Myrkr - Club Obscure

December 12, 2017:

Obscure, reappears, but at a calling named "Myrkr'.

Midtown - Club Obscure(Myrkr)



NPCs: None.


Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

Clubs line the strip, and at this hour, neon lights cast a pulsing light of varying colors, also casting darker shadows that seem to "run" with every rhythmic shuttle of light along the narrow fluorescent tubing that simply guides the (dis)abled bodies from one to the next place.

Velvet ropes of green hang in bowed extensions from one pole to the next, forming a corral doing just that, lining the entrants up, then shuffling them like a deck of cards - forcing a line if entry is wanted, into the Club 'Obscure'.

A bit more upscale perhaps, but then again when ID's are checked, so are the almost adulterous sweeps of the figures before the bouncers.

Mattias had wandered here before, on his birth-day only to begin, but if even checked for after, it was not there days later.. weeks… months… But something or someone brought it back. That or Amora is back and simply bored with no more Xavier's children to meddle in the affairs of. Some drama is not her business.

New York never sleeps, this strip is one aglow with the pulse of night life, but what would draw any of the Asgardian ilk? The name:

First glance - Club Obscure.
Focused: The letters reform to runic Mykr.

So perhaps the massive door Oafs are worth passing.

Syn's in a mood. The sort of mood that generally doesn't exactly bode well for geniality, especially without some kind of opportunity for outlet. All the bright lights and excitement of the city have thus far manifestly failed to draw her interest… and so far at least those who lurk in dark alley's have apparently decided that a woman of her stature is probably not the kind of target that they're looking for.

The club? It might have gone utterly unnoticed for her, if not for the drunken wanderings of a pair of would-be club goers that stray across her path. Affront. Worse, seeing the rest of them lined up like cattle. Her gaze goes further with the curl of her lip only to catch on the sign and it's… well, rather more interesting name.

On the upside it means that the would-be clubbers are brushed from her mind, but well, far from elect to line up passively with the humans she simply marches towards the Oafs manning the door with the blatant expectation that she's going to swan straight on in.

Mattias has been suffering the silence of a short strand of boredom in the Winter months. Be it by fate or a prickling of magical energy in the air, Mattias takes a hard left down the street and approaches the front of a club he remembers all too well. The printed name of the club, OBSCURE, is written in the same letters he remembers, but the long line of mortal cattle waiting to get inside are just different shades of the same cattle in the cold.

Heavy boots crunch through a pouch of snow across the street. Long, blonde hair frames Mattias' face, hanging before and behind the ridged leathers of a leather jacket that smells faintly of creatures that should not be. Bears from Asgard. The blood of Krakens. The bear's tooth hanging from his neck alone, next to a wavering emerald, is too large for any known mortal bear.

And, like Syn, Mattias is making a bee line for the front of the club and ignoring the cries of 'foul' from the crowd present. One douchebag with a popped collar quiets at the handle of an axe sprouting out of the underside of his leather jacket.

"Stop her or let her through." Mattias calls out with a faintly Asgardian clip to his voice. "Or get out of my way." Mattias calls to the Oafs as he approaches. "Where is she?"

The bit of upheaval from the cattle-line at the door starts as a ripple of protest, but the silence comes with some form of 'self preservation' most 'cattle' have before the bolt is drawn…

A slam of the heavy doors behind the Massive Brawn, meaty palm hooking the metal handle as one eyes Mattias, nostrils flaring.

The second is pivoting on a massive foot, clad in shiny black dress shoes, laces beneath trouser cuffs undone, laying across the salted pavement. The unison exhale of the 'Bouncers' is in unison, pluming mists from nostrils into the cold air of New York, but somehow it just got colder.

"Welcome back." One says to Mattias, the driver of 'Helen Eve'.

"You…" A tilt of cranium from the other towards Syn, eyes narrowing to exchange a glance with his Fellow.
"Both have reservations. Max capacity per fire marshall has been met. Tomorrow return earlier!" A dismissive rise and wave of hands and the Guards have spoken, the doors behind them opening as they step aside, those eyes following the two with stoicism, but also a readiness.


