There Will Be War

August 30, 2017:

The continuation of Malekith reveals more, the timing giving way to his intent.

//Asgard //


NPCs: Malekith the Accursed, Heimdall, Valravn(Svafa)



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The fall of Amora, lacking grace as it is, doesn't uproot Mattias from his stance when the dust and flakes of dirt kick upwards in her landing. He looks down upon her with a face of stone, a refusal to bid her sympathy or worry before these powerful figures of Asgard. The youthful, lumbering mastiff part of his hero worship has /truly/ been trained out of him by her hand in preparation of understanding the /mindset/ of an Asgardian. There is no offer of hand; no aid offered.

She is of Asgard. She needs no shining Einherjar.
He is ber-sekir.
Her dignity is her own to cultivate, as is his.

Now, HE is of Asgard. The words spoken have power. His pale lips, bitten down upon until white, part to release a silent breath of relief. He lowers his head and presses the haft of the axe against the ground at his feet and bids the tension to wash off of his skin like an unwanted aura. A Zen moment of cleansing. His eyes drift closed and his lips seal into an expressionless line once more, teeth clamping down upon his pink tongue in a hidden way to ward off the urge to /smile/.

His blue eyes open to peer through a split in his hair at the three Norns. As he watches them, he gently grinds the haft of his axe back and forth in a twist against the dirt-specked wood he stands upon. It * clicks * that they have read his past, his present, his future, and while that has answered so many questions, it has felt his history left bare and naked.
His training in the fighting arts of the Svartalfar?
His private moments?

The sweeping gaze from the Norns to Amora’s green eyes says so much out of realization, then. That secrets are no longer secrets to those who have seen. That the scrutiny hasn't ended, but taken a different form. That the war has just begun.

This is a victory.
At a cost. There is no turning back now.

“Thank you, Amora of Asgard. It is good to be…home.” Mattias twitches a lip in a brief squeak of a grin, reaching in the retreat of her hand to clutch at the emerald dangling from his neck. The retreating magic in the gem sifts through his fingers, tangible like air bubbles in a stream. “An end to an injustice that has /bothered/ me for far, too long.”

Credit due for her troubles. For he is her finding.

Home. Well, Mattias has places he is welcome to stay, and he has a homeland, but a home?

“And thank you for your judgment.” Mattias casts a nod his head to the Norns as he turns on one foot, bringing himself to bear towards and face Heimdall. The young Asgardian has to bend his back in a bow, chin tilting upwards not out of pride but to see into the darkness and starlight beneath the helm he wears. “An injustice was done to you, as well as the parentage I was /stolen/ from.”

Mattias tightens his jaw and furrows his hard, blonde brow to the man in consideration.

Heimdall, Mattias. The thought crosses his mind.
Don't say something stupid.

“I have been hunting Malekith of Svartalfheim for this, and know that he is my enemy. That when the Svartalfar turn their eyes to my home that I intend for them to see me in their path.” Mattias speaks upwards, shifting his eyes well within view of the watcher towards Amora, then back to the darkness beneath the bridge of his helm.

“I broke free of Malekith’s lies told since I was mere child, have bled and sweat, and followed on a path to this very moment. A man.” Mattias quiets for three heartbeats, allowing a moment of silence for the words that come.

Don't ask. You are of Asgard now. STATE. Mattias reminds himself.

“If I am of Asgard,” Mattias pauses. “then I will defend Asgard with my life.”



There’s nothing like a trail of blood to find your way back home…

    // … Just a shove..//

The single word hissed between teeth bares them before Heimdall, the Wyrd, and Mattias, gums pinkened, but not let of blood in the reveal. A narrow of gaze and nostrils flare while the skirts she had gathered within clutches are released to fall about exposure of leg and the pauldrons that reside upward to encase low upon thighs.

    A partial readiness for battle…
                … Sacrificial.

Plated maille is silent with every step that casts a glance back upon the setting suns’ and the rise of the moons. One thing may be correct in her judgement, but the /other/…

            Upon the night the wings will spread in search of a child.

Mattias may be one of birth and unknown, but here and now, his lineage to Asgard has been woven, linked, the Wyrd of Past, Present, Future speaking enough peace they answer no more. Hands once youthful upon his arrival shriveling back to that of crones borne into this stature, carrying it out until…

    Threads only reflect beneath the break of sun upon the horizon, a silken strand unseen until walked between, but there is no Anansi here…

Amora, the Enchantress remains silent, a step taken back to watch the imagery unfold before her in a tapestral effigy between the owner of the Dagaz Runic effigy and that which seeks to live up to it…  

Eyes may pale, but they are not /blind/.  
        Amora knew the Wyrd would act against her.
                History untold.

