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It's a warm day in New York City. The sun is shining, and it's slightly warmer than it had been the previous day. Still, the main groups of tourists are returned to their homes, schools are in session, though by now they're letting out, and for the first time in the last week or so, things actually look like they may work out. This, of course, according to Thor. He is happily unaware of the goings on of the others, should anything have 'gone on', and he is currently crossing the street to gain a cold confection from a mobile merchant selling his wares from a small cart.
Good Humour. That about sums it up.
"I will have two, my good man. One for me and—"
Even as Thor is ordering, pulling coinage of his own realm from his pocket, there is a murmur in the air. The whispers grow louder, and in his ear, sounding over the noise of the traffic is the blaring of a horn.
In the next moment, the ice cream man is handing an ice cream bar to the empty air.
With a burst of electricity, the skies grow dark and ominous, the sound of rumbles fill the air as the very air is electrified. One second, two… and a great bolt of lightning emerges from the clouds and strikes the ground and pours out its power all around it. From the moment of the God of Thunder's arrival to that field of death, as hundreds of animals keel over from the shock of the high voltages, it is a span of a heart's flutter.
And Thor's not happy.
*
Amora had a plan. Better yet she had several. It was a good day for the exiled Asgardian. A soft hum escaped her as she bustled around the mortal that stood in what passed as her 'kitchen' — it really was more of a place for spell work. And what work it was. The Enchantress had a large copper bowl with several rocks at the bottom and she tossed in a dash here or there of various herbs.
"It's important that you have the intent. Really the rest of the ingre—" She broke off as a tug of magic snapped at her mind. She hissed, dropping her grip on the vial in her hand — sending rosemary across the floor. She gasped, fighting off the summons as best she could — in vain. Her eyes watered as she summoned up her own magic and wrapped it around herself, the back and forth of the magic causing her actual pain.
A hand groped out and she ended up latching onto Scarlett's arm as she sank to the floor.
Then a pop and a cracking followed, green smoke swirling as it engulfed the two.
There Amora the Enchantress stood on the field of fallen animals, her hair whipping around her as she stood in her full Asgardian beauty. No mortal guise to dull the perfection of her countenance. She scowled, her emerald sheened gaze searching for whoever had summoned them. And then she spotted Thor. A faint grimace pulled at her lips.
*
Another place, not terribly distant, a slim figure scribes lines upon a stone with ink ground from walnuts, rosemary, and other sources besides. The brush applies delicately nuanced strokes in a fine hand, the fox hair tuft flicked lightly to complete an inverted carat. Air thickens around her, charged subtly on the slightly depleted reserves of energy that pour through the living focus.
Her fingertips poise the brush forward, and her motion stills to absolute pause. Lights start to flicker, not an uncommon occurrence in the city at summer. The area suffers for too many people and not nearly enough places with adequate wire to store them.
Ink drops to the stone, filling the groove already prepared in a vertical line. The Z-line rune, Algiz, is completed.
Green light radiates up from it in a spiral of energy, matching the auroral hues caught in her irises. She starts to murmur a word, this practice perhaps hopeless where far, far greater practitioners of seidr have long since given up for the week. Then Amora has seized her, and yanked her through the dimensions.
The Algiz rune drops to the ground at her feet, leaving Scarlett balanced upon her toes an inch off the ground. Her arm is lifted against the pressure and the threat.
*
People arrive in sudden snatches of time when they are called. That nagging feeling, a pulse behind the eyes, a compulsion.
Most try to resist like Amora, but end up being ripped through the fabric of whatever space they were in and remade anew at another.
Though most weren't as stubborn as Sif.
ASGARD:
"HEIMDALL! You ogre of a man! You fou—…" There was a pause in her words, a faint toss of her black hair and a turn to sink into the bedchambers that she calls her own. Yes. That compulsion, it was intense. Loud.
And highly annoying.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER:
Sif emerges from her bedchambers, garbed in her decorative armor, helmet that was donned upon her head considered, clinked, and soon ricochet back into the room with an angry toss. And then a sigh was heard.. as she marches right back into the room, slamming the door behind her.
