Owner	Pose
Jane Foster	Staten Island may be the forgotten borough of sorts, the lesser loved cousin once removed from glamorous Manhattan, hard-scrabble Queens, and hipster-cool Brooklyn. Well fine, New York, you just forget about the not so cool, not so with-it Staten Islanders except when collecting taxes! However for those who commute by ferry or see the many advertisements on the subways, not all is dull or boring in the heart of almost-New-Jersey. The Autumn Festival is a month-long effort to earn some tourist dollars and spending from the bigwigs in the Big Apple, but also to brighten the forthcoming season of darkness and shadow. Tonight it shines with bright fairy lights over one of the main streets sliding through the island's populated east side. Families and individuals wander around in cinnamon-shot bliss. The cool air smells amazing. It's the week for Norwegians, Swedes, Icelanders, and Danes to celebrate their cultural heritage in ways beyond hosting an overpopulated IKEA! Local producers sell various liquors, ales and meads from little wooden huts scattered at street-side, watched over by the police. But everyone knows the real draw: Cinnamon Bun Day. Cinnamon buns galore are being shuttled out from the ovens as fast as the bakers can produce them. Little buns slathered in honey and big buns smothered in frosting? They have them. Buns with lingonberry jam or a thick maple coating and more innovative options go forth in boxes, napkins, and sticky fingers. In this gooey rapture, plentiful numbers of buzzing patrons sit at picnic tables or sprawl in front of a pair of stages set up by the local recreation department for storytellers to convince the crowd of their tallest tale or the best shaggy-dog story. Three different venues allow for stories aimed at a younger audience, two more for more comedic or epic yarns. Seated dead in the middle of all this is Byggvir, a blond Asgardian who looks like an Icelandic tourist at best. He has mead -- of course he would, being one of the great meadmakers of the Vanir. He has quite a /lot/ of mead, actually and he merrily claps every time the storyteller tells a somewhat funny joke. He chortles even if the joke is terrible. He probably laughs at inopportune times but he's considered round, jolly, and drunk, so no one cares.
Amora the Enchantress	What Amora once considered rather dreadful festivals made by midgardians without a penchant for what is style or proper celebration has turned into a struggle for the past to not be forgotten, one where they were once hailed as Kings and Queens, Gods. Better times for sure. Ah, how far Midgard can fall. And so can Asgard. Also, there's the detail about the rather delicious cinnamon buns, which to anyone that would ask her she'd say it's certainly not one of the reasons for her to be here today either. In fact, why would she have to explain anything to anyone? And that was with such attitude that the Enchantress finds herself to be here, long dark green tunic framed with gold motifs hugging her frame, her golden hair tressed in the traditional Asgardian way and she sitting by a slightly raised dais, a few sycophants that again she will confirm are certainly not enchanted by her lures bringing her the most various gifts from the surrounding stalls. Some mead, ale. Cinnamon buns... Taking a bun into her mouth she lets out a sigh of delight. Yes, it certainly isn't the reason for her to be here today! Certainly not ....
Vintridr	Neither the food nor the mead is a true comparison to the feast halls of Asgard -- but the camaraderie and the festive spirit more than make up for it. Vintridr allows herself a rare relaxed smile as she passes from booth to booth, sampling foods and drinks and complimenting 'authentic' outfits.     She recognizes Byggvir almost immediately -- perhaps not by name, but to those with eyes to see the differences between mortal and Asgardian are clear as day.     ... Damnation. Four hundred years walking Midgard, and yet within a few weeks of associating with Asgardians again she's already starting to mentally refer to Midgard's children as 'mortals' again. She needs to work harder on that.     A concerned food vendor notes her pensive frown and asks if she's alright. She shakes her head to clear it of dark thoughts and gives him a grateful smile. "Merely lost in thought a moment; rest assured, your wares are excellent. How much for a half dozen?"     A brief transaction later, she's back to strolling through the stalls, munching on a bun with a bag under her arm...
