1963-08-23 - Mystic Battle Plans
Summary: He-Ra, Prince of Power, crashes a meeting of magic users.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: Epica - Universal Death Squad
clea amora rogue louis 

For the last several days, various individuals with a certain sensitivity for the arcane and mystical have gained a moment of surreality. For those well trained in the arts it was little more than a brief message, perhaps given by a raven who perched nearby and cawed raucously. Those who heard the raven just thought it was irate about something, but those for whom the message was meant would hear the voice of Louis King if they were familiar with the fellow. Simply a request for their company at a particular location and at a particular time. After that the raven, or whatever animal seemed fit for their perception, would flee without even waiting for an R.S.V.P., so rude.

Yet those three days passed and the location became known to them as the Glory and King Detective Agency, and the time was the early evening, a fitting time for repose and for a small buffet to be set up nearby the receiving area. At the designated hour on the dot the various wards around the agency fall, and suddenly the mystically gifted will realize a focal point of power is their midst. Curiously close to another for some reason, but still.

When they enter, however they so choose, Louis will be standing next to the fireplace with a snifter of brandy in hand.


Amora didn't much bother with the front door, merely, at the appointed time she arrived with all the style and grace that a good dramatic teleporting could offer. Green smoke swirls around her figure as she appeared as soon as the wards were lowered. A faint arch of a golden brow follows as she sauntered toward Loki without preamble, reaching out a hand for his glass without so much as a by your leave.

"Darling, ravens? Really? Whatever would your father say, you know he does adore those creatures so." She drawled, her rubied lips stuck out in a sultry pout. She was in her mortal guise, back in the classical Hollywood styled fashions that would make a normal person scandalized. The emerald green dress hung from her shoulders in two silky strips that dove into a low 'v' at her stomach and disappeared into a full skirt clasped round with a golden belt. High heels clicking softly with each step she took.

When they enter, however they so choose, Louis will be standing next to the fireplace with a snifter of brandy in hand.


Clea had met the raven when she went onto the roof of the buildings in which she dwells at times, like an inhabitant of a twisting dimension of dark paneled wood and art deco. Before she could offer it a bite of the éclair she'd been eating, heedless of such mortal concerns as 'waistline,' it had escaped.

Sadly Clea does not match Amora's feat of arrival… but she does come to the place from Upstairs, not from below. Her own outfit resembles thus: http://i.imgur.com/BJ6n7Jj.jpg

Though she does give Amora a momentary admiring look at how she's able to pull off that much green. With that, a hand rests on her hip and she looks to Louis and his brandy.


When the Trickster graces the sorcerous community, it only stands to answer in timely fashion, or fashionable time. Greenwich Village throbs with activity, the kinetic energy of so many artistic minds packed together into tight quarters feeding the ambiance in a way that attracts Asgardian gods and Native American shamans, pagan goddess worshippers, infernal cultists and Crowleyesque hermetics reframed in the modern age. Add one bohemian nymph drifting through the newfound stirrings of a tangible awareness to the mix, and no, she's not delivering coffee. She knows these streets better than some, lured in by some indistinct purpose.

Wards are difficult enough to contend with as her awareness teases against the mystical machinations. A few minutes seated lotus on a bench in pointed meditation breaks through the stalemate rather effectively. With a somewhat amused quirk to her lips, Scarlett unfolds her legs and walks away towards the otherwise shrouded building. A whisper of French slants across her tongue, and it mostly translates to, 'Oh, you sneaky bastard.' But, being French, she absolutely purrs the syllables to a soul-deep vibration.

Be scandalized, there's a mortal on the move.


But a few moments earlier and Scarlet would have seen the strange sight of the Lion of Olympus, standing before a door, looking up and cursing while shaking his fist at what had just been an atypical crow. The she would have seen him enter the building before him, hunting his prey. After stomping up the flights of stairs, something tugs at Herc, drawing him to this one door.

