The gathered demigods followed the last vestiges of the divine compulsion that remained within them, and separate, and yet in unison, they entered Runes and Things. Inside of the shop, was a plethora of various Scandinavian themed keepsakes, from fake swords, to plastic Viking helmets with horns, and glass cases holding little bits of costume and real but cheap jewellery. Adorning one of the walls is a clothing section, with various t-shirts of dark colour with a single bold rune, or circle of them at the chest.

In the far back, is a counter, made of apparently rather aged wood, and standing behind it is an elderly looking woman. Her skin is creased and wrinkled from age, and her eyes seem to be closed, as if she were asleep, but her movements behind, the motions of her arms as she cleans a shelf, to her side indicate otherwise. Her skin has a few liver spots, and her hair is white, and not necessarily well kept. She’s wearing a dress that seems vintage of the 1950s, with short sleeves, perhaps when she would have been a younger girl?

Gavriil is the first to realize that this wasn’t just some elderly woman. This was a witch, a blind seeress. Before he could speak, the weight of the world seemed to rock over his shoulders as her empty eyes, covered by skin, turn towards him. Then the others, Each feeling it in turn.

She takes a cane, and with a tapping on the counter she was behind, the door the shop suddenly and sharply closes, the blinds draw, and the sign that hung on the door switches to indicate that the store was now closed.

“Don’t want company. Is this all of you?” Nary a moment passed before, “Bah, doesn’t matter.” The can hits the ground and she slowly walks to the small hinged door at the counter, the hinge groaning as the door swings to make way for her frail seeming steps. Her body was overtly decrepit, but there was powerful magic in the old woman.

First she walked up to the one who noticed her true nature, Gavriil, and held out her hand. “Payment.” Her words carried the same strong authority that drew them here in the first place, and he was quick to comply, offering the sack of gold coin over. It was the only reason he had it in the first place, after all.

She peered into the bag, the folds of skin covering her eye opening revealing a gaping hole behind them. No milky eye, simply the chasm into her head. She pulled the coins out, one at a time, counting them. When she had gotten them all, she held a hand out towards the wall. On it, was a strange looking, obviously novelty, rifle.

It flew into her hand and the illusion that had been woven over it faded. The plastic that once made the rifle melted away, revealing a frozen icy interior. The gun looked to be a Mosin-Nagant M/28, a weapon that Gavriil knew of. Besides the ice, the weapon seemed to be made of bone, instead of metal.

“This one’s yours.” She held it out for Gavriil. In his hands, it felt cool, not cold as the ice would allude to it being. Carved into the ice around it were many small runes that he could not truly understand. The woman spoke again, “The White Death’s bones, and ice from Niflheim. You have no need of ammunition.”

She slowly moved over to the next of the group, Soraya. Her silence was not out of the ordinary, but it was nonetheless compelled, comfortably. Again, the old woman held out her hand, and demanded payment, and again the sack of gold was given. Once more, she opened her eye sockets and counted. Satisfied once more, she held her hand out, this time towards the wall with the shirts. A particularly plain one, lacking even a runic symbol upon it, flew into her hand this time.

As before, the illusion cast over it faded, and the shirt began to look more and more like older hide garb. Specifically, it began to look like hide armour made from a wolf pelt. “The pelt of a werewolf, bound by silver shackles and skinned alive. It’ll serve you well and keep you safe,” she pauses for a moment, “Except from silver.”

Offering it over, Soraya can feel the texture of the hide, the coarse roughness of the fur, the hood made from the head and snout. It was an incredibly sturdy material. The witch, took this time to move on to the next, Dann. Once more she took the payment, and counted and held her hand out. An obvious pattern emerging. With all the payment in hand, and pocketed, she doesn’t this time hold her hand out to the wall. Instead, she makes a simple gesture, and a flicker of light forms in-between her hands, slowly expanding to form what looks like a scroll.

“A map,” she said, offering the scroll over to Dann, “An illusion made manifest, and ever changing as your environment. May you never get lost without it.” With it in his hands, Dann unfurled the scroll, looking it over. The blank parchment shifted and changed in colour, until a basic map of the surrounding area, a mile out from where he stood, began to form on it. He took a testing step backwards, and the entire map shifted and shimmered ever so slightly, adjusting to his new vantage point.

The woman moved on to the next of them, Jacob. She took his gold as she did the others, and having counted it, held her hand to the wall that had the fake swords upon it, one of them flying into her grasp. The novelty vanished revealing a sword made, not of metal or stone, but, “A sword, carved from the antlers of mighty jotun beast. Strong as steel, and sharper still.” Carefully, she laid the sword out as an offering to Jacob. The handle was wooden, carved with intricate designs, but the rest of the hilt was bone. It was light, and well balanced as Jacob felt it in his hand.

Then she turned and walked to Eshna, the ritual repeating as she took her payment, and held her hand out to one of the walls, where a fanny pack with runic designs embroidered on it. Casting the illusion from the pack, the acrylics that it once was made out of, gave way to old, thick leather. The leather was discoloured, and a bit ragged around the edges where the pack had formed a simple sack, a rope going through to tie it shut. She opened it, and stuck two fingers in, pulling out a mix of herbs that had already been made into a paste. She slowly grinds it between her fingers, before closing the sack once more and handing it over, "The sack is little special, but it contains a replenishing supply of herbal poultice. Ancient medicine," she clarified.

To the next, Jagred, she took and counted his coin. Instead of holding a hand out for an item to launch at it, she turned to the jewellery case, and fished a simple looking bracelet out of it. Costume jewellery, so it would seem, but as with many things within, it was far more powerful after the disguise was removed. The cheap plastic gave way to a bronze cord, adorned with wolf’s teeth, each of them sharp. Back to Jagred, she offered the bracelet, giving it a bit of a pull to show that it seems capable of stretching comfortably to be a necklace, before letting it contract back to bracelet size. “The cord is simple enchanted bronze, but the teeth are each dislodged from the maws of some of the many dangerous spawn of Fenrir. Wear it how you like.” She gave this last item to Jagred, and turned her attentions at last, to the final among them present.

Now while there was indeed a divine compulsion driving each of them to behave in a certain way, the last of them had received slightly different service. In his hands while the others offered their gold, he had stolen a single piece of it, from the bag, hiding it in his left hand. Lucky, was testing his luck. When the old woman demanded the gold, he offered the less than filled bag. The blind seeress opened it, and when she opened the gaping hole in her face to peer in blindly, she counted, as normal.

It would seem many things about her form would betray her. Faster than any of those gathered could see, Lucky’s right hand was pulled out, and there was a dagger now deeply embedded in it. Blood dripped from the blade, and onto the floor as the crone hissed at him, “It’s not in this hand,” with a jerk upward, she ripped the dagger out and grabbed his other hand, thrusting it down into the palm as well. The blade of the knife struck through the coin that was held here, and came out the back of his hand as well as before. “I will not be cheated, and now you’ve ruined my price. For you, I have nothing.”

