thread: come for your crown; aesirnomore
—— There are no shadows at high noon, world and sun tangle to chase shadows from the surface in a frenzied clutching of heat and spit. Its the first lick of shade that begins the game, like face of light turned away to reveal rot beneath the surface. The palace is unprepared, for Asgard is still unused to being attacked on home territory and more unfamiliar still with onslaught from within. It's just a change in the air at first. Just an unsettled feeling to house in the pits of stomachs all halls over and after, silence. The subsequent rush of chaos and violence and blood gone boiling, gone spilled, gone running dark and sticky red through gilded halls is like sudden storm and it rolls through the imperial palace like a tidal wave, relentless.
She comes at the center of the rebellion that washes through the head-heart structure of the realm; violent eye within tempest-storm of motion, that fractured all traces of calm and solitude, unconsciously graceful in motion (the clean lines and arcs of the trajectories of a flurry of weapon edge, the elegance of a wrecking ball, the scouring purity of the desert in a sandstorm, the way drought pares away inessentials from a landscape and leaves behind only essentials and the lay of the land. There is an odd sort of beauty to the execution of attrition, though it may leave only ugliness behind). This was sounds of cacophony -- loud noises; wood breaking, glass shattering, stone having objections (bodies!) smashed against it. Shouts carried, harsh and heavy, and tangled too tight to unravel with screams. This was movement to the battle clamor, music that was palace's solemnity gone mayhem.
Sif is burning, is alive with hungry ambitions of power taken, of the world dancing to her own desire because she will make it so (and she does, and it does, and 'change' rushes like a hot wind before and behind her, ringing with the echo of adapting them of reshaping the walls with blade in hand and months of collected allies, underlings, brought to heel for opportune moment. And this is it, her immaterial creeping blanket of War Goddess Victorious spreading to encompass every corner. She leaves red footprints in her wake, all through progression through corridors and the methodical cut down of all and any dissent, right up to the high and heavy golden doors of the throne room.
Two more fallen bodies join what mess grisly mess all through the halls as she forces open entrance to where Odin son of Bor sits the Realm Eternal's throne. He was a pitiable creature, this once great man. He was old and worn starving martyr, gristle and chalk and blood and little else anymore, but there's no sign of mercy planned to be brought to bear in the sword carried with casual malice. The war goddess's advance was slow, heavy predator stride towards the dais, hair a black wave breaking across armored shoulders and darkly-rusted with someone else's gore.
"Make your peace, Allfather. Valhalla awaits you."