Ethereal, along the road of essence a song is sung, no…

    /Witness is borne, the Roots run deep, even to one of the nine./

A link is tugged and pulled while a bridge is forged and if blockaded, fought. Chains clatter, the dead of harbinger cry out in soul. Matters unsettled due to the resonance…


        Crags and tiny pebbles all react, heating to splinter, sever…

                A volcanic formation but not an ant-hill - or mole-hill…

Wings splay in the splintered severance, rising from just beneath Asgard, from the Realm beneath, perfected in South to rise like a Phoenix, but the clawed grip that ascends is laden in furred feathering, talons raking over the grounds before, but in a mass that could claim a single Aesir’s head and bring it to the soil beneath… Shattered.

“Yes. Yes. We must go… Now…” A look to Heimdall, and even through all gestures and (non)touches Amora has passed between, to get the recognition pressed between Mattias and Heimdall, there is something else. //
        Right once, what can come after and birth from this…
                    //A practitioner of lore, mythological (mal)practice…

“No chains can behold her….” A whisper from Amora as Mattias proclaims a promise worthy of /blood to ground/ he stands upon.

Heimdall’s sword raises…!

    Amora… The Enchantress takes her step back with a breath, fingers clasped and spread…A Cat’s Cradle of the /*ether*/…

        The Wyrd, unmoving, but ever-watching.

This is where you forge your final meld…




But as the Realm of Asgard splits to severed chains upon Svartalfheim, the unhinged figure of the Valravn shakes dust and h/earth/ from fur ridged plume, golden eyes staring with a sparked reflection of Siege and Heimdall.

       // It takes only the Heart of a child to bring you back to human form.//

           // “"I send you,
I look at you,
wolfish perversion,
and unbearable desire,
may distress descend on you and jöluns wrath.
Never shall you sit, never shall you sleep …
that you love me as yourself."//

    An echo, a herald on the spread of revenesque wings that blot out even the passage of quad-Moons, cutting through silvery light and shadowing over threads between, but the voice…
            It is darker than creation.

        A curse that is palpable, but laying grounds of a different war between them.

Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you… Unspoken but evident in the way Amora gives a wide berth to the reveal of the creature that stands between.


“I am not questioning that I am of Asgard; I am stating my /intent/.” Mattias replies with measured heat to the corner of his mouth when his declaration is bisected by Amora’s hissing.

    Oh, there’s familiarity there.

        Heimdall doesn’t need eyes capable of seeing all Nine Realms to see some form of connection between Mattias of /Gothenburg/, son of 'Unknown', and Amora the Enchantress.

One hand digs through honey-wheat hair, pushing up the straight lines until hair sweeps over the top of Mattias’ head in a moment of visible relief. The hair is held away from his neck, letting the cool air of Asgard wash over it. The worst has come and gone now, right? Relief rests in Mattias’ eyes, oblivious to the first signs of the Wyrd manifesting. The front of his shirt strains against his chest as he stretches his shoulders back, pops a knuckle against the headless axe haft, and begins to plan.

    Simple. I’m home now.
        Get to Asgard. See the sights. Get past this.
    Find some Asgard clothes. Get some of that ale that qualifies as poison back on Earth.
    We’ll argue about it, but ultimately I’ll find her and I someplace to crash and bang like-


So wrong.

“Go, what is this?” Mattias suddenly questions, dropping his head and snatching up the wood of the axe’s haft. His knuckles whiten in their awkward grip on the axe’s head in his turn to place himself between Amora and Heimdall, no longer looking up to the man, but out to the spraying rock. The first sign of inhumanly large feathers and midnight black talons make the haft he’d once envisioned to be a worthy weapon into a naked stick without purpose. “No, not what is this; what is THAT?”

Mattias turns one boot outwards. The toes of his boots pinch as his weight rocks to his toes, ready to move as his own reflection stares back at him in the Valravn’s eye. His knuckles tighten around the long handle in his grip, shifting it down to an overhanded grip, turning it in his wrist to a point of defense

He’ll fight with his club if he has to.


Curses don’t bleed.

And though Mattias stares defiantly in the eye of the Valravn in refusal of the curse levied upon him, he can feel it against his skin. The magical sense that is tied to his lineage isn’t talented in the craft, but it’s a part of who he is. The curse has weight that not even the layers of leather jacket can hide. If his blue eyes weren’t framed in triangular slits of white, so /defiant/, he would seem afraid.

    Concerned, more the like, despite that he should be afraid.

Mattias breaks eye contact with the Valravn to dip his chin, watching Amora’s toes step out of the way, a step /away/ from the stage set. The back of his neck burns red with ber-like frustration at a foe he can’t quite break.

His moment, stolen, turned to ashes in his mouth.

“…Fokk.” Mattias breathes, lips curling back. “That I love /this/ as myself? Malekith?” Mattias asks with a point of his axe-haft towards the massive bird.

“By what means does this thing trespass into Asgard?”


