Arrows were pouring from the sky like raindrops.

Wooden raindrops with sharp metal objects at the front that would (and could, if it hit the target) pierce through even the strongest metal armour, killing the one who wore it.

Yes, thought Fandrall jumping over a fallen tree, the arrows of the dökkálfar, cloaked in magic, are not to be taken lightly if one wanted to live.

The world suddenly spun around and he found himself lying on the ground in a pool of - something.

Pity. His cloak was brand new.

"Fandrall!" roared Volstagg, and then he was in the air, before being lowered onto the huge man's shoulders.

Sif cursed - how unbecoming of a lady - as an arrow missed her by mere inches.

Thor simply laughed, taunting the archers and commenting on their abilities. He had changed in the three days of his banishment, but some things never change. And the golden prince of Asgard always despised those who fought from the distance, but were completely useless in a close-range fight.

As Fandrall knocked away an arrow with his sword, that otherwise would've hit Volstagg, one thought crossed his mind...

Where is Loki and his veil of smoke when you need it?