Glory and King. Good words. Well, at least the Glory part.Hercules pushes the door open and steps inside the office. "I did not knock, because the last three times I knocked I destroyed these flimsy excuses for entrance portals that you mortals use. All of your talk-boxes go on about how this is the height of civilization and yet you don't seem to be able to get good marble." He's wearing a large, large trench coat. With a white smear on one shoulder. "And nothing else," he says, strangely. "It's my godly raiment. I can't find it." He looks up at the dim light mounted in the ceiling, gazing at it as if its distance can be measured in astronomical units rather than feet. "Apollo, god who rules the day," then frowning, "and a right conniving bastard of a lawgiver, pointed down at the earth and told me that he spied six of the muses engaging in…" he looks around at the ladies and falls silent. "He misled me. And when I leaned over the side of his chariot, he gave me a shove." The godling's face darkens. "At Zeus panhellenios' behest." Storm-clouds dark. " And so I fell for days. Until I landed ignominiously here…" he motions with his hands to one side, "and my clothing, forged by Hephaistos of many devices, fell there." He motions to the other side. "But they were not there when I made my way. They must have been stolen. By miscreants. Possibly fiends. But if I had to guess, miscreants." He looks around, puzzled. "And then a raven crapped on my coat." He looks around again. "I demand that whosoever be responsible either clean my coat or find my raiment.

He folds his arms across his chest.


When Amora appears, Loki greets her with an uplifted gesture of his drink. "Enchantress. Forgive me if I fail to accept tips on you where style is a concern." His lip twitches as he lightly ribs her, perhaps more at ease to do so when there are no others around.

But then Clea makes her appearance and his smile lift, "Ah, the student. Lovely to see you, so glad you could join us. I trust you know The Enchantress in Green?" He motions with his drink even as he turns over a glass and starts to pour a few extras for those who are en route.

But then…Hercules.

As the man bursts through the door, Louis King gets a rather wry smile that broadens even as he stops in mid pour. He listens to the force of nature that is this Heracles as it were. Then he looks towards Amora and says, "Bloody hell, a Greek."

Turning back to the tall man, "Son of Zeus." The bottle is tossed his way, "Thirsty?"


Amora glowered at Loki faintly, a pull twisting her perfectly shaped lips back as she sipped at the drink she'd stolen. "Oh really? Because I will tell you, my darling, that this dress caused at least five traffic incidents the other day when I wore it. If that's not the point of fashion then you're doing it wrong." She shot back archly. And then the others started to trickle in.

A flicker of a wave of her hand was offered toward Clea, a smile pulling at her lips. "You'll remember me as Helen." She offered simply and that was that.

Yet as the fine specimen of Greek muscle walks, bursts in, details.. Amora's attention zeroed in. With none of the faint irritation that Loki seemed to have toward the man. Far different, the Enchantress offered a sultry smile as she practically oozes over toward Hercules. She offered a shapely hand out, and a flutter of her eyelashes. "I'm Amora, a pleasure to meet you."


Clea steps forwards, saying as Amora is given another title, "I think we've met, yes…" She does not, at least, seem offended, though her arms fold in amusement with a note of bemusement.

Scarlet is given another look, this time with a little more time to do more than go 'oh hi, let's go kill a fire giant??' to it. But before she can say anything: The door swings open with a near-visible "HERC!" of impact. Clea's head swivels.

She listens to what he says, even as she looks directly at him, resting a fingertip on her lower lip in thought and due consideration of Hercules's estimable phys- er- problems. "Oh— I can't speak of the Muses, but I imagine that you landed just as the summons went out." Of course then Amora slides forwards like a living spheroid of makeup.

She DOES cut in front a lot, doesn't she? Clea thinks, without irony, although this is, perhaps, like saying the Titanic had a few problems on its way to New York, or that a certain gentleman once popular in Germany had some problems with Jewish people. Clea lets it go, and instead asks Scarlet, "I'm so glad to meet you in better circumstances. My name is Clea. May I ask for yours, now that giants won't be interfering with -"

Clea pauses, and then admits quietly, "I won't finish that sentence. You and I both know it will cause what they refer to as a 'jinx'."


