth of the jotun creates a problem that Angela truly doesn't want to deal with and she starts to dart forward once more, but the sweeping arc of that arm causes her to change directions at the last moment. Given her speed she's able to avoid most of the blood shards, but the ones she blocks with her sword shatter and spatter her with smaller needles that stick out of her pale flesh. It's the groan behind her that gives Angela pause for the shortest of moments before a low, guttural growl slips from her lips, "I was being nice." Taking a single step forward and crouching just slightly, Angela launches herself at the growing Ivor, ribbons reaching to help keep her grip as she tackles him out through the door into the ice cream shop.
Sera	Mr. Moore hides. Ivor CRASHES, right through the door. The door doesn't survive; hopefully, it won't count too severely against the ice cream bounty owed the two angels. "Thaaaaat's... my... ... ''ow''..." is barely audible from the back of the shop as violence spills into the streets. As soon as they land outside, with Ivor on his back and Angela atop him, the giant looks to '''seize''' her right back, attempting to wrap his entire hand around her entire head instead of engaging in the losing game of wrestling with what already '''feels''' like more Asgardian than he's ever encountered in his long, long life. He's ''still growing''; in just seconds, his other hand's large enough to try and backhand the entirety of Angela's torso in the hopes of budging her grip-- or even bisecting her '''entirely''' if he's '''really''' lucky.
Angela	There were no restrictions put on the agreement. So, technically, reducing the bounty would be breach of contract. Perhaps Sera can talk Angela into more negotiation.     The unexpected attempt to grab Angela by the head surprises her enough that her speed doesn't save her. A hand lifts up to grip the wrist of the one remaining hand of the giant. "You keep making it worse!" Angela growls at Ivor, her anger at the situation blinding her to the stump that swings towards her, only giving the Mistress of the Hunt the change to bring those magical ribbons up to soften the blow. Even so the impact is dazing to the Asgardian and the swipe she had been making at the face of the giant with her sword falls short just cutting a large gap in the track suit Ivor had been wearing.     Likely, if she hadn't been the first born of Odin her head would have been separated from her body. But now? A visit to the chiropractor.
Sera	A small gap is still a gap when it comes from angelic artistry. Still ''more'' than enough to spray Angela with a swiftly freezing blue arc, showering her with tiny ice crystals. "Do you understand... who it is... that you are FUCKING WITH, little woman?!" Ivor seethes, eyes filling with arctic blue malevolence then visibly frosting over. "Ivor Godcracker is the LEAST of your concerns-- once I have TAMED your mad harlotry, it is THE MIDNIGHT SMILE you will face-- and HE will gift me with your bones, to MOUNT upon my wall--!" Growth drags towards a halt, his body solidifying into deep blue malice and hair lengthening into a mane of icicles. The next bellow slices wildly across frequencies and cleaves through reality '''itself''', briefly transforming his wrathful maw into a port for the killing winter of Jotunheim itself, confronting Angela with a blizzard centered on the two of them-- and arrogantly presenting her with an opportunity.
Angela	With as quickly as the Asgarian heals she recovers from that initial blow quickly. Just in time to have her flesh diced and punctured by those shards of ice. Thin little streams of god blood slip down over her flesh from the shards. Who knew it was so hard to move out of the way when your head is in a giant's grip?     The time taken for boasting and threats leaves the Mistress of the Hunt a few important moments to gather her wits about her. Also, the cold seems to wake her all that much faster.     "You talk too much." Angela states in an almost deadpan tone as the blade in her hand makes another pass as fast and as hard as the woman has ever moved. "Shut up." And in that uppercut movement, the blade of Xiphos drives towards the roof of the giant's mouth as those ribbons start to wrap around the huge fingers gripping her head.
Sera	The Sword of the Stars plunges THROUGH that portal to another Realm and -- ''impossibly'' -- emerges on the other side and carves into the giant's mouth, rimed with ancient frost but no less majestic for its brief jaunt across worlds. Nothing about Ivor is soft; not even the roof of his mouth. It's more of a '''*kr-RRRACK!*''' when Xiphos meets it, sending fractures racing from the impact point followed closely by a gurgling fountain of blood and ice. His hand spasms open, freeing the divine huntress; the rest of him just ''spasms'', thrashing violently beneath Angela while furious, agonized screams send shudders through glass for blocks around them. "... didn't KNOW she'd have to-- okay, YES, it WILL but the PROTECTION MONEY-- think of the protection money--" In the distance, Sera can be dimly heard negotiating for their fair and equitable slice of the ice cream cake, a much nicer sound than dying curses and rage rendered in the cruel, gnashing tongue of frost giants. Shutting up is a big ask, apparently.
