1964-05-12 - May Day Mayday
Summary: May Day is supposed to be such a nice time of year…
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
strange thor kai loki rogue anduvin amora 

There were drums, horns and other assorted instruments. This far north, Spring had barely come. Yet, this far north, they still held old traditions. Old ways were remembered. As Midnight drew closer, all lights were extinguished in the hamlet and down the lane. Everyone had come to the fields for the celebration of Summer. A tall stack of wood had been set up for the midnight hour, as tall, or taller than most men.

All around in the dark, people chattered with visitors and locals alike.

Long tables had been pulled outwards and ladened with food. Some of the more craft folk had set up with their own brews and were busy handing them out to all.

There was a sense of joy, of celebration in the air. Laughter rung out in the valley and people danced in the dark, waiting for the hour to light the bonfires properly. It would be at any minute.

Thus it was hardly difficult for Amora to teleport in with assorted 'friends'. She was dressed as if she'd come out of a dream, as always. Gold hair was tied up with braids of spun gold and spring flowers only just seen this far north. Her dress looked mortal at the first glance, yet as any took a second or third look, it was too perfect. The material fluttered and twisted with each bare foot step she took. As she wove between the crowd, she found herself a mug of a local mead.

She looked downright girlish in the darkness, and she turned to grin at the others who had come with her. "Tis the closest I could find to Asgard without leaving Midgard." A wink as she waved a hand over the mead. "They shalt have a blessed mead this night indeed."


Donald Blake is among the retinue brought by Amora's magics, for he'd have no other way of getting there without her aid. He looks around a little uncertainly at the revelry, their energy and enthusiasm unexpected but not unwelcome. It's hard to resist their boisterous air, and in moments he's swept up by the crowds who seem him garbed out in plain clothing with his old hammer hanging from his belt as one more adorant of the pagan gods, honoring his forefathers in clothing and costume.


A garland of flowers is flung haphazardly over his neck, and Donald manages a stammering, weak objection as a girl hauls him towards a tower of tankards where several other burly men are already deep in their cups in some form of drinking contest.


Walpurgis Night, the hour when chaos rules over the Nine Realms paying their homage to the World Tree. It explains entirely why Scarlett wears her braids in tight patterns and holds a purple band around her throat, studded by fresh ash leaves. As Odin sacrificed himself at Yggdrasil, someone must remember why. A glass of mead in her hand, she has only minimal difficulty communicating among those of the far north of Scandinavia. Supposing they can actually speak one of the derivatives of Old Norse here — Icelandic, daughter Norwegian, Swedish, Danish. Should they be among the Inuit, she is lost but for the Danish-speakers of Greenland.

Flowers of her own careful growing dot her hair, a cascade of rare alpine blooms in shocking indigos and deepest hyacinth blue, bells grown among the white stars of delicate Hardanger cherry blossoms. Fanfare warrants a laugh, a gentle turn now and then. Even in completely alien environments, Scarlett will socialise and congregate among others, using a particularly lively expressiveness and sign language to make herself understood.

The Saxons remember it as Thrimilci — three milkings — when finally the cattle would give milk thrice a day. Rationing come to its end, another season of hope lies just around the corner. Good reason then to delve right in, offering to help. Something to carry, tying a ribbon, hauling a few precious pieces of spruce. Her lyrical soprano is a melody spun among the chatter, embodying the green-gold of the aurora borealis captured in her eyes.


Another pair, just as unlikely as someone named Donald nailing someone with that breast-to-waist ratio, also appears. This pair appears as moon and sun, one pale, tall, with dark hair and a black tunic with green trim, black pants and boots, the other…a golden-haired beauty, with attire much more colorful. Loki does not fear recognition in the populace…he would need to use his tricks to do that. And There's no reason for people to recognize Kai. Together they make a friendly-seeming pair, to any casual observation. And the latter has a flute, ready to join in the revelry with sharp, carrying melodies.


