Storm would rather like to take the Asgardian’s words literal, only there was little use in ripping the tongue from the traiterous áss. Yet. There would surely be time for this later, though it may very well be that Storm would not be present at the time.
For how civilized the Aesir thought themselves to be, their methods of punishment and interrogation hardly differed — or that was what the prince had been taught growing up.
"T’will be Storm’s pleasure." The prince noted, before his crimson eyes moved towards the Asgardian lying upon the ground — curious gaze resting momentarily on the hammer, but he tried not move it — until he was literally staring down at him. "Hm, thy prince hath given Storm permission to loosen thy tongue, thus thou wilst now reveal the reason for thy treachery…or he shall get creative in extracting them from thee…"
Of course the traitor had a less-than-polite response to that demand. Actually, the specific suggestion made was quite creative —-albeit useless, immediately cut short by the rather crude ‘disobliging answers equal pain’ method. It did not take long for the Jotunheimian Prince to extract a wailed version of the truth, at the cost of a broken mess upon the snow-covered ground.
The stubborn manner with which answers were initially refused concerned Saint though. Just what breed of foe did his warrior fear more than the ruthless, unforgiving Jotunar that stood over double his size?
Ceruleans flicked from Giant to traitor as he listened intently to the explanations given —-yet unable to shake the gut instinct something else was very wrong here.
Loki’s mount was steady with courage in the ebbing chaos, in a way he himself could only try to parallel. The trickster held one hand low, half hidden beneath his cloak, while a subtle brush of viridescent fire writhed at his fingertips. He glanced behind him. A man-like creature with a dark face was watching him intently, only unsettling his nerves further. The charm only wound at the edge of Saint’s boot, before the rush forward was called.
The cries of battle were echoed all through, and almost immediately there was a shock of adrenaline through Loki’s veins as he urged Gladr to follow at set speed. Damn—- Teeth gritted, he watched Saint’s path more than his own. He’d rushed off before Loki’s protection ward could finish, now left to his own devices alone.
A pain cut through Loki’s skull like an arrow —- lucky his vision did not waver from it. But like a second sight, the paths in his mind were marked clearer than he had ever seen them; the darkness of Yggdrasil’s branches, the ways through and in between. And what laid there.
He had fallen into where the Bifrost would never dare to touch. He knew what was there.
There was a sickening twist in his gut to see them again. Creatures seemed to be made of nightmares and the shadows they came from. Beasts of great and small size, malicious from horns to tails —- of large, leathery wings and bone-crushing muscle, on hooves and claws, as twisted as thorn bushes.
Loki was not the first to strike a blow; though his came from a precisely aimed dagger unto a small but viciously snarling creature, a black blood covering the weapon that was called back to his hand.
From the supremacy of Slepnir’s saddle the thunderer’s aim launched true, Mjolnir singing a path of destruction through the first wave of writhing between-world monsters. A lazy arch —-nothing like the beserker inferno he sometimes tasted in the heat of arduous battle.
Their shrieks however as they fizzled to dust upon contact with his Uru weapon, prompted a helpless grin to spread across Saint’s features.
So these were the legendary Ámilli dvelja? Surely not, when tales spoke of struggle and great casualty against their might. He had even feared Loki’s decision to leave Gungnir behind would leave them inadequately equipped towards their victory - but for naught, it would seem. Foolish worry, driven by the mad glorifications of poets, songstresses and scholars.
"Well then in that case," Fandral said, and slammed his tankard down on the table. "Another round and another pie!" He called to the cluster of serving girls near the kitchen entrance.
"And master forger," he continued in a softer, more conspiratorial tone. "If you give that serving girl a bit of a wink I daresay we might get some of that boar they have been hiding in the kitchens."
Regis chuckled good-naturedly, but merely smiled as he accepted a tankard from the chestnut-haired serving girl when she approached with a platter piled high with both ale and pies. However, it was not without appreciation that he watched the woman sashay back down the aisle to the kitchens.
"For a lass like that, you’d need a full night." Regis said, turning back to pull one of the steaming pies from the group, his fingers immune to the bite of pastry’s heat. "And we have work to do yet."