Where such a bellicose arrival invites plenty of attention, the bohemian redhead glides through the door without demanding any due. The sweep of her black sunhat, rimmed in a strip of white, gives the ideal incognito arrival for a girl who essentially has a snowball's chance in Muspelheim of going without some degree of attention. Add a shot of swirling psychedelic colour and Italian lines to Scarlett's swinging, delicious dress, and she embodies the change of the impending age in all its furious vitality. Aquarius is on the rise, banishing an ancient and dusty past into the history where it belongs. Not even Spartan girls in peplums showed that much toned leg legally.

All hail 1963.

The vaguest scent of ozone dances over the air, warring with the citrus hues of neroli, a dash of almond, and something so esoteric it takes familiarity with forests drenched in sea spray to really name. "Indeed, I was there when you landed." Her soprano voice carries in its dulcet lilt, adorned by its clarity and soft volume all the same. "Naught be left in that furrow plowed into the road but chips of rock like Cadmus' precious teeth buried in the plains of Thebes. Certainly no ragged chiton darkened by your descent, or a lion-skin himation for a confounded bystander to drape himself in."

An idle flick of her fingertips casts away one of her braids as she drifts around the Herculean blockage to pay greetings and amends to her betters, dipping her fiery-tressed head in greeting to Clea and Amora. "My ladies. Had I given you my thanks for your assistance weaving the illusion so skillfully? Pity the eldjotnar weren't up to appreciating it." Then ultimately Louis. The arcing curve of a smile barely evoked from the beginnings of a smirk say all and say nothing. "Voila."

Pure as driven snow.


"Finally, someone who recognizes my…" he struggles for an English word, "magnitude." It's spoken somewhere between assertion and question. Hercules plucks the proffered potable from the air with remarkable panache and tosses a fair amount down his gullet. "Ah, passable." He swirls a bit of it around his mouth expertly. "Asgardian, no?" He almost spits it out and then rethinks his choice, swallowing it down. "Not bad for barbarians. I thank you. Thou hast fine manners, boy, and thy father must be proud" Now he notices the others in the room. There are of course the ladies. One would think it would be impossible to kiss three perfectly formed hands at once, and one would be right. Yet the Olympian is so practiced and smooth that even to the likes of a Sorcerer Supreme or a God of Lies to or even a professional enchantress of men both mortal and divine might be hard-pressed to catch out the spaces between Amora's, Clea's and Scarlet's hands as they are gently brought to Herc's lips and released. Before Rogue has even come to a stop from her entrance. "Ladies." He grins. "Lovely ladies. Pardon my rudeness. And my un-pardonable attire. I am at thy…" he squints a bit at Rogue in response to her flow of words. "Service." He finally rests his eyes elsewhere. "Clearly this is an adventure. Normally the Lion of Olympus would be o'erjoyed to begin an adventure. But without my clothes?" He shakes his head. "Carry on." He nurses the bottle, choosing to listen now and speak less. Let's get this show on the road.


A small cabinet is opened underneath an end table on which a lovely lamp rests. Louis produces from it another bottle that is set down on the small coffee table around which a variety of old and well-stuffed chairs are set. With that bottle in place, the trickster then drops down into a seat and lifts his voice.

"Good people, I suppose you could possibly be wondering why I called you here today." He pauses to look across the way where Amora positively gloms onto Hercules and then adds, "Amongst other things."

He looks between them. "It seems I may have worded my spell a touch loosely, for it has drawn Hercules to us. Yet I am sure we all are in some ways creatures of fate and so I shall take this as a good sign."

Lifting his glass towards Hercules, Louis addresses the man directly. "Son of Zeus, you have before you Amora, the Enchantress. I believe this otherworldly beauty is named Clea and is from a place most curious. Scarlett is a gifted soul who studies at the unknown."

