1964-06-27 - To Valhalla!
Summary: Odin sends out heroes to Valhalla where they're under attack!
Related: Asgardians of Our Lives
Theme Song: None
amora thor rogue kelda brynn 

The call to the Throne Room had been issues along formal channels. Not a quiet invitation; not an event of the court that the courtiers arranged.

A directive for Brynn, Amora, and Thor to attend Odin's throne and receive a directive from him.

The Golden Throne, the heart of Asgard itself, is an imposing view. The high, arching ceiling and the open nature of Asgardian architecture makes the room capable of holding hundreds of noisy, thundering Asgardians.

When empty, it's merely a long walk to the Throne— to the All-Father sitting on the throne in his regalia of court, spear in hand.

Thor walks shoulder to shoulder with Amora and Brynn, and leads the others with a kneel when at the appropriate spot.

"Rise," Odin says, finally, gesturing at the three of them. "I have summoned you here to fulfill a task for the Royal Family of Asgard— for the balance of Yggdrasil itself."


Amora was in her element, or at least as much of one as one could expect from the Enchantress. All green silks and corseted waist in shimmering gold trim. Her hair pushed back from her expressive features with a matching tiara-like headband. Runes of intricate styles flashed in the torch light and vanished, magic breathed with each of her movements.

It was a small wonder that Amora was called 'the most beautiful', and it wasn't simply her looks either, her presence due the eyes. or at least, it would if there was a court gathered to watch. Still, function dictated that a summons required formality and so it came with her bowing and kneeling as required.

The blonde goddess kept silent in front of the All-father, however, waitin for the terms to be fully laid out before their assembled group.


Brynhildr was never the 'most beautiful' but - most loyal, yes. Once the most valued warrior in all of Asgard, though since then many heroes have come to light among the hallowed Halls. She is in her full battle regalia, her spear to her side and shield slung onto her back. She rises when ordered and sdraws a deep breath, straightening. An armoured and riveted skirt, armour of magickal leather and worked urdu. Her expression is stern as she looks among the people before her and nods.

"It will be done, All-Father." Rather than speak further Brynhildr bows her head and waits to be given further orders.


Thor rises when bade to do so, and listens attentively to Odin as the All-Father speaks.

"There is a hero who resides in the halls of Valhalla. She served the Royal Family for many centuries— long past the point when her honorable service should have sent her to her final reward. But it is time to recall her to service," Odin says, in his booming baritone, raspy and eloquent all at once. "You, my son, must proceed to Valhalla as my envoy, and summon Kelda to service."

His lone good eye fixes on Brynn. "Brynnhildr, as the Valkyrie to the Royal Throne, I /ask/ that you escort my son to his objective," he says— a subtle reminder that Odin rules Valhalla only with the permission of the Valkyriad. "Shepherd him there and ensure none obstruct him, as best you are able."

Then he swivels that gaze to Amora. "Amora, you have shown yourself most capable and worthy an ally. You, too, will proceed to the Hallowed Halls of the Worthy Dead, and protect my son in all ways you can."

He looks back to Thor. "Take whomever else you desire, but move with haste."

"As you wish, father. Might I request the lady Scarlett?" Thor inquires of Odin. "She is a formidable fighter and a worthy friend to Asgard."

Odin blinks, once. "A mortal? …very well, but should she leave the protections of your banner, she is upon her own fate. Heimdall will bring her to you, wherever she may be."

Odin bangs the butt of his staff on the golden throne, and the sound reverberates through Asgard as he binds his order with the magic of the Ruler of Asgard.

In short order, Thor, Amora, and Brynn gird themselves as needed with gear, arms, and armor, and approach the head of the Bifrost— there waits Heimdal, and with him, stands Amora's apprentice, the redheaded mortal known as Scarlett.

"My Lord," Heimdall says, with the short nod of respect many offer Thor, even as they clasp wrists. "I have found the Lady Kelda Stormrider. The Bifrost can fling you to her precise location, but you must trek back to the bridgehead before I can return you. Valhalla is deep in Hela's territory, and she suffers not the trespass of the immortals," Heimdall warns them. "You leave Valhalla at your peril."