Angela	The way that hand spasms allows the ribbons to yank the fingers apart. "And this is for hurting my girl!"     The Asgardian shifts her body almost like she's jumping to send herself straight up and dragging the blade through that hard flesh like she's carving into the side of a mountain. Through teeth. Lip. Nose. Forehead. She splits his face in two before bringing the sword up through that thick hair and spraying blood and shards of ice high into the air.     Even as her wounds start to heal, Angela angrily darts forward like a lightning bolt and plants a foot on either side of that gash as she slams into Ivor. Then, a forceful flex of her legs propels her away from the giant and pushes him back like a giant red wood falling.     "You should have just stayed home today." Angela snaps at Ivor, a glance cast towards Sera to make sure that she's alright.
Sera	Ivor doesn't have much of a comeback for Angela's parting advice because he's dead. And also, his mouth has been cleft in twain by the magical sword of a goddess scorned. Mostly, he just thrashes, bleeds, and melts into a frigid, goopy slurry on asphalt. Angela's quicker than lightning, and yet: a split-second before she glances towards the other angel, her vision's gently tinted with darkness courtesy of a warbling, well-timed whistle. Sera waves, excitedly, glancing away from negotiating just for a moment; she then picks at the air near her face to mime adjusting glasses on it. Like the aviators Angela's now wearing, for example. "... and ONE holiday-themed mural on your front window for the occasion of your choosing...? DEAL," she declares, shaking Mr. Moore's hand as she turns her attention back to the store owner. Ivor, all the while, continues thrashing. And bleeding. And dying. And melting into goopy slurry. And radiating deep, dark purple light, progressively wiping him out of existence-- "Oh, shit, he was a BOSS??" Sera jogs up to Angela's side, wide-eyed at the spectacle of the vanishing giant.
Angela	The change in her vision momentarily concerns Angela, but then? She pulls the aviators from her face and looks at them with an arched brow. "Huh." Then, with a shrug she puts them back on.     Glancing up and down the street to make sure that Ivor didn't have anymore friends on the way Angela sheathes Sword of the Stars before she glances over towards Sera as she approaches.     "Jotun are gross when they die." Angela mentions, though at the mention of him being a boss the Asgardian looks very skeptical. "I've never heard of him before. Which god did he ever crack? And it doesn't look like he had anyone working for him."     That's when Angela turns to Sera fully and gives her a long once over, lips pursed a little bit. "You okay? And...did we alter the terms of the deal?"
Sera	"I mean, you feel WAY more experienced now, right?" Sera gives the disappearing giant another careful look after addressing this wide-eyed question to Angela. "... huh, okay, maybe you have a point, because I don't see even one piece of loot, but EITHER WAY: I have never known a frost giant to do THAT when it dies. With the disappearing, and the light show, and-- oh, yeah, I'm fine!" Curiosity quickly blossoms into a beaming smile. Sera clasps her hands behind her back and proudly puffs out her chest. There's a bloody wound on her shoulder, but it's nothing all that terrible compared to wounds suffered in the hunting game; she doesn't heal at Angela-speeds, but given a good long rest, she'll be fine. "Also, I just offered to do a LITTLE extra work to make up for the cost of the door, because this dead and literally gone jerk has been draining Mr. Moore ''dry''," she concludes. "How are YOU? Besides EXTREMELY cool."
Angela	"More experienced?" Angela asks, her brows furrowed a little bit as she stares at Sera. Then, "Loot? What are you talking about?"     The wound to Sera's shoulder causes Angela's lips to curl into a frown just a little bit more. Clearly she's displeased, but Sera seems in good enough spirits that it must not be that bad.     At the mention of the changes, Angela lifts a brow for a long moment as she considers it. "I suppose the point was to make sure he was safe and not put out of business. That is considerable damage." Considering, she asks, "Do we have ice cream to go? I think I want a shower. That Jotun stank."
Sera	"Oh, ''Angela''... my precious Cherry Jubilee... we HAVE to see to your education," is all Sera can offer to those first few questions, along with a sad headshake and a gentle, loving grip of the godling's bicep. Which, okay, said grip does get progressively ''less'' gentle and more like indulgent squeezing, but-- it's the THOUGHT that counts. "There are at LEAST fifteen Fantasies you and I have to work our way through-- and that doesn't count the spin-offs! They all SAY they're Final, but I think that's just to keep us on our toes and the edges of our seats in breathless anticipation of the NEXT one," she explains while wrapping her arms around Angela's. "We'll START with the fourth, in which a young, brooding prince is forced to look within and question the life he's always known..." There IS ice cream to go. It is part of their contract: free ice cream for a year, no strings. It will be a little while before Sera gets around to sharing this fact, however.
Angela	"I'm not going to school." Angela states, though the grip to her arm does make her smile just a touch. She might flex just a little bit at the more firm touch, though at the mention of working through the Fantasies the Asgardian gives a little bit of a grunt.     "I don't think that should be something we discuss here." Angela notes, though as Sera goes on to explain she asks, "Where did you get that fantasy? Were you watching another one of those H-B-O shows? Or was it the Max Skin channel?" There's a fair amount of confusion here. As usual.     "Come. We're going home before someone else comes by to ruin my day."