        Against the harmful //skag-Valkyrie,
        so that she never shall, though she never would –
        evil woman! – injure your life!
            //The voice is resonant
, but *familiar* as bowels of Svartalfheim open up and peel layers of rock away to leave the beast before them.


                        Not by the lash of fur tipped tail that aligns the rise of ridge along spine and between the roll of shoulders that are far more predatorial than that of the avian facial structure, a beak laden in -fang-.

Behind it… The drag of chains that anchor in a cuffed hold about each limb, but beneath the moons of Quart, the wings’ span and from them the resonance of cursed words echo!

Heimdall is unmoving, aside from the groan of metal that shows a twist of massive cranium, turning that single /ear/ towards the herald of accursed speech.

            A shift of galaxial gaze to Mattias…
                    A narrowing worthy of The End in Meteorite to Amora.

Amora…whose toes /scrape the ground/, but from arch to heel and in broken-bend, mid-thigh bears a form of plated armor glistening in the sweep of pale fabric from the spanse of legs, a rise heavenward that traps a single strip ‘tween. “A single talon, one barb…”

Words to Mattias, the haft that he hold lowered, the Double-Edged Head of the Axe in opposing. “You have gotten more with less, just do not kill the Valravn, she knows not what…(she does).”

Heimdall is regarded as The Enchantress, Amora rises, and beneath the drop of bare touch of toes, comes the gathering of pebbles… Motes of power - a power regained once touch was upon the Rainbow and her entry is permitted, by Heimdall’r himself.
               // It went this far…
                    It is deeper..
                        You know what you face!//

Heimdall pauses as the surmount gathers:

        Mattias’ grip, his decision. Affirmation. Pledge..
                    The rise of the Enchantress….
                            “Sváfa…” The name uttered..

The Dagaz inverted is what ‘it is’….

The lash of beastial head bore a dual reflection. In one golden plate of eye is Mattias… Siege

The other held Heimdall while behind a storm gathers, but a passage exists and the single parting of lips of Heimdall brings the /raze/ of hackle ridged spine, a snap of maw that parts a beak laden in razored fang gleaning of silver hue.

    A lunge towards Mattias, a spark of lighting between the rise of Quad-Moons, one partially eclipsed to a crescent and fading.

            She knows nothing…

A beast of blinded fury and a goal that only set her free of chains until this very moment, where the clawed grasp of fore limbs seeks to rend and grip into Mattias, chest-first! And if he does not dodge, the Valravn seeks to drag those gleaning canines over the assault.

                “The Heart!
                        The child!”

Heimdall is moving, but upon the whisper from an Enchanted wind the risen sweep of sword disappears and fists covered in heavy armor seek to hammer upon the length of the beasts revered spine. Not to break…. But to..

        «//The anti-gravitational pull of the stone below, remnants of unearthed Svartalfheim cast into a fisted grip, honed to an edge not seen in those paled eyes of pure white, a mate to the tethered fabric barely clinging to a feminine effigy of Asgardian lineage. //»

            «A rotation of wrists and the keen edges of ‘Home-Stone’ take aim…»

**“Do not kill…” **A challenge in and of itself, but what trophy to be taken is the very threat that seeks to pierce the *Heart*, of Mattias, Son of…


Mattias plants his axe’s haft into the dirt and reaches to a leather cord hanging from his belt. Each swift jerk of his hands ties another knot around the center of the axe’s head. One. Two. JERK. The Asgardian knots it tightly, so tightly that it will have to be cut off to free it later. So much is the price of a few coins worth of leather.

“Another /slave/ of the Svartalfheim, she is.” Mattias brushes his hands off and rips his staff out of the ground at his feet. Spotted dirt rises and hovers momentarily in the air with the concussive energy that radiates the den of the /Norns/. “And no better time to test if I mean the words that I speak.”

Pebbles scatter at the site of Mattias’ black boot with the first flinch of movement of the Valravn. Trained muscles fire from synapse all of the way down to sinew when the midnight-colored beast makes the first move. Even if one talon can kill, tearing free with barbs that will no doubt place Mattias directly into Valhalla, the ber-sekir named Siege starts at a run towards the Valravn. The change in reach, the change in the timing of the massive bird’s strike, changes the danger from half of a second to a quarter of a second, but it’s all the time Mattias needs to throw his head back…

    The axe’s head, dangling from the leather cord, sends multichromatic sparks up from the rock as Siege slides under the snapping, black talon. As if in slow motion, the black, deadly talon brushes through his hair, leaving strands floating in his way, ignited by the sparks left behind.

Mattias plants his boot into the ground after the deadly claw, fore and rear, pass him, and spins at the waist. Both hands grip the axe’s haft like a club, taking advantage of the harsh change in movement to swing his leather-clad arms about in an arc and the bellowed growl of a bear with the strike.