There's a flash of golden light, a crackling of energy, and Thor, Brynn, Amora, and Scarlett are flung far— very far, to the edges of the Nine Realms— by the Bifrosts' power.

When reality reasserts itself, they stand in one of the great golden mead halls of Valhalla itself. Normally, the legends depict the mead halls as being full of life and laughter, of boisterous tales being told and revels re-sung.

But it is empty, bereft of movement. Many Asgardians lay in ruin on the ground, bleeding from cuts that will not heal and some of them not even armed.

Thor looks around, thunderstruck, and grips his hammer tight. "…by Odin's Beard, what has happened?" he asks, a bit rhetorically. "These men and women— they were struck down in the middle of their meal," he remarks, checking on one of the bodies. It seems solid enough— but the spirit has clearly been grievously wounded by some dark implement, and radiating lines of poisoned veins spiral outwards from the ragged gash in slightly translucent flesh.

"The Lady Stormrider! Is she here?" he demands, spinning around and looking for her in the middle of the mass of wounded heroes.


Amora didn't respond unless spoken to, and only then in the politest of respects toward the All-father. No longer quick to see the return to her exile as she might have once been. So as events moved quickly, including Thor's request for Scarlett to join, Amora summoned up her own uru-made armor between a blink of the eye and the next.

As they reappeared in Valhalla's golden halls to find death and ruin her features twisted in wariness. Her steps followed, trailing after Thor in a manner that was almost considered protective. She bent, reaching out to trace her magic tipped fingers over the wounds. "I know not what caused this." She murmured, kneeling as she inspected them.

"But I fear that whatever caused it shall return. Or even, is still present, Thor. I suggest we not shout.."


Brynhildr strides into the Hallowed Halls, her spear across her back and sword in hand as she moves among the fallen bodies. She kneels briefly in order to check one of the fallen. Then another. "I will find whomever did this and then they will never reach the Lands of the Dead again." That grim expression is not one common to Brynhildr, one of the oldest and calmest of the Asgardian warriors.

"I haven't found the Stormrider here as yet. Perhaps I can sense her if I concentrate. It's been many years since I have borne witness to her." Standing straight Bryn carefully steps around rather than over corpses as she continues to the back of the Hall. She closes her eyes for a moment, trusting other senses in her searching. "Her soul is…" Then Bryn picks a direction and walks.

Moments will tell if the Valkyrja has found her way.


Heimdall, the golden, isn't a stranger either to Scarlett. Though the summons calling up the redhead finds her in the highest arctic latitudes, among a circle of polar bears. Bemused white bears who call out in their strange language when she vanishes in a rainbow, yelling at one another in grunts and whines. One baby falls into the bay, and ends up hauled out by his less than impressed mother.

Another strand of the radiant spectrum and the dazzled girl ends up brought to the gilded halls, vast and glorious. Mortality, the key to that fine hall where the einherjar cavort in the greatest of feasts by night only to battle their way through a bloody court by day. Their dances aren't waltzes but the clash of arms awaiting the moment of reckoning for Ragnarok. Mead and song clash to prepare for camaraderie. All represents a potential future.

A future abdicated in the signs of a clash intimated in front of Scarlett's boots. What arms she carries are literally hidden in her touch and the fine, thin steel daggers riding at her hips. "Who would do such?"


The Valkyrja's senses prove their worth. It's in a corner where she finds her quarry. Were it not for the sprawl of the deceased warrior nearly across her lap, the pale Asgardian in icy-blue cowled robes would remain all but hidden. His bulk lies ribs-down, his eyes unseeing. The Stormrider herself leans into the corner of the hall, a runnel of dried blood proof of a brutal blow to the temple. She is dead-weight, though not passed — she still breathes. What constitutes her soul is of firm conviction for the bruised welt. The red line nearly bisects her eye.

No staff to be found, no other wounds to be seen. Perhaps she was victim simply because she was present? Likely not. The signs of shearingly-sharp ice magic impacted against the walls of the hall can be seen by those with the ability.

Her chest rises and falls, slowly. At her chest, to the Valkyrja, shimmers a pulse of light, calling back to the query.