Large wooden doors coated in a mesh of almost iron grating are what forms the main entry, unfolding to the black lacquered flooring that leads through security detail, coat check, and down a few steps rimmed in a light green neon cast to show where foot-placement should be had. But down two steps… The fog rolls over the ground, making it obscured from lower calves on down, so if you slip… Worry later…

A split is formed, the place does not just cater to one, it caters to all.

The left side bears neon lighting, beer signs, vanity openers, kegs, drafts, and shots… Wooden stools, a scraped up wooden bar that bears burrows along it's surface as if Coyote Ugly occurs here. The hollers and cheers almost seem unheard from the main vantage of the bottom of those illuminated stairs.

To the right, tables are laid out, gambling, betting, dealing, small screens flicker what is not truly played before hands, waitresses almost bearing a style that caters to the speakeasy, and yet… Modern tryst while trays handle more aged alcohols.

Split between the two? A stage, as all of this just may be….

But if you walk just beside and head back, parting on one side, a saloon door, on the other a door made of beaded and crystalline strings…

Stairs wind upwards and doors once more vary , but along the banister where you can look down upon the stage and below, cages can be viewed, hanging from the lofted almost 'warehouse' ceiling above, as well as the comings and goings //between, but here a slender bar winds for placement upon the banister for ordered drinks and those of the voyeurs.

Right where the stairs land in their spiral to the second floor, and just behind a third set picks up, there is a 'balcony'.

"You mean Enchantress?" The one before Matti finally states, low, but that language is no longer english. Asgardian tongue low and upon a gravelly throat of 'blanketed Oaf'.

"Inside, before too late." The other states, and if Syn is still on her bee line of interest there is a cold wind at her back helping her push on through.

Behind them both doors slamming and barring cannot be heard over the music…

Syn's blue eye is cast Mattias' way at the sound of his voice, or perhaps more particularly the accent of it, it's a pause, alright, but well, really, where else is she going to go right now? Still, the wisdom of the decision is perhaps reflected on when the doors slam shut and she finds herself occupying a space with an unfamiliar face. While one look of assessment is given to what she can see of the club, it's upon him that her gaze settles assessingly. Head to toe without even the vaguest thought of concealing it,"Kraken. And bear." is acknowledged, in Asgardian,"But a face I know not. Who are you, child of Asgard?" the boy more interesting than exploration, at least for the moment.

"You know good and well who I mean." Mattias snorts as the oafish guards, managing an extra bit of piggish to his snort to get the point across. He winks with a scowl, jerking his head upwards to pass sideways alongside Syn. The numerous heavy metal band patches on the leather of his jacket scrape the doorman, splitting the double-breasted jacket open to reveal a band tee for 'MAYHEM' worn beneath.

Over six feet of chain wallet, old jeans, and dead animal hide shuffle past Syn's arm towards the split to the right, pointedly, towards the stairs up into the rafters, but not before he turns and spreads his arms wide in a challenging twist of his lips. "If you do not truly know, daughter of Asgard," Mattias bares his teeth. "Keep your ears open for tales of Mattias of Gothenburg, Foe of the Svartalfar." He turns, crooking his finger for her to follow him up the stairs. "Who's asking?" He points to the bar they're passing. "Don't bother with that swill. The better stuff is upstairs."

Syn's eyes narrow at the crook of his finger, shoulders drawn and nostrils flaring. Still, for all the press of her lips she tolerates, sparing barely a glance for the bar as she elects to follow,"Mattias." at least the last merits acknowledgment in the loft of her brow. Steps unhurried as she strolls in his wake.

"Stynfríðr Valkyrior." no adornments, evidently in her mind at least that alone should count as information enough. Once known as the Goddess of Barriers, among the guardians of Valhalla's great hall. Valkyrie. But one rumored banished, or dead, a millenia ago. Certainly there's little in the plain leather vest and matching pants to suggest much in the way of her former trappings,"This… place… this Myrkr." the amusement coils in her voice at the word,"It is yours?"