With that said, Louis opens his hands, "We are here to discuss what has passed with Muspelheim's attempt to invade and take my brother Thor into their clutches. Also what other steps my father, Odin might take to bring his prodigal child back home."

"Ah, yes. As for me, I am Loki. Of Asgard." He smiles openly, and to be fair rather pleasantly.


Amora sidles up to Hercules' side without much hesitation after he takes her hand and moves along down the line of greetings. She seemed to give Loki's words little interest, and rather was busy trying to slide her hand up the son of Zeus' arm, as if admiring his muscles. "I would never ever, say a man's choice of attire was unpardonable..on so /fine/ a specimen." She drawled, fluttering dark lashes up at him. She dragged her lower lip between her white teeth as she drew out the last word.

Though for all the attention she seemingly paid to Hercules, she gave half an ear to the conversations around her. Her emerald gaze keeping track of everyone through side long glances.


Clea looks momentarily blank at these referents - but then, to her, Thebes and Sparta are places as foreign as the Dark Dimension or the flames of the Faltine to most mortals. Perhaps under Dormammu's rule there will be a flowering of Critical Faltinnish Studies, but don't hold your breath.

Clea dips her head at the appreciation. She was able to follow that much at least. And then her hand is drawn up and kissed — "Thank you - where I'm from isn't important just this moment," she says with a disarming smile or an attempt at same. Then she settles into a chair, drawing her legs up behind her and sitting in an artful lean inside of it.

To Scarlett Clea asides, "(Tell me more about Thebes later?)"


"Thank you for the invitation. A dazzling constellation of company for the eve," murmurs Scarlett, pivoting to consider the varied seating arrangements rather than any of the alcohol. In her defense, she might be pushing the ceiling for the (il)legal drinking age, and swanning around in that diaphanous reverie of a Pucci dress with a glass in hand is begging Murphy to invoke his law. Mustn't spill anything.

Dark lashes and a sweep of liner give her classically somnolent expression, almost reinforcing her dreamy expression. Indolent, by another word. Amora's affections delivered on the Greco-Roman demigod warrant the slightest feline lengthening of her smile, though she is already turning to address Clea. Words that will never come, collapsed by the weavers three to another fork in their collective skeins of destiny.

In that brief moment Hercules has transitioned to clasping her hand to his lips in a noble, if archaic, greeting. Surprise elicits a slow intake of breath, easily mistaken for a swoon or a delayed gasp. She stops on her toes, stricken emerald gaze lifted over his bowed head.

Service, he said. In the Latin, servitium, to flatter or be devoted, originating from servus, slave. Prophetic words never more spoken. It's unseen even to enchanted eyes what happens except that she steps away, pulling her hand free with seemingly effortless ease. Though anyone who can hear her pulse might know it's gone awry.


Hercules seems to pay attention to Loki, frowning slightly at the mention of the god's name as if trying to recall something only dimly remembered. Nodding to Clea gratefully his head almost spins around as Thor's name is mentioned. "Thor!? That insolent oaf!?" He stands up in time for Amor's arms to slink up his left. He tries to maintain his anger towards the Odinson but it is oh-so-hard when the Enchantress is playing him like a… a… whatever instrument the ancient Norse played. Probably skulls tied together as drums. Barbarians. Then he feels a wave wash through him. A pleasure, but one he is unused to. Disoriented as he is by the place, the company, and his chaotic travails upon this earth, he doesn't quite manage to place the experience with the kissing of Rogue's hand. But the good sense he has been (barely) working on these last few days now sails out the window, carried on a barge of solid gold, powered by the sun and traveling across the heavenly Nile river. And then the feeling is gone, replaced by a deep feeling of loss. Hercules pulls back, exuberance replaced by something more melancholy. He holds his tongue.