Jane Foster	Staten Island is never going to compare to the mead halls of Valhalla or Folkvangr, though the latter has a mortal restaurant corresponding to Freyja's lovely hall about a mile away. Bakers approach a giant cinnamon bun baking with gusto, gladly working in tandem to produce some of nature's greatest offerings: delicious buns. They coax the great wheel into the semi-trailer-sized ovens, something usually made to mass-produce pizzas or the like at university sporting events, and there's much cheering and laughter as the great pastry is shuttled in. "We'll get the Guinness record yet!" crows an older man with a right respectable air around him, pumping his fist into the air. "When it comes out, we have our great judges on hand to confirm the weight. We're seeking to beat twelve hundred pounds when baked, larger than an adult moose. Let's hear it for the Nilsson and Johansson Bakeries!" Muted cheers and spontaneous applause get louder. Loudest of all isn't Byggvir but the little boy directly in front of him hooting and stamping his feet. The hearty meadmaster nods to the boy's mother, who smiles indulgently and he chooses just that moment to sweep the child up to see over many heads. It's a big bun! The boy might see a fancy throne or not, but he waves more and more frantically until practically tipping the Vanir god over. "Now, let's return to the story of the lost ship, a harrowing tale of Vikings who went south on a god's promises of glory and treasure, battling storms and soldiers, only to discover their king betrayed them..." Byggvir turns to put the kid down. Right about the time his shirt front splits and turns an odd shade of gold from a slender throwing knife quivering out of it, joined by another. He gasps for air. No one else notices.
Amora the Enchantress	The other Asgardians present aren't lost on Amora, blue eyes taking in Byggir, then the errant Vintridr. Well, well, well... The Enchantress gets herself up from the little throne she was at, gently pushing one of those sycophants away and whispering. "Yes, you can go back to your little life.." for she had seen more interesting catch to approach. Steps are taken down from the dais, the woman all poise and elegance and moving past the throng of people. Or rather, they opening way for her while she approaches Vin, "If it isn't one of the Valkyries herself." spoken in the old Asgardian tongue, and no mistaking who she is talking to, "I thought you had found your demise at this forsaken place but I should had known your lot are hard enough to kill.." the corner of her mouth curled up in a somewhat amused manner. One ear is on the tale being told though. And something there ..., it does sound familiar. So she turns to look towards Byggir, only to discover he has stopped telling the tale. Not an usual thing for Byggir to pause in the middle of one of his tales...
Vintridr	Vintridr recognizes the woman even before she speaks -- it's not as if the Goddess of Beauty could be mistaken for anyone else by anyone who has seen her before. To the Valkyrior's credit, the surprise lasts less than an eyeblink - anyone not paying attention would've missed it entire. "My Lady," Vin responds in the same language, a touch of her hand to her chest and a brief nod giving the essence of a courteous bow without the full motions.     Her smile turns wry at the blonde beauty's observation. "Rumors of my demise have been somewhat exaggerated, true," she concedes. "Although I admit I've done little to counter the--"     Her voice cuts off mid-sentence and her entire stance shifts as her nerves tingle with the sense of a death washing over them, and between one breath and the next her entire demeanor changes, the carefree Midgardian bearing gone as if it never existed. "Be on your guard, my lady -- death walks these paths."     With that, she hands her bag of cinnamon buns to the nearest shopkeeper with a serious expression. "Keep these safe -- I'll be back for them."     With her hands unburdened, she makes haste toward the dead body, mentally categorizing the impressions she's receiving through her death senses... And coming up short as she '''sees''' something that should not be here.     She turns sharply towards the nearest festival goer, command in her bearing and voice. "All children of Midgard, see yourself gone from this place ''NOW''."     Rainbow light shimmers along her form as she forms the last syllable, exchanging comfortable casual clothes for a Valkyrior's light armor, her sword and shield ready to hand.     "Identify thyself, shade, that I might know upon whom I avenge this man's murder." she challenges something that few others can even see...