Enchantress, Amora, in this place that she has forged of melding, merging, and illusion, is drawing from that which surrounds her, pulses that have not been "undersigned" to leave alone. Cattle.

Mattias and Syn stand upon smoke-screened stairs, the whole illusion laid forth for Midgardians, but when Asgardian's take a 'second look' they can almost see it all. Looking Back (Literally):
Jotun hands slam those doors shut, chains draw to anchor through the handles.

Another glance? They are inside now, and the Monkey Suits of Bouncers is shedding like burning strips of paper from their skin, but a slow motion effect, more and more revealed the closer they get to the stairwell.

A form nearly stumbles down it, lower lip swollen, split - bitten into a tear that will need stitched as Glasgow does not go south… Normally. The mortal is picked up by the Jotun (now) and as he begins his moment of panic there is a slam and silence.

At the top of the stairwell, one foot is dropping down, heel bearing thigh high deep emerald boots laces with gold strands, framed in intricate lattice-work of attire that falls in tatters around her. Middle finger smears over her lower lip, adjusting her lipstick while kohl lined eyes settle from Mattias with a growing smile…

… to Syn… A dead halt. That smile shifts to flash teeth. "My, my, you do attract profound company."

Mattias is regarded with the growling lilted purr of words, the accent definite and unhidden as her descent is drawn back to the upper level, rethought. "Yes, the drink is more… homey."

The shift of eyes between Matti and Syn is suspicious.



No matter to her, this stays in the 'Upper Escelon'.

"This place is not my place, Stynfridr Valkyrior, but it is known to me. The guards are known to me, but you've wandered into the territory of another known far more widely than even I." Really, Mattias? You're one of the newest Asgardian's on the block. Still, the berserker continues to boast. "I've fought the Kraken in the breaking of this world. I've earned my skins as bersekir, and Malekith of the Svartalfar is my foe, so I say again." Mattias continues to tromp up the stairs, waiting until he spies Amora's sandaled feet to /rip/ the with of a double-headed axe of Uru metal from under his jacket and throw it over his shoulder like a baseball bat. "This is not my place, but one day, I shall have my place."

Mattias turns from the stairs, stepping back to give Syn open view of Amora. He cocks his head to one side, jutting the light dusting of scruff on his chin towards the fabled sorceress with a grin. "And there was chaos in his wake in this realm and the other. Yet you allowed her access to this place, did you not?" Mattias swivels his head, cocking his brow to the two, he motions for Syn to follow Amora further up the stairs.

"Let us drink and find out why this has happened, ja?"

Syn missed the slam, but that perhaps, just perhaps, she should have paid better attention still comes in the moment that she actually glances behind her. Not that she hasn't been more than a few less than savory places in her time, but in her lingering Deathsight the place is practically incandescent. It's not that she doesn't hear Mattias, but rather at the sight of Amora, the mistress of the place is clear. It's a song without sound that plays over her nerves… an itch that can't be scratched.

The cant of her head in Amora's direction is querying as her tongue snakes between her lips to wet them. She hadn't felt naked without her weapons until that moment, but still, there's little to show in her face beyond the intensity of the gaze that settles upon the other woman,"What is this place?" it's a question directed towards Amora, demand in its tone, for all that her hands are left loose and open in acknowledgment that she had better be at least somewhat considerate in her actions.

Amora is known…enough… Her expulsion from Asgard, Once Upon a Time, was mended due to actions, actions…

The lingering look on Mattias has the woman lowering her lids, a dark line of kohl surrounding emerald eyes in a shadow… His bolstering is a reminder that tears her gaze back towards Syn with an uptilt in her gaze that makes it Oceanic. Shark-like. "It is where you meet your Welcome, but first…" A slow tilt of her head, nearly bird-like towards Mattias in his own proclamation, the multiple braids laden in bone-carved beads descending over bared shoulder. "We drink, and tell our stories, ja?"