Frowning somewhat as Rogue suddenly has her hand kissed. Loki sighs and mentions, "Alright. Ground rules. Number one, nobody touch Scarlett." The trickster god looks a touch exasperated as he looks between the quartet of people there with him. He folds one leg over the other and slouches a touch to the side. "Alright? Alright."

With that 'handled', Loki turns towards Clea and Hercules, since Amora and Rogue most likely already know what has passed. "The Fire Giants of Muspelheim made a brief assault on this city, seeking to capture Thor. It became apparent that some other matter was afoot." Turning towards Clea, Loki goes on. "You were present for part of this, I believe."

A pause is taken, but then he goes on with a hand open and gesturing calmly. "Surtur, the ruler of Muspelheim, was seeking Thor primarily because his daughter was held against him. Thor, Amora, Scarlett, and I were able to free her and we returned her to her father. We believe Surtur to have calmed his ambitions, though we cannot be entirely sure."

Taking a moment to look around those here in this room with all the lovely and _delicate_ furniture (Herc), Loki then gives a nod. "So I would like to open the floor to discussion with two questions. One, what steps should be taken to curtail a future incursion? And the second, what steps could Odin take if he decides to pursue Thor's return?"


Amora tried to twine her arm through with Hercules' not seeming to be overly concerned with much of anything save earning a certain kind of reaction out of the dem-god. She made to lean her head against his arm as she pressed closer, as if thinking it impossible that he'd deny her. A golden brow arched upwards at Loki's mention of 'ground rules' and she frowned faintly as she angled a glance toward the woman and back.

As Hercules mentions Thor she pouted faintly, the urge to defend the crown Prince rose and fell and then she promptly squashed it.

"Besides placing wards in particular places in which the minions of Muspell might venture as a warning? I see little chance of ultimately curtailing a full on invasion without the backing of Asgard's armies behind it. Which, currently, if you will excuse me—does not number the three currently here on Midgard." She exhales a breath, her eyes alighting on Loki sharply.

"There is much that the All Father might do if he wants Thor's return. I fear that might include inciting Midgard's wrath against Asgard, or possibly allowing Muspell more leeway to cause problems.."


Clea nods at Loki in comprehension. She does remember that part of things. She leans her elbow on the arm rest of the chair and rests her chin on her knuckles, eyes turning towards both Scarlett and Hercules with passing curiosity.

Then the question is put to them.

"These matters are beyond my understanding," Clea confesses. "Not for the reasons of magicks but for the reasons of politics. I do not know your Odin well, nor why he is here. I would be glad to carry messages if you need one who is not involved with old disputes, even a little bit -"

Well, a little bit, she's kind of hung out with Loki and Amora now, but NEVER MIND. "But I must confess I am concerned to begin such conversations with a stranger."


The redhead maneuvers herself with striking care through the varied bits of furniture, selecting a seat from which to observe the world as the declaration not to touch her is wisely released. Like the rose, be wary of the thorns. "At least grant some warning." Scarlett's propensity to grin is firmly squashed by biting the inner corners of her cheeks.

"As I meant to say, lady," she tells Clea, "Gladly, I can tell you later of Thebes. A lovely tale about a greatly lettered man who used dragon's teeth to build an army to defend a city he founded." Her classical education, as peculiar and diverse as Columbia can offer, is fairly well rooted. Fingers wrap around her knees, enveloped in the excess material of her dress, flattening the billowing hemline to her legs. Who in their right mind asks the only human — mortal, undoubtedly — of mischief beyond Midgard? Silly people.

Her thoughts are measured, or she's exceptionally good at bluffing it. "Direct their attention elsewhere. Spread word of a missing artifact or bit of lore that would prove insufferable if anyone else got it. That goes doubly for the All-Father or Surtur Flame-Beard. A diversion, in other words. Make it authentic enough, they won't be able to resist, surely." A nod there. "Litter enough clues, deeply buried, to sustain their focus elsewhere long enough for a new concern to rise in their minds. Another option, redirect them against a new problem. I can think of the obvious two courses, though you'd need consent from the Queen of the first. As to the second, probably not, if she's your daughter."