Jane Foster	The storyteller on stage might see it but he continues with the tale of a ship sent abroad for conquest and glory, only to suffer great trials. How hunger and gnawing loneliness stirred the sleepless sailors. The boy gets to the ground and hoots at his mother once the spooky story begins. "Mama! Oooh, it's going to be scary! Hold my hand. Can I have a cimmin roll? They had so many of them! They smell good!" He already reaches to clutch her slack palm. The mother looks ready to snap loudly at Byggvir for lifting a total stranger's child into the air. The shopkeeper takes the cinnamon rolls from Vintridr. Her shouts later on are enough to warrant great worry. Confused looks begin when she shouts. Amora, glorious distraction that she is, does not help. In the crowd, the rotund Asgardian meadmaster collapses to his knees and then falls forward, dragging the knife from his chest in a gout of pale golden ichor infused a bit by Idunn's apples. Byggvir smells thickly of honey and iron, left gasping for air as another knife flies through the air to strike him again. He doesn't quite see it coming, struck hard in his back and collapsing on himself to protect his round belly and face. The source of such cruelty stands tall and untroubled near the cinnamon roll baking truck. Her hand scoops under the trailer, rocking it back and forth. "Who wouldst dare steal mine rightful mark? Arrogant child, draw no closer ere thine succulent flesh become mine feast." It's an archaic form of Aesir she speaks. Not that it matters; All-Speak is All-Speak. Her patchwork armour is visible under a long coat of dull grey and green, wrapped around the waist by a swordbelt. A spear lies at her back and she grins. Teeth sharp and black; lips purple. Quite a look.
Amora the Enchantress	"Yes, so I have heard. And you have been quite busy in that front." About Death, Amora means, blue eyes glittering in amusement at Vin. It's an amusement that doesn't last long when she sees the Valkyrie jump out to go face off against the 'ghostly'-figure, taking in the woman's form through narrowed eyes. Yes, Byggir might be an oaf of a man but he's still an Asgardian. And noone hurts her people on her watch. Unless it's her doing the deed. But that's just details... So she starts on her approach too, slower than Vin of course for she is too busy crafting a small enchantment, weaving it between fingertips, sending it across the fair towards the nearby mortals. To leave and begone of the premises. It wouldn't do to have panicking mortals getting in the way of getting things done. So as the enchantment takes form and starts affecting the weak-willed mortals about it's when she finally starts her approach. "Rightful mark? Pray tell on what makes you believe you can hunt one of Asgard without consequence..." step by step she is getting closer to where Byggir is, a glance to the man. "He is not yet dead. I can aid him but I will require that you keep her away from us."
Vintridr	Vintridr ''moves''. There's no other word that even fits anymore as she covers the remaining space between her and Byggvir in a series of rapid bounds that damage the pavement, her sword flashing out -- and the dagger is smashed out of the sky and onto the ground in mid-air.     The Valkyrior straightens as she puts herself between the fallen Asgardian and the thing that seeks to claim him, sparing only a brief nod of acknowledgement to Amora before turning her attention back to the figure, sword and shield at the ready in a pose of defiance and challenge that even the Crusaders had learned to fear.     "These lands are '''protected''', creature. State your name and purpose, and then depart -- or face the consequences."
Jane Foster	Some in the crowd respond to Vintridr's strange appearance like New Yorkers will. They swear, they scowl, and take flight for the nearest exit at a quick lope. Hauling doughnuts and drinks, the wiser ones depart into the cool night. Several don't though. They stand around and stare, or take their time to gather up a folding chair they brought. Urging them on is like herding particularly grumpy sheep. Bah! But urged on by Amora's enchantments, their pace quickens, leaving only the worried and those most disposed to defend and protect about. "One of Asgard." The answer flung back carries a hissing sibilance, whetted and darkly amused. The blue-skinned woman points the slender spear forward, its shaft thrumming under runework that extends it to another brutal point. Byggvir gasps and convulses, clearly not dead but suffering waves of pain. He barely knows the difference of a valkyrja sword intercepting the next knife intended for him, growling as he does. The disir laughs. "Shall I not claim the offences of thee instead?" The question, rhetorical, is rimmed in disgust. "Child, thine claim lacks conviction. Many powers take their portion. Now I mine of thee for we have hungered so long." As she speaks, she circles Vin with delighted ease, the swivel of the spear so easy and smooth it might be an extension of her arm. Just one amazon-sized woman, nothing to worry about. One woman who can shift and almost vanish from sight, seen by none of the mortals as she dodges to the side and sweeps in behind, practically turned to an ephemeral blue streak.
