> Look, he lost his bloody ravens CENTURIES ago. If he'd liked his eye back he
> should've taken them THEN!
> <Pythia, he is a God.>
> So? If that's really the case, he should be omniscient, more or less. Have -him-
> track the descendants of his bloody Corvusi in the snowstorms of the far north.
> I'm not going there, not at this time of year. It's bloody freezing there!

Sybil: But he's already forwarded the research fee to our account!

[Sybil pauses. The camera pauses on each of our girly heros for a

Pythia: Really? How much, exactly?

[CUT TO: view at water level along the side of a mirror-flat swimming
pool reflecting a perfect cerulean sky. Due to the height of our view
the pool seems to stretch far into the distance; perspective is restored
as a man dressed as a butler strides past us, carrying a tray upon which
three large, colouful cocktails are balanced. Our view follows the
butler along the edge of the pool, to where he turns to the right, out
of our shot. The view PANS to follow, taking in a large villa make of
deep red stone and covered with hibisci and other tropical flowers. We
find the butler placing the drinks on low tables next to three
sunloungers; the identity of the people sunbathing is hidden from us by
the backs of the chairs. The butler finishes serving the drinks.]

Butler: Three frozen margheritas, madams. Will there be anything else?

Phythia [still hidden by lounger]: No, Simpkins, that will be all.

Butler: Very well ma'am.

[Butler leaves. As he does, tinny electronic notes ring out to the
tune of Ride of the Valkyries. A tanned hand reaches from the central
chair and plucks a mobile phone from the table next to it; the tune is
cut off by an answering BEEP.]

Phythia: DRI mobile headquarters, Pythia speaking; how may I help you,

[A pause]

P(cont.): Yes, much progress in the search for your ravens, wise Odin.
We are searching far to the North in forgotten wastes, fighting against
the harshest conditions in nature.

[A longer pause; our camera view moves closer to the back of the
sunlounger; a curl of red hair is visible around the side. The hand
reaches out again and claims the cocktail from the table.]

P(cont.): No, not long now. Expect results in a month or two, Great
Grimnir. Yes, yes, thank you. No don't worry, it's not that cold
sire. Goodbye.

[Our view cuts to the front of the chairs and we see our three heroines
stretched out enjoying the sun, faces expressionless behind sunglasses.
We ZOOM IN toward Pythia, as she thumbs a key on the phone then replaces
it on the table. She peers intently into the frozen drink, a rime of
salt like ice marring the brim now filling our view.]

P(quietly): No, not that cold at all.

[Fade to white.]