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At the castle, Amora sat quite bored at the large wooden table in the kitchen. It was the closest to the kitchen she'd been the entire time they had been there. She sighed, propping up her chin with a hand as her other hand made a gesture and summoned a perfectly steeped, hot tea. Another hand gesture and she had summoned a deck of tarot cards. Idly she played the game, pausing ever so often to look over the gilded images hand painted on each card.
It was a rather lovely set, she mused as she sipped at her tea.
Another sigh dragged from her lips, and she picked up the tea cup with a delicate hand, sipping at it lightly.
*
What would one read, in those cards? Is there a spread to divine the frustration and wrath of a thwarted immortal, some great hint of delight to be gleaned from Strength showing up adjacent to the High Priestess, united by the Lovers, a host of minor arcana to tell of a lovely dalliance?
For the redheaded bohemian, her skirts wet to her knees, the kitchen holds less in the way of household fortunetelling and more about food. The others can survive on revels and enchanted apples. She needs real food. In this case, scones: lavender ones. A dollop of honey. And the stains of berries lend her lips a dark, evocative colour not yet mastered by Ms. Chanel or Mr. Saint-Laurent, those she probably snacked on on the way.
*
Amora glanced up from her cards, and offered Rogue a faint wave of her fingers in way of greeting as the other woman entered the room. She crossed her legs, pale skin reflecting the lazy rays from the sunlight that streamed into the room from the wide windows. She tossed her hair over her shoulder, and finally glanced up from her game after several long moments to note Rogue snagging scones. A flick of her wrist had her magically summoning a scone up into the air and toward her lazily.
"So, what did you think of Hercules? I thought he was rather stunning. I have a weakness for muscled men, and he's a pretty example. Not entirely sure that I care much for his hair.. but I can work around that.." She drawled lightly.
*
One step, another, and the redhead casts a quick and merry dabble of her fingertips in the Enchantress' direction. Crumbs steal against her fingers. There is grace in the failings of words and the culmination of silence, a lasting quality that skims over the cavernous room meant to host huge fires and deep ovens for the lucky few. He whom dwelled here at a time when there were servants and expectations of class dividing all no doubt left a mark of sorts. The girl raises her scone to her mouth, nibbling upon the triangular point of the irregular scone.
"Our encounter and meeting were memorable," she mentions after swallowing. "What is off about his hair? Could you not convince him to bleach it?"
Oh, she's terrible.
*
A chuckle escaped Amora as she snatched the enchanted scone out of the air and took a bite out of it. She paused, taking the time to enjoy a sip of tea before she responded. "Mmm, not the color. It's mostly that I don't think it's long enough, darling. There's nothing for me to hold on to…" She drawled, and offered a wink over her shoulder.
A sigh, nearer to wistful than her previous ones. "I'll have to take the man out shopping tomorrow. I wonder if he'll be more or less of a head ache to modern ways as Thor is. Though he called the Thunderer an oaf.." She murmured, her lips twisting together in thought, a golden brow shooting upwards in thought as she mused lightly.
*
Amora may well be talking to the worst woman in the city about that sort of thing. Long hair? Pleasure? What on earth would Scarlett know of that? Her mild gaze over the consumption of the scone speaks to a patience, allowing the Asgardian goddess to determine the alterations to the Olympian to make him a worthy lover. Or arm candy. "Undoubtedly," she replies dryly. "He still wishes his original clothes, and lion skin is very much out of fashion. Maybe leopard."
Imagine: Hercules Hendrix. It might be a little early but it could be done.
"Would you disagree on the assessment?" An idle query.
*
tilt of her head followed Scarlett's assessment and she made a soft 'hmmm' noise at the back of her throat. "Perhaps, I honestly don't care for animal skins, they're so barbaric. And he had the nerve to say as much of Asgardians.." She rolled her eyes and drummed her free hand on the table.