With another sharp pull, she tore the dagger back out of Lucky’s hand, letting the coin that was there fall to the ground, coated in his blood. There was a look of incredible pain on Lucky’s face, but he had no word, no sound that could come out. The witch dropped the rest of his coin and bag upon the ground, before quietly cleaning the dagger of blood on a cloth, and hiding them both away again. “The taint of the Liesmith is upon the scoundrel,” and her tone softened, and became more ponderous, “And yet, he is not your father. Pity, you serve him well.”

She stuck her hand out, and gripped Lucky’s right hand in her own, shaking it hard, as her fingers press into the wound, “It’s a pleasure to meet you anyway, child.” Pulling back, she dismissed the compulsion of silence upon them with a wave of her hand. She turned and walked, still relying upon her cane to get back behind the counter, “Speak now, all of you, I’m sure you have questions. I would like them done, with haste, if you could.” She turned to Eshna, "And you, I think your friend needs some of your poultice."

Gavriil's deep-set eyes looked over his newest acquisition with simple and cold appraisal. It called to him in a way that made the Russian certain that if he ever let it out of his grasp he'd regret it. It was beautiful in a disturbingly alive way, almost as if it would speak or call to him when he was finally able to read the runes. No. That was't quite it. It was more... like it was already dead and was just waiting to make other things like it. What had the crone called it? The bones of the White Death? Ice from some Norseland? It seemed to be nearly the opposite of all the weak and warm things that had so corrupted the country that he'd spent about three hours in. Three hours too many.

It didn't help that it seemed like a lot of his current company seemed to be much the same as he'd feared. Soft. One appeared to be an American solider, if the man's posture, exceptionally clean shaven face, and the gift of a map was anything to go by. Graviil's harsh laughter wasn't able to be externalized by the crone's spell, but the sheer silliness of the terms being used in tandem made him arrogantly mirthful. More like a puppet helpless without his technology and his maps. What he wouldn't give to see the man in a real battle for his life, against the sheer cold and icy wastes of the north. However.... The woman next to him with the werewolf pelt. She seemed to smell of danger and the dark nights with the pack. No wonder she was chosen, as even Graviil with his icy disposition shuddered. Something much older than his physical body told him that the anything that could bear to use such a wolfish pelt was bad news.

The next in the line of brethren was the shifty looking fellow. The Russian could almost taste what was about to happen. I know the sort. Slippery fingers and even slipperier when confronted, making for a dangerous combination when on the opposite side of the poker table. However, this only made him more desirable to have on the closer side, if only to make sure he was stealing from the correct people. Of the three final ones, Gavriil decided to tackle his impressions of the one with the toothy necklace first. Dangerous. That was the only word that correctly described him. Something was there, prowling beneath the surface. Not like the wolf-woman. This was something like an idea, almost. Just a very old feeling, again like the wolves.

Before he could appraise the last two of his brethren, the stench of blood, something ever familiar to Gavriil, roused him from his internal ranting as the crone called for questions. Gripping the rifle ever tighter, the dark haired man pronounced his words with the barest trace of a Russian accent, choosing English over his native language because it was what the old one had spoken with. "Elder. You can see who was our parent, then? If so, tell who sired me. I am not familiar with the Norse myths. I want to know, also, about the White Death that has made this... weapon."

The crone frowned, almost sneering. Gavriil had said something to upset her, but he could not tell what it was. Her face remained very plain at most when her expression changed. Her accent as she spoke, was no longer the slight Swedish accent she had, but now it’s a stronger Russian accent, “It is not my place to say whom your parents are. The ravens will be arriving soon with that, and where you are to go from here. With my payment, I'm to field only a few other questions before kicking you out. Preferably, before they arrive.

Her eyeless sockets go wide, a gasping suction heard from them before her face closes up again. She began to speak, in purely Old Norse. Unintelligible to most who listened, save those who are familiar with the roots of the Nordic tongue.

Gavriil suddenly felt a rush of sense. There was a strange feeling of a mix of combat and every single sound off quiet nature overlaid in his head. The smell of blood and sweat filled his nostrils, as did the smell of ripe fruit and flowers, and of a slow flowing river. It was loud, imposing, almost blocking out his other senses, until it subsided.

The feeling was still, muted, weak. It came flowing from each of the others present, save the crone. She didn’t exude any new sensation to Gavriil. There must have been some tell in his face as it hit, as she smiled, and spoke more in Old Norse. But this time, this time he understood her, “Your worm tongue can move as it ought,” and she was right. If Gavriil were to try to speak in Old Norse, he would be able to. Somewhere inside, he realized that this wasn’t just Old Norse. Any language he listened to just a few sentences of, he’d be able to understand and speak and remember.

But it wasn’t the only thing he noticed had changed. Looking at his rifle, he saw a small smouldering of ethereal vapour, and knew, he was seeing a soul, a ghost, the one that had been broken to make this weapon. He could hear it, screaming. Screaming, relentlessly. The suffering was palpable, it was torn and broken.

The crone continued, “You can hear him now, too, right? He was once a great sniper, and now he is a gun in your hands. Does it feel good to hear the screaming? If it ever gets too much, you can suppress this,” she paused, “6th sense of yours. The bones taken from Helheim, the frost from Niflheim, it’s as true a weapon of death as any.”

“Close your eyes,” she spoke, her words filled with power, and Gavriil did, “Feel. What else can you do? I’d hate to have to explain it all from now on.” The quiet in his head let his fate flow to his mind. He knew his new skills.

After some time, he finally opened his eyes again, after the crone had already fielded questions from at least one more of his kin.

Dann wasn't really sure what to take of the 'souvenir' he was given. Yet, a perpetually updating map has it uses. He took an envious glance at the gun that was given to the gruff looking man. It was perfectly built and unless the crone's word meant that the gun was not meant to be shot, it was an incredibly enviable gift. What she said about a White Death also sounded familiar too, even if he can't put where he had heard it. He moved his gaze to the other tall man, His first assessment was that he was one of those Jock types, although there was something about him that screamed trouble to his senses. Dann would have to spare an eye to the rest, just to make sure there won't be any problem. The one who got the sword looked like a wreck, although something in his eyes seemed to indicate that he's at least resolute in his doing. It was funny to Dann how the women would be the least troublesome of the lot.

He was interrupted as he saw the old crone moving faster and more precise than what her frame should allow and stabbed the hands of the shifty looking male among them. Dann winced at the sight, those hands would be incredibly hard to use even after they healed. He wanted to say that the thief deserved it for some reason, but maiming someone for a single coin did felt too much. The old crone then casually dismissed what she just did as if it was a normal thing to do and gestured them for questions. She then started speaking in a familiar sounding tongue. It sounded like Danish, but it was not something he could understand. Shaking his head, Dann asked his question, "Are we the first group that arrived? I can't believe that for an upcoming war, we would be only fighters coming in."

Soraya's heart was pounding as she stepped into the shop. She had gone on her journey to California in somber silence, unaffected by the glorious quest she had begun. But now, being in the place she'd been instructed to go to, she suddenly felt like it was the first day of the rest of her life. As soon as she stepped foot in the shop and saw the old woman working behind the counter, it felt as though there was too much air in the room. An invisible force was pressing down on her shoulders, but she braved the fear and stepped forward anyway.