Thor grumbles, but is suitably chastised by Amora's rebuke; he falls into line near the Valkyrie, gripping his hammer tight and walking with a wary, warrior's step.

Thor CAN be stealthy. When he chooses to be, anyway.

In line with the women he paces the wreckage of the halls, face growing angrier and tight with rage at the sight of the revelry, interrupted. "These warriors should be enjoying their immortal rest," he growls. "Drink, song, revels, battle, and all over again. Preparing for Ragnarok. Who would attack heroes in their cups? Who COULD?" he asks, looking baffled.

So few ways into Valhalla— the Bifrost, in the arms of a Valkyrie… or through the realms of Hela.

The mead halls are vast, easily able to seat a thousand at a time. Once Brynn hearkens to the injured woman, Thor breaks into a jog and helps fling furniture and limp bodies aside so they can get to her.

"She lives, but is grievously wounded," he says, finally. A howl from outside gets his attention and Thor rises to a half crouch, a grim expression on his face. "Something stalks the living and the heroes yet," he warns the women. "Tend to her swiftly, but if we must carry her from here, we will do so on our backs. I sense 'twould be perilous to tarry here yet."


Amora side eyes Thor, but rises as she traced after him. Her hands out stretched at her sides and glowing lightly with a verdant light that illuminates her manicured fingernails perfectly. She picked her way over the bodies with care, heels near silently clicking along with each step.

As the two warrior, Brynn and Thor, make their way over to the one they sought she knelt over the fallen woman. "Healing magic is not my forte." She grumbled, and glanced back to Thor.

"I can cast a spell, but it will take a bit of time. I won't be able to defend myself or our group if need be. It'll take my concentration." She warned, green eyes darting back toward Kelda.

Then reached out to try to do just that, magic swirling up around her as she muttered a few choice spells under her breath.


"My power is over death, not life. Just treat her kindly, Amora." The dark-skinned Valkyrja moves to collect the flung bodies. These are lain gently to the floor, Bryn's sword held listening to the side as she goes through the effort of collecting them.

"I will keep us safe. I've half a mind to stay and find out who it was that did this while I was away. Odinsson, tell me that the All-Father would forbid this of me." Bryn takes a deep breath, almost snarling as she snatches up a tankard. "They didn't even get the chance to die fighting…"

As for the bodies? Bryn is sure that their eyes are shut as she lines them up on the floor.


Little impedes Scarlett's way when she chooses to cast it aside, hauling a table out of the way or scooping a body up to set aside. Those who died well deserve a certain quiet reverence, not mistreatment done upon them. She does not leave the living Asgardian court, that bright, copper-eclipsed moon spun around them on an erratic satellite's orbit.

She speaks nothing of her own talents, little as they are. A concerned look rises from the ashes of too many lives when Thor warns them, the rumbling already registering to her on a subsonic level. Howling brings the faintest of smiles without any trace of warmth to her full mouth. "I remember hunting with Prince Hrimhari. No wolf-kin of his or Vanaheim, by the sounds of that," she murmurs under her breath. Already girded for survival on the snows, this is just another aspect of life for someone who loathes the necessity of violence.


Lady Stormrider continues her sojourn within whatever constitutes unconsciousness in the souls of Valhalla. Pale color in her cheeks marks her as alive. She hears not the rumble of the Prince's warning or feels the shifting of the fallen bodies from around her. A small spatter of blood mars the shoulder cape of her robe at her collarbone, likely hers from gravity pulling at her head wound. A much larger patch speaks to the death of the man who lay across her legs; the skirting of the robe soaked up much of the ichor.


Thor growls under his breath and shakes his head at Brynn— thought not in disagreement with her sentiment. "My father bid us retrieve the Lady Stormrider," he mutters. "Not save Valhalla. The heroes here are wounded and injured, but injured, but… they are already /dead/," he says, clearly as baffled as anyone else. "You cannot kill the dead twice. Can you?" he inquires of the women, looking at them with befuddlement.

"Amora, do what you can, and we—!"

His words are cut off by a door being kicked inward. The heavy oak is hit so hard that it flies across the room like cheap cardboard, flipping off a table and sending cups and bowls scattering.