A pause. "Third, find them something, someone, bigger and badder to hunt. Someone ought to be able to stir up the waters enough that a fish comes to the surface. For preoccupations, those are my suggestions. The steps the All-Father could take to cause mischief? Appeal to nobility, pride, family, oaths, purpose. Hit your brother where it hurts the most. What does he care about? Toy with that, and he's going to have to answer or else deny all he is, no?"


Grim now. Not the joker, not the fool. The hero now, albeit the hero of olde. The one who savaged entire nations and peoples, massacred men, women and children and monsters as numerous as the stars in sky. Leaning back in the one possible chair that might support him, Hercules speaks without smiling, "There is one and only one certain way to absolutely prevent future incursions by one who has already proven themselves an invader, and that is death." He peers at Loki-who-is-called-Louis. "Now I know you. Brother to Thor, yes. Dwarf child of giants. God of lies, or so they say." A pause. A thoughtful pause which includes the final swig from his bottle. "I will tear this Surtur's head from his shoulders and with it in my hand I will smash his army to pieces. For they are only giants, are they not? Not even Titans. Pft." He boasts. And this time it doesn't sound frivolous. "And in return thou wilt aid me regain my clothing and my mace. As for your family squabbles, I care not. I have mine own to deal with."


Loki listens to them as his eyes wander from speaker to speaker. He tilts his head to the side as he ponders Amora and gives a small nod. "Wards would be suitable, though we would need to look to methods to power them so that they would be sufficient to detour another incursion. Otherwise they'd be looked on as something of a challenge or an insult."

The trickster gestures towards Clea as he goes on, "Which would also in part be where you come in, Clea. I believe you might have some access to arts arcane that are not entirely familiar to all of us. It might give us a benefit or at the least a breadth of observation that is not already tinged with presumption that we who are more aware of the Fire Giants might suffer from." A pause, then he adds. "And your political neutrality could be a benefit."

A beat, then he listens to Scarlet's thoughts. "Are we sure we would wish to be so active in their sphere of influence? They could take such transgression, should they be discovered, as interference. Which would be looked on poorly." Then his lip flirts with a smile as he adds, "Yet hmm… you have given me much to consider."

It's only when Hercules voices his opinion that Louis eyes widen a touch and for some reason… he seems so entirely pleased. "It is no trick of fate that you are here, Son of Zeus. You are exactly what is required here for this time and in this place." He takes a level breath and then looks to Amora.

"Enchantress, I charge you with seeing to Hercules' requirements. His clothing, his weaponry, otherwise. I think he may be able to help save the world from the predations of Surtur."


Amora of course, had chosen the chair besides the Greek Demi-god and was continuing her flirtations, if running her hands all over his personal space could be counted as flirtation. She was used to dealing with the Thunderer who didn't notice such affection, could a girl really be at fault? Still, as Loki mentioned wards and continued to speak with each in turn she gave him, some, of her consideration.

At his charging of her being in charge of seeing to Hercules' needs, she arched a brow again, and shot him a dry look. "I'll lend him aid where he has need of it." She offered, and then tilted her head back to offer a fluttering of her eyelashes toward said person.

"Loki, that takes care of Surtur.. and while I do like Scarlett's idea of a distraction.. This is your father we speak of. I would not count it beyond him to have seen beyond our chatting here already. He might see truly what our aims are and has already put things into play above what we can plan.." She tilted her head to the side.

"My recommendation is that someone should sneak into Asgard and see what goes on in the court currently and ascertain what is happening.. too long removed have all of us been.."


When Amora says Odin might be watching, Clea mimes blowing a kiss into the air.

"I suppose I should be clear, just so that you know," Clea says, "that in a sense I am not neutral. There is someone I stand against… but I doubt the Allfather holds Dormammu warmly in his heart." She probably shouldn't say that name too often, but once in a while, what more can you do?