The three talked, laughed, and ate their fill and more. As the sky was beginning to fall into true night, the hall had been drained of all its guests, save for the three, and one leggy hunting dog that was making its dinner of the scraps that had accumulated on the floor throughout the day.
"Well," Fandral said, setting a thoroughly drained tankard down alongside its predecessors with no small amount of satisfaction. "That was the finest Harvest Feast I’ve had since Volstagg brought down that Ravage Boar. Norns! he was delicious, for such an ugly beast."
The silence proceeding the statement stretched momentarily too long, the King unable to conjure up memory nor tale to respond accurately to the wistful reminiscing. Instead he placed his tankard upon the table and allowed the first hint of seriousness for the eve to creep into his tenor —-they had dallied long enough.
“Where does the Allfather dine tonight, my friend?”
Thor’s words dictated one idea but it was all he could do not to grin at the woman apparently named Sif as she eyed him. Her and Bucky might not ever meet and still Steve knew they were of the same mind when it came to him and the taller blond. Neither trusted the random stranger they both gravitated toward by the lure of color and a spark of something tugging at them yet they both seemed to know well enough that they would do what they want anyway. Instead they contented themselves with monitoring the situation as they saw fit.
He too would bet all the money in his pocket that the two of them could commiserate about them both doing something that made them roll their eyes and have to intervene.
"That’s swell. It’s a pleasure to meet you Sif," he greeted, happy to follow wherever they went in the hopes that he could understand and have another glimpse of the world as everyone else did. "I’d say we really do."
Outside the night was cool but comfortable, the stars overhead quite visible between the cloud cover. It only went to show no matter where he went pangs of missing Brooklyn could come over him as his better memories settled in his mind. But tonight was for new discoveries and the temperature kept him alert, his eyes naturally finding the man beside him once again and even without color aiding him he was a sight to behold. “I’m afraid I don’t know this area well so I’m relying on you.”
“‘tis only a recent thing mine being here - I am afraid do not know much more than you do.”
What had Darcy called him when he escorted she and the Lady Jane places? It took a moment to bring the phrase to mind, laughing a little as they moved down the sidewalk,
“I am the muscle of this operation.”
Bruce stood slightly aside from Thor, watching him go through garments stored within the chest. eyes curiously inspecting one item after another when it flashed up momentarily before the Asgardian had found several items he deemed it would fit him.
In all honesty, Bruce was grateful to wear anything, whether it may look a few sizes too big wouldn’t matter to him. He’d made do with worse.
"Thank you," he said when he took the offered garments, a small smile on the corners of his lips. Putting the items down, momentarily, to remove the cape Thor had given him and return it to him. Absently, one hand moved down to tug his pants up again when they slipped a little too low which had him grab the belt…but after a moment of looking the other garments over, he put it back down to first slip on the tunic, followed by the vest. One final tug on his pants and the belt secured it all in place.
Looking down at himself, he ran his hands over the material with an approving sound in the back of his throat, Thor’s scent lingering on the clothes softly.
It was…comforting, in a way.
"Well, I appear to be presentable." He said, not seemingly caring or noticing that he wore no shoes. "Thank you…for the clothes and…" Bruce cut off, lips moving into a smile that was quite nervous the way it curled at the corners. "Allowing me to stay here for now."
"Of course. The Realm is honoured with your presence Banner, you are both a warrior and a friend.”
Asgard’s royal blues suited the scientist, garments instantly transforming the being of earth into someone who could have easily been mistaken for one of Aesir descent. Barring the man’s short stature of course, a rarity in the Realm Eternal - and what appeared to be a fascination with something as simple as village-made cloths.
"—-Besides, Midgard has provided mineself with shelter on many an occasion when Asgard could not. ‘tis about time I return the favour."
Inattentive to the fact Bruce’s feet remained bare for the number of times the god himself had wandered Thrudheim’s halls sans-covering, Thor moved to the door assuming the other would follow and added cheerfully, “If mine nose did not deceive me this morn’, baked apples and cinnamon-breads will be part of today’s feast. You really must try them, they are quite the delight.”