The first intruder stalks into the room— twelve feet tall if it's an inch, an anthropomorphic of some kind with disproportionately long digitigrade legs and arms. Heavy gold decorates hips and loins, and it wears a headdress of gold in a strange design.

The wepwawet lifts a heavy, two-handed khopesh at the Asgardian team and emits a strangely high, yipping bark. Two /more/ of the big beasts enter the room, snarling and slavering at the five who are already there.

"Jackal fiends? In VALHALLA?" Thor gasps, looking stunned. "This is a trespass most grievous!" he roars, fury overtaking him.


Amora curses as the fallen woman does not awaken or respond to her healing spells. Then, moving quickly, Amora leans forward to dab at the blood at Kelda's shoulder. Her fingers dipping into the wound and then using the blood to paint a rune on the back of her hand and then a mirrored one of the fallen woman's. More words trailed from the Enchantress' lips as she put even more magic into the healing spell.

It would've worked better if she'd been prepared ahead of time and brought her potions, but Amora would work with what she had. Especially as the door was knocked down and the intruders entered swiftly.

The blonde didn't so much as glance back however, merely working to try to awaken the fallen for now.


There's a brief pause while Valkyrie considers the jackals standing at within the Hall of Valhalla. She doesn't move for a moment, kneeling as she is over the corpse of one of the fallen. Those dark eyes fixate, studying the creature in front of her. She blinks once and those eyes are white as she murmurs. "I see you, servant of another realm. But only by the spectre of your /death/."

Bryn lunges with an almost possible speed, leaping to her feet and just throwing herself forward with all the added kinetic energy of a spring. She calls out a wordless shout as she brings her sword around and drives it bodily into the first of their intruders. SHe hacks into the headdress then, not stopping well after blade bites into flesh. It doesn't matter to her if a second or a third appears. Or a fifth. Judging by the way the walls almost seem to rumble as she calls out Bryn is much too far gone to truly care what might be beyond her oe.


The door crumples like nothing and Scarlett sighs faintly under her breath. "Ennead," she murmurs terribly quietly. "Egyptian pantheon of death gods. No doubt you all know this?" The lilting fixation of her sonorous voice gives an intimation for being the skald among them, albeit the skald capable of a little better than subpar poetry and faulty personal memories. She pulls back a hand and steps in between Amora and the jackals, clearly the odd person out here.

The smallest, of course, and the one unarmed. The stranger among them, though the unholy viridian blaze in her wide eyes alone indicates something slant about Scarlett's nature. "I can guard them. As we did in Muspelheim, my prince, go."


Amora's usage of blood-to-blood draws upon what life-force burns low in the fellow sorceress. Lady Stormrider's entire body twitches against the wall and her gasp is lost to the thundering snarls of the jackal-like fiends. She kicks convulsively, reacting belatedly to whatever initially brought her down, and stares up at the grouping of Asgardians and Midgardian.

"What…?" Looking to the sounds of clanging weaponry and the meaty thud of impacts makes her inhale sharply again. Her eyes, glacial-blue, are wide. "They came so fast — we had no warning," she mumbles fearfully, curling up against the gore-spattered wall behind her. "My Prince?!" It figures she'd recognize Thor out of all of them first, with his hammer. A moment of light-headedness grips her and she touches her skull, flattening tangled pale-blonde tresses even as she moans. "I am of no use now…"


"Brynn!" Thor shouts— but he's not swift enough, not as swift as the battle-raging Valkyrie. He lunges after her, half as fast but with twice the momentum, and catches a khopesh blade on his hammer. It *spangs* off and buries itself in the wood, hissing with black smoke; Thor swings his hammer and cracks the jackal under the jaw, sending it flying backwards with a crushed skull. The third lunges at him, and the quarters are too close for another swing of his hammer; he grabs the jackal's wrist and they dance back and forth, Thor the stronger but the jackal having more leverage and height.

"Brynn!" he shouts at the blonde woman. He glances at her, face set in a rictus. "VALKYRIE!" he bellows, trying to break through her blood rage. "We MUST save Lady Stormrider! She yet lives!" he shouts, trying to maneuver the jackal into the doorway to keep more of the beasts from spilling inside.