Her eyes turn to Amora. "Oh, that sounds fun." Then back to Scarlett: "How did the dragons take it?"


The thin smile on the redhead's lips is almost aggressive, checked by a sharp bite to her cheek again. Scarlett tips her head to the side, catching her chin on the curve of her palm. "The dragon took being toothless rather poorly. He was slain to make the spartoi warriors possible. It beckons the question what happens if you unleash a dragon or the pieces of a dragon free in useful places. Sprinkle them in an unexpected corner, watch which things flow forth?"

Letting that idea stand, she taps her fingers against the full curve of her lips. "I prefer to think none are neutral, but all comes down to alliances and casualties of defense, myself. Muspelheim proved inhospitable. Tiptoeing among the eldjotnar may have given me a better idea of their problems. Now, unleash yon Olympian down among them, that might keep them occupied. Birds, stone."

Amora's anticipated idea leaves her sitting upright a bit too sharply, still reacting with inhumanly quick reflexes that have to taper out. It's not been terribly long since she sat, and the effects ripple out beyond what she can hope to contain for the moment.


"What you are saying, Amora, is that I should go to Asgard and speak with my father." Louis frowns and seems to slouch slightly further into his seat, his expression darkening as his gaze drifts to the side and away. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head, "The idea displeases me, but of the three of us I am the only choice."

Yet when Clea speaks up he looks towards her. Then the mention of Dormammu and he hms slightly. "We should speak more after this in private. I would know of your origin if it is yours to share now. Unless you have a class in the morning." He offers that casually with a ghost of a smirk before he turns towards Rogue.

"I think we have before us our tasks." Louis folds his arms over his chest. "Amora will tend to the Olympian. Clea and Scarlett, perhaps you can put together a plan for what wards we shall put in place and how they shall be powered. I will prepare myself to journey home, and then return with what word I can."


Amora held up a hand, her other arm moving to settle beneath her bust as she huffed. "No, Loki. I do not /mean/ to send you off to speak to your father. Please, you are not the only one that can slip in between the realms. Or have you forgotten that I can pass through just as silently and easily as you? I can get into Asgard if I please." She shot him a arched brow, as if daring him to say otherwise.

"It's not like my exile actually does anything spell wise to keep me away. If I /really/ wanted I could easily get Heimdall to let me pass." She shrugged, rolling her shoulders back with another huff of air.

"Besides, I wanted to go and check in at my palace. I wonder how many gifts have piled up since I left."


"Or you send the woman who offered herself as a neutral messenger if you wish," Scarlett murmurs rather gracefully, flicking her wrist towards Clea to interpose a delicate motion. The tease of movement is accentuated by the wavelike flood of her sleeve. "I find it charming you concern yourself about my morning classes, though given you teach that one, no doubt you want to be certain I am not curled up under your desk halfway through the lesson."

The lambent light in her eyes is purely innocent. Utterly. No horns. Nope.


Spreading his hands as he speaks, Loki looks to them all. "Amora, if you are discovered then you risk much. You could be imprisoned or worse." The trickster looks between them and gives a nod to Rogue and then a wry smirk as he shakes his head. A breath is taken as he points at her and says lightly. "Hercules is a bad influence upon you."

Yet that tendril of the conversation is left to writhe off into silence as Loki motions towards Clea. "And I am afraid it would be much to ask of Clea, considering she is not entirely aware of our customs. It would be akin to letting a cat free amongst the wolves."

Resting his hands back upon the arms of his chair he pushes himself to his feet. "I am afraid I have much to consider, we'll speak further in the future. But until then, let us at the least get the wards prepared."

With that having been said, Loki moves towards the doorway. "Please feel free to make yourselves at home, enjoy the food and drink." He stops and gives Amora a 'look' as if to tell her to behave herself. And then he steps out.

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