There were others here. No one she recognized, no one who gave her a sense of familiarity, but there was a bond there - even if she didn't fully realize it. The ravens had told her of them, her "kin" they had said. Soraya scanned over each of them, trying to get a sense of who they might be. She was able to take in all of them (feeling somewhat disappointed to see only one other woman) and their features, and their faces were now embedded in her memory. Now familiar with the other group members, she took in the shop. She scanned over all of the cheap costumes and novelty fake weapons adorning the walls. There was little to see here, so she quickly moved on to the elderly woman manning the shop. The floorboards creaked as Soraya came to a full stop a few feet from the counter. The old woman had her eyes closed, but she was not exactly blind, Soraya thought. The suspicion was confirmed as she felt a heavy gaze come over her, then move on momentarily.

Suddenly the shop became dark. Spinning around, Soraya saw that the blinds had been drawn and the door sign flipped over. With a sharp impact, a thought hit Soraya: kîskwehkan iskwew. Witch. The words invoked a feeling of fear, but also of great respect. The old woman was powerful indeed. Although Soraya's culture fostered an incredibly strong love and respect for all elders, knowing the old woman was kîskwehkan iskwew nearly drew the breath from her lungs.

The Cree woman waited silently as the elder gave the dark-haired, tall white man a gift, in exchange for his sack of gold coins. She avoided looking, however, when the old woman's wrinkled eyelid slid back to reveal an empty black socket, somehow still giving her vision. When it came to be Soraya's turn, though, she found it in herself to look levelly at the woman with the respect she was owed. When she had received her payment, the witch handed Soraya a wolf hide, explaining that it was from a werewolf. She bowed her head in thanks. Soraya's heart ached for her brother that had suffered such a fate, but silently thanked him for this gift. She held it close to her with pride, and waited again while the others got their gifts. She nearly winced at one man's gift of wolf teeth. She thanked that wolf for their gift as well.

Apparently the witch did not like to be crossed, as the most unremarkable-looking man of the group received two stab wounds as his gift. Soraya saw a coin fall to the ground, and realized that he had tried to scam the witch. She sympathized with him - the punishment was more than extreme - but was glad that she regarded the woman with such respect. Hopefully that would save her from receiving the same treatment.

Although she hesitated to speak, Soraya knew that this opportunity would not come again. Although the ravens had chattered and quipped away to reveal much about her destiny, of course there was still so much to ask. The dark-haired man with the rifle asked one of the questions she'd been pondering, in an unfamiliar accent, but he did not receive an answer. Instead, he was dismissed quite quickly. But then the witch began speaking to him, with much more thought, in an unidentifiable language. Soraya tried to listen but couldn't understand a single word of it. She stole a few glances to her new 'brother,' who after some time closed his eyes and seemed to disappear from the room. Too curious to hold her tongue, Soraya had to ask. "What's happened to him?"

Lucky had entered the shop first, before all the rest. He had managed to get a straight flight there, letting him arrive at the store within hours of receiving the note and meeting the two birds. Stepping in, he quickly dismissed the entire store as worthless, with only plastic novelties lying around. Nothing worth stealing, except maybe stuff with sentimental value. Though how sentimental you could be about something made in China was a mystery to Lucky.

When the others started flooding in, Lucky took his time staring at all of them. There was the Native American, a little bit taller than himself, looking very wild as compared to most of the others there. There was also the blonde fellow, also a bit taller than himself, who seemed full of silly things like honor and a sense of duty. There was the hardened man, who seemed just as wild as the first woman, but also, a strong sense of control and power over it. He didn't like the wild for the wild, but as an opportunity to show how good you were. There was the other woman, the skin colour and facial structure resembling those from India. She seemed pretty ready. A few others who Lucky hadn't had time for, since the old woman started talking.

He watched as the trade slowly made it's way around, and checked his own bag. The coins, for an item. Lucky looked at the crone again, who was looking through the bags herself. She wasn't blind, except in the traditional sense. She could see. But how much? Lucky decided to roll the dice, and plucked out one of the coins from his bag.

When the witch came around, she inspected the bag, and before he could react, had stabbed Lucky through each hand. He watched as the gold tumbled to the floor, and the crone walked away. He slowly grabbed the bag, and put the pierced gold coin back in it. Maybe I can see if I can sell this elsewhere, he thought.

As the witch removed the bind, the hardened man talked to the witch, and they conversed for a little, switching into a new language halfway through, and the man walked off to stare out the window. The blonde fellow was asking about whether they were all of the fighting force, and the Native American was asking what had happened to the Russian.

Lucky himself, he pocketed the gold, and stood, waiting. Let the others get their questions done first. Lucky wanted some privacy for his questions. Serving the Liesmith, and yet this Liesmith was not his father. He had done some reading on Norse mythology, and knew the liesmith was Loki. But he wasn't serving his own father? What was going on there? He grabbed a shirt off a nearby stand, and ripped some of it into strips, binding up his hands. It hurt like hell, for sure, but he might as well stop the blood flow as soon as possible.

Runes and Things hadn’t really been hard to find. Every cab driver here seemed to know of it, and honestly, he couldn’t miss the building if he tried. Despite its humble appearance, the entire shop oozed power and, something else lurked beneath the harmless façade created by cheap t-shirts and plastic weapons, more ancient and dangerous than he could begin to imagine. It kept his mind on edge, just as his limbs ached to turn around and leave, but he pressed on. He had come this far, after all. Might as well finish what he had started. Slipping easily through the half-opened door, he entered the shop, only looked back once to watch the door closed behind him.

The following events weren’t so different from his meeting with the crows, as it had left him with more questions than answers. The supposedly owner, though frail and blind as she was, still managed to make his hair stood on edge. Immediately upon entering, he knew she was a force to be reckoned with, and best left alone in everyone’s interest. As for the rest of his so-called ‘kin’, he couldn’t really tell much about them. Not just yet. But as far as he knew, they seemed to be a diverse bunch. Interesting, even. But then, that was left to be seen. After all, if what the crows said was anything to go by, they would be stuck together for quite a while, thanks to this divine blood in their veins.

When the old woman began speaking, he crept to the edge of the group and scanned his surroundings, taking in objects and faces, just as he felt others’ eyes on him. Now that he had paid attention, the shop owner appeared to be blind, the gaping holes where her eyes should be made that fact quite obvious. Didn’t make her any less intimidating though. First, she turned to one of the taller guy, and as her request, he handed over his pouch of coins. In return, the crone gave him a strange gun, its exterior wrapped in ice and bones. The weapon brought out the cold glint in its new owner’s eyes, and to be honest, Jagred found it…unsettling. There was something about the man that reminded him of frozen lakes. When dealing with them, you would always have to watch where you tread, or face with a cold and sudden demise. Next, the owner moved to a Native woman, accepting her payment and returned with a hide garb. He eyed her closely for a moment, taking in dark hair, tanned skin and sharp features. Whoever she was, wearing the skin of a werewolf wasn’t something he would take lightly. From then on, the blind crone carried on with her work, taking the coin pouch from each of them and offered an interesting trinket in return.