Anduvin Eitrison promised to meet the Asgardians there: exactly how he manages to get there is somewhat mysterious, but he makes something of an entrance. Sitting atop a snowmobile he souped up himself, it drags a sled with six large casks. Pulling up to the edge of the festivities, the tall man (because the dwarf is in his suit) climbs off and declares with a booming voice, "Friends! Behold, from the private stock of the King of Nidavellir I bring you the finest stout in the Nine Realms!" Of course, anyone who remembers what Nidavellir is likely thinks he's just playing at things. Still, at the end of the sled is a chest full of dwarf-sized mugs… and if anyone thinks that means they're half-sized, they've never seen a dwarf drink. He grabs one, stomps over to the topmost cask and turns the screw, letting the thick, dark, foamy semi-divinely brewed stout fill up his mug, and he promptly chugs it down and goes for a second. This one he carries off off towards the festivities.


In the dark, where no one can see, Kai steals a quick kiss from Loki. He's not as afraid of the trickster as perhaps wisdom would dictate. On the contrary, the winsome elf seems to rather favor his company, staying close to his side. Well, close-ish. He does meander this way a little, and that way, but it's Loki he returns to. He's dressed in vibrant, watery blues with accents of white and gold. The moment he arrives with his counterpart, he begins to play, picking up whatever tune is nearby. Kevin got left at home because he wouldn't stop barking at the flute. Plus he's tiny and easily trampled.


The invitation had come penned in wisping ink across the boundaries of the Astral Plane on invisible wings smelling of juniper and wine. Far too proud to ignore such a thing and aware of diplomatic relations (plus, let's face it, the curiosity is strong with this one), it falls upon the Sorcerer Supreme to arrive with some subtlety given the number of attendees present. The Gate is a quick one, open and shut, and he arrives in the usual storm-blues of his battle-leathers, belted tunic and all. What flash on his person exists in the diadem about his neck, symbol of his mantle with citrine gleam. About his neck as well, the crimson Cloak disguised as scarf. No need for billowing drama here, though perhaps it'll show later in the correct circumstances.

He searches for the most familiar of faces and finds the one with the crown of flowers without much difficulty; they're stark against her hair.

"Milady Scarlett," he says as he steps up beside his fellow Midgardian, giving her a fond smile. "Fancy seeing you here." There's a lilt of tease in his tone. Even as he speaks, he scans the milling crowd for other faces. He's bound to spot the others, eventually.


With a whoop, the party-goers cheered at the new arrivals, unquestioning who they were or the alike. After all, it was a night of celebration, and more than a few were already well into their cups. A few men broke off from the revelry with steel and flint, a few sparks later, and a the bonfires came to life. First one, then a second, third, fourth.. in short order the entire valley was covred in prickling lights of tall bonfires coming to life. They stretched out on the horizon as far as the eye could see.

Midnight had come.

More cheers went up, and so did the wind. Above, lightning jumped from cloud to cloud. The thunderous sound of hooves rioting in the clouds far beyond the threat of actual rain. A hush fell over the crowd as eyes turned upwards, someone whispered something about the Asgardsreien, but it quieted just as quickly as it came. Music started up again and cheers rang throughout the night, now lit with the fires celebration.

It was the night of the distaff, of witches, women and those that celebrated the coming of summer.

Amora fit right in. She wasted little time joining in with the dances, swinging lightly on her feet she danced around the fire, her golden hair lit with amber light. Magic rose up around her and warmed the night beyond its usual temperature. Flowers opened their petals to dance to her song. She was in her element and it wasn't long before she came toward Donald, seeking him with both hands. "Dance with me." Her green eyes glittered with some insight he knew not.


Entangled blue blossoms drip in flowering rills down her twisted plaits, a gossamer perfume following wherever she goes. Scarlett spins around after departing the company of another of those revelers with a pile of fresh-cut greenery, helping to spread out the cloud of sylvan boughs near the unlit fires. A wiggle of her leather-gloved fingers to those remotely familiar in passing beckons a greeting, but the wisp floats to the current rather than fighting her way to hold in a single place. With a simple black leather jacket, she might feel the cold more than most in better, fur-lined garb. Or possibly not at all, what with her propensity to dance in the upper stratosphere. "Best of the night to you!" is the most she might offer, hurtled into constant motion like a starry dynamo. Honey wine and mead pressed into her hands has a strange habit of vanishing 'ere finished, the taste of birch beer cause for lamentation when whisked away.