Amora the Enchantress	Remember when Amora said she'd let Vin face off against this disir while she tended to Byggir? Almost like she had no combat prowess and was fit to the backlines? Well, she lied. Big surprise, or maybe not. Sometimes it's all about managing expectations, waiting for that right moment. She has stepped close to Byggir, assessed him. Still alive and kicking. And considering how big the man is he will most likely survive. No need to 'play the healer' anymore... As the creature flickers and moves around in that start of a dance with Vin she only smiles, waiting until.... There! When she goes to sweep in from behind to attack it's when Amora unleashes a taste of her own power, a blast suddenly leaving her hand, streaking green and aimed towards their opponent. Whether it hits or not it might just be enough of a distraction for Vin to take advantage of. "Back to the hole you crawled out from.." Amora says airily, a brow arching.
Vintridr	Vin may have spent the past four centuries traveling Midgard -- but she spent the seven ''before'' that either training amidst the Valkyrior or fighting every monstrosity that Asgard's enemies brought to bear. The Disir itself might not be immediately familiar to her, but she has fought swift foes, and invisible foes, and partially intangible foes, more often than she cares to count. She turns slowly, keeping the Disir in her field of view even as it continues to circle her, waiting for that moment when it will pounce for the kill - and leave itself open in the process.     Amora's assault comes unexpectedly, but more than welcome -- the moment the Disir's attention splits, divided between two opponents, Vintridr strikes, seeking to slash the demon from hip to shoulder.
Jane Foster	Long ago these nightmares served the golden realm of Asgard. They dwelled among the mighty peaks and waged wars when the All-Father and his brothers were young and in their ancient eras recall the time when their people reached greater heights and terrible lows. They aren't young, and the battle with sorcerers and a lone valkyrja does not impress the single maiden of battle in the least. She laughs. Her laughter echoes through shadows and violence as Amora's sparkling green fire erupts. Already the silhouette of her blazes, and the disir lunges with the alacrity fit to make bullets seem slow to move aside. Those sudden bursts of speed are her hallmark, and that spear swivels with practical ease. She doesn't try to stab the Enchantress for that might be amusing, but hardly easy. Instead the volley of strikes come elsewhere, a stabbing jab for the fallen Vanir brewer and whipped back to bring the splash of ichor to her lips. Eyes glow in that dark, dead face gone taut with delight in the frisson of exultant pain. She wields the rune-swept haft to strike back at Vintridr's sword, catching the blade edge-on, sparks flying in action. That means twisting and pushing the assault back on the valkyrie, squeezing out pressure as she brings her strength to bear, even if she has to wade away from her chosen dinner.
Vintridr	Vintridr grunts and braces herself against the onslaught even as her mind works furiously. She's become entirely too accustomed to having at least ''one'' advantage over any foe; this Disir is her better in strength, skill ''and'' experience.     On the one hand, she ''has'' had to deal with exceptionally bad odds before, and she's still alive to tell of it.      On the other, the reason she's alive to tell of how she dealt with terrible is because the standard tactic for a scout dealing with highly unfavourable odds is "run away" -- and that isn't an option right now. Between Byggvir and the crowds of bystanders, there's no shortage of victims that the Disir will sate her bloodlust on if Vintridr retreats.     ... Still. There ''is'' still a chance. The Disir has the edge in strength, skill and experience -- but if that expression of gleeful sadism is anything to go by, Vintridr has the edge in ''sanity''.     Vintridr strains against the Disir's strength, gradually showing more and more effort, until finally her blade starts being pushed backwards, slowly losing ground, letting that spear inch closer and closer to her body...
Amora the Enchantress	The maiden's evasion has Amora letting out a brief snort of amusement. "Playing hard to get, are we?" she comments, tone melodious and with so much promise. If only the creature was mortal still! As the spear comes on towards the actual target the Disir had announced at the start of all this the Goddess lets out a tsk, "Going for a fallen foe?" a beat, "There's no honor these days anymore.. Such a pity." There are no heroics out of Amora though. Truth is, she doesn't particularly likes Byggir. She won't risk her precious skin getting damaged instead of the big oaf. Just better hope that all that food and drink created a good layer that stops anything vital from being stabbed down. Hope and some magicks that is. Not that she can conjure something that elaborate without time. But on a pinch.... It's just a nudge, her hands making a gesture, a flicker towards chaos magick as she attempts to nudge that blade juuust enough to not stab anything that Byggir might miss too much. You know, like a lung, or a heart... At the same time she takes a small jump back, a blade starting to form on her hand...
