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New York slumbers under a heavy clotting of clouds, rain pouring down on windows and cement sidewalks. Some distance out of the city, preparations for the World's Fair are stalled, cranes hanging motionless and lights dimmed. 'Tis a dreary sight; not one impacting the son of Asgard and his Midgardner companion.
Sun scorched landscapes given to desertification where overgrazing greet them, streaks of brick red soil and silvery scrub dotting the landscape. Sheep long ago fled; they scent a predator far off, and the blazing descent of the first days of autumn suit the redheaded girl keeping pace as best she can to a hunter in full fledge. It would help if their quarry were not swift as a rabbit and every bit as canny as a dingo, one of the dreamtime monsters patterned in dots, spots, and far, far too many mouths. Scarlett ululates for the sheer joy of it, the crackling vibrancy of the world around her something deeply missed in the winter season.
"Doth thou seek to bring the Lady Amora something worthy of a feast for Ostarablot? This beast is tremendous!" The advances in her Old Norse — Aesir — hurt for lack of regular practice, but she tries at every opportunity now. "Should it venture into the earth again, I do not know how we get it out!"
*
Where paw and foot strike ground here, it is very different to the environment in New York State at this time of year. The sun beats down overhead, and the ground is hot — one can see the distortions caused by heatwaves along the horizon. It is also daylight — as one would expect in another hemisphere.
And the Prince of Wolves is making the most of the running space.
At his friend's question, Hrimhari laughs; he is in direwolf form — as big as a horse almost — and thoroughly enjoying himself.
"The Hunt is its own reward," replies to Scarlett, abrupting changing direction to further pursue the mythical creature in question. It is not often he has to put effort into a Hunt… when on Midgard.
This would appear to be an exception to the rule.
"Scarlett speaks of the Lie-Spinner, Amora. What has the Two-Leg She done now?"
*
For something without legs, the spirit has little trouble ribboning along the landscape. It can twist and turn, forming a number of confounding coils that make ascertaining its very size somewhat tricky. Believe it or not, those dots waver in the heat shimmer and help to make the muckle-bwun-jee-can't-say-it-right perfectly painful to look at. At least with Scarlett's eyes.
All the same, she goes airborne away from Hrimhari, scoring a path towards a boulder. Her job, as any good packmate, is largely herding the prey for Hrimhari to take fullest advantage of. That means rather fearlessly blitzing along at speed, flying up into the spirit's 'face', such as it appears to have one, and shouting. She has barely evaded those frills and teeth, which seem to take shape all too suddenly. It's fast, she will grant it that.
The questing beast hisses and the ground rattles. Is this living? Yes.
"I tried anon to give her good counsel, which she refuses. I believe, though I may be wrong, she has the missing Prince in her…" Aesir fails. She has no translation for the word she wants, so it comes out odd. "Bed with glass chains." Maybe he can puzzle through as she ducks a rattling thorn. "She has seen Lady Sif. She fears loss of the Prince to Lady Sif. My lord, I do not like this thing she does to make ready for the goddess of war."
*
"'Bed with glass chains'?!" Hrimhari calls back to Scarlett, and pours on a burst of speed — the kind that would give Odin's horse a run for its money, so to speak — bringing himself close enough to slash at the serpentine beast's tails with his forepaws.
It earns him a tail-whip to the muzzle for his trouble, although the prince is left with little more than his pride hurt. The beast is injured, if not terribly.
"Two-Legs have such strange sleeping customs. What does the Web-Spinner want with glass chains? Nay, forget Hrimhari asked. This one is better off not knowing. So the She has laid eyes upon Denmother? That is worth noting."
He stops talking then in order to concentrate on regaining the ground he had lost when the beast's tail struck him.
*
Rogue says, "She keeps him in her company, and he does not know who she is. They live together. Her love is tinged now by fear for the Denmother's return," Scarlett rephrases in English after wincing on the wolf prince's behalf. The sting to his snout is something she can truly appreciate, and thus it briefly becomes her turn.
Her turn, then, to join in the hunt meaningfully without attacking. Sif's lessons and practices at her ranch, since gone to sale or ruin, keep the bohemian at least on the defensive. She rolls to her shoulder and flies at the central convergence of those tails, at least the bulk, arms crossed in front of her face to avoid losing an eye. The semi-corporeal nature of the questing beast assures she does not pack the punch she normally does, but she collides bodily with something. A good lash of the spirit sends her flying up into the air, usually the fine tactic… Except she does fly. Oh well, there's an opening.
"I told her," calls the girl, navigating like a tumbling top, "not to interfere. She wants to capture the Denmother, so that her beloved will not possibly choose Sif over her." That admission is not a happy one made, especially when she smashes through the bushes, a human meteor arresting her crash at the last moment."
*
"Thor knows Sif's scent, and she his," Hrimhari replies with confidence. "Whatever webs Amora wishes to weave… these are no 'flies' she has caught. Milady!"
The Prince watches Scarlett go… tumbling into the air, blinking at the sight — only to let out a chuckle afterward. She is no hurt — not much, anyway, and this is not a sight he gets to see often.
Then, he pounces.
Teeth flash, claws swipe and the Prince of Wolves descends upon the strange, massive serpent as if it were a Jotun (without legs)…
*
"And if Thor knows not himself?" A question slings a stone into the proverbial scenario then. Scarlett rises from the bushes, dusting grass and dried leaves off herself, frowning at the state of her clothing. Not terrible, but any tear is potentially a danger. Expediency requires her to be a decent seamstress.
"Lady Sif is not in her care. Sif is… a spirit? Projected? I am not entirely sure, but it was enough Amora sought to capture her. That might mean holding her from her body, my lord, and you alone can I trust to consider these words clearly."
The unhappy serpent is very likely to find itself with chunks taken out of its back, several missing tails, and its head bashing against the ground to open up a tunnel it can slide through. Not bound to be a successful endeavour with Hrimhari latched on, though it viciously twists and spins around like a demented, animated ball of yarn to throw the Wolf Prince off. The fling and gulp method hasn't worked the best.
The redhead's eyes narrow and she picks up a rock to hurl at it. Not exactly violent, merely enough to attract its attention or find her a nuisance. Even if she can fling a rock harder than any pitcher alive, and that's throwing like a girl. A girl who happens to benchpress ungodly amounts.