A blond man of their group, lanky in stature, received a small scroll with some sort of magical map on it, and another one got a sword. Jagred eyed the weapon for a good long while, before realizing he had been staring, and hastily turned away. He spent the next moment tried to keep his gaze on the old woman, watching as she slowly moved closer to him. After giving the second woman of their group a bag containing some magical healing paste, she finally turned to him, eyeless sockets looking even more disturbing up close. He swallowed drily, then offered up his share of gold coins without a word, then held out a hand for his trinket. She held up a bracelet decorated with teeth, demonstrated how to wear it, then promptly dropped it into his hand.

The teeth felt oddly cold against his palm, and yet, not one bit uncomfortable. After a few moment of stretching to test the cord’s limit, he finally contented and decided to put it on as a necklace. For some reason, the thought of parting with this gift unnerved him, even just for a brief moment. The weight settled down nicely around his neck as Jagred tucked it beneath his shirt. At least it wasn’t a weapon. Even he couldn’t be certain what he would do with one right now.

It was then a commotion broke out, joisting him from his thoughts. He turned to his left, just in time to watch the crone plucked her dagger out of some poor bloke’s palm. Apparently, he tried to steal one of the coins in the sack. Not a very smart move, in Jagred’s opinion. She was creepy as hell, not to mention, when he looked into those eyeless sockets of her, he had the feeling that she wasn’t quite so blind. He slowly turned to look at the unfortunate fellow, wondering if he should try to help. But then, what could he do? Let the girl with the healing paste handle it. With that in mind, he turned to watch the exchange between the tall man with a slight Russian and the crone. Again, she didn’t not really answer his question, just danced around it with foreign tongues and meaningless ramblings. As least to his ears they were meaningless. Not sure about the Russian guy though. He seemed to be quite…absorbed.

After the others had finished with their questions, Jagred pondered and decided to voice his own, though he didn’t really expect to get a straight answer out of the blind woman. –“ The crows did mention Ragnarok. So how do we half-bloods actually fit into this? What can we do that the gods can not?”

The crone turned to Dann, “First? No. Last? No. Tiresome waves upon waves. Good for business, and my partners are always looking for more gold.” She faced, her expression stern, off into nowhere for a moment, “You are the largest group by far. Ragnarok must be soon if they’re desperate enough to make so many of you at once.”

While the trouble child moved to the shirt and rip it into strips, he found that this item seemed oddly real, compared to the showcase of illusions that covered other seemingly normal items, that were anything but. There must be some normal items mingled in with the paranormal.

Soraya spoke up, voicing her question as well, and got a surprisingly warm, awkwardly so, expression on the eyeless face of the crone, “Knowledge, pay no mind you’ll be getting your own soon enough.” She cackled, in an almost stereotypical witch-like manner, although the slight tilt in her direction showed she was more attentive to Lucky trying, and failing due to pain and blood, to properly wrap his own hands. He obviously needs some help with this. However, while he does try and fail, a thought occurs to Lucky. If he hadn’t tried to steal some coin, she would’ve gotten his present very easily from the room. The item intended for him is still in here, somewhere.

But the look of amusement at pain was quickly replaced with a more earnest delight, “A good question, that is,” she said, turning her hollow gaze to Jagred, whom she now realized had put the bracelet around his neck, donning it as a necklace. She sputtered a bit, “You weren’t actually supposed to do that.”

Jagred, if he would make any attempt to try to take off the necklace in response to that, would find the teeth bending inward a bit, gripping into the flesh about his neck. The seeress just sighed, “I had wanted you to find out what it did on your own, but even my prophetic skills didn’t see this coming.” She shook her head, “You’ve been collared, like a mongrel dog. The teeth will dig in tighter, and tighter if you try to remove it, or if you otherwise misbehave. It was supposed to be poetic and take your hand for justice if it sinned too greatly, but, well...” she made a bit of a gesture that could only be summed up as ‘lose your head and die’.

“But,” she continued now, Gavriil’s attention returning to the room from his introspection, “There is something you can do, that the gods cannot. Fate, is an eternal meddler, and its attentions are fickle and cruel. It wants a story, a grand one, to play out, and the divine and monstrous are the biggest actors. Mortals, and weaker beings such as myself, are not as strongly tied to any course of action. Where the Gods step on eggshells to avoid making Ragnarok worse, preferring shadow deals away from mortals when they can, you all are not so hampered.”

“You are, Free Agents, lets say. Your stories have not yet been set in stone. You still have more free will than the Gods. Their hope, is to throw you into the story, and hope it changes and maybe things manage to not get worse for it. While I am far your greater now, your potential is grander still. Fate loves a story, they’re hoping your story is saving their lives.”

She laughs, “It’s strange, isn’t it? You’ve more agency in this tale, and yet you can still be so easily pushed around by their, and my, words. I could, right now, tell you to kill yourselves, and you would do it. What hope do the Gods have?” Her words are followed by silence, interrupted only by a cold wind rattling into the shop, a reminder of the winter present outside.

Deeming that he had done a sufficient job with the hands, Lucky shot a look towards the Indian woman. Okay, so she has some healing poultice. Maybe if he asked nicely he can retrieve something. Looking around the room now, he ignored the old woman and the questions asked by everyone as he noticed something. When the Indian had received her poultice, the witch had taken it from the wall, where it had been disguised as some other thing. A fanny pack, if his memory served. Same with all the other items. The sword, the rifle. His item was in this room. He just needed to find what it could possibly be.

He stepped away from the group, looking around. Maybe he would be able to keep both the bag of gold and his own little trinket. Lucky looked through the racks, pawing at a few items to check if they were real or not. Most felt real to the touch, though that could be illusion for all he knew about magic. As he went, he took a few things that just seemed interesting in their own right. A rather nice fountain pen, seemingly made of bone. A pack of cards, with Norse Cards written on the front, along with a picture of Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, staring out and back at Lucky.

Hearing something interesting, Lucky turned back to the witch, as a cold wind rattled the shop. "Well, if we have free will, what's to stop us from just doing as we wish? I mean, Ragnarok could take quite a while. That would be a good amount of time to just do as we wish, make our own kingdoms. To those who haven't had a god for a while, I'm sure a demigod would do." stepping to a mirror, he picked up a large fake beard, putting it on, "think I could pull off a convincing Jesus?"

He put it back down. "Anyway, point is, how far away is Ragnarok? From the point of view of the gods, it may be soon but it might be an eon for us."

Upon entering Runes and Things, Eshna was instantly reminded well of the peculiarity in merchandise a small family-owned shop could retain. On any common street in Delhi, one could find countless tiny establishments that offered miscellaneous trinkets with seemingly little coherence. Luckily in America, though, such chaotic shelves were more rare. Vacant as the place seemed to be, it certainly seemed infinitely more bearable to peruse. Eshna found herself picking up a few of the items, and examined a few shirts, catching the old woman's closed gaze only at the last moment when it passed over her person. More attentive then, she stood beside the others who were undoubtedly in the same boat as herself and listened closely to what the shop owner had to say.

