[ If looks could kill, anyone on the receiving end of the feed would have to say their prayers and wish for the best. While her eyes vaguely hint with a vague, possible murderous intent, she appears relatively calm and composed for someone who's just been kidnapped and prepping for a rant, albeit her tone has a certain venomous edge to it.

She purses her lips, tilting her head to observe the bracelet. ]

One word: tacky. You would think gods would at least be able to afford Tiffany's. What, is this place just filled with criminally awful fashion choices?

[ Priorities. She rakes a hand through her hair, trying to will away the exhaustion that seeps into her voice. ]

Okay, right. Norse gods who recruit teenagers and elven soldiers, apparently. [ Guess who did her homework by briefly browsing the important posts on the network? ] Even if the rest of this little performance sounds like a bad plot for a B-rated fantasy movie, forebodingly talking about preparing for battle like it's at our doorstep — their doorstep — isn't very comforting.

[ She pauses, raking a hand through her hair and biting her lip to stifle an approaching frown or fatigued sigh. ]

Serious question here. Since we can't click our heels three times and leave of our own free will, does this place have any redeeming qualities?