Every step backwards is trained, honed, and every roll of formation is predatorial in the press of skin against attire and the slow fall of the fascade that she has formed this Club into.

"It is Allied, weapons aside." A snap! of gaze towards Mattias as the crescented formation of a lounged booth is gestured to, his axe given appraisal…

For the first time in finality.

"Allies are needed, and the Norns are Fate Obscured, ja?"

Mattias lowers his head, watching Amora from an skewed angle. His lids narrow over his pale, blue eyes, taking note of the woman at her most theatrical and almost predatory state. The tiny collection of pendants about his neck sway as he follows, walking on the tips of his toes like a warrior does, ready for unseen ambushes and twists of fate, to which if Amora's reputation precedes her and Syn's namesake is as Valkyrie as she seems, there could be many.

Mattias lowers the axe and steps towards the booth. The heavy weapon is set aside. "A Valkyrie, then." Mattias' shoulders jut forward as he peels the jacket from his shoulders, folding it in his hands. "Worry not, Valkyrie, you are with friends, here. Friends who have found their way back into Asgard against odds." Mattias climbs into the center of the booth, stretching out his muscular arms over the table until he finds a proper mote of comfort to melt back into. "War is coming. This was not my fault that you crossed this place, but I can say that entering it may have altered your future, as it did mine."

There's a wealth of words in the grunt that Syn gives, and none at all,"My Welcome." repeated in a guttural tone accompanied with the brief flicker of a smile. Still, her own sapphire eyes sweep over the room below with as much yearning as dismay. Is she aware of Mattias? And his axe? The roll of her head at last in his direction says yes, even if she is perhaps overall less concerned about him than she maybe ought to be. The pendulum sways in the direction of joining as an unhurried step is crunched in the wake of Amora.

"Is this so?" it's a leading question, and intended so, shaking herself as loose of her Sight as she can, "To what end are Allies needed?" of course, it's a question with at least one reasonably swift answer, as she settles herself in a chair with a wry smile, "Former." because there's no point in pretending otherwise, for all the bitterness that accompanies the word, "But listening."

A shift of that flickering gaze shifts it from a broken emerald refraction of faceted glow, to that of mossy reveal, the pearlescent strands descending over bare shoulders to cascade along her form and shift in ripples while she claims her seat within the booth. Matti leans forward, Amora - back, splaying arms in a 'bask' across the arch-shaped contour of velveted coating, buttoned into pockets by gold 'buttons' of indent. Fingers that splay over divots bear clawed tips, the tiny chains like a sun not yet risen within these walls, tiny jade(d) gems dangling from links, like the larger brother Matti bears beside the Massive Ber Claw.

"What he says is… Truth, Valkyrie… But do give me your name in exchange," There is a weight in the moment, in the words shared for the trio's introduction while the waitress appears, her eyes milky, bearing opaline hue of blindness, drops massive mugs of Asgardian Mead before them. "For the /End/ that is sought for, but we seek to stop. He is no liar. Bold. Brazen…."

"Loud as a Fokker. But no spinner of lies."

Now, Amora rocks forward, gathering her mug and lofting it with elbow planted upon table for a 'mutual cheers'. "Ever hear the name of the Dark Elf of Svartalfheim?" … her smile… grows…

"At the fokkin' least if she sticks around there will be plenty to fight. We never have a lack of that, do we?" Mattias replies with a clip to his tongue, looking to Amara near him as he takes up one of the mugs for himself. He smooths down the front of his 'Mayhem' tee shirt — probably the first of his lineage to ever wear a tee shirt, let alone one of a Swedish Blackmetal band — and then taps his mug against Amora's, then holds it out for Syn. "There's such a thing as a former Valkyrie? Is that so?" Mattias continues, eyeing the newcomer with one narrowed eye. He see-saws the mug to the left and right.

