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Asleif rarely ventured outside of the Defenders’ compound unless it was to either engage in some sort of heroic behavior, appease the small mortal in some fashion, or to visit Vincent. She was not, in fact, certain what had prompted her to venture out today, save that it had simply been a feeling she had had. A mage of her caliber learned to trust her instincts in such things and so out she had gone, an illusion making her appear to be garbed as a mortal. She had wandered, rather aimlessly, for some time, before her mystic senses had finally detected the presence of foul magic. A simple scrying spell had given her further information, provided her with the location of the magic and another spell, for teleportation, had crossed the distance easily. It had been a warehouse once, but appeared to have largely been long since abandoned. Abandoned, that is, by all but those who now filled it. Occult symbols had been painted on the floor, boundaries marked by dribbling, foul candles. In the center, upon an altar of a black marble that seemed to hurt the eyes to look upon it, an unconscious woman was strapped. Around her, men in robes of crimson watched, while another, dressed similarly, but with a crown made from curved horns in place of a hood, stood over the woman with a curved knife drawn. Blood magic. Sacrificial magic. Asleif understood it well, in theory if not largely in practice. It was a foul thing. And though she made no secret of her distaste for Midgard, this particular piece of it was part of her protection, a protection now more important with her sister having entrusted the welfare of their siblings to her. That was a trust she would not fail. “I command thee stop,” she declared, letting her illusion drop. “Or else suffer mine divine wrath.” “I don’t know who you are,” the apparent leader said, “but you have made a grave mistake. Acolytes! Kill her!” The others, and there were a half dozen of them, began their attack. One made a small mystic gesture in the air, releasing a spell she had come to recognize from her increased studies of mortal magic as the Bolts of Bedevilment. But his mystic power was weak, and her own quickly summoned shielding spell blocked the bolt easily, deflecting it back upon another of them, who went down quickly. Their spells were weak, easily deflected things. They were barely trained adepts and she was one of the most powerful sorceresses of Asgard, heir to the lines of Thor and Loki, empowered in ways in which they could not even begin to comprehend. She stopped the next one with a power bolt of her own. A spell struck her, briefly stunning her. She had been careless, over confident, and not maintaining her guard. She felt arms around her, trying to restrain her. More carelessness. But she was a daughter of Asgard, not some frail mortal woman! She grabbed on to her attacker, hurling him away from her easily. Power crackled in her hands and from her eyes, magical lightning that sizzled and popped. Winds, unearthly winds of the storm, began to whip up around her. “Thou darest to lay hands upon a Princess of Asgard? For this effrontery, thou shalt pay!” The mystic storm swept through the warehouse, magic born lightning striking each of her remaining assailants, setting them aflame for a moment, before she calmed the storm. Her eyes widened in surprise and her jaw nearly went slack. The leader of this sacrifice and the woman had remained entirely untouched by the storm. Untouched by the lightning, yes, that had not surprised her, for she had carefully directed that. But untouched by the winds? By the other aspects of the storm? Perhaps he was more powerful than she had first thought. “Impressive,” he said stepping around the altar, “but my own power is not to be trifled with either. I see now, I should not have wasted my acolytes on you. No, you are worthy of my full attention.” She would suffer no more of his prattling tongue and unleashed a potent bolt of mystic power. He wove a shield of his own, deflecting her bolt, then responded with a bolt of his own, which she likewise deflected. “Not bad,” he taunted. “But hardly a worthy foe with the power my masters have given me. Weak, like all the rest.” He was powerful, yes, but unnaturally so. As she opened her mystical perceptions further, to try and grasp an edge here, Asleif could see the blackness of his aura, a mystic might fueled by sacrifice, but like a mortal battery, capable of being depleted much more quickly, and not capable of restoring itself. She was a goddess. He was a mortal. Her own reserves were far greater, her power greater. She would not falter here. She would defeat this foul, murderous black magician. She parried another bolt, then responded with mystically summoned flames. Asleif poured more and more mystical might into her assault. It washed over his mystic shield, but she saw it cracking now, breaking under her attack. She made the flames stronger, hotter, more powerful, until at last, in an explosion of mystical power, his shields broke and the magically conjured fire overtook him, engulfing his body in flames until naught but a charred pile of ash and a few blackened bones remained. There. It was done. She had defeated the foul magician and accomplished a great deed tonight. She had… Hold. There was something else that should have concerned her, beyond her victory in a mystical duel. There was… there was… There had been a mortal. A prisoner. The evening’s sacrifice. Asleif’s eyes went instantly to the altar. It bore signs of burns, evident even on the black material, burns suffered in the wash of mystical energy that had been unleashed. She approached it cautiously, feeling her throat tighten as she did. She cared little for almost all mortals, but she did not wish any of them specific ill or outright harm. And while she would fully admit to casting “harmless” spells on those that had displeased her, small bits of mesmerism or brief transformations, never, never would she wish this upon one who did not deserve it… The mortal woman was dead or dying, a victim of carelessly tossed magical power. Her carelessly tossed magical power. She had done this. Her fault, her responsibility. No magics here would help her. She could not turn back death. “I art sorry,” she said aloud. “Empty words, to thee, I know, but I art sorry all the same.” She reached out a hand, briefly, and did truly gasp in shock as the woman’s arm shot forth, her hand grasping firmly around Asleif’s wrist. She struggled in vain to pull away, but found she could not… **** “Miss? Miss? Can you hear me?” Dawn Roberts opened her eyes slowly, looking into the eyes of a paramedic. “What…?” “She’s awake! She’s awake!” the paramedic called out to the cops and others on the scene. “Miss? Can you tell me you name?” He helped her into a sitting position. Her name…? Her name was… “Dawn. Dawn Rogers.” Strange. The name felt like a lie on her lips. But why would it? It was hers, wasn’t it? It all seemed like a blur. “We think these men kidnapped you, Miss Roberts. Do you know what happened to them?” A dark haired woman casting fire, the screams of the dying, pain beyond imagining… She shook her head. “I don’t know. I was heading home from work when… I think someone attacked me. And the next thing I know, I’m here. I don’t have any idea what they wanted with me.” “We’d like to take you to the hospital for an examination, Miss. Make sure you’re all right.” She nodded and winced as it sent her head swimming. “Yeah…” And yet, Dawn Roberts had the distinct feeling that she was anything but all right…
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