They know to be afraid. Fear never conquers greed, or thirst, and soon the air rings with the thunder of battle. Thor is in the midst of it — the rain pounds on them. Mortals. Petty, and savage, though he knows better now, this is not the best of them.

Thunder dies down, the clouds pass, and they are picking through the field looking for survivors. Blood clogs the air, the tang of it strong in his nostrils, faint splatters on the armour. Nothing on the cape, still richly red, moving across.

'Hail, warrior,' he says to her, with a nod. 'Though they may return, it is our victory this day.'