Ancient, magic-worked wood impacts the pin-joint that holds the rattling chain and cuff that grips the Valravn’s ankle. Smoke hisses out of the joint as a thundrous crack forms, spider-webbing in an instant. The smoke solidifies, peppering the offending site of the impact with a spray of ink, and the joint that holds the Valravn tethered to the chains, held somewhere deep beneath the ground in the bowels of Svartalfheim


“You trained me to fight Asgard, Midgard! To /kill/ like a Svartalf!” Mattias whips his hair away from his face and looks up at the sudden onrush of a fang-liked beak hammering down at the speed of a bullet train. In pure fairness, Mattias sucks in his breath at the unexpected mouth of a beast about to snap his head from his shoulders.

The Valravn’s beak snaps down, biting through a cloud of smoke and fire…with no blood to taste.

Another flash of smoke and heat sting’s the massive raven’s eye as a new weight sags in the feathers beside its eye. There, Mattias reappears with club in hand, riding the side of the beast’s head, eyes down to the other cuffs that slave the majestic, if not ghastly, creature to Malekith’s control.

“…but you taught me to move and think like a Svartalf, forgetting what I truly am.”

Mattias snaps his face about, risking dangerous seconds to gnash his teeth at his own reflection in the Valravn’s eye.

“A weapon capable of * YOUR * undoing, too.”



        A thing that carries along /backs…/
                    Even if they were **meant to! **

Heimdall’s own charge and blow crashes the Valravn into the rising debris of (h)earthen and (un)earthen dust, casting a wave of more to rise and cast a haze upon the battlefield that cannot fully show the explosive moves Mattia—-Siege… * Siege *…  Lays upon the beast mislaid into a position.

    A miss of clamped maw…
            A drag and burrow of talons to unearth further debris…

                A cyclone gathered, kept keen, readied in the ethereal and (un)holy grasp of The Enchantress.
                Whose eyes watch the true parlay before a waged war set before her own //knowing. //

The work of the two drags the massive lycan-ian to the ground, a divot of the drag has a single gaze focusing upon reflection and words of the Siege that rides her back and one-by-one breaks the tethers that ensnare and enslave her to a realm, /unbelonging/.

A roll of occular upward to the threat that proclaims in a fashion of Heavy Metal 2000 - Threats upon the betrothed to every shackle that is shattering in heavy bellowed blows.

The other massive figure of Heimdall stands before her and in the duality, One is seen…

        One,  is attempted to be shed from the ridge of blades with a sweep back of talon’d paws, nearly suplexed in the manner  of the beast, if not for the pitch that would attempt to cast Siege into his * Figure is Stone. *

If captured, Mattias can feel the burrow of claws into leather, a catch, a rending hold that sought to cast him away…
        …far FAR, AWAY!

                    Leaving the catch of claw, nitride to metal upon the hide, filling the runic emblems inlaid with blood that melds.

        The end to all of your words,
            Come with more than one Kurse!
                You cannot free what is **Mine,
                                Life or Death!” **

The words are from below, as the Valravn reels back, the head upon a massive neck fit for predator and risen in hackles drags a massive paw (lacking in that single talon’s barb), zig-zags between the two before her, reflected in Asgardian pose for battle, while the lofted form of Asgard's /Witch/, cascades the ground laden in loosed chains still bound to below…

    Like meteors from the Heven’s….

But chains lay like Serpents, and they cast a glow of embered meld, pupils of an up-ended Dagaz blink-free,  while the remaining chain tenses!

        The bellow of the Valravn is something between the carrion call and a howl for a lost pack…

        Your heart,
                Or her death!

The meteorite barrage falls on ground laden before and between them, shards of unearthed rock to riddle like bullets in the clawed furrows that drag the Valravn back towards whence it came.

A final card played, but in the winds that settle as Amora’s feet touch upon ground comes in a whisper.

    “Sváfa….??” A deep inhale and a roll of sinew along Amora’s jaw while she snaps her gaze between Heimdall and Mattias… Siege… “Really….?” But the final query does not seem to ask, it seeks.

Nevermind that the glare of the Guardian has Amora’s own uptilted gaze flickering in the backdrop, wanting to look aside, but denying the instinct, if only for a moment to cast a /slide/ of pale oculi the way of Mattias.

    There’s something else there, but she dares not show it…
        … Just as he dared not offer her a hand to rise.

All on your own.


Mattias is /distracted./

Distracted by his want to bark messages directly into Malekith’s ears, knowing well that he is watching. Distracted by the fuel that comes with a show of power. A fight alongside Asgardian's. Distracted by the rush of adrenaline and the sense of his own berserker strength, riding the feathered temples of the black Valravn.

Mattias has never known a fight so/ personal/and guided by /vendetta/.

She isn’t the first mythical beast he’s fought, and she won’t be the last. Malekith best beware.

