1963-08-30 - A Near Miss!
Summary: Amora intercepts Hercules' attempts to cause violence to Thor and leave. Loki and Thor discuss Asgardian politics. Rogue is caught in the middle.
Related: Muspelhiem discussion
Theme Song: None
amora hercules thor louis rogue 

A click of heels with a spring in their step announced Amora the Enchantress' presence as she walked alongside the Lion of Olympus. Her arm looped through his in a delicate manner, her head tilted to lean against his shoulder as they walked along 5th avenue. She wore a white dress lined lime green seams, a wide brimmed, floppy hat perched on her head, and large white sunglasses took up residence and covered up her eyes. She laughed lightly at something the Demi-god had said, a brilliant rubied smile on her lips.

"So, I don't know if you've ever run into Midgard' Sorcerer Supreme, but he is so very much a monk! The poor man turned a very interesting shade of red at even the smallest hint that I might be interested in him. It's /so/ rare to find a man that uncomfortable with himself." Her voice was light and airy, filled with humor.


Midgard's bright daughter will forever stand out. She has no hope of concealment, not with a broad-brimmed hat rimmed in a band of green and an icy dress that doesn't even reach midthigh. Not even the followers of Artemis at twelve in Sparta wore such things, but they sure do in this era. The bag on her wrist speaks to shopping, somewhere, the double Os interlocking, and a neat chain swaying from her wrists like the girl escaped imprisonment with the poorest handcuffs known to man. She sashays, for how else does a modern girl about town move through a cosmopolitan crowd with such aplomb? Her boots strike a tempo, and her graceful regard for the world blends bulletproof confidence with something very different.

Scarlett is hunting.


Hercules humphs at this comment. "In my experience, dear Amora, sorcerers in general are a rather limp lot, if you get my drift. More concerned with perverse scrollery and simulating ointments than healthy combat and strumpets. It's why they can do no more than advise and provide catapult fodder. In my experience."

More comfortable now that he is wearing clothes that aren't the equivalent of tissue paper, the son of Zeus still seems distracted. Anything flashing of gold draws his attention before losing it in bitter recognition. He will never, ever live the loss of his mace down in the halls of Olympus. Oh, how Ares will mock him! He gnashes his teeth and it's audible. Another flash, and though it's not gold this time he takes a look. "Hie! Do I not know this lass? Was she not in our company the other night in that dingy room where we first met? And before that, I seem to recall…"


Eyebrows shot upwards at Hercules comment and she tsked lightly under her breath, "But darling, you forget that I'm well practiced with such magic myself." She flutted her eyelashes up at him, "Do you think me rather limp?" She teased, a smile still upon her lips as they walked. If she noted his tension, she did not comment on it, or seem to regard it in any particular fashion.

As he mentioned a lass that he knew, she turned her gaze around, and spotted Rogue in clothing not too dissimilar to her own. Her smile widened and she cupped a manicured hand to her lips. "Scarlett! Darling! Come over here! I didn't know you were shopping!"


The depths of Fifth Avenue throng with humanity, a teeming wasteland of temples to commerce and eager worshippers bent more to the altar of gold and lucre than any divinity. They who pay faith do so to the greenback and the pound sterling, not anything so petty as a named deity in a white robe. Crowned by her hat more resplendent than the rings of Saturn — certainly more solid — the bohemian drifts whilst she will, stopping in front of one of the storefront windows to glance inside. Her oversized sunglasses concealing her most telltale feature likewise give less credence to window-shopping, though that time honoured sport of urbanites everywhere, in every time, is meant to happen. Else they wouldn't put such pretty displays and signs up to convert the innocence and bait the tempted into penury and sin. Such venal attempts.

She steps away, dodging a much older, distinguished gentleman and his trophy wife, averted from a collision on that last minute alteration. A snide comment from the woman gives her pause to avert her gaze, and there they are, Enchantress and Prince(ss) of Power, He-Ra(cles), standing out like stones among a brook. Her gaze flicks upwards, and the summons for a moment might appear to fall upon deaf ears. The shimmering collusion of her bracelets clash together, a charybdis of lovely melodies, ere she turns again. "My lady. My lord."


"Of course I didn't mean you, fairest one! When I think of you, limpness is the furthest thing from the truth." Was that wit or obliviousness? Herc's attention focuses again on the goddess on his arm. Ladies do trump problems. And cure them. And cause them. Ah… ladies. Is there anything they can't do?