TWELVE MINUTES LATER:
The sword she carries upon her right hand is swung; outward, inward, a point… and *DOWN*.. the crackling sound akin to thunder but not is heard within the bed chambers as Sif herself was swallowed up into that compulsion and..
NORWAY:
..she arrives fashionably late. Who knows what whomever was doing during this time. Either way, she did not care. There was a lackidaisical flip of her dark hair from her shoulders, and even as strands remain out of place there was a clear look of focus and preparation. Why.. she's already wearing her shield that hangs upon her vambrace and gripped with intent.
*
Thor Odinson isn't dressed in Midgardian 'casual' for the day in New York, suddenly. He is in armor, the red cape flowing behind him, and blond hair down, hanging free. Mjolnir is evident beside him, and there is fire in his eyes. "Who is it that—"
And there is Amora.
Scarlett… Scarlett?
Beyond, in the distance, there is a bonfire lit in the dimming light (due to time zones!), and figures are there. Thor begins his path towards them when…
Sif.
"A fine gathering it is," is rumbled, the anger in his tones more than evident. "By what magic remaining is this done?"
*
Whatever swaggering gait Amora used to approach Thor, while picking around the dead caresses around them, she kept it as she made her way to his side. Scarlett an after thought, though she at least managed to wave a hand over the mortal to ensure her clothing was suitable. She smiled her usual sultry smile, giving away nothing of what had transpired the other day, as she tried to hook her arm through with the Thunder God's.
"Well, I would say, it was a mortal summoning. The magic tasted of iron and frozen earth." She murmured, tilting her head to the side. Whatever smile was on her feature froze into a fixed expression at the sight of Sif.
"Why they summoned, or how they summoned so many of us here remains to be answered." She wrinkled her nose at the sight of coal-haired battle maiden and made to stalk passed her toward the figures gathered by the fire light's edge.
"Who has summoned us thusly? What business have you? Speak!" She did the whole dramatic entrance rather well, magical flames licking up her hands and spinning around her body. Her voice booming with demand..
*
As a matter of principle, Scarlett already goes airborne short of someone tethering her feet to the ground by means stronger than meet the eye. At a distance she looks to reside upon the lichen-strewn barrens of the high north, though Amora's dazzling radiance probably overwhelms anyone likely to peer her way.
The sight of so many fallen creatures twists her expression into a look of utter horror and remorse, her hands covering her mouth. Expressions of power in multitudes of forms are not unknown to her, but an entire herd decimated to the ground in a vast circle is something quite different. The bohemian drops to her knees and reaches out, putting her hands in front of the ungulate's snout to measure for breath or any hint of life. Perhaps they might all be stunned, or somehow recoverable. Whatever life they held is like to simply seep into her veins.
Hers is a vicious curse, truly.
"Something oily. Not butter, a thicker fat than that," she musters up a response, rising from her floating stoop at a fixed bend. "The bitterness at the back of my throat suggests herbs. Oakmoss?"
It does not fall upon her to put face to name for Sif, though Amora's dismay earns the briefest of motions to her mouth almost hinting at a razor-sharp sickle. The thinnest of them vanishes away behind a cloud bank. The surer part of wisdom bids her dip into a curtsey.
Nowadays, she's curtseying to everyone. How irksome. The soul-thief needs a title.
*
"Fine gathering?" Sif finally murmurs, approaching the wholesome three with a small but wary approach. Her shield arm lowers, blade drops ever so slightly to her side but her entire grasp meant to be at the ready in a moments notice. And yes, Sif sees Amora as well. Whatever lies beneath those blue eyes remain unseen. Though, for now.. whatever words that meant to be spoken were not. For she glances along the field of death, even as one foot reaches out to nudge at the carcass that lays near her boot.
"Hmph."
And while Amora streaks off for questioning, her eyes finally land upon Scarlett as she curtsey. And Sif does the unthinkable. Her jaw tightened ever so slightly and her angular, pretty chin is lifted in an upnod of greeting.
(EDITORS NOTE: Sif invented the upnod circa 1963; which isn't popularly known until the early 2000's among gang members in LA who choose to be respectable amongst one another while fighting adversity in the streets. One love, folks. (JK)).