She inclines her head to the Sorcerer Supreme, erstwhile man of questionable connections, and then pirouettes on her toes to join the line of people snaking around one of the recently lit fires to encourage its healthy burn. Snow be done, the smoke in its beguiling dance heavenward almost beckons her to join it, and float away until a mere sprinkling of fiery ash over the northern sea. A whirlwind of motion, all sinuous grace, she calls to all and none, "Come! Dance!"


Donald's in the mid-gulp when Amora approaches, and he hastily sets aside the alestein and wipe his short beard with the back of his hand. "Dance? I know not how to dance these jigs," he says, with a wry grin. He allows Amora to tug him along, but grudgingly, hesitation set in the backwards slope of his shoulders as she tugs him towards the revelry.

"And I know not the tunes being sung. We're in Norway, aren't we? The home of the Asgardians on Earth," he muses. "A shame to not know the tongue in which my Lord is worshipped."


ROLL: Loki +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 19


Loki looks at Amora, then Donald. "I am so confused. If he can summon the hammer, how is it that he still has not figured this out?" He frowns, /certain/ that Thor must be being beguiled at this point. He turns to Kai, listening to him play, and tries to remain upbeat, but everything about it nags at him. He draws in a deep breath and then touches Kai's shoulder before walking towards the would-be-dancers, lifting his hand and a hastily acquired mug towards Thor, "Come, my brother, and drink with ME. I think you remember the steps to THAT dance!"


Kai trails after Loki, a bounce in his step as he plays. He then lowers the flute and says, "A few rounds will make it easy to dance," he says. "Most of these dances were invented when people were so deep in their cups they didn't know which way up is." He plays a little trill, then grins.


Anduvin eyes the dancing with a certain skepticism: its not that he is against dancing, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a strange brass bar that's about six inches long and seems to be made up of several smaller bar sbound together. He twiddles it, idly, as the dvergr prince watches the interplay between the Asgardians with some curiosity. He tilts his mug back and finishes off his second, and then with a deft series of movements the bar becomes a series of extensions that seem to fit upon the mug itself, and then… the top begin spinning. The mug flies up and back off to the stout casks. Tavern wench automaton 0.9beta.


Off she goes, she of the leather gloves, to encourage dancing. Hmm… A good number of folk are dancing, true, and he's still weighing the off-chance of someone seeing him dance when a mug of some mead-like drink is shoved into his hands. He manages a short, "Thank you, but — " and then the reveler is gone, leaving Strange to consider the contents.

He sniffs at it, wrinkles his nose slightly, and sighs, glancing back towards the bonfires. Frissons of magic are everywhere, but more concentrated nearest to them and over by a series of casks drawn up by…a…snowmobile. Now that's interesting. Lifting his drink to random passersby wishing him a good night and good cheer, he makes his way over. The dwarven gentleman, suit and all, is fascinating enough — especially that little flying animation of sorts.

"Now that," he comments, watching it work, " — is a singular thing. What do you call it?" He addresses the owner to which it returns, a half-smile on his lips.


Amora hooked her arm through with Donald's, her hand moving to knit with his own strong one as she smiled a heartbreaking bow of her ruby lips. The fire sparkled and jumped with her good humor, and she reached up with her other hand to smooth over his tunic. "Tis nothing so formal as knowing steps. Simply to move with the music, with your instincts." She purred, leaning up to try to capture a heady kiss from him.

While it wasn't strung with her own magic of enthrallment, the night made her only more lovely. Love potions were said to be more potent when made this night. Those that sought out a partner were bound all the tighter with the night's blessings.

The Enchantress wanted her dance!

Even as Loki approached she leaned away, a scowl on her lips. "I desire a dance before he too into his cups to not budge." Green eyes narrowed and she looked quite ready to fly into a rage at any moment. Patience was not one with the blonde in regards to getting her way.

Overhead the thunder rumbled like the sound of thousands of hooves. Lightning that had nothing to do with Thor, leapt from cloud to cloud in the images of ghostly riders. The sounds of high pitched whinnies follows, and the cheers and music soften to the mortals ears. After images danced in the firelight. Ghostly rememberances of past celebrations come to life, dancing and drinking with those around. A face, familiar to some, but not to others earns a shriek from some poor family member who knew the deceased.