Distractions, though, have a habit of dulling the sharpened senses of battle and the tempo of the fight. With a fist filled with undercoated feathers, Mattias’ body sways, hair flinging to and fro in his eyes, reflected in the single eye he stares into. He brings his axe-haft, merely a club at this point, in full preparation to crack it against the inhumanly large beak to get his point across.

Behind his shoulder, in his reflection, he sees the claw coming and knows…he’s made a mistake.

The talon digs into the side of his jacket, spilling fresh blood into the runes cast into the mix of Midgardian bovine and Asgardian ber. The creature, stronger than any Asgardian, clamps its remaining talons around his body and /flicks/ his body through the air, sailing over rock and upturned Svartalfheim soil that was pushed up in the Valravn’s entrance.

Mattias of Gothenburg is weightless, and his crimson blood trails in droplets marking his flight path until his shoulder bounces in the dirt, kicking up loose soil.

    He rolls. Once. Twice. Three times, skipping like a stone until his feet slide underneath and turn the roll into a bloodied skid in the dirt.

He will not return to the fight in time. The meteors striking down and the punishing blows from Heimdall send the Valravn back into the hole, even with his first steps to race back to the flight. The head of his axe trails, hanging by the leather cord at his hip, club held low, racing, but without a fight to distract him, the words bellow loud and clear for him to hear.

    His heart…
        ..or her life.

Mattias slides to a stop in the dirt. His black boots a beige color from the loose dirt caked on the leather. Fresh blood licks its way down the bluish hue of his Midgardian blue jeans; uninteresting and artless clothing the mortals wear, and it purples when meeting his blood. Red and blue…make violet.

Mattias pants out a heavy breath, face scrunching up at the lance of pain that greets him as he first notices the chunk of blackened nail left punctured through his leather and into his muscle. His first instinct, to tear it free, sends fingers to the edge of it, but he stops.

    Amora said…barbs

His fingers leave it as it is.

Mattias turns his eyes to Amora, witnessing the look she casts towards him. The same unwillingness to carry his weight. Lips twist downwards in a barely evident frown to the woman, but he nods. He sees it all.

“Fokk.” Mattias grunts, slicking his hair over his head, leaving bloody trails in blonde hair. His eyes, then turn to Heimdall, glancing up into the stars beneath his helm, seeing the bright, white suns that live there as eyes, but nothing more.

“He has her…” Mattias sneers, brushing his lips against his leather and avoiding his dripping, scarlet fingertips. “That is the legend, isn’t it? The raven was promised a child? My moth-/Annika/, it sounds like something she read to me once, but…”

Mattias, beside himself, looks to their faces, unsure as to what the Midgardians know to be true against legends they’ve bastardized. The learning curve is steep, and as this battle has shown, treacherous.

Mattias shakes his head quickly, whipping away at the small feeling that comes with not knowing the answers.

“What are the rules for this, here?” Mattias asks the both of them, finally. “Is this mine and my father’s, whoever he is, our fight alone, or is this an attack against Asgard herself and the right people must be told?”

Mattias’ face suddenly grows pale as the words of the curse run through his mind. A paling, not from the loss of his own blood, but the invisible shining of a lightbulb above his head that comes from piecing it all together.

Malekith does not have her.
    Mattias…just met her.


    Rage builds in his eyes.

Wounded already, impulsive, overcome with fury, Mattias bends his knees and digs his toes into the dirt in the split-second becoming of a spring, an intended race for the hole Malekith has burrowed up into Asgard.


The look of /surprise/ is even in Amora’s gaze that settles upon Heimdall who surveys the field with his ever watchful gaze, veiled by shadows, but alight with /horizons/.

The hail was laid down as a gate. But ‘brimstone’ hail is coated in blood spatters as Mattias is sent on his own course of flight by the hooked, line, and sinking of the silvered talon, pierced in between runes, and the meld of ‘cattle’ and ber.

    The chain tenses, the single left before freedom of the Valravn…. Svafa… drug back into the //pit to Svalerfheim where her captivity is to be continued, and Malekith’s mirth echoes like an audible taunt to the ears of those brought into the fight.//

Mattias rises…

            Mattias realizes…

                        Mattias is hellbent…

Mattias…. Bleeds…

No words need to be spared between Asgard’s Guardian and that of Asgard’s Witch, as they both set to do what they must,  and that is stop Mattias in his pursuit of the captive Valravn, cursed to being…

        …His mother…

                    …Once Valkyrie.

A condemnation for the love and desire that lead to many deaths… To Malekith’s army and not the Asgardian’s, as intended.

        Her lips found home in the creators of caste, the divider of Midgardian rule.

            His desires ran deeper..

                Her love betrayed the ‘ultimate betrayal’.