Jane Foster	Running away is a victory, in a way. Running means coming back another day, one not soaked in darkness, cinnamon notes, and the slick grin of a monster wearing a woman's likeness. The disir swings her spear upward into a guard motion, possibly signalling its separation, or bringing another weapon into the mix, the better to press an advantage. Vintridr has an option to retreat. Is there any telling she /cares/ about the rest of the victims when her eyes have been solely for Byggvir and then the Valkyrie herself? The Norns weave their wyrd strange and slant, rarely considering what gods or kings would like. All are the same in Clotho's spinning, and Urd fears nothing in snipping those threads. Byggvir retches and shudders in pain. He doesn't have the wherewithal to battle a disir, and the most he can do is cover his head with his hands. The wound in his chest pulses. It sounds so easy to get up and go, but he hasn't, struggling to his knees and trying weakly to inch away. That invites being gut punched or kicked in passing, tramped on by accident or delibate intent. Closer, closer the disir comes and the harder she presses that advantage, using an underhanded stab to work the dagger hidden in her patchwork gauntlet into Vintridr's flesh. Byggvir, for his sake, isn't stabbed yet again by the unknown weapon thanks to that chaotic dance that shoves the blow just a little wider. Enough to tear his shirt, and the meadmaster is left to think of his wife Bestla a little longer. Freyr hasn't come down to help, either, and he's got sure opinions on doubt of how that all is turning out for him! Pretty badly, all in all. His tear-blurred eyes find a climpse of someone - - Amora? -- and then he chokes, almost stifling a gasp as he shifts to get away. Crawl he does, surely seeking some way out. The embassy is a long, long way off.
Vintridr	Right now, it seems like the Disir cares little for any prey save the Valkyrior in front of her and the Aesir she'd already gutted. But when those prizes are denied her? Vintridr can read the bloodlust in her opponent's eyes, and she suspects it won't be slaked easily. Not a gamble she's willing to wager the lives of others on.     She brings her shield back up in guard position, standing between the Disir and her prey.     If the Norns have marked her end today, she will meet it as she's faced every battle she's fought -- unmoved by fear, and striving with every ounce of strength in her body until there's nothing left to fight for or with. She meets the Disir's eyes over her shield with a defiant glare -- and the occasional subtle shift in stance of her body to '''keep''' the Disir's full and undivided attention on her and her alone.
Amora the Enchantress	Poor Byggvir. He was only here for a good time and now he has to crawl for his life and be involved in a life or death situation. Alas, the God of Thunder would probably be shouting that this was now turning into a real party. Or maybe the Goddess of War. That makes Amora smirk. So different her Asgardian people can be. Like this Valkyrie, putting her life on the line for someone she barely knows. And for a people she had taken a step away from ages ago. Curious.. As the blade finishes forming on her hand it may be familiar to some. A short blade, one that has been in perhaps more worthy hands than hers eons ago. Belonging to one of the first valkyries, Brunnhilde. Is it coincidence that Amora may be manifesting it right in front of another valkyrie? Most likely not, as Amora rarely deals in coincidences. Maybe that's just what she aims to happen.. She moves to flank, blade held with both hands as she reaches in and out for a quick sneaky stab at the Disir. "Vintridr, it might be good for us to consider retreating with our fallen brethren." she quickly jumping back after that stab attempt.
