It was like a prayer.

Gods could hear prayers, if you gave them in the right ways, if they felt inclined, if ten other things, so she sent the distress beacon out with her most fervent prayer to her most trusted friend.

“Thor, where are you? I need you. Thor, you must come. Someone, please, come to the last valley of Valagar before the God Butcher claims any more. It is most dire.”  The striking of metal against creature could be heard through her words, her voice rough and tired, and as one hand swiped away the command to send the message she held off a shadow with her blade. She pushed back her enemy and sent off her prayer.

The beacon beeped its confirmation, and Sif tapped the device again to send it flying away to safety so it could continue to broadcast while she fought. She smiled. She had to believe. It had to work. She could hold out awhile, but it was not looking good with their paltry numbers. Even Gods had failings after all.

She kept fighting, and struggling, and hoping, and when the blade cut through her arm what she felt more than pain was surprise as she watched half her arm fall to the rock and ice. Was this to be it? Was this her tale? She glanced to the sky. No one was coming. Sometimes prayers went unanswered.

Her resolve hardened. She was rock, and earth, and fire, and Gorr would have to go through her. Sif rebalanced footing as her still good arm adjusted grip on her sword. It was a good day to die.