Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	The eleventh hour draws to a close as a titanic struggle for the skies rages over the Atlantic Starport. Here the profanity began by slaughtering a god, shattering a treasure, and exiling the peoples of many races come together to celebrate their achievement in mystically defending the earth. Does it please the Sorcerer Supreme to see the circle close? Copper flashes echo the apprentices' teleportation spells at Kamar-Taj, naval artillery unleashing salvos upon the heavy cruiser hanging ominously in the sky, dwarfing all before it. The high-pitched wail of fighter planes cuts through the din as they fly like arcane darts around the agile Svartalf dagger-ships. Cracking guns report in thunderous barks from the carrier group arrayed in the heaving sea, their formation a protective mandala to contain the venomous chaos that threatens to overtake the body of allied forces. Shadowed by the helicarrier, the man is in an ideal position to witness the end. The Dreadnought codenamed Mannaz after a runic designation invented by one Jane Foster plunges into the oceanic depths. Its unstable, dying power-plant ascends rapidly into space in Superwoman's hands. Mortal forces hold the line on the quatrefoil-shaped port, while at the central heart, Malekith makes his last stand. Slumped Kursed and fallen dark elf sorcerers ring him. The last mage holding up that awful shield smiles. He surely feels it, the darkest of arts building. Malekith invokes a spell, spitting out a sound, and the eldritch threads connecting the shield mage to the King snap. Their life winks out, pinched like a candle flame. The dark elf's magic does not bleed back into the sea or the abused leylines, but pours in reverse to the bowed elf. One of countless lives, sucked into him, making up for the wounds inflicted by a celestial axe and a runic hammer. That poisoned soul magic that tethered Sif rises again in a midnight storm.
Stephen Strange	The Sorcerer Supreme, regrettably, does not have the luxury to reflect, to see said circle close. For, even now, amidst the onslaught of svartalfar from all sides, Strange is in motion. And, while he is not readily visible, his presence is still palpable. His impact is still felt. The squadron of dagger-ships that seemingly lost control, judging from their flight pattern, just in time for artillery rounds to take them out. The chaos hides well the reason...a sudden, strong gust of wind angled just so. An allied fighter pilot, about to be shot down, only for the blasts to bounce off harmlessly from what seems to be a shield of golden runes. A spearhead of attacking ground troops, attempting to breach the line held by the faithful forces of the realm, scattered as a giant hairy disembodied hand slams down, making for easy pickings for the allied troops. All of this has the fingerprint of the Sorcerer. All from the individual shadowed by the helicarrier, held suspended in the air. Yet, it takes focus to do what he does. And, with his attentions held to all, he almost misses the actions of the one. The one that is the orchestrator of all. The dark magic wells and Strange senses it. Though, he senses it too late. He is too stretched, too far away, as Malekith utters his vile arcane words. Too taxed to try to counter immediately. The spell is uttered, the souls called into service. And Strange is not able to stop it. The Sorcerer Supreme curses under his breath at his own lack of foresight. He will not let it happen again. That focus...that attention, now turns towards the Dark Elf king.
Jane Foster	Why is it so often that the vilest spells require the least investment? A line of blood and a foul word in a vile language burning the tongue may be enough. Malekith flicks his wrist before being driven again to his knees, and the blackened claws reach out for the targets nearest at hand. Not Thor. Spindly arcane filaments that felled Sif, now deep behind Amazonian lines, wriggle in the wrong direction for that. Those talons seize around the woman in Asgardian armour and plunge through the metal finish. Lightning sparks and bites while Jane and Thor exchange blows again to bring the elf down. The spell spreads out through her in a mottled blotch of oil dropped into a cup of water. Barely diluted power spreads, finding purchase among the soul that it means to displace from the body. Doctor Strange witnessed it before, a calculating eye that spared Lady Sif certain ruin: the energy seized from her, hauled back into Malekith. A good portion returned by violently shoving it back into the body undoubtedly inflicts metaphysical and mental trauma. Worse, perhaps. But this pulls the soul to him. Far too much energy arrows at Malekith, a surge when he might expect a sip. For a moment, two images exist in tandem. One, the delirious simulacrum. Armour born of Mjolnir's powerful enchantments starts to crack, the magnetic yank against it something not even Odin's magic or the bound spirit inside can resist. Two, the soul ripped from its moorings, rendered incorporeal and vanished. A vibrating keen spills out from a plain gold chain unable to hold the corporeal form together, lost in the lightning. The other victims that Malekith devoured in his power reside within him somewhere. For a moment, the woman glimmers within his own aura, swallowed like Kronos ate his own children. Twisting, writhing, those futile movements to resist the displacement are no less fierce than they were on the battlefield, an unequal duel with only one outcome.