Jane Foster	Byggvir might be miserable, Thor joyous, Sif amused and... well, the Warriors Three are the warriors three. They really don't have a say in the matter! Party on! The valkyrja on disir fight is odd because the great, vast majority of civilians in the area don't seem to respond at all except to flee from the mad woman with a sword fighting with herself. Of course, Amora can see what Vintridr is threatened by. The mortals might even read the contemptuous ease with which she glares at the world, or her pulling a blade, but past that? "Hey lady! You know the cinnamon bun's that way, right? You don't need no knife!" shouts some smart-aleck Staten Islander, which means basically all of them. "Weirdos..." Clearly not meant for the blonde, was it? The conversation doesn't actually cause a lot of response from the disir, who is far too engaged in pushing her younger sister back a good deal and biting at her, eager to lick that bloody blade clean if it comes away wet. And maybe it does, considering how hard the force is, an immovable, illustrious nightmare jabbing at soft spots, slashing at weaknesses, even trying to brain the younger Aesir in the head with the shaft of the rune-crusted spear. But that spear, however mighty? It is not Dragonfang, stolen from the tooth of a wyrm, possessed for a time by a Sorcerer Supreme. Brunnhilde might be annoyed to know where it is but the disir -- she absolutely does, because /her/ set are older still, in their way. What goes all too wrong then... when it all arises awry, is the treachery inflicted. Oh, she can move bloody fast, fast enough to whip the rune-swept spear that's not Dragonfang's equal to block Amora, having learned to move through corporeal subjects she cannot touch. But not with that level of enchanted weapon, and the ringing noise crackles with fire that burns to the blade's wicked edge. For a moment, she is surprised.
Vintridr	One moment. A span of time so short it eludes measure. Less than a heartbeat. Less time than it takes to blink. So short, it shouldn't have mattered.      In almost any other battle, it ''wouldn't'' have mattered. But Vintridr had been holding herself back, hoarding her strength in hopes of exactly such a moment -- and when it arrives, it does not find her wanting.     The Disir is still stronger, and faster -- but in this single moment, all Vintridr needs to be is ''quicker''.     There isn't even a blur as the Valkyrior moves, but when the eyes catch up again she is standing inside the Disir's guard -- and the tip of her blade emerges from her back, having sliced through tattered armour, blemished skin, organs and spine without slowing.     Vintridr meets the Disir's eyes one last time, watching as the realization sets in."     "Not today," she declares to the Disir, then withdraws her blade in a sideways tearing slash to make absolutely sure the damage inflicted is beyond healing.
Amora the Enchantress	Amora may be many things. Powerful sorceress, heart breaker. The Enchantress. What she -isn't- is a sword fighter, and even with the enhanced prowess that Drakefang gives her she doesn't linger long for a counterstrike from the Disir after aiming that sneaky blow at the old warrior's flank. Not that it saves her from a tear on her tunic from the blocking spear. Damnably fast Disir! Hopefully it didn't pierce skin. She would be rather cross. And as Vin moves in with her attempt to finish the creature it's almost as if retreating won't be needed. That would be something. "Strike at an Asgardian and pay the price, old one. Such is the way of our people, as it has always been." she murmurs towards the Disir. It's not as if she fully trusts an already dead Disir to actually *stay* dead after being skewered open so now that she has a little more time she weaves a protective enchantment, Asgardian runes in the air as she speaks words of power, a translucently-green dome surrounding her and the retreating Byggvir.
Jane Foster	Not today. Not now. The fall is short, sharp, and brutish. Such could be the same of life, of course. Chances are fair Amora is going to bleed, and the stinging pain of the accursed spear passes through protection and flesh, because it is attuned to hit only the divine. The troubling shock stings, drinking briefly of her, but not enough to sustain the disir beyond her blood madness. She must deal with the blade jammed into her body, cutting through the remarkably resilient body both phased into this reality and out of it. A shriek ascends in a shrill, piercing crescendo that radiates into the bones that hurts. Banshee aren't the only one who can //hurt// someone with a sonic wail alone, and that vibrates along the ground, punching them down into a crater if they aren't careful. But death for the dead? That body's coming undone.
Vintridr	Vintridr winces as the shriek pierces her ears but holds fast, not lowering her guard until the body is well and truly decomposed. Only when it's finally past being recognizable as a body does she relax her stance, snapping her blade one way, then the other to flick away the majority of the blood before hilting it, dismissing weapons and armor alike in another shimmer of rainbow light.     "My thanks for your assistance, Lady Amora," she says as she looks the noblewoman over, examining her injuries. "I do not think I would have prevailed against that demon without your aid."     She then kneels by Byggvir. "Be at ease, kinsman, your foe is done and can harm you no more. How bad are your wounds? Can you walk on your own?"