It seemed they were to receive some sort of mystical gift in return for their gold, finally unveiling what it was meant for. As the witch, one by one, revealed clearly how none of this was a joke -an illusion- ultimately, Eshna's doubt in the supernatural truth behind this trip were washed away, replaced instead with a growing curiosity and wonder. When it came to be her turn, to receive her own gift, she graciously handed the bag of coin to the witch and patiently awaited what would come of it.

A bag of medicine. How fitting. Eshna couldn't help but smile as she weighed the leather sack in her hand. With a quick deduction, she attributed her prowess in medical school to be stemmed from the divine. She let out a quick, quiet laugh and recalled the qualities of poultice; it was not the most potent of anti-inflammatory, but it would help where nothing else would. It seemed, almost fatefully, that it would have its time quite soon. Immediately in fact.

The witch, to her surprise, had stabbed another individual present in both hands, quite apathetically in fact. Withholding the desire to call police, knowing well the unbelievable situation they were in already, she resolved instead to simply help Lucky. Rushing to his side, she moved aside his poor attempts at bandaging his wounds and instead applied some of the poultice she had received before wrapping it up tightly with the cloth he had procured, in addition to some other materials she herself picked up.

Eshna spoke up as she looked over her work, correcting tiny aspects of the crack-job healing, "Then, as Free Agents," she stated sarcastically, "what is the first task we have been commanded?"

The old one's words stung. He was weak? Like these soft ones? Again, the nagging feeling told him that it was quite true, but again, Gavriil dismissed it. Choosing instead to leave himself out of the conversation like he had obviously been before, he glared at the ghost inhabiting his gun, relishing the screams. He knew that whatever the man used to be, it was strong. Gavriil's icy eyes darted up and around the store once to confirm that none were currently looking at him, and began to examine the wisp of etheral vapor more closely. It appeared to be locked into the bone parts that were as cool as the ice was to the touch. The screams grew louder as he caressed the barrel, which appeared to be made of quite a few bones stacked upon one another. The 'White Death's' spine, perhaps? His large fingers paused at the very end, feeling the existentially carved rifling along the inside.

Gavriil grimaced after a moment or two of basking in the refreshing chill that the gun seemed to give off passively. The crone's words came back into the forefront of his mind. Would every one of the so-called gods and their Ragnarok act so superior? It would be more annoying that just listening to the people around him speak of inner strength. He kept frowning even as Lucky asked his question, choosing instead to stare mutinously at the wall as he steadily convinced himself that this must be some sort of test, and forcing himself to believe that he'd be able to get stronger than before as the old hag had said.

The only female that he hadn't observed spoke up, her sarcastic tones cutting into Gavriil's focus. She had forwarded the most important question next to his. Before adding his response, the Russian glared her up and down, the scent and feeling of rushing water and fruit much clearer from her than of the one that felt like a raging battle. Judging from her item, a healer? Feh. Helping others survive the harsh life was naive. We'll see how long she lasts before failing. He gave a snort of laughter before adding his voice to the barrage of questions as support. "The healer is right, elder. Do you have our job laid out for us, or is it again coming with the ravens?" His voice, while unnoticed to him, was missing the Russian accent it once held.

It was all Soraya could do to just nod silently in acceptance of the cryptic response. She was satisfied enough by the answer she had received. Knowledge. Obviously the kîskwehkan iskwew had used her great power to bestow knowledge upon the foreign white man, in what was perhaps his native tongue. The witch said "you'll be getting your own soon enough." Soraya hoped quietly that wasn't a bad thing. Judging by the distracted but harmless way she regarded Soraya, she felt safely planted in the safe zone. She decided to herself not to push her luck with the slightly volatile Elder woman. She would, as she had always done, hold her tongue as long as speaking was unnecessary.

Although she wished to help her 'brother,' the one with the new hand wounds, she knew it was best left to the woman with the poultice, who immediately sprang into action to tend to her injured brother. With that issue being tied up as neatly possible, Soraya resumed looking over her new pelt. It weighed heavily in her hands. The hide itself was sturdy and strong, and the fur was extremely thick. She looked into the empty eyes of the werewolf's head - empty like the witch's own. It sent a shudder through her, though she suppressed it. She swung the hide around, draping the pelt over her shoulders. The skinned head hung on her back like a hood. If she so chose to do so, she could raise it up and place it on her head. Although just looking at and touching it proved its great power, wearing it made a much bigger impact on her. She could feel the weight - the true weight - of the pelt on her shoulders.

There were many questions from the others, which somehow did not surprise Soraya. She was, however, taken aback at how brash and outright rude they could be - namely the other woman. She regularly saw young people such as herself mistreat Elders out of frustration, but she never did understand it. And now her supposed 'sister' was taking a sarcastic tone with a powerful witch who had just displayed her wrath. And how little she thought of it. The shock registered on Soraya's face through expression, but not through words. Perhaps she would have to apologize on behalf of her kin. Perhaps that would prevent any angry actions on behalf of the witch. But for now, she would watch it play through. Maybe the kîskwehkan iskwew had more patience than she had displayed earlier. Soraya hoped silently.

Upon entering the offbeat gift shop as one of the last of the group, Jacob suspiciously eyed every item from the front to the back. Looks normal enough to me...there's definitely something about this place though...and there it is. The elderly woman turned her attention to the group. He could feel her presence striking deep within his heart, and if he wasn't sure of the importance of the task at hand upon speaking to the ravens, he was now. His unsure sense of dread quickly transitioned into a feeling of astonishment, notably upon viewing these ordinary items morph seamlessly into mythical artifacts and weapons. He took this opportunity to observe the items given as well as their new owners.

The burly european type seemed simple enough, a man with a high sense of pride and a demeaning view of all lesser beings notable in the way he seemingly looked down to the rest of them. He would certainly be an asset to the group, and he may even come off as smarter than he appears. The native girl, whom he rashly judged as having a primary trait of innocence, quickly changed his mind. Innocence may be the wrong word to describe her, ambitious, traditional... those words rang closer to home. The dutchman was next, he was clean shaven, and gave off a direct posture. If he hadn't known any better, Jacob would've took him for a soldier. The mysterious shop owner approached him, next. Following in the actions of those before him, he placed the sack in her hand and watch a flimsy sword levitate towards her grasp. His eyes widening upon its transformation, from the part wooden, part antler carved hilt to the perfectly forged blade, he was in awe. Subtly taking it from her offering hands, he muttered a simple 'thank you...' before cleanly and slowly swiping it through the air.

Next in line was the fair-skinned Indian woman. Something seemed familiar about her to Jacob, she was certainly gorgeous in every sense of the word as he couldn't help but to eye every detail of her body. Still, he'd never seen her before, unable to pin down that faint feeling they might've been connected. The man after her appeared fresh out of college, with eyes as tired and droopy as his own, possibly for different reasons. He couldn't form much of an opinion on him, although obviously he must've had his uses to be apart of this group. Before he could form an opinion on the final member of the group, he witnessed the old woman stab both of his hands with a dagger, watching a gold coin fall out the left one. Holy shit! This old lady doesn't fuck around... he immediately thought. A fuckin' thief, he'd better not try a fast one on any of us because I already don't trust him. And with that, he took to eyeing the groups' artifacts with amazement, glancing often back to his sword like he'd just received a birthday gift. Upon being invited to ask the lady any questions, he awaited until it was his time to speak up so as to not cause any rude and inappropriate interruptions.