Stephen Strange	Still too far. The black tendrils latch onto Jane, to pull her essense in. Strange has indeed seen it before. With Sif. Malekith is counting on the blacklash of, when he releases, the soul slamming back into its body. He wants the disorientation...the confusion...the both physical and metaphysical damage. Yet, what happens when one is a soul without a body, moored to the physical realm only by mystical might? Stephen Strange witnesses the sight with his own two eyes. The Asgardian might proves to be too much...the primordial power of the soul itself stronger than even the All-Father. The vile spell pulls Jane free from her anchor, the lines of power binding her to the physical realm snapping like cables stretched beyond their limits. The essence is drawn in...and even Strange can see the shock in Malekith's expression as he realizes what just happened. Yet, even Malekith cannot interrupt the black magic that he has invoked. Just as Strange saw the essence of Jane drawn in, saw her mingled within Malekith's own aura, before forcefully ejected. But...to where? The spell was meant to slam the soul back to the body. With no body to return to, where will Jane's soul go? All in the blink of an eye. Shock to righteous fury in the same amount of time. This madness must end...now. Yet, in the back of Strange's mind, a thought persists. Where would the soul go? And...would it be possible for him to track it down?
Jane Foster	Blink. The confusion transcends to an awful familiarity. Hidden within the elf's bicoloured visage, a shimmer of horror mingled with galvanized purpose. His mismatched eyes crinkle with laughter despite the blood on his lips and the vengeance brewing nearby. Blink. This body is not her own. This /mind/ belongs to another, connected to the vast circuitry of the Svartalfjar hive. Hatred and mad exaltation wound her, smothering her own identity under the oppressive weight of Malekith. Despised son of an insignificant tribe. A mage bathed in malice and hubris, one caustic revelation after another incinerating the fleeting hold over herself. Jane sees only what he sees; she tastes his triumph seized in the sea-licked ashes of defeat. She senses only what he senses, a master of the blackest arts keenly aware of another sorcerer closing in. Blink. Salvation is too late. She sinks, sliding through flesh and sinew, pulled into wherever people go after they pass. The marks are there for Strange to see, but Malekith does not look, turned to the bystanders and laughing at his own devising. The slender hand reaches up as the mortal veil swallows her. Ephemeral fingers spread out. Can he hear her? The ghost's voice invokes right bestowed by the All-Father. There is tenderness and implacable calm, vehemence and absolution. <<You are chosen, Malekith.>> Axes. Spells. Cries. The psychopomp once named Jane Foster clings to the spirit. Fights it. Holds with all there is against a force too strong to deny. Fear and love and acceptance all keep her reaching out for help. Reaching out to give help, by branding the dark elf and taking him down screaming with her. A spark of gold would shriek if it had a voice, the tempest within keening.
Stephen Strange	The sorcerer *does* see. He sees what is happening. He sees that which few have, at least in this particular detail. He witnesses a death. Surely the Doctor, in his former and current professions, has witnessed death before. For a surgeon, even as good of a one Stephen was (is?), death was an eventuality. Not all can be saved. Stephen has seen the physical implications of death countless times. But this....this was different. Few see the psychopomps. The shepherds of the dead perform their tireless tasks behind the veil of the mortal world, guiding their charges to the realms beyond. Stephen is more in tune to those realms than most...having trodded those dark paths and returned. Still, even he has not observed the most intimate act of death....the moment the conductor reaches out, to lead her charge beyond. Until now. The spiritual aspect that is Jane Foster does not reach out to help herself. Of this, Strange will testify. No. There was no cry for help. Instead, whether Strange hears the call or not, he knows. Jane is not reaching out to pull herself out. She is reaching out to draw Malekith in. To pull him down with her as they both descend. The psychopomp, even as she falls, fulfilling her duty.
Jane Foster	The brief glimpse of a ghost resides above the battered clover-leaf. A woman no longer armoured and girded like a warrior-psychopomp, but in a simple Aesir gown that the Enchantress garbed her in on that faraway Scottish isle where the western European and Norse worlds collided. For an instant, present. Then she is pulled at the last through the earth. A necklace hits the ground, no longer held up by substantial flesh or the facsimile thereof. The golden bracelet is nowhere to be seen in the electrical discharge of Mjolnir's transformation failing. The relic perhaps plunges into the sea. Perhaps dissolves into light. Perhaps the deceit of a bracelet reveals the All-Weapon for what it is, hurtling into the sky as the mortal tether snaps. The psychopomp and the shrieking dark elf already precede the vanished ghost. All that remains is the death stroke, delivered by Stormbreaker in Thor's hands. All this, in seconds. All this, demanding a witness from the guardian of humanity, the champion of the Vishanti who stands at the doors of this reality to ensure all is made. A herald, a judge, and a sentinel. The three-faced role, fulfilled.