"Well, fokk, if she's not a Valkryie and is a former Valkyrie, maybe she's not so interested in fighting against the Svartalfar, the dark elves, and Malekith himself." Mattias grins wolfishly across the table, baring his teeth to the two women. "Because invasion is upon the realms, and if there's any fight worth seeking Allies for, it's one worth being placed in history." Mattias slinks his shoulders to the backrest of the booth and plants his heavy boots on the cross-beam beneath. "Are you still listening?"

Syn's content to let them have the booth, and to seat herself upon a reversed chair pulled up to its open side,"Stynfríðr Valkyrior." she offers to Amora before her head cants in the direction of the blind woman, the mugs set before them. Consideration is given in the glance given Mattias' way as the mug is collected, clattered against those offered and drank from before she elects to speak further, "Former." is the word iterated again in a tone that says she's not particularly inclined to share the details there right now. Still, the thump of the mug is solid, and the look cast his way even as she answers Amora unblinking, "I've fought the Svartalfheim. Kraw the Uncontrollable was their liege, then, when the Hag Wart tribe sort to force entrance to Valhalla we fought three days to turn them aside. Before the All-Father," oh there's a tone there, for all the effort to keep it polite and controlled, that last word not one that leaves her lips willingly, "forgot our purpose and signed the pact. I would fight them again without hesitation."

Amora watches Mattias, a roll of her head to the side in a slow tilt, moreso his expressions, the smile bearing arsenic in its lycanthropic bare. Rolling her eyes downward, the pendants, /sigils/ that hang from chain and the emerald teardrop clutched in the crescent of the massive bear claw. Lights refraction bounced from percious stone to matching gaze, but in her eyes the light slowly fades with each timed clatter of mugs before she redirects her gaze to Syn and takes her own long draught of the mug and sets it before her.

"What would you give to do it again," A small smile grows over Amora's lips. "Is there a risk to put you back under the Eye of the All Father." Though in saying His name, Amora's tone drops a bit lower to waver the tone a bit, showing she caught Syn's own.

A glance towards Mattias and then back, her mug settled before her traced by a fingertip hooked with the golden metal ring. "There are those Fallen. Have you heard of the Valravn, Syn?" Now Amora's eyes return that light,as pieces. fall. together.

Mattias furrows his brow and thumps his mug to Syn's, sloshing the immortally potent liquid over the edge and onto his knuckles. He reels the mug back in, twisting the powerful muscles of his neck to lick the web between thumb and forefinger. He drinks, showing the bottom of the mug to the two, lurching the apple in his throat as he swallows. In the end, the mug comes down and he brushes his mouth with the edge of his forearm above a bracer of bear's hide and fur; another trophy from his travels.

Mattias' arrogant smirk fades at the mention of the Valravn. His fingers lift to the side of his neck, rubbing at the hinted scar tissue there. The weight of his attention turns, nodding at Syn's qualifications, to gaze at Amora as she speaks. Behind his closed lips, his tongue traces over his teeth, wiping away some foul taste in his mouth, but still he stares, taking a backseat to the negotiations.

"Not become a Valravn." there's dry amusement in Syn's tone, for all the coolness of her eyes,"No, it amused him sufficiently to leave me stranded three Realms away and deny my return. But I did not fail my duty, I simply refused the restraint of the pact." is acknowledged with a look in the direction of Mattias, the look probing as it is silent,"My loyalty still remains to Asgard despite his actions." she evidently has no qualms about stating clearly, attention rolling back to Amora with seeming placidity except for the slightest curl of her lips.

Amora's brow lofts at Syn's first words, but her fascade is unbroken in its frigid neutrality, the only shift is that behind eyes. When brow settles to place, half-lidded gaze cast in the shadows of lashes trails Mattias' way. "That seems to be the end way of the Valkyrior, but the pacts that your kind undergo are nothing I would ever desire to be held under." A drop of hand to clutch her mug. "Or any at all."