"My uncle...he followed the Christian God, not the old nordic religion." He stated, holding up his silver cross necklace. "He died going a hundred and thirty miles down the freeway, still clinging to his motorcycle as they pried his mangled body off the hot asphalt. I carry a part of his ashes with me, and I would like to know what's become of his soul if that's possible..." He paused for only a second, "I would also wish to know if this sword bears a name, and if any previous owners contributed to it's history." He further inquired.

Eshna worked rather well upon Lucky’s injuries, almost perfectly tending to the hand wounds with her supplies and gift. Lucky spoke up, voicing his question first, and the old woman responded, “I do not know what the God’s think the time-frame is, they do not often talk to or with me besides requisitions of dwarven made items such that you,” she stopped, correcting herself, “Most of you have gathered.” The helpful child spoke up next, about their first quest, “I don’t know that either. The prattling birds will be here shortly to tell you.”

Lastly, Jacob spoke, and the old woman was going to answer, until, suddenly, there was something at the door. The crone looked first as if to speak harsh things as the ravens, Hugin and Munin flew in, but she caught her tongue as she smiled, sweetly.

It was palpable, the feeling when he walked through the doors, so very real. Strong, and enduring, the very air around him seemed to pay homage, and the crass ravens flew more dignified. His presence was all encompassing, there was none in the room who could not afford him their attention. The raw power put the compulsions they had felt from the witch to shame, and yet it asked nothing of them.

Clad in white, and with locks of golden hair flowing down his handsome face, the God, Baldur, stood in the doorway, in but a fraction of his true glory. While his form could be described in words, there was something truly beyond words in every inch of his skin, clothed or not, and the charmed smile he wore fit him effortlessly. What they say about him, to know Baldur is to love Baldur, was becoming evident.

There was nothing the demigods held secret, that they wouldn’t be willing to share with him, just so he’d smile for them, and the reassuring feeling that he asked none of that of them washed over them as blissful relief. He was beauty, incarnate. Not sexual beauty that arouses the loins, but artistic beauty that sets the soul aflame.

“Brother, I am sorry, but my dear friend shop-keep won’t be able to give you a satisfying answer. Nor I.”

He bowed, low, and respectful to the gathered demigods, as the ravens found their own perches within the store. The door behind him closed, not in the forceful way as the crone made it, but almost as if it was politely doing what the God wanted without being asked.

“As for your mighty blade, it’s dwarven made, that I know, but the particulars I do not. The name, though, is what you wish for it. I know you’ll pick something wonderful.” He flashed his eyes, full all that is good and light in the world at Jacob.

The old woman, stammered, awestruck, before Baldur lifted out of the bow and smiled purely at her now. With a kindness and forwardness not yet shown with her encounters with the demigods, she spoke, “It’s good to see you, Baldur.” He simply shifted into a bit of a cocky grin, “I know, darling.”

“I didn’t know you were coming, if I did I would have cleaned,” he interrupted with a finger to his lips, “Shhh, it’s okay. You do not need to impress me. The children do.”

Hugin spoke at this, “Yes, the quest, the All Father wants them to-!” it spoke excitedly until Baldur turned and calmly shhhh’d it too. “I know it was your noble duty to deliver the message, but you and I know how bad things have gotten.” Hugin nodded, silently, and Munin rattled in a bit of a chuckle before going quiet and respectful as well.

Baldur called out to the demigods, by name, “Soraya Vidarsdottir, Gavriil Helson, Dann Ullerson, Jacob Freyrson, Jagred Tyrson, Eshna Freyasdottir, and my truest brother, Lucky Odinson, I am Baldur, and it is my pleasure to meet you all. I can only wish it was under tidings more fair. The All Father has cause to believe that Fimbulvetr, a herald of Ragnarok’s immediacy will begin within a month’s time.”

“We believe this, because the relic which will spur Fimbulvetr into action, the Heart of Winter either already is, or is about to be unearthed. Asgard and Jotunheim have been competing to find it for some time, and we believe they’ve learned the location.”

“The All Father has learned that increased Frost Giant attention in Bodie, California, has been coupled with Midgardian Dwarves vanishing in the area. This points to them at least thinking they are in the right location if they are enslaving Dwarves so brazenly after hundreds of years.”

Munin chimes in, “From here, the northern road will take you to Bodie, the Asgardians dare not go there themselves, for fear of what Fate will cause,” Hugin finishes, “But you are both competent, and able to go under Fate’s radar of doom, y’see?”

Baldur picked back up, “And so, all we ask, is that you go to Bodie, investigate the old mines, and kill or capture any Frost Giants that may be there. They are as cautious as we about being too open, and so there shouldn’t be any there too dangerous for you to handle. If they do have the Heart of Winter, they will not be so timid. If you manage to get the Heart of Winter for yourselves before they do,” he says, a bit optimistic and smiling again, “Then we may be able to postpone Ragnarok for quite some time, and your names will be celebrated by all.”

With the message given, Baldur bowed once more, lower this time, “I beg your leave, for while only my sword, Mistletoe, can harm me and set off even more of Ragnarok, I should be getting back to Asgard before unnecessary danger comes to this city as well. If you have any questions, you may direct them to my feathered friends. Good luck, brothers and sisters.” He turned and walked outside and was shortly gone from sight entirely, and the ravens began to look more mischievous as they had before, and the crone's discontent was quick to return as well. Her expression was immediately malicious towards the ravens. It was obvious that she didn't like them at all, and likely would be attacking them soon to get them out of her store. Everything about the store seemed less wonderful and good now that Baldur was gone.

Lucky watched as Baldur left, sighing slightly before catching himself. If that was Baldur, not even Odin, then he have to keep his guard up when around them. If it was even possible. He resumed looking around the store, eyeing things, trying to look through what illusions there may be, and see instead the true object.

While he did this, he tried to think about what Baldur had said. Lucky Odinson. How convenient. The Allfather was his father. Which seemed strange, since his entire line of work fell into Loki's a bit more. Odin must obviously not check in on all his kids all the times, otherwise Lucky may have been more than a disappointment. Maybe a body in a ditch. He didn't know too much about Odin, but Lucky hazarded a guess that he didn't like tricksters.

The current group also seemed rather wary of him. Gavriil, and Jacob both had tried to have a quick look at him without him noticing. Jacob seemed the one who distrusted Lucky more. Lucky would have to make an attempt to fix that relationship at some point.

Lucky froze, thinking to another thing that Baldur had said. Their names. Their actual names. Lucky Odinson was his true name, as far as he knew, unless he had been named something different at birth, which seemed unlikely. Lucky tried to think about what that meant. Something about true names in Norse mythology. Oh. Those who know true names have power over that person. Lucky took out his phone, and sent a quick message to his mother. "Is my first name really Lucky? I need to know."