                    The debt repaid upon birth, but unfinished now

“It is only yours!” Amora curses beneath breath but the words of an age olde Asagardian linguistic gathers the fallen fall of meteorites she showered down in a veil to compile it, the whisps of golden tethers ripping them from their fallen point upon the Earth of Yggdrasil’s Roots and thrust them towards the open abyssal pit that Mattias lunges for.

A sound…
        .. not like words, but perhaps such for one partially deafened…

Thunder forms in the wake of every hastened step that courses opposing trajectory, like two freight trains at 4 O’Clock, the other at 8 O’clock, but the meet at the eye, did not calculate speed and injury, instead of a safe pass…

Heimdall impacts Mattias with a grip cross the broad shoulders of the younger man, almost a clotheslined gesture that seeks to lift him off his feet and carry him back and down with a firm plant to not injure but to keep at bay until that re-routed cast of ethereal glow and pitch of maelstrom fills the empty hole Mattias sought to dive within.

For the moment, Amora is silent, the flow of ribboning white attire held together by threads of x’d out passage, lashes around thighs, hips, and before feet, the pauldrons and armored plates that coat along feet, thighs… and biceps to shoulders is seen for the purpose - despite scant. “His wound.” Matter of fact and borne upon a monotone, watching…

                        … The heavily gauntleted hand lift, but only in  hesitation and readiness to keep Mattias in place.

But he can see it, he can feel it, the pairs of eyes upon him now.


    Only yours

The declaration of this continued fight being between Mattias and his sworn enemy alone is good news to the newly minted Asgardian. Despite the sweat, despite the oddly chilled-yet-warming sensation from his wound, the words only drive Mattias harder towards the hole his mother was just dragged down into. Purpose turns into hate, and the hate in his eyes boils over in a severe gathering of tunnel vision.

So black is the vision out of the corner of his eyes that all he can see are falling meteors and glimpses of pockets in the rock that he could jump through. Dirt kicks up from his feet in a trail of blood as he nears the point of his leap, arms lowering, head bowing, knee pressing down and-

Heimdall’s arm wraps around Mattias with such unexpected strength that Mattias couldn’t have avoided his legs flinging out from under his body if he tried. Dust-covered boots kick up and Mattias is rendered momentarily horizontal in a move right out of the Pro-Wrestling playbook. His arms snap up, leather wrapping around Heimdall’s massive arms for a sudden catch.

The sudden arrival of his body on the ground comes with a body-shuddering thud. It’s a thud because that’s the sound that leaves Mattias’ lungs when the concussive force from shoulder to backside pushes the air out of his lungs and turns his tunnel vision into temporary darkness, lined with a fabulous fireworks display of multicolored dots.

The two seconds of struggle Mattias gives to Heimdall’s impressive strength and leverage advantage is /ceremonial/. His elbows press into the dirt, head snapping up to capture a flash of Amora’s pale leg against armored calf, but once met with Heimdall’s bar…Mattias lets it go.

    Ceremonial fighting against your own stupid self.
        But giving up immediately, for your mother’s soul, would be wrong.
    What would a ber-sekir do?

Mattias opens his fingers and leaves the axe’s haft against his side, letting go of his half-completed weapon in a sign that he’s stopped. A bitter pill to swallow, he lowers his head to the ground and sighs towards the moons above, dragging one knee in a bend to accept the end to his battle. His head rolls to his side to stare down to the massive hand pressing into his shoulder, holding his body in place. He can see just over Heimdall’s knuckles the silvered edge of the talon stuck in his body, through his leather jacket and between the runes etched into the leathers.

Mattias blinks up at Amora, only then truly realizing that there’s an actual foreign object stuck in his body. The anger dials back from seven to two when his vision centers upon Amora’s face. Lips fall back to normal. Eyebrows soften. Acceptance, at least for the moment, settles in.

“Do it.” Mattias gruffly offers to the two, dropping his head back to the dirt.

An indignant huff of breath to the moons above, and every muscle in his body tenses for the prospect of pain.

“I’m calm now. Calm.” Mattias reassures them, fingers lifting in a show of reservation to their care.


…”I have seen that move… somewhere in Midgard..” Amora’s brows dip just over the arch of bridge that rides down in a slippery slope towards a Cupid’s Bow of lips, a curl to their edges, but there is no emotion in that /twist/. It is a facade, a masquerade of a smile that does not touch her eyes in the slightest and leaves them shadowed in their circling of kohl…

                                … Almost reminiscent of Helen.

((No Helen here, only /Zeul/.))

But Mattias’ eyes capture the movement that brings her daringly close to the two, and even as Matias lays there he is under a study that could bare  scalpel in the dissection from the man who pins him to the soil and keeps him planted. Only a lightening of grip upon his words of heed/desist. His bodily movements mean nothing to the Watcher.

But as Amora nears…

            … Looks of challenge exchange…

                    Amora /lofts her chin mightily./

                        He narrows galactial shadows and with a grating curl of fingers…

                            Withdrawal comes in a nod,
                                            A bow.