"What were we talking about? Oh, yes. Ho, Scarlett! Well met, lass. Hast thou found my mace, by any chance?" Hercules mind has gone full circle yet again. His tone is probing yet hopeful. One day he may note the similarity in appearance and garb between Prince Adam's alter ego and himself, and on that day he may direct his lawyer to open negotiations to "avoid a lawsuit", but on this day in 1963 he has other worries"


It's a day for shopping, yes? The weather is fine, the summer is beginning to shift ever so slightly as 'back to school' is truly in swing.

In the middle of it all, there is a *roar* of thunder, and a flash of lightning in the sky. In the next breath, from a block away, or is it a mile?, a loud and rather obvious voice booms, "Are you insane? Really.. do you think he'd kill a calf and call a feast upon your return? Really.." Thor's in.. discussion with another, stopped at the corner, and completely oblivious to the stares that are given them.. or rather, would be if they weren't running from the street to find cover from the obvious (localized) thunderstorm that looms over the city.


Appearing in that thunderclap the same as the Thunderer, Loki stands there in full Asgardian regalia with a rather prominent staff gleaming in gold and seemingly shaped like a reaching talon, the base of which clicks when he sets it down upon it end and gestures with his free hand. "I am the logical choice." The thinner 'brother' seems also rather involved in the conversation.

"The Enchantress is exiled, and you have your pride. If we send the other-worlder she is ignorant of Asgard and its traditions." The man in the green and black coat gestures to the side with the staff even as it begins to shrink in on itself, seemingly like a bit of origami disappearing in on itself. "Besides." His lip twitches, "There is perhaps a 'small' chance of some sort of celebration. Depending on father's mood."


A grin cast over Amora's features as she tugged Hercules along toward Rogue's person standing before the window. She seemed in a boisterously fair mood, "You look lovely my dear," She winked over her own white, large rimmed sunglasses. "Please, come join us. We're simply out and enjoying the day." Green eyes flutted upwards toward Hercules as she nudged him with an elbow.

"Good, you had better not think me limp. Though if you want you could certainly -try- later." She flashed a wicked grin that promised all manner of mischief between the sheets. Yet further teasing broke off at the clap of thunder and lightning overhead and her expression darkened much as the sky. A flicker of annoyance, and some deeper emotion grew in her gaze and she fell silent as her gaze scanned the streets around them.


There are reasons one wears a large hat, and not solely to keep the sun off her pretty little face. A natural redhead fears the hated daystar and schools ultraviolet rays to go eff off. Thunderstorms actually bring a slight smile to the young woman's mouth, though she casts her gaze along with most everyone else to regard the bruised sky. Whatever slight expression alters her features fades away, locked behind a mask orchestrated into a transformative closure. Scarlett's boots are eminently suited for splashing around in puddles, at any rate, those gorgeous bastard offspring of equestrian and gogo boots the epitome of outstanding footwear. And she might just knock her toe through the puddle in proof, her gaze tugged over her shoulder. Anyone looking at her in profile might see the leached green shade of her eyes, trailing a dusty phosphorescence as she taps something or another, fledgling focused on the mystic for an instant. "Ah."


Hercules spies the brothers and grins wolfishly. Which is to say with pleasure and some amount of premeditated violence that has no specific form yet. He tugs on Amora's arm. "I see that craven god, Thor, whom you named as one who has done you grievous harm, lady. I would have… words… with him!" He is now trying to pull her arms gently off his that he might rush the scene.


"Logical choice?" Thor shakes his head, and he looks intently upon his smaller framed brother, "You share the same feelings about this Realm, brother. He'll know that and any word you say will fall upon his ears tainted in that knowledge." Though, as he speaks, his words slow as he considers what he'd just said. If there was anyone who could convince Odin of anything, it would be Loki. They both know it.

Thor shakes his head again and takes a step back, "Exile, and I won't go back. Not until I show Father the wrongs."

He's about to go on, however, when he catches out of the corner of his eye others that are both familiar.. and.. "Brother," is murmured, and he nods in Amora's direction. And.. another. He knows that look…


Opening his hands as if he were trying to stay Thor from a course of action, "That may well be so, but Odin does at times listen to reason," He steps to the side and falls into step alongside his brother even as he continues the dialogue though now looking sidelong. "At best we may resolve matters, at worst he may imprison me in a fit of pique and then I'll simply have…"

His words falter then as he follows Thor's gaze and cocks an eyebrow curiously, his hands slipping behind his back and folding together neatly as he presents something of a regal aspect to the approach of the Greek.