Amora the Enchantress	Amora lets out a rather undignified -shriek- as she feels the warmth of blood under her tunic. That Disir dared to strike her beautiful skin! Her expression turns terrible. Murderous even. It might be a good thing that Vintridr has dealt with her now or one might be in to seeing what true berserking is like. It also helps that the sonic shrill being emanated from the falling Disir, she feeling it down to the bones, members shaking... Another gesture and her own protective runes are reinforced, to keep some kind of protection from this banshee's wail even as she takes a step back, even further behind Byggvir. Let the big oaf take the attack for her! She is done getting hurt to protect others. No more! A brisk nod is then given to Vin, the blade dissipating from her hands. "Interesting. It would seem that what ailed the Death Gods has yet to fully pass. It might be time to make the Royal House aware." blue eyes falling on Vin. As for Byggvir, she doesn't spare him a glance. Truly, she is fully blaming Byggvir for having gotten hurt.
Jane Foster	Decomposed... not so much. More unwound, like the armour tumbles inward and the air bleeds with a pop when she's no longer in the way. The whole prospect might be rather horrible. Her flashing eyes burn an unnatural blue-black in the dark, the last thing to vanish except for her gaping mouth that bites and chews at the syllables in a frisson of rage. Then the air shivers and burns, blasted by a rush of death energy that seethes over them in a flattening wave. It's like being dumped in toxic waste. Byggvir is still hunched over, his chest a total mess. He has no issue about hiding behind a protective wall if he must! If she is offering protection, then Amora's shelter will be taken long enough for him to groan and flop to the side. "What was that? All-Father's holy beard, I..." He groans, long and miserable, palm to his soaked tunic. "I must get back."
Vintridr	"Something that shouldn't be walking freely," Vintridr replies. "Something foul and ancient, thought sealed away. If they've returned... More is amiss than we originally thought."     She hods the larger man down gently. "Try not to move too much just yet; you haven't had nearly enough time to heal yet. I'll summon the healers."     With that, she pulls out a cell phone and dials the embassy. Not a conversation she's looking forward to, but she has no intention of answering more questions than she needs to right now, or of still being present when the healers - and their escort - arrive. She left for a reason. She hasn't yet chosen to return. And for as long as it lasts... She would prefer that choice to remain her own.
Amora the Enchantress	"Something that was clearly after you, Byggvir. Which makes me wonder what you did to warrant such." Oh, it certainly seems like something Amora will be looking into. For who is innocent in such machinations? No one most likely. And considering she lives at the embassy, well, she will have time for it. Not that she stops or otherwise attempts to tell Vin anything about the embassy, she will let the valkyrie go with making the preparations for the healers and escort to arrive. She only smiles knowingly at the valkyrie, "Sometimes we don't have a choice on whether to become involved or not. I do wonder for how long the All-Father has been looking upon you these recent times, Vintridr." a beat, "Better make a choice soon enough, before someone does it for you." She will be waiting and then following along with Byggvir towards the embassy. And yes, she will make -sure- that her woundings are seen first before Byggvir's are. Priorities, people! Priorities!
Jane Foster	The embassy might know about driving, or perhaps send out an Uber paid handsomely from weird alien coffers! How thrilling for them. The staff needs more practice engaging on Midgard, if they aren't quite above calling someone to fetch Byggvir. Byggvir flops back on his side, protectively clutching his chest as though he's still having an apoplexy of some kind. His chest hurts, and he groans again in soft, stifled misery with Vintridr. It shouldn't hurt nearly so much, but the Aesir hardiness doesn't help against actual Aesir weapons enchanted to harm and maim, especially by one of the disir. "What was such a dreadful thing? She meant to kill me. Is she... a dark elf?" The svartalfjar are hated, after all. He scowls fiercely in mention, then shudders and curls up. "What cruelty, my lady! When I have done naught but try to please the visitors to our embassy with merry drink. I shall /strongly/ reconsider staying her." He'll say a few things about her, though! Amora, that is.
Vintridr	"They are called the Disir," Vintridr replies simply, letting Byggvir get the complaining off his chest - as long as he's talking animatedly, he's more likely to hang on. "I'd never encountered one before myself; supposedly, they're fallen Valkyrior, twisted in hatred and bloodlust. They were ''supposed'' to have been sealed away."     He'll only later realize those were the last words she said to him; by the time the Embassy's healers arrive, she has long faded into the crowd, leaving a fresh cinnamon bun in his lap.