Roskva went suddenly and inexplicably from twilit pre-dawn to the middle of the night with sickly green in place of moonlight, and she promptly ran into a fence that hadn't been there when she began her step. She stumbled and caught herself on it, looking around. There was a dry storm, lightning and thunder overhead but no rain, and something was roaring that was not thunder, and there were sharper cracks that she was pretty sure were gunfire. She pressed her hands over her ears for a moment, which dulled the noise to something approaching a level where she could hear herself think.
High above, someone was fighting a dragon.
Roskva crouched down by the fence and gave herself several seconds to be frustrated at the universe at large. She had been at home. Now she was somewhere else, with no idea where, and there seemed to be a war on.
Roskva had been born to farmers. She had been made not-quite-mortal long ago and spent the intervening time in service to Thor. This was not a life that lent itself to a great deal of dithering in the face of crisis. She stood up and went to investigate.
By a few hours later, she was helping with the wounded; she had blood on her hands and in her hair; and she had learned that she was definitely in the wrong universe, and rather more trivially on the wrong continent. The nearby city was Broxton, Oklahoma. (Everyone seemed to assume she had dropped in from Asgard, which until recently had been nearby; this perplexed her, but it seemed easier to let it stand than try to explain.) The faraway shining figure fighting the dragon was Thor, which made her stomach clench and roil in a way that the injuries she was binding could not. Surely this was Ragnarok.
The dragon fell and this world's Thor fell, and she heard Odin roar his name, and she twisted as far as she could without letting up on someone's bleeding arm. Even at a distance, she could see him stand, could count the steps as she held her breath and bit her lip until the skin broke.
And yet Odin was still living, and the sun still rose in the morning over a world that was not broken.
Midgard didn't end. Gradually, most of the medical professionals got their injured under cover, and the brightly-dressed warriors who'd fought in the battle turned to helping prepare for a funeral pyre. Roskva pushed back the tendrils of hair that had escaped from her braid, getting more blood on them and not caring. She considered going closer and offering to help, but she hadn't known this Thor and thought those who did might not care for the intrusion.
So she turned away, noting that her hands were starting to feel shaky, and saw a boy dressed in green standing alone and looking toward the funeral preparations, as she had a moment before. She thought for a moment and then headed toward him.
((ooc: At your convenience! If any of this doesn't work, tell me and I'll change it?
Because retcons are totally canon. :D))