Amora closes her eyes as the magic settles and takes hold, finally working as it was intended. She sagged slightly, looking faintly tired from the effort she'd put into the healing spells that drew the fallen warrior back from the brink. She shifted, trying to catch her breath as she reached out a blood stained hand toward Kelda. "Look upon me, and listen. You were injured, are injured. I am not as capable as the healers in Asgard in healing magics. I have drawn you back from the edge but that is all. You must get up and we must leave. The All-father sent us here. Now rise and lean upon me if need be."

The Enchantress rose then, her figure shifting around to put her back against the wall. Magic glowed at her fingertips as she leaned down toward Kelda with an arm.


Bryn doesn't hesitate to kick her first target through the doorway. She ducks the swing of a khopesh and blocks a second, slamming her shield into the jackal beast's gut as she does. WHen Thor screams her name Bryn's head whips around and she catches a blow to her side, stumbling back from her attacker for a second.
Pain is enough to get the Valkyrie's head back on straight, at least. She pauses. "I can hold them indefinitely. This is my Hall. Get the Stormrider out to Glasir while I hold them off." Another blow is blocked and returned. "We can't all retreat at the same time." At least Brynhildr is listening for other suggestions. Somewhat. The sound of uru on metal is deafening, especially in close quarters.
Scarlet gets a nod as well. "Hero. Scarlett, he said? Stand with me a moment, until they're away. Then follow. If you would please?" Bryn's joviality isn't even entirely forced. Somehow.


Come, o pretty jackal, come too close where the Soul-Thief waits in her ashen mantle and expresses none of the threat lurking in plain sight. An antidote to everything expected, the girl holds her hands poised for anything that might care to tango if they can but get through the flashing blade of the valkyrie and the Thunderer's mighty uru hammer. Even semi-comatose victims flying in range shall be sportingly carried out of the way, set aside, and robbed of their conscious impulses and dignity. Otherwise, Scarlett makes a very nice barrier to distract from the Asgardian beauty goddess and the Stormrider.

Someone toss her a khopesh, she'll take it as a trophy to melt into a headdress for someone.

"Take her, with warmest welcome and regards," sings the skald, literally, her voice rising in a golden note amidst the clash of arms. She walks into the very fields for which she was tempered in some corner of Midgard long ago, her DNA practically ingrained with the call to war and the denial of violence.


Never one to deny a fellow Asgardian's aid, Lady Stormrider is quick to take the Enchantress's offered hand in turn. It may take some combined effort on their part, but the sorceress in on her booted feet after a moment, unsteady as she may be. Amora's shoulder acts as a way to keep her so. The uru-metal of the armor is cold reminder of their circumstances.

"The All-Father sent you? But why, m'lady?" Cottony holes fill the gaps in the woman's memory for now, courtesy of the wicked blow to the head. "Right, now is not the time for questions." She scrubs away the dried blood along the outer corner of her eye as it itches. "Lead the way, I will follow if you will steady me."


Thor catches Brynn in one arm and flings a chair at an incoming jackel with his other hand, buying them both a few moments of reprieve as the stunned creature falls backwards with a loud, pained croak.

"I'll not leave you either," he snaps at Brynn— as /more/ jackals pour into the room. One crashes in from above, shattering rafters and upending decorative shields as it slithers down a wall with a scrape of talons. It glances at Rogue, then snarls at the wounded woman in Amora's arms and lunges— the predator going after the weakest prey!

Thor recalls Mjolnir to his hand and flings it at the doorway with all the force he can muster. The mighty hammer strikes the lead jackal with so much force that it flies backwards, disintegrating into magical dust and bowling back scores of its allies as the hammer flies.

"Recall Alfheim, in the Year of Serpents?" Thor asks Brynn, grabbing a nearby spear and using it to fend off another jackal as they recover and start attacking again. "We fall back by twos— Amora! Scarlett!" he shouts at the two women supporting Kelda, unaware of the jackal monster attacking them.

"We must reach the bridgehead— know you the way to Buri's Bridge, near the meadery?" he bellows, referring to the entrance point that spans the gap between Valhalla and Hel. "Heimdall can retrieve us there!"