“Why on Midgard, would you let him go?” Amora’s dulcet tone, almost a choir as the dust of mortar settles behind her. “Hold him still, but do not hinder his hands.” A pause, and in the flickering of lighting beneath the trinity of moons that silver-lining of armor glows a virescent green, showing her own effigies of runic script along the contours of metallic plates, sparked to life with every pass of joint to motion…

        Reminding herself of the Aesir, before her. “Please…”

Bindings of the dual headed Axe glow into embers, the twining withering to ash as the haft he had hoisted and now let to the wayside finds it way to his fingertips beneath the quaking of the earth beneath him.

The heavy Uru metal falls to its side and wavers, a vibration as if a pitchfork had been struck and the song meets a choir…

Amora’s smile now seems to cast a deeper pitch around her eyes that burn a deep pit into the shadows, fingers laden in claw tipped gauntlets, slave chained, to wrists laden in gauntleted joints also emanating that light of the ether while lips seem to bleed into a visceral hue, a massacre of litany to spill forth as those fingers touch upon the base of expelled claw and wr…
            The massive Guardian’s hand captures Amora’s wrist, a grind of metal upon metal as fingers encircle and compress fine bones of carpals with ease.

                    … A warning.

The opposing hand extends in a reticulate strike, her eyes meeting Mattias’ own… Lips pursing…


The film seems to seep over muscles as his relax on will alone, his heartbeat takes to an ebb and the ‘Barb’ is withdrawn!

        A wave of blood in a spattered arch, held before the combined gaze of Heimdall and Mattias.

            “Eat the Fruit. Forge your new life.” That withered berry? Fully fruited, as if the wrinkle of time never touched it to dry the insides and lay them to a poisonous dust.

Oh, Mattias still /bleeds/, but he has work to do..

tree of wisdom;
tree of secrets
and tree of strife;
eat her fruit,
the mind will grow;
all her secrets,
she will show.


Now that the adrenaline is starting to wear off, emptying its way out of his bloodstream and into his stomach, the pain comes. The quiet writhe of hip dirties his Midgardian blue jeans with dust, and rather than call out in pain or whimper, Mattias closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and digs the heel of his boot into the ground to brace himself.

And he listens.

Through the thin line of skin, barely a slit, a sliver of his blue eyes watches the exchange of the two above him. The blood-stained tee shirt, once white and pure, now coated in blood and the mud it’s made, tightens at the belly when Amora asks Heimdall why. The pieces fall into place and there’s simply too much pain to ask questions. Part of the Valravn, his mother’s talon, is buried in his side.

Beneath the weight of Heimdall and the shadow of Amora, the blonde Asgardian female judges Mattias well. The flicker of his fingers in protest as Heimdall challenges her, only to be replaced by the handle of his axe’s haft slapping into his palm. The extra lift of eyelash, opening more widely with dilated pupils, the bubbling sense of words traveling from his belly to his tongue. The shift of blue to stars beneath helm. Oh, Mattias has questions, and through the heavy breathing and stabilizing of his body, bones going stiff, teeth grinding molar into gumline, Amora judges him perfectly.

    Shh, it is.

The talon leaves his body suddenly, carving up extra chunks of muscle with its barbed talon, hooking new lines into his skin as it comes free with truly a gout of blood. The leather jacket wrapped around Mattias’ body shudders with a kick of his boot against the floor and a leap of his body as if he’d been electrocuted. His backside leaps from the ground, then back again in the hard kick that only finds air.

Mattias’s cheek slaps against the dirt, messy hair falling over his eyes as teeth flash angrily in a silent call of pain. There is no yelling, no crying, but his upper lip twists down, encapsulating his teeth in the beginnings of a hard F, the ’Fuh-’ that lasts forever, waiting for the ’-ck’ that never comes.

The seepage of blood grows faster, draining freely and forming a puddle beneath his body. Working quickly, Mattias rolls his head back to point his flaring nostrils towards the moons and reaches for his chest. Blood-lined fingertips paw at the pendants, pressing aside the hammer, the claw, the emerald until he finds the berry and rips the leather cord off of his neck with a snap.

His teeth bite down on the berry, tearing the sprig of wood free and away from his lips; he tears it like a grape from a stem and bites down quickly into the fruit, chewing quickly.


                Her tentacles,
like gray brain matter;
give knowledge
that all life,
will /shatter/.

Fate be it as it may.

“Forge your birthrite!” Amora’s vocal cadence is one of a sudden demand that logics the reason to the magnetic draw of haft and /blade/.

                In right hands,
this world,
will grow;
in wrong hands,
destruction flows.

For a moment in time… Amora stands beside Heimdall… No exchange… No looks….