That would have to do for now, until Lucky managed to get a second name. He was good at that, in the human world. It shouldn't be too much harder to get a second name in the divine world. He just needed to do something big enough that everyone would notice. Even if it meant performing a heist on Fort Knox.

He turned towards the birds, walking over to them. "Hugin, Munin. Tell us, what did the Allfather tell us to do? And how soon does it have to be done?" he then faced the witch, "and you. Tell me, are there any nearby divine grocery stores? Or something? I need to put this gold to use. Honestly, I'd much rather have lettuce and tomatoes over some choking collar," Lucky indicated Jagred at this.

As soon as the fateful words left the witch’s mouth, his fingers froze around the necklace. “Hey!! You could have said…”- He opened his mouth to protest, just as the crone decided to turn away for another question. Left with only himself to blame, Jagred pressed a hand to his forehead, mumbled a few incoherent curses under his breath. Still, his head was still attached firmly to his shoulders, and just as the crone had said, if he played his cards right, it would probably remain that way. Didn’t sound like a very hard task, because apparently, all he needed to do was to not to ‘misbehave’. Which was exactly what he had in mind when first arriving in this place, simply did whatever that was asked of him and got out. Nothing more, nothing less. Hopefully, stopping the Ragnarok wouldn’t be that complicated.

Right. Who the hell are you kidding?

All of the sudden, he heard the crone mentioned something about ‘prattling birds’ and immediately, his head jerked up in her direction. Only to find something on her wrinkled lips that might have qualified as a smile. Honestly, he wasn’t sure which one was more disturbing, the fact that he could be decapitate any moment by his necklace, or such a smile could exist on her face. It was confusing at first, the reason for her sudden change in attitude, but just as he turned to look at the door, realization hit.

It was him.

Jagred could help but stared at the stranger, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. Simple words wouldn’t be enough to do the man justice. There was just something about this man that demanded affection, and Jagred found himself unable to refuse. Beneath the divine beauty, he could sense power, far stronger and older than the witch’s, and yet, far less intimidating. It was rather a strange sensation, both foreign and utterly irresistible. It scared him in an odd sort of way, to find out such power over the mind could actually exist.

It took visible effort on Jagred’s part to just focus on what Baldur was talking about. There wasn’t that much information to take in, fortunately, simply details about their upcoming mission, among other things. Like how his father turned out to be Tyr. Jagred wasn’t actually that big on Norse mythology, as the subject only came up occasionally in those courseworks he used to get in highschool, but he knew enough about Tyr. Supposedly, he was the god of justice or law or something, and he sacrificed his hand in the binding of the big bad wolf, Fenrir. The news didn’t really have that much of an impact on him, though. He couldn’t imagine why it should, not when all he knew about Tyr was just a name that came with a story.

When Baldur finally took his leave, Jagred let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, his lips pressed into a thin line. So now they were supposed to go get some relics for the gods from the hands of these Frost Giants. He didn’t really know what they were, but anything associated with the word ‘giant’ probably would be far from cute and harmless. Just as soon as he was about to voice his concerns, one of the male from their groups made some remarks about his ‘collar’. Jagred turned to him, recognizing the one that got stabbed from before. His blue eyes narrowed slightly, but otherwise his expression remained passive.

Breaking Lucky’s jaws sounded like a good idea at the moment, but Jagred decided against it. They were, after all, expected to work together as a team.

Maybe later, when a better opportunity presents itself.

“Of course you do. Might as well be prepared for the next time you steal from blind old women.”- His lips stretched into a slow, careful smile, before abruptly turning to the crows.-“ So we have a mission now. How do we get there? And I do hope you don’t have the intention of sending us in there empty-handed? We are supposed to face down giants here.”

Soraya hung on every one of Baldur's words. Internally, she tried to scold herself for behaving like a swooning little girl, but she was enveloped by the god's presence and was unable to distract herself from him and his speech. Hearing her name come from between his lips made it sound so beautiful. It would pale in comparison in the voice of anyone else, but Soraya didn't think of that now. In her mind, she repeated the new name. Soraya Vidarsdottir. She was the child of Vidar. She didn't remember him from the Norse mythology lessons in high school, but just the name made her chest tighten around her heart.

If Baldur weren't in the room, perhaps she would have begun to think about her parents - well, the humans back home who raised her - and what the story was there. But these thoughts did not come. When Baldur eventually left, it felt as though the light in the shop had dimmed, and all of the objects that had once seemed to stand at attention and glow in his company immediately dulled. Soraya could feel the disappointment sink in. And then she began to think. Just who were her 'parents' and why did they raise her, the two of them? Was she adopted? Did her mother have an affair with a Norse god? Soraya found herself automatically pushing the thoughts away. She didn't want to think about it. Besides, now was hardly the time to start having family issues. She wasn't an adolescent.

The others seemed to recover a little quicker from Baldur's remarkable effect. Soraya hoped desperately that she wasn't the only one who had felt it. Her sbilings' words brought her attention back to the problem at hand - the quest to hunt the Frost Giants. Her heart jumped a little. It sounded like quite the leap, from assistant teacher at a school to killing giants for the gods. Was she even capable of such a feat? Were her brothers and sisters? And most of all, could a group of people who just met work together efficiently enough to take down giants? She was skeptical. I suppose I'll keep my mind open. The best way to learn how to be a pack is to fight and feast together.

She slowly pulled all of her hair over to one side so that she could braid down the entire length of it. Though she had nothing to tie it off, it seemed to hold fairly well due to the weight of her hair. It was a habit she practiced fairly often while she was thinking. Soraya stepped over to Jacob's side, gently putting a hand on his shoulder. "Please remember, we are brothers and sisters. We have been brought together for a purpose - a purpose which our lives depend on. Please, let's not fight. If we are to be a pack and survive, we must keep each other alive." Having said even more than she was comfortable with, Soraya pursed her lips and stepped back and away, somewhat embarrassed.

Between Baldur's presence and the mission he was just given, Dann completely missed the implication of what Baldur called him, Ullerson, meant. The mission itself sounded straightforward enough, go in, look around, get the object, go out. Failure only meant the start of apocalypse and the death of tens of millions.

Talk about escalation...

It was problematic that they were going against giants and whatever they have. Dann has whether they used firearms or not, and if they do, whether the size was scaled up or not. The thought of a working giant-sized assault rifle was not a nice one and he tried to push it away. Baseless assumption could prove to be his end.

When Baldur left, a pang of disappointment grew in his stomach. It was quickly replaced with a twitch as Lucky openly taunted Jagred and the old woman.

"You might want to watch what you're saying, someone might want to choke you one day," He said. Dann huffed to the native American's word, it sounded cheesy anyway, "What kind of siblings that doesn't fight with each other? Besides, we are all strangers here. I don't mind trying to work together, but more than that is asking too much, too soon."

Dann's eyes strayed to Lucky's direction, as if saying And then there's this scum of a thief who has no tact at all. What else can you say about a person who tried to rob an old lady and then asked her about it. A supernaturally strong old lady, but an old lady all the same.