"Do you think, in a fight, he or Thor would win?" She drawled, biting her lower lip at the last word and seeming to savor it. "Can you imagine it? Two handsome men, fighting hand to hand? Oh Thor is plenty strong, but I wonder.. Son of Zeus versus son of Odin.. Oh the spectacle of it.." She grinned, a wicked thing lit with lust.
"I think I could enchant whatever he chooses to look sensible at the very least. That should solve that wretched animal skin thing.."
*
"Naturally he would say such things. Is there not to be enmity between your respective nations? For surely you have great pride in your people, and he in his," observes the Midgardner mildly. The tone of voice holds no great harshness; on the contrary, Scarlett sounds vaguely amused, even as she finishes up with the scone. The remaining crumbs are banished by a sprinkle of her fingers across a sink. Or whatever passes for a sink.
The query of who would win in a fight is lost upon her. "I have nary a notion of their abilities in battle, if one is hardened or the other relegated only to his labours. Ask them, perhaps, and see what might please them. The spectacle, indeed." Is she martial and warlike? Those qualities are not visible at the surface, though she stormed Muspelheim willingly enough. Twice. Thrice, actually, if one concludes an attack on Limbo's borders counts.
"Take up with him the sartorial options, I suppose. Ah, but for a man with broad shoulders and flowing hair and manners suitable for a court…?" Is she teasing? Yes.
*
Amora bounced her foot a few times, arching her brow as she sipped at her tea idly. "Well, there is some dislike, yes.. to a degree." She flipped a card over idly, running her fingers over the gilded edging for a moment before she moved on to nibbling at the scone again.
"You know, it has always amused me that my name is not what your mortals would say is 'Germanic' in origin. Rather Latin based, and sounding more of belonging to the Greeks and Rome rather than Norsemen." She tapped her chin in thought. "I look good in a toga too.."
Her gaze turned back around and studied Scarlett. "Still, I wonder how long it would take for me to get bored with him. Son of Zeus and all… I mean, he's definitely not entirely mortal and is less fragile. So there's that. I can't stand mortal lovers.. they break too easily. No offense." She added after a moment's pause.
*
"Pride, ever a bloom, will not spare us from its vining strands." Scarlett examines the kitchen at large, admiring the shapes of shadow painted upon the walls in all their features. Hands clasp gracefully behind her anew, lending a certain straightness to her poise.
What question can she possibly raise, mere conjecture in a place of wonder? A line of thoughts spun on a delicate weaving gives way to response. "We all possess so many connections in spite of ourselves, don't we? Your name is Latin, yes, at least as the sound holds some familiarity. Mayhap your parents cared for the poetry of it, and the correspondence."
At any rate, the offense is apparently near to nil. She spreads her hands. "See what you may enjoy of him. Herakles — Hercules — is not known for his great wit, but enduring fortitude and persistence. That might please you. I know naught what your tastes are, except that you might wish to experience what you have not known prior."
Echoes of a truth.
*
Amora turned around fully to face the young woman and leaned her weight against the back of her chair. She arched a golden eyebrow upwards, a smile curving at her lips. "Who knows, my parents also named my sister Lorelei. And she's a complete.. I believe the mortal term is 'twat'." She drawled and rolled her shoulders back in a shrug.
"As far as enjoying him? Oh, I plan to." She cackled faintly, running a hand through her hair. "Besides, if the tales are true, then he shouldn't be all that hard to ensnare into my bed. I believe he and his father both have reputations for womanizing. Ah, the Greeks!" She leaned her head back to look up at the ceiling.
"I suppose I'll owe Loki a thank you if all goes well. But then again, he owed me for the slight the other night." She wrinkled her nose as she spoke and then straightened and stood.
"My tastes are such that I have fun. He's handsome, I'll give him that. I don't particularly care about wit—How could I possibly when my Crown Prince is who he is?" She shook her head, patting her skirts down and eyeing her footwear. "What I care about is going to be if he can keep me entertained long enough. I hate getting bored."