Amora fought the urge to roll her eyes, a mortal custom perhaps that she'd picked up while on Midgard as of late, but one that she felt apt for the situation. "All-father give us strength." She muttered as she shifted to keep a more secure grip on Lady Stormrider, wrapping her arm around the wounded warrior. "Never you mind the why. One does not question his commands."

And then they were moving carefully forward, step by step. When one of the fell beasts attacked the small group. Her free hand shot upwards, a burst of green light following from her in a barrier of swirling, hissing power as it attacked.

"We are otherwise occupied Thunderer!" She shouted.


Whilst the valkyrie of the valkyrja worries about much, the redhead shakes her head. It's a slow, torpid roll of motion settling through her for as much as she loathes what comes, what must be, the path is set before her.

Scarlett rises slightly onto her toes, the pattern of movement something far more akin to a martial art of the east as the collision between enemies and the Asgardian wall grows louder. She has not power to call on at distance. Simply the act of hurtling into the eye of the storm and dancing, as she does every morning tens of thousands of feet in the air. It's easier on the ground, when barehanded, going through the asanas and the stances informed by aikido and wing chung. A bare handed slap to throw a blade wide as the other tries to cleave through her Asgardian leathers, and she bends backwards, knee driven into a backbend limb. The strength she has isn't small, but it's the precision present in the strikes probably unseen by most or any here.

The truth lies when she makes hand-to-wrist contact, something to turn aside a strike that gouges a line against the mesh and leather instead of lopping her arm off. Violence inherent in the system: her living curse arises, biting through flesh without a care for it being wepwawet any more than gods or serfs. Jolted into place goes the familiarity with the blade suddenly in hand, and that's one. Her eyes turn jet black.

The next bent sickle-sword seized from a familiar brother is wrenched from failing hand grasping it. Two blades in hand, she dives through the fray, a whirlwind of blood. Some her own. And much, not.


"Would I had my staff, the beasts would think twice of threatening us all," Lady Stormrider hisses, even as she watches the chaos continue to unfold.

Like as not, the Enchantress may sense it. The potential for her powers to expand beyond her control is there, reaching a threshold marked by the stress of wounding, and her touch may feel to chill on the skin. Still…perhaps she can help after all.

Reaching out towards the weak points in the fray, specifically beneath the feet of any standing fiends, a slick of ice forms. Crackling out, it removes all friction save for around the feet of her fellow Asgardians and Midgardian. Have fun skating, sons of dogs.


It's a valiant fight the four of them fling up, and Kelda's icy intervention proves to be a remarkable aid for the Asgardians and their mortal ally— even as Scarlett fights with the force and fury far beyond mortality's boundaries.

As loathe as Thor is to /retreat/, their mission is clear, and he and Brynn savagely slash the air, forming a living wall in their role as rearguard while Amora limps Kelda towards the entrance to the hall.

Once outside, in the infinite abyss and landscape of Hel in juxtaposition, Buri's Bridge is visible; there's even a coiling mark of the lines that indicate the Bifrost scribed into the stone, ancient and well worn but clearly present. Perhaps a hundred yards away— though that's a long hustle for an Asgardian carrying so much dead weight. Still, they must try.

Thor shouts and leaps skywards, hearkening to his element. Lightning crackles around Mjolnir and Thor flings a glittering web of electricity down between the other Asgardians and an army— a literal, onrushing horde— of khopesh-wielding nightmares as hundreds of them rampage towards Amora and her injured companion.

"To the bridge! We must retreat!" Thor booms, flinging devastating bolts of power down to accompany the thick fence of electricity that follows the other warriors under him.


Amora tugged the limping warrior along with her outside slowly, painfully slowly, unwilling to try a teleportation spell with someone else along. Much less in Hela's realm. Magic always reacted oddly when in the land of the dead. She hurried them along toward the bridge, "Can you walk the rest of the way on your own?" The Enchantress glanced toward Kelda so near to the bridge at hand.

"If you can, I can offer support to the Prince at the very least." Not that he particularly needed it, but they were in Hel… and there were other reasons to tug the Enchantress' attention away.