In short order, it quickly becomes apparent that there are a great many of those that should not be present in the world of the living, are in fact walking. The celebrations ground to a halt, save for those too drunk to notice or care anymore. It was from a distance however, that the true threat seemed to emerge. From beyond the fire's protective light, came the shambling blue, bloated corpses of the dead that hated the living. That envied the living and wanted nothing moer than to join in and ruin the living's fun.


As Amora tries to ensnare Donald in her attentions, a troubled expression crosses his rugged features when Loki hails him. "Loki," he says, warily, stepping a little in front of Amora to interdict himself between her and the younger man. "I seek no quarrel with your church this night, nor any followers of Loki's worship," he says, cautious politeness in his tones. "If you're here seeking a friendly welcome, I'm sure…"

He trails off at the peal of thunder overhead, a sound that has nothing to do with lgihtnig. Unconcsciously, Donald's hand slips to his hammer, eyes darting around. They alight on Strange and the fellow gets a tense nod of recognition— a friendly face as something dire rears itself.

When the shambling dead make their first appearance, Donald is among the first to act. He crashes his hammer against a heavy metal copper pot, upending it with a blow and turning it into a war drum.

"TO ARMS! TO ARMS! The dead walk among us!" he bellows, in a stentorian voice that could… well, wake the dead.


Bringer of mead, the bohemienne beckons those still lurking near the newly lit bonfires for the precious warmth and light. Sitting or standing alone will not suffice, as the firebright maiden circles among them, rounding them up with encouraging words in fractured Norse. Hers is far older than theirs, sometimes sprinkled by English and lively gestures, swinging of her arm and a pointing gesture to the dancers at the middle of the revel. Or their whereabouts, that compass point constantly changing as she meanders through their number. Bright flames mark an assault on the sky when Scarlett simply isn't there. The night holds a good many secrets, the velvety shadows leaking out from woodlands concealing homesteads as well as small, forgettable figures in a vast wilderness.


Rogue leaves, heading towards RP Nexus [O].


Rogue has left.


Loki looks up at the sky, Amora, parting his lips as if he's going to blame her for it, but the moment passes when he sees what has occurred. The angry dead. The…peaceful dead. Both are horrifying, because both have any reason to want to nibble on his skull. "Kai?" He steps backwards and looks over his shoulder to see if the golden-haired one is there. "You are the expert here." Lacking a weapon…its Anduvin who has provided them. He points, "Look! We can use those…" gesturing to the heavy, large, mugs. "If the fellow will let us."


Kai is at Loki's side in a heartbeat when things come over all dead. "I end up beating them with their own body parts," he says. "I need to start carrying a baseball bat." It's the best advice he can offer. He slips the flute into his belt. It's not hefty enough to do any damage. but the dwarf with his mugs. "Ooh! Yes!" In the heat of the upcoming combat, he doesn't think, he just acts; he grabs Loki by the hand and tugs him toward Anduvin. "Can we borrow those?" he asks, breathless.


The little flying device is not perfect, its navigation is clearly off, but it does expertly at the most important thing at all: stability. The mug itself never wobbles. It might be empty now, but soon enough the automaton is by the stout, a flash of a rune causes the crank to turn, and soon enough the mug is full up. The automaton flies slower and lower on the way back.

Moving towards Strange, Anduvin grins, "The wenchmaton. No, no.. The autowench." He considers, "For when you need some more mead or stout when there is no tavern wench to serve you!" His laugh is deep and loud. He offers a hand, "I am Anduvin Eitrison." Strange may or may not know Eitri is the current king of the dvergr.

The autowench returns, and proceeds to start hovering nearby, making a little ringing 'here is your stout' sound.

Things were jolly, but are now grave. The dwarf prince sighs, extending his hand out. For just a moment, its like light is trying to escape from his body: it shines out at random points, and where that light fades, the illusion that is cast around the armor is lost: the intricate clockwork of the automaton that is Anduvin's armor is hinted at in those glimpses. Tellingly, every inch is covered in runes. But this passes in moments, and folding out of his arm comes a hilt, and then folding out from this hilt is part of a blade; and folding out from that another. Its impossible for all that blade to have been in the space of the original hilt, but it is, and soon enough the runic blade is weilded. Its edge glows lightly, and if one looks closely at it, it seems to continually fold around itself at impossible angles. He lifts his sword in assent to Loki and Kai, nodding back towards the big dwarfmugs.