Lips part, a brerath is drawn in, her tongue rolling over her lower lip before withdrawal. "Do not lose that heart, Ber-Odr." Her words are low, rolling but there's a crack at the end of them.

The mug is lifted, drained, the heavy liquid spilling from one corner of her lips to descend down the rivers and valleys after a fall from defined line of jaw. The mug SLAMS back to the table top to send the vibration outward. (The waitress is not only blind, but deaf.) "You have a Sister in Chains clutched by Malekith and wielded as a servant, /Stynfridr/ for making a choice like you." How -alike- Amora does not know Syn's history only what she has given. "Do you have your armor?"

In turn now, the curl at one corner of her lips is befitting the Grinch. (Tis the Season…)

'Not become a Valravn.'

By the harsh narrowing of his eyes towards Syn, Mattias reveals himself to be a warrior and not a politician. The crystal blue orbs behind his narrowed eyelids cool over with ice from his side of the table, returning her look with a warning look of his own…that he releases. The rounded edge of his lip lifts in a miniature sneer, then covers over with the rim of his mug.

"I lose my not my heart-" Mattias slams his mug down again, followed by a repeat slam of his forearm down onto the table that rattles his mug. "-Amora the Enchantress, my heart won't be satisfied until these hands are coated in the blood of Malekith the Accursed." Mattias jerks his head, flowing his single, blonde braid against his jaw to burrow rage-lined attention through Amora's eyes and out the back of her skull.

His lips peel back over his teeth, exposing them to the sorceress for three heartbeats. He turns, then, to Syn, dipping his head with restrained rage.

"Malekith will not find just one servant, one of your sisters in servitude. Understand, Stynfríðr Valkyrior, former Valkyrie, that this is no quiet theory that war is coming." Mattias huffs a vaguely bear-like blast of breath across the table. "You have a choice, she is right. Stand beside us and if there is but a chance you'll be allowed back through the gates, it is through this war. Stand not beside us?" Mattias lowers his brow. "Suffer your exile and wait for the next war across the Realms."

"I enjoyed my duty, until I was told that I was no longer permitted to perform it." there's a dip of her head in the vague direction of the room as a whole,"Your place glows with Death. Not that there are those worthy to be reaped in its number, but the pall is still there."

Still, that she's listening is in the spark that the knowledge that there's a sister in chains out there alights in her eyes, even if her attention is more for the Enchantress than it is for Mattias. In fact, for the space of a few heartbeats it might seem like she heard him not at all. A glance is spared, briefly, for the contents of her mug, deceptively mild, seemingly entirely calm until the moment her eyes are raised in his direction. The hand which tosses the contents of the mug in his direction holds a casualness not at all matched by the burning fury of her eyes when she unfolds herself from her chair,"Insult my honor again, child." five words, and the furnace which alights them. She might not have her weapons or her armor with her at that moment but clearly he's managed to find a nerve.

The harsh drink splatters over Mattias' face, matting a thick strand of his hair to his forehead. Dripping down his chin, the spoiled drink sparks an ire in the mutant hybrid, but not so much that he doesn't think to lash his tongue out and taste it against the edge of his mouth. "Child?" He replies, with such malice that he's pushing up against the benched seating with a purring growl, eyes clawing daggers to the Valkrie.

Mattias Larsson comes up from his seat.

He brings the table with him.

Mugs fly through the air with the groaning of upended wood as the circular table flips over and tumbles in a roll that sends it falling over the balcony and onto the stage three floors down. Like a true ber-sekir, he doesn't think; he reacts, throwing himself at the Valkrie with hands aimed for her throat.

"YOU QUESTION MY WORTH?!?" Mattias bellows, seeking to lock with the Valkyrie and force her back. "I am BORNE of one of your SISTERS!"

'Former' Valkyrie Syn might be, an unarmed to boot, but she was prepared for that reaction. If anything, it earns him points, not that there's any sign of it in the immediate moments where the table goes flying. Debris swatted aside with a casual hand that doesn't at all match with the feral smile that curls her lips into something akin to a sneer as he leaps at her.