Run, they say, and run they must. It's a hard thing to do in the thick of action where the sonorous call floods through her body and unlocks the gateways of Scarlett's damned mind. No one else hears the battlefield waged inside the confines of her skull, one as furious and unforgiving as the devil dance cleaving out a small circle of respite. When a khopesh breaks, she can just as easily find another one or steal her way through. Lightning and ice align across the fragmented, absent sky where no moon or sun ever hangs, an endless waste suspended under the lonely auspices of Niflheim.

Back means the retreat from the sea of jet sides and her own bounding flight, even as she sings in a language she has no business knowing. "One purpose behind the whole, they hunt!" Streamers of darkness and she is the small flame inside, the Valkyrie somewhere else there with her death-delivering sword in tandem falling to the beachhead required. Brother Watcher, bring the rainbow down…


"I will, m'lady," replies the Stormrider and…indeed, it takes her a second of wobbling boot placement, but she releases her grip on the edging of Amora's shoulder-guards. "Act in my stead, in the name of the Prince. I will do as I can." The very air crackles with the taste of static for his conduction of the elements in their defense.

The pale-blonde finds the voice of the Skald, that streamer of lithe fighting in ruddy hair and blurred weaponry. She doesn't know that one, but the red-head speaks true: the angry baying of the fiends means no one any kindness.

"Heimdall, please!" The plead is a ragged whisper. Even as she manages a stumbling run towards the bridge, her heart is in her throat. She is nothing but soul-light here and flickers for the odd interference found near the boundaries of Valhalla and Asgard. Slits in the sides of her robe allow the long-legged run, but it's clear by her foundering every now and then that she's dizzy.


It's a fearsome battle, but ultimately, the red-haired girl, the blonde Enchantress, the fearsome Valkyrie and the Stormrider— and Odinson himself— are but fighting a delaying action. Wave after wave of the enemy horde crashes against Thor's wall of lightning, and some brave the currents of power enough to even endure the crackling fury and launch themselves at the Asgardians, only to be met by spear and blade and fist.

In the distance echoes a brassy horn, then another— then /another/. War trumpets, but their brassy note chills Thor's blood and the Thunderer flies towards the Asgardians.

"We— we must flee!" he gasps, grabbing the slowest of them and ushering everyone towards the portal site. "The Valkyriad are riding!" he bellows, as winged forms exit the ancient white castle of the Valkyrie. "Their entire host! Brynn they might spare, but for the rest of us— death comes!"

Stormrider is there, at the portal— then Scarlett— then Brynn— leaving only Amora and Thor.

"Amora! To the portal! Call for Heimdall!" Thor roars, dashing towards Amora and the exit point. "We have but moments before they purge the living from this realm!"


Amora rushed to the golden Prince's side, lending magical support as soon as she knew that Kelda was safely moving toward the portal's exit point. Green magic swirling and shooting out in bright beams that turned whatever they hit into thorny bushes, or bursts of fire that burned and kept burning. She didn't halt even as the horns sounded, holding her position even as Thor tugged the others forward. As he dashed toward her she shook her head.

"I'll cover you. Go." She pursed her lips, her gaze lingering on the blonde Prince beside her for a moment as she waved him onwards, ripping her green eyed gaze back toward the hordes of creatures that threatened the bridge beyond their moment of peace.


"This is no time for heroics!" Thor bellows at Amora, full of ire— and he diverts course and with an athlete's professional grace, hits her low in the midsection and kips her onto his broad shoulder. Ignoring her protests, he dashes towards the others, and at the last moment leaps the last fifteen feet and plows into Brynn, Scarlett, and Kelda, knocking everyone into the center of the Bifrost's bridge.

"HEIMDALL, NOW!" Thor bellows— and just as the jackal-monsters roar and leap at the quintet, there's a blinding flash of rainbow light and all five are teleported away across the infinite void towards Asgard, leaving behind only their enemies.

Bare minutes later, wings of gold blazing with righteous fury, the Valkyriad wash over the tide of invaders like a gleaming colony of ants, pushing them back and cutting the enemy down one by one until the monsters flee to whatever depths they crawled from.


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