[b]Throne World[/b]

As he is pushed backwards, Gaul rolls to his feet and levels Mjolnir at the hands diving toward him, “I am the King of Asgard,” the hammer surges with electricity. “Gaul, son of Vili, god of Fate.” The lightning begins to pulsate and the crackling energy carries to his voice, “I am the Living Weave, Wyrd itself, and I. Am not. To be trifled with.”

He hurls Mjolnir at the Wyrd Engine, and it obliterates the hands in its path. Upon contact with the engine, a blinding flash of light and a deafening peal of thunder tear through the rings, heaving them apart. The hammer rockets toward Gaul’s outstretched hand, and as he catches it he spins and tosses it at Valkyrie as tattoos begin to spread across his torso.

The lines that form the bulk of the tattoo weave geometric patterns that seem to constantly shift and swirl under his skin in a kaleidoscopic, amorphous manner. Runes and formulae seem to swirl between the lines, impossible to follow in both movement and complexity.

[b]Blackout[/b]

“Well, it’s not just a building. It’s a whole city,” the woman says as she pats the earth, having buried the core of the apple. “Only question is, where am I?” She brushes the soil from her hands and walks into the city.