The last of the jötnar stepped off of Bifröst, and Surtr nodded.
Sinmöra drew Hævateinn, heavens-hater, shining not with Alfrödull's light; held it high, and let it fall, to chime softly against the bridge's surface. Louder that chime grew, to shake the nine worlds, and all fell to their knees and cried unheard in that impossible din; and when they stood, silence having come, naught remained of Bifröst's arch, save for a rain of colored sand.
And the Valkyrior came riding, and with them their Einheriar.
To each Valkyria, helmed and horned, there was a wingèd steed — but to each Einheri, one of a thousand conveyances from their legends and tales: dragon-steeds and giant eagles and butterflies-of-war; wingèd sandals, feathered capes, broomsticks and magic carpets; bicycles and jetpacks and great glass elevators; biplanes and fighter jets and flying saucers; mehve and ornithopters and VF-1 Valkyries.
And soon they came to the plain of Vigridr; and from above there came the sound of twice ten thousand candles burning out, and with it darkness fell; and the terrible howl of a distant wolf followed soon thereafter.
(Promise kept, although the prose / is kind of awkward, I suppose.)
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