                .. And I need you to recover…

“Forge. Your. Weapon.” Amora states towards Mattias as that /fruit/ is ripped from stem and he rises. There is no act of the Enchantress upon him, it is that of the Will of the Tree. An act that seeks his wounds out and does not leave a vacant memory in the mending.

        …Mattias can feel everything….

Healing fast forwarded is every stitch, every thread-bare draw of tissue into place to stop the bleeding as he rises.

        … The claw the anchor…
                    … the point to which thickness holds steady…

                                … Keeps the Two…

                                        … In place(ment).

The fruit is the binding of Life to Asgard.
                … eternity in a Pledge…
                            … A grind of teeth..

            Take great heed
of what you do;
this world is left,
to me and you.

His wounds heal in a state of stasis. A clot hanging in the ether like that of the meteor-fall of Amora’s creation that sealed a Gate.

Heimdall is ever present, Omni-Present. A stare upon Amora and Mattias in a pensive state that has the massive sword of the Guardian clutched in the distrust…

            //But Amora does not want Asgard to fall….

            …Just like Svafa…

                …Accursed to carrion..

                    But never misjudge

The trinity of moons shift over Asgard, and the triad of the Ber-sekir’s weapon come to hands laden in blood (his own or another’s), to be forged.

       // “Just live through it.”// Amora’s voice, through unmoving lips as she waits…

            “If this kills you…” The grip on Heimdall’s sword tightens in threat to The /Witch/.


Amora and Heimdall exchange a look. Forged of opposition, but brought together by One Desire.


An excess spill of clear juice from the berry seeps down the corner of Mattias’ lips. At the first bite, nothing happens, but the second, the third, the swallow releases an energy that burrows down into his belly and sets his skin to a fire hot enough to be felt by Amora and Heimdall. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead…and the pain begins.

Mattias’ lips part and his teeth rend upwards in a snarl that is too pain-stricken to cry out. It’s a choke. The guttural sound of pain of a man being speared by a blazing, white brand. The energy that seeps from his body, Yggdrasil’s power, washes his skin in a greenish-brown glow as he lifts, back arching in a bow, leaving feet dangling beneath him and arms raggedly carrying both ends of his unforged weapon to hang and point towards the ground.

Amora the Enchantress and Heimdall the Watcher are greeted with the ghastly sight of the hole in Mattias’ jacket and tee shirt revealing itself to them in the hang of fabric. The gore-lined hole is deep, etching splinters of rib-bone and weeping blood. Like a mouth, the skin moves all upon its own, flexing and rippling, and by the angry growl of pain that Mattias bellows out into the air, he truly misses nothing.

Tissue grows and ties together nerve endings that stretch for its sisters. Bone that had snapped cracks back into place, shoving muscle and tissue out of its way with little care. The lacerated blood vessels sharpen and glisten, expelling foul blood into the cavity to make room for new blood to replace it. The unwanted blood is coughed out of his body, splattering at their feet.

This is a new pain, a pain the monstrous bear he’d killed with his own hands could have only repeated had Mattias been killed and his belly opened against its muscle.

The haft and the head, both parts of the axe, almost tumble from his grasp.

But through the hissing of air past his teeth and the pumping of his lungs, Mattias finds strength and a refusal to submit. When a bone corrects itself, his body twists and he calls out his report of pain, but his arms begin to rise. The muscles in his belly, ridged abdominals worthy of Olympic athletes and pro-wrestling champions alike, spasm. The shuddering and shaking of near-shock that freezes over his senses, washes it over in a sudden rush of heat, turns his vision dark.

Blinded, he knows what he has to do. That Amora has called to him to do so?

    It helps.
        Even at the worst of times, someone calling from the sidelines offers good advice.

The haft and the head slam into each other with a new expelling of energy. A white light as the two become one lifts pebbles from the ground in a static-feeling, hairs standing on end, that suddenly expels in a line of force that sends blood, dirt, and expelled tissue scattering all around his body. The two pieces become a weapon.

The hole knits over in puffy, pink tissue. A circular scar to remind him of his fight with Svafa, the Valravn, remains in its place beneath the messy tee shirt and yellowish-red smears surrounding the entirely clean scar.

When the pain fades and the horrific choking sounds from Mattias Larsson cease, the aura of energy snaps off like a lightswitch has been thrown. The energies of Yggdrasil, having spoken whispers and secrets into his mind through the pain, fade their earthen-hued glow. The stark white of the weapon forged, recoils back into the axe, yet to have a name for itself.

Suddenly…it all shuts off.

    Mattias’ body falls four feet in a flat, helpless heap back to the ground beneath him.
The heated grunt, a bone-weary sound toned by the rush of air puffing past Mattias’ lips, is the sound of a living man; a sign that he’s survived the ordeal. His head bounces off of the ground and his tired eyes clap closed, falling unconscious and diving head first into the darkness of sleep.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License