Heimdall had to refute the claim, solely to play the role of Overtly Concerned Loyal Citizen.
“But praise to your name, your son still lives. That should give you peace of mind. Also, know that your steed is not free from you, and never will be!”
Another omission eloquently phrased by the Watcher. Heimdall knew that the horse would always feel shackled and suppressed by the Allfather, even without steel keeping his hooves in place. He only removed his own binding magics; Odin’s still remained. Freedom – only of movement – was his. True freedom would not come until their king was dethroned…
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Meanwhile, in the streets of Asgard, Creed conducted a symphonic genocide. He roared and rampaged. Desperate was the father to see his daughter. Delighted was the man on the Hunt. Many Asgardians that met his end were powerful and stronger than most mutants he knew. They fought as trained soldiers should; however, rather than be given a warrior’s death, they were all executed in ways found only in the most graphic of horror movies.
To Creed’s dismay, several of them landed blows that would have left him rotting on the ground, had it not been for his adrenaline fueled healing factor keeping him alive. By the time Sif and her entourage of guards approached the naked feral, Creed was splattered in the gore of his enemies; his own wounds glazed from his own blood left behind. The blonde had already pounced atop a face-down soldier. Arms were high above his head; he was eager to rake his claws down his back and dig to find his spine, and only stopped once steel slashed across his stomach. Creed choked on a painful gasp, sank to a knee – the blade went deep into his core – and snapped his head towards the woman responsible.
She didn’t waste a second. In the blink of an eye, she pulled her sword free and swung it again; the short woman slicing upward and aiming for his neck….
The feral recklessly leaned into the incoming blade! For the second time, a sword clanged against adamantium – this time striking Creed’s collar bone. The distance closed, and her weapon briefly immobilized; that’s when the feral struck back! Big arms clamped around Sif’s body like a bear trap! Blood soaked hands spun her smaller frame around - Sif becoming his beautiful dance partner performing a tango – and pulled her backwards into his chest.
If she were like most warriors – too conditioned to let go of their weapons – and she left it lodged in Creed’s body and kept her hand on the handle, she would have effectively twisted her own arm over her head.
No matter what she did with her weapon, one razor sharp hand held her throat and crushed it – hoping that would be enough to keep her still. The other latched onto licorice colored hair.
“…Gimmie…. th’ Gold Man….” Creed demanded to the guards in front of her. Sadly, he set the expectation that they could move at the speed of light. When they failed to react fast enough to his satisfaction, Creed started yelling again.
“ ….OR I’M GONNA FLAY ALL OF YA' LIKE THIS FISH!”
Suddenly, Creed tightened his hold on Sif’s hair and violently yanked upward. He treated her strands as pesky weeds being pulled out of the grass, then flung everything he snatched from her scalp to the side like the rubbish it suddenly became.