There's nothing rusty in the way she settles herself, whatever the former Valkyrie might have been doing for a thousand years of exile hasn't taken the edge off of skills honed millenia before. It at least shifts her from murderous intent to physical lesson as her hands seize hold of him and pivot with the intention of driving him into the ground, already flowing with the intent to follow through. It's not that she didn't hear his words, or that she failed to understand them, but that she isn't the sort to be distracted during a fight.

Warriors have ways of understanding the styles of battle. When the fight takes on the slow-motion, tactical quality of muscle memory, the little twists of muscle tell stories. The Valkyrie have their fighting style, taught from sister to sister in the sands, much like the Einherjar have their standard battle postures and responses to grappling maneuvers. These methods are like handshakes that are studied over and over again to know the threats your foe possesses…and it is in that moment, that Mattias reminds Syn of a fighting style she'd learned of many, many years ago.

Siege scores a hand around her neck, but as the world tumbles up and over him, his feet leave the floor at her greater strength. An Einherjar would have slammed his neck down, protecting his own throat and rode her to the ground for a grapple, but the way his feet instinctively lift, planting his Doc Marten boots against her belly to twist and roll with the grapple…is a move of the Svartalfar.

His back SLAMS into the wooden floor, cracking it in a spiderweb of impact, but rather than fall limp, a flash of fire and smoke removes his weight from her grip entirely, leaving her with nothing in her hands at all.

To Syn's left, the fire and smoke flashes once more, throwing Siege's muscular body hurtling through the air with a fist aimed at her jaw, kneels bent to slide through the impact past her…just like one of Malekith's own dark elves.

Amora's question goes unanswered, save in the action of 'Syn' to choose to take insult - but then again - Amora would have done the same. Rolling back upon the booth as the mug is expelling contents forward for Mattias it is as if time slows down and every droplet can be seen, every motion can be chosen before her eyes, while in All reality the pace is fast!

The Asgardian Mead impacts droplets of spatter along her form, teardrops of amber descending along her profile, smearing kohl from the corner of her left eye, razing a trail of reddened skin beneath… Razed…

The table flies up-and-over the rafter of the balcony and Amora's figure follows it, the table in a slower motion while her pace is in a fast forward to extend a hand over the banister…

The 'Oafish' Guards in their Monkey Suits ascend the spiral of stairs in a thunderous ruckous of the Jotun they are.

"Myrkr!!" The word, the name of the Club itself is resounded, and there is a reason Syn saw the Death Light she did, because as Amora 'saves' them, she is reaping from their very essence!

The vaccuum incaptures that table before it does take a soul from this world, drawing it in before the writhing bodies of non-Believers are PUSHED from the building in an explosion of plaster, drywall, and glass…

((On the street it appears as if drunks fell out of the half-built wall of an abandoned front))

Amora stands now beside the Sigrnr Axe of Mattias', while around them the world seems to shift as a veil falls, and with it similar shackles to Svafa's own are appearing, ethereal, unfinished, but tried and truly bound.

A hand strokes over the haft of the Uru wrapped end of Siege's weapon, slowly, serpentine….

Those chains filter through fingers, The Enchantress' hand, and around the Haft her fingers twine around!

The occupant? Syn as the fight surmounts. "If you choose not to be, then choose….. wisely."

Things are known, acknowledged, filed in Syn's mind, the familiar and the distantly so. The Goddess of Barriers is unsurprised that the 'boy' is no mere martial talent, but still, it takes that long heartbeat to locate him when he reappears. She can't pull her head out of the way fast enough, for all that the last second motion attempts to do so, the punch jerking her head sideways as he lands and slides.

No wings, no wings, no steed, only the certainty of Sight and the sawed strings of Death raw across her nerves. The Valkyrie's frustrated fury roared where she stalks after Mattias. They might have managed to strip her title from her long ago but there's no mistaking its imprint upon her.