He looked back at the witch as Jagred asked about how they're going to go to this village. He was curious too, did they get a ride or do they have to plan it themselves?

Hunin and Mugin watched the verbal altercation between some of the children with amusement, before they broke into an outright laughter in response to Soraya’s attempt at a speech. The old crone glared harsh daggers at the birds. In that she glared at them, and then some decorative knives flew in their direction that they had to dodge, which they did cheerfully. Remaining to their laughter but not speaking of it.

“You impudent wretches, have the decency to laugh at the girl behind her back so that she may have some hope,” she called out to them. Unfortunately, Soraya could tell she wasn’t saying anything in her defence; the witch merely wanted an excuse to throw sharp things at the birds. One less bothered by detecting the lie, and the only other one to detect it, was Gavriil. The witch too didn’t think they had much of a chance to survive. The omen that was given, the others may not have caught it, and why should they? It was likely hidden from them by the All-Father, and she did not want to risk his wrath in her. They would soon learn what the Northern Road really is.

“Oh, you’ve got me wrong, miss. T’weren’t laughter at her, just relishing in their conflict.” A half truth, one everyone could notice.

“Then you best take their conflict out of my shop, I would not want a blade lodged in the merchandise.” She raised her arm weakly, and the floor seemed to begin to groan and make such aching noises, as it warped slightly, moving beneath the feet of everyone, shifting them to the door. It was slow at first, until she lowered her hand. It was a signal, that almost all of the demigods responded to. The floor shifted, hard and strong, with the drop of her hand, and with a small jump and moving of their feet, most of the group was able to stay on their feet. Eshna and Gavriil, however? They went tumbling down, and rolled one after the other out the door.

Still, the message was clear. The ravens had to wrap things up, even their guileful nature couldn’t stop all the sharp things inside of the shop. “We have no ride set for you to Bodi as was laid to here.” “Precautions.” “Baldur said, distance, Fate, y’know the schtick by now, yeah?” “Iffin you don’t, you will.” “It does get old, but what can you do?” “Fight Fate!” “How?” “Flail desperately at the unknown?” “Don’t mock the All Father so.” “You were thinking it too.” “That’s not how I remember it.” “Of course you wouldn’t remember it correctly.” “What do you mean by--”

The crone seemed close to blowing a gasket, “ALL OF YOU, OUT, NOW. ESPECIALLY THE BIRDS.”

“Yes, good idea, let’s take our leave, and you guys...” “You’ll figure something out. It’s a what, 6 hour?” “Yes, 6 hour drive.” “On a good day.” “Is today a good day?” “I wouldn’t--”

And then more blades were flung at the ravens. Getting the picture now, they took their leave with a bit of dry laughter, flying out of the shop and into the sky. The heroes were left without further guidance, and no supplied means of getting to Bodie either. As for weapons, they only had what they brought with them, and their gifts.

Looks like they may have to improvise.

Lucky, around this time, got a response from his mother. It was without any useful information, or even a yes or a no. If anything, the response was only something that would be further frustrating to him.

Immediately outside of Runes and Things was the outskirts of town. Things were normally green in these parts, but this winter had been a particularly cold one. There was a light snow going on, and there were various other buildings nearby that were in a state of disrepair. This obviously wasn't on the good, and better looking side of town. Perhaps that was intentional, have it a bit out of the way from everything else. It was on the northern outskirts as well, and so that would at least shorten the road needed to travel to get to Bodie, if nothing else. Cars are still seen driving to and fro, but no one really pays attention as they go on their way in and out of town, but mostly in. At least, on these roads.

Jacob's focus was lost to every sensation other than vivid inspiration cast upon Baldur's gilded aura. Every letter of every word he spoke had rung hollow through his mind, only being stored in the back of his subconscious mind. One word rung truer and bolder than the rest, however, and that was Freyrson. He'd never known his real father, and apparently it was due to him being a god. Some metaphysical, divine force took part in creating Jacob, and something about this truth held his chest up high. Still, as Baldur made his exit, the gloom of the quaint shop coupled with the grim news and even grimmer directions laid out before them drove his heart deep down into his bowels. Frost Giants? If i'm fighting giants i'm gonna need a drink-...no. Just...fuck. Jacob was evidently depressed, by the looks of it. His mind conflicted, he'd no idea how he was going to keep trotting along as a sober wretch. Your uncle's probably not reveling in some glorious mead hall, your in a highly dysfunctional group with no sense of direction and even worse you and the rest of these young, misguided people are expected to tackle on saving the world from the ravages of the end times. I should've off'd myself back at the apartment, I should've just...just taken it all in and glided off to a permanent sleep. I shouldn't be here, I should have-...

His usually unstoppable train of thought was halted by Soraya's soft embrace on his shoulder. He couldn't help but catch a smile at her as he caught her gaze, sure it might have been a cheesy speech, but his coy smirk was more so one of appreciation rather than mocking. She understood what it meant to be a team and how they all needed to understand each other to properly work together. Still, he felt shameful upon seeing her back away and took note of her embarrassment. Perhaps he could've saved her the embarrassment by chiming up and supporting her. She seemed like too nice a girl, but obviously she had her merit to be there if she was among the rest of them. Jacob had given a friendly smile to her, his chest held high as he took to glaring at Dann for his snarky comments towards Lucky's bad choice and Soraya's speech. He was soon distracted by the ravens as they piped up all sorts of witty banter towards their goal at hand. None of it the least bit helpful, he had a feeling they would be left to their own devices. Of course, than as the shop rattled and rocked to and fro, he got the picture. Once things calmed down, he took to the outside world with the rest of his group. Still taking note of Soraya's shyness, leaning back behind the group, he decided his chance to talk was now or never.

"Soraya was right back there, guys." He rather firmly, though informally, addressed. Oddly enough, he was speaking directly and boldly rather than mumbling as usual. "Snarky comments and witty banter isn't what slays giants and mythical beasts."

He glared into the eyes of Dann, Jagred and Lucky. As he took to looking at Lucky, his glare soon turned into a gaze of understanding. "Each and every one of us hail from a different background, a different culture. We were all raised differently, obviously."

Looking back to Dann, he continued, occasionally glancing over each and every one in the group with focused eyes. "This is the end times, here. You do all realize this? We not only need to work together, we need to understand each other. Everyone here has their own special set of skills, their own usefulness to the task at hand. Even a thief has his merit." He concluded with a smirk towards Lucky.

He was rather blushing at this point, a single bead of cold sweat collected on his forehead and his entire face feeling strangely warm in this winter weather. Standing his ground, he did nothing to hide his physical shyness as hit heart continued racing. He continued shifting his eyes around the group, he wasn't going to back away or even linger behind, he was going to accept whatever criticism or support they'd give him. For the first speech he ever gave in his entire life, he was feeling unnaturally confident about it, and wouldn't quite pay any mind to those who laughed at it.

"Now, does anyone have money? A private helicopter laying around? Somebody get a rental car when they landed? We gonna let Lucky break into some vehicles and hot-wire them for us? Let's form a plan here, friends." His personality shifted, a wide grin on his face. He backed up few feet to Lucky, stretching his hand out to him for a firm shake.