A look of irritation passed into something else entirely as Hercules removes his arm from his side and his gaze lands on the Thunderer. Her own gaze sweeps over Thor and Loki, and her heart leapt to her throat as something inside her chest tightened painfully. Clearly she was /not/ prepared to set Hercules loose yet, much less so on the God of Thunder. Her lips curl back and she reaches out to clasp both hands around the demi-god's upper arm and yank backwards on him with a muttered spell word.

"No, not.." Her words trail off as the two fade into a flash of lime-green light and the side-walk was suddenly empty of their persons between one blink and the next.


Mortal in the middle, she knows better than some how bad a scenario that can be. So the eternal witness to such matters as should never be witnessed by her ilk, save that it's now her doom written on high by three laughing Parcae (or Moirai or Norns, take your pick for the sisters three) to observe these matters. Scarlett inclines her head towards the pair of men, the tumultuous sea of interactions rolling right over her. The best she can offer is wordless greeting according to their station. Then she withdraws a few steps into the general confounded flow of traffic, her bag still swinging from her wrist with the snapped chains and her bracelets.


There and gone. Thor stands watching the empty air for a few moments longer, blue eyes narrowing as he studies that ground, his jaw set. He's not that stupid, not in the way of women, anyway. That looked… suspicious at best. He glances back at Loki, brows raised again, "Is she so bitter as to—" but he doesn't finish the statement. Not when Scarlett is spied, and he inclines his head in her direction before he turns fully to look at his brother once more.

"If you go, brother, he may put you in the dungeon, I don't know. I don't know his mind. Then, all that can be done for that…" Would be Thor's return… and wouldn't Odin love that. "Do not be a pawn in Father's game, brother." He almost sounds pleading. "Please."


"That reminds me, Amora is sleeping with Hercules, and will probably try to get him to punch you." He says that so matter of factly and blithely, as if he were mentioning that he was thinking of having Chinese food for lunch.

With that matter settled he turns back towards Thor and steps to the side. "Trust that I will take every precaution, brother." He unfolds his arms from behind his back and rests a hand on the larger man's shoulder. "And we shall speak more upon my return."

As he says that he moves away, turning towards Scarlett and smiling rather openly, "Autumn, please perhaps tell Thor what has passed and our plans. I should ideally be no longer than a day's passing."

Another step away to get clear of them, curiously enough into traffic that's stopped around this gathering of immortals. "If I need to send word, you'll know it comes from me because I'll mention the nickname you used for that svartalf girl you so pined after when we were young." He grins and then nods to Rogue, "Protect my brother if it comes to it, Autumn. You know my wishes."

And as quickly as that, he immediately flickers from reality… and then is gone.


The jaded humans of New York, accustomed to all manner of oddity and perversity, go back about their day on Fifth Avenue. Here are the true captains of industry, at least their scions and second cousins once removed, and the beneficiaries of the temples of Mammon in their finest. They turn a blind eye to a rainstorm, shake their heads at a thunderclap, and question the longhairs who clot their perfectly respectable streets with their business and funny accents. Truly, no man seems to understand he's not to block up the sidewalk like a puffed up yellow cockerel!

Certain women in their passing cast reluctant sighs, and will no doubt speak of the oddities over their important luncheons and their fundraising for their children's schools, the foundation, and of course their father-in-law's legacy project at the university or public institution of choice. That fine blond hair! The green coat! The *chestiness* of that… well, barbaric, probably Greek or Italian, what can you do? Hush, Peggy, it's a lady's thing…

It's the use of her name that halts her upon the kerb, her toes almost touching the ground. Traffic diverts around her, a sudden islet in the rivulet of humanity, and the visible tremor strikes from shoulders to some point deeper than any biological anchorage of her body. It hits outside time and space, calling her true name in a fragment. The redhead's fingers catch the blood-gold spindle at her throat, the woven metal threads warm against her palm and fingers. "I will, my lord." The inflection almost shifts into French, almost, tumbling through a hitched pause that lasts a second and a lifetime. So many totalled answers, she ends purely with that. "Until you come home."

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