The Next Adventure

The Portal had become a rather convenient playing field in the eyes of the Shieldmaiden. It was both a place where she could prey upon the vulnerable hearts of men, purged from whatever grip they thought they had on reality down into this cesspool of living wreckage, but more so in recent weeks, the place which indulged her growing curiosity about the dynamics of the Rift - enslaved creatures, magic and the like… It could even have been possible that she was rather intrigued by the potential for power here, between worlds, and a ravenous greed had begun to eat away at her focus. Indeed she had come (entirely by accident), for the purposes of slaying a man and returning to the High-Maiden of beloved Sunnmøre with a winning trophy, though as those she crossed paths with fed her with knowledge, her desire to achieve became a whole lot less simplified. Valkyrie wanted craved supremacy. On this occasion, she was slithering with a serpent’s slyness between the lush, saturated jungle of foliage and vine, scanning with wide, hungry eyes the ever moving sea of blinking shadow. Valkyrie knew well by now that the shadows could not resist the temptation of those spat unceremoniously into their domain and she watched the waiting mass with unwavering interest. At last! A blinding flash - an unorthodox alarm - forced the Daughter of Sunnmøre, of frigidity and foolishness, to turn her face against the sinewy span of her clean, cream shoulder. The helm she wore proudly was cool and still as it’s intricately detailed surface pressed into flesh. It was a timely reminder of all that she was striving for; the Sisterhood awaiting her return - but for now… When she dared to return her eyes, the sheer white light had dimmed again into the more natural chaos of neon kissed smoke. Towards the centre of the stage stood a stranger, a victim, and without hesitation, Valkyrie moved to approach. There was no need for boundaries and good-manners around his kind; the stench of masculinity was one she was now confident deciphering, and with a soft smile and fluttering lashes she feigned a perfectly believable show of sweet intention. In one swoop her masterful eyes gathered information about him: a burgundy cloak quickly waterlogged and heavy in the rain, height, though nothing overly intimidating; there was leather strapped high about one forearm and what looked to be an perfectly useless blunt stick locked beneath it. Her eyes almost rolled. There was a well-bred curve to his mane-shrouded crest and the curious colour of his eye soon drew forth her own. “Hello there?”  the Shieldmaiden hummed with a deceptively gentle tone, “are you hurt?”