The autowench chimes insistantly. It doesn't have 'danger! protect the stout!' runes yet.


"Doctor Strange," replies the Sorcerer and reaches out to take the dwarf's hand.

Then everything goes to hell in a handbag. Someone's screaming and the eldest Prince is bellowing and he turns about to see that it's not just the living joining the party. Who invited the Thriller cast? He meets Thor's eyes and returns the nod. The scarf quickly unfolds, gaining more cloth in a mind-boggling manner, until the crimson Cloak of Levitation spreads wide behind him. From the ground he rises, hands held neutrally before him and on the hinges of being formed into defensive mudras.

"It just figures…" he grumbles to himself, glancing over at the now-armored dwarf and back across the chaos of fleeing mortals. Bring it.


The air was caked with the scent of magic. Above hooves continued their riotous march through the heavens and the death ambled upon Midgard. The party-goers flee the night and the circle of fire that lights the defenders as they gather up and Donald roars the call to arms. The mortal denizens fled for their homes, locking doors and windows to arm themsevels against the bloated corpses and friendly faces of past loved ones.

Amora stepped back and away from directly fighting, though her magic lit up Donald's figure in protective magic that matched the green of her manicure. Runes spilled from around her, dancing in light shapes that spun and formed a protective circle around the bonfire. With a grunt of effort and ancient words, she directed the fire from the bonfire upwards and into the air. The circle of light widening well beyond what would ever be considered safe else wise.

As Donald charged the dead with his hammer, wave after wave continued to shamble toward the concentration of magic.

Many of the dead were old, ancient, held together by little more than magic and hate. Malice dripped from their groans and curses spun from their lips. More than a few seemed to have magic to bare upon those gathered. Sickly magic that shot out at those that lived and spun their own.


Loki grabs a mug and moves forwards,but when the undead start flinging magic, he realizes that he might be exposed on too many fronts. It is a grim decision, and one he cannot make lightly. "There are so many, these mortals stand no chance. We must try to draw them off…then I can get us out of harm's way." That is what Loki attempts to do, then. He has his mug weapon, weilding it with a brutality whenever he is faced with one of the undead, trying to hold back a bit of the tide so that mortals can escape, before he yells, "Come, you foul denizens of Hel, and feast upon a true god!" Trying to get the attention of more than a few.


Kai snatches up another mug and flashes Anduvin a brief but bright smile. "Thanks," he says. Then he's into the fray at Loki's flank, attacking the dead who might bear down on him from behind. "You want to draw them off?" he calls to Loki as he gives one of the dead a good whack, and bone crunches. The elf isn't nearly as strong as the Asgardian, but he's no wilting flower, either. "Sure, let's get their attention, that's… that's great. It'll be fun." As he rationalizes the plan, a shimmer of pale moonglow bathes over his skin, growing brighter and brighter til he gleams with a full moon's light. "Look! Over here!" Whack! Clang!


"Doctor…" The dvergr inclines his head with respect, and then when the man takes to the sky, Anduvin charges towards the dead. The illusion of a tall man fails completely, the magic of the night seeming into the armor of uru, its thousands of tiny runes glowing in the darkness. Within the intricate clockwork armor can be seen the vague shape of the dwarven prince, and the much larger armor moves with ease under his control. He doesn't bother swinging at the dead at first, he simply charges into them, trusting in the armor, trusting in the skill that made it. He wants to get himself towards the middle of a group of the swarming dead, where they may think him vulnerable.

The autowench zips after, rising a bit higher then the armor's head so it doesn't run into any obstructions, but continuing to chime. Notice! I have stout! Take stout! It's an persistent construct. The disaster of autowench 0.5alpha giving up during a tavern brawl and dropping its stout to the floor was a grave lesson that Anduvin will not soon forget.


First, he considered taking advantage of the stormy skies above. It wouldn't be the first time that the hyper-charged ions danced to the conduction of his hands — but no, too many faces that he knows who can attract lighting as much as the next being. Any magic thrown his way is deflected by the parry of his aura and idle flicks of his fingers. Perhaps…something that can follow a resonance.