Or the moment where those unseen chains slither across her senses,"You fight like a Svartalfar." it's not a compliment, the words spat with undisguised distaste, for all that she does stop short, hands flexing and nostrils flaring,"And you speak words like a honey trap." this directed at Amora,"I trust neither of you. You claim there is war coming, you claim yourselves the foe of the Svartalfar. Prove your words."

"I was given no CHOICE!" Mattias barks back at the Valkyrie, throwing out a hand, palm out to hold her at bay. His own words come out with a bitterness thrown in her direction, then redirected in the swinging of his head towards Amora and his axe, to whom he throws another hand, bidding her to stop. "She is not our enemy, Amora! Stay mighty Sigrnir, I will not raise it against this one!" Mattias flares his nostrils to the blonde, making his tactical decisions on the fly. Angered in his own right, they bark out like orders meant to be followed.

"No more theatrics." Mattias, straightens and bares his teeth to Syn, tugging at the neck of his shirt to expose the mark of a monstrous bear's bite. He continues, speaking the tongue of Asgard now, albeit with a strange, Midgardian twist to his accent. "My family, your battle sister, was betrayed by Malekith the Accursed." Mattias spits the words towards Syn. "Her child stolen and trained to kill the very Asgardians he has now vowed to protect, and he comes."

Mattias swallows, lifting the firm hold of rage on his brow to grave severity.

"My mother, your battle sister is the Valravn. She-" Mattias points to Amora. "-broke me free of his influence and led me through the gates of Asgard." He pauses for a beat.

"On my honor, Stynfríðr Valkyrior, he will wage war on this realm, and I intend to fight through his lines to break her of this curse. To the bone." Mattias takes a step back and lowers his hands. "On my honor, join us, and I will do all that I can to see your honor restored and your right to walk the streets of Asgard returned."

It doesn't stop the curl of Syn's lip, though the burning eyes of the former Valkyrie watch him and listens to his words. She's aware of the axe, without a doubt, but if she were the sort to be intimidated by things like odds, likely she'd have never been chosen in the first place. The shift of her eyes in Amora's direction at Mattias' gesture clear,"On your honor." she repeats in a sonorous tone,"My honor is not beholden to whether or not I can walk in Asgard, but I will not stand aside to allow those… Elves…" the distaste plain in her tone,"purchase in this Realm or our own."

Still, she makes no pretense of her trust being necessarily 'restored' in Amora for the second, even as she grudgingly concedes,"My armor and tools are still my own. The All-Father's amusement in taking just enough to insure I would never forget his displeasure."

Syn does not have to trust Amora, not when she laid a binding trap betwixt the trio, but there is a risk here…

What Syn saw in Midgard, falls apart in shards like what the people on the streets of New York saw, falling away in sharp pieces to slowly reveal a snow laden cliff, a Keep upon the top of the 'mount, a forest to the west of it Mattias knows well enough and be(a)rs the scars from as well.

Bare feet of Enchantress melt every step in a path upward towards the rise of building upon the crag, fingers knotted into the meshed green of stripped and piece-mealed attire, golden chains still resounding tiny chimes with motion against the drop of decorated emeralds.

"You both have a tethered fate, take that Bruni as you wish, but do not let it die." A cast of word to the two as she treks forward, almost 'inconvenienced' by the mettle of doing so… until she rises slowly above…!

"I cann—- will not… See Asgard fall, nor see anyone meant to be a part of it… Fall as well." A glnce back, those eyes cutting towards the two over bare slope of pale shoulder. "The scars are real…." A pause and Amora's amile is feigned. "Don't look at me like that." To Syn. "Speak to me like.. /that/."

"Welcome back." A loft of figure and she ascending the cliffside with ease, the snowfall meshing with the pearl and ivory of Asgardian statue, but the rest is a faux facade of Spring in an unforgiving tundra of seasons.

"He has a name to finish, and you have one to reclaim, just do not take it out on my Keep."


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