Strange's eyes narrow as he considers the outliers, those undead wielding magic. They'll be the first targets. Hands form mudras and he begins whispering the beginnings of a whale of a spell.


Between Loki, and Kai a mass amount of the dead lumbers after them. Groans, and jangles of jaw bones, rattling shins and flapping, decayed flesh sounds around them, chasing after the two in an disorganized mass.

Then of course was Donald, between him and Anduvin, the two mow down a line between those not following the other two young men. Whole swaths are cut and cleared in an instant. The bloated dead popping with a wet sound and a disgusting scent of rotten meat filled the air.

Strange's magic caught the attention the ancient corpses of angry mages. Their sickening magic twisted away from Amora and her dazzling power that smelled of green and growing things. Of life. One of the mages spat out some rather nasty looking spell of black smoke that came hurtling toward those still by the campfire and smacked up against Amora's barrier. It glittered green, and held. The sizzling of the spell dripping down the edges and hissing as it smacked into the ground.

"Doctor, the veils between the realm of the dead and Midgard is thin this night. They must have gotten through somehow. Do you or Loki see it?"


Loki and Kai lead the stragglers away, and it's tough to tell whether Loki sees the veils or not. He and Kai are all but swarmed, and they're in the heat of a battle the doesn't allow the luxury of any distraction. They fight rater well together, each aware of the way the other moves with seamless familiarity. The dead go down around them, but there are still more, always more while the veils remain open.


For a moment, Anduvin is left undisturbed by the dead; and so he reaches up, snags the stout, and chugs it down. Gulp, gulp. Its gone faster then might seem possible, but the dvergr and food and alcohol have a special understanding that defies various natural and divine laws. The mug is lifted back up to the autowench, and he crooks a finger, and its flying back for a refill.

Fighting is thirsty work. Don't judge.

Just then one of the undead comes at him, but Anduvin's reflexes strike out to grab it by the neck and squeeze until there's a wet noise and the head pops clear off. Killing them individually is not especially useful, though, and so the prince of Nidavellir turns to find the next nearest group, and he charges in once more. The space-defying blade slices through flesh and bone like butter, and there's a bellow of battlerage as he lays into him. Truth be told, anyone who can look can see the dwarf is not especially skilled at fighting. But with that armor and that sword, against lesser foes that expect to overwhelm by numbers he doesn't need a great deal of skill.


Amora's voice reaches him over the chaos of the battle and his glowing eyes shift towards her. Intoning a Word of censoring, the spell hangs mostly-woven about his hands. It's a complicated weaving of a cat's-cradle with barbed ends not too unlike arrowheads. These shiver to the Sight, glowing and clearly itching to fly in the direction of aim, attuned to a specific resonance that the Sorcerer picked out amidst the madness.

"Precisely my thoughts on the matter, Lady Enchantress, and yes, I've located the breach. Hold the barrier, the spell's nearly complete." The reply wends its way to her on some wavelength shared by those of magical ilk.

With that, he returns to the spell, his expression closing off and growing distant with focus. About him, his aura lashes against enemy attack, tendrils of citrine-laced sky-blue swatting aside curses and grasping undead fingers. The crimson Cloak remains furled wide, adding an extra element of menace and defense in aid to its master.


The dead fell in droves. They splattered when hit, falling apart easily beneath beer mugs, and gears. Between the combatants and those driving off the larger numbers, everyone had made it to safety in their homes and out of the valley. Rotten flesh fell to the ground and stained the greenery there with muck all around. Doubtlessly, everyone would need a bath, perhaps several after this.

Strange's voice carried to her and Amora nodded, holding her hands out as she spun the barrier around endlessly, keeping it up against the attacks they suffered.

Then came the Doctor's own spell work and aura. Old magics though they were, they had not spent the last 800 years training. The nimble movements that swatted the undead mages aside found little resistance as they splatted where they fell.

The sky above seemed to crack with light and shimmer, a veil above reacting to the magic being worked beneath it. Answering glitters echoed around the valley, more flickerings that had noting to do with the bonfires and everything to do with the magic at work that would doubtlessly seal them for the night.

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