*
«"It worked!» There are several young men, all just post college age if not a little older, and in hand are sheets of paper upon which are scrawled Ancient Norse letters, not unlike those formed by the Old English. There is a tent beyond, and as one of them rises, the true extent of exactly what was done begins to sink in. Sure, there's grey skies; okay, they hadn't been there only moments before, but!
And now, a sea of dead animals. All around, the giant herd, multiple herds of reindeer that were scattered around their dig site (Yes, they're archaeologists!) are now literally scattered around their site. Dead.
The one that is on his feet stares, and his jaw begins to work even before sound comes forth, It is in Norwegian that he speaks, but the moment he sees the newly arrived, the man begins again in stammered, stuttered.. Ancient Norse. It's halting, and in truth, it sounds as if a child only beginning to learn to speak is indeed speaking. «"I believe not that transpired!"»
Thor isn't very patient; not at the moment, and his expression more than accounts for it. Link arms at your peril, Enchantress. He was about to have ICE CREAM. Sif's appearance, however, does temper the man, the god, if only a little, and he calls out, "Ho, Sif! What say you that we discover their method and then remove it from their possession?" Of course his calling of the shield maid means that he is more than happy to use force, such is his ill mood.
"Enchantress, you have only seconds to discover the method," and with that, the Thunder God is truly ready to advance.
"
*
Whatever grumbles the Thunderer has Amora does not stop for them. Rather she waltzes around the campfire, waving a hand as her magic greedily consumes the ancient scraps of paper and leaves nothing but ashes in the mortal's hands. "Indeed, now speak in the modern tongue. We understand your speech perfectly well." She practically purred, a wicked grin lighting up her face.
Even as one or more of the mortals shouts in surprise and anguish at the destruction of the artifact — several were ensorcelled by Amora's appearance at in the fire's glow. She waves another hand, and her magic grips one of the younger men, lifting him up into the air and bringing him before her. She smiled, the sweet, sultry smile she always used and pressed a kiss against his lips. "Now tell me, who else out here knows this little secret of yours? Hmm? You'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?" She ran a finger along the man's jaw and toward his ear.
Predictably the young man was little more than putty in the Goddess of desire's fingers. "Did you have anything else besides those nasty old papers? Hair? Blood? Bone?" She arched a golden brow, even as the other mortals started to bleat like frightened animals, her magic snared them in various stages — some by their feet, others by flipping them upside down, at least those that weren't currently enamored with the Enchantress of Asgard.
*
The sorcerers' apprentice might be totally content to stay mildly airborne but the very suggestion of fellow Midgardners brings her landing upon the ground, or near enough to count. Practice gives Scarlett a tiny edge to a natural levitating walk.
Old Norse sounds passingly familiar to Icelandic, a not so distant cousin to Norwegian. She tips her head to capture the finer points, latching onto verbs and parsing through the details. Enough for her to glean the purpose. It tells quite a bit about her education that she can swear quite adeptly, more than she can hold a natural conversation. Learning by way of the Eddas, raw exposure, and a few other tricks is hard. «"No-honour bastard-son of woman stone eater."»
Yes, he's the son of a stone giant. To Allspeak, she probably means, 'You honourless son of a bitch.' And that's no little insult.
Let them admire the shameless Enchantress, but her eyes are narrowed and her disapproval a pale shadow. On the other hand, she looks about ready to throw a reindeer at them.
*
The nudge of her boot against the fallen reindeer has her frowning. A low rumbling sound that could be akin to a grumble or swear words that do not sound comprehensible to the mortal ear. The little path draws her closer towards Thor's side, her sword soon clipped to her shield, shield snapped upon her back and hung there as it was meant.
"I say we let the Enchantress play."
The All-Father fell immediately into Odinsleep with those words.
Heimdall broke the Rainbow Bridge.
Loki vowed to walk the straight and narrow and Frigga grew wings and flew off into the sunset.
All at the supportive words of Sif towards Amora.
It was then, close as she was, Sif crouches. Her shoulders hunching as if she were a beast ready to pounce the gathered men, her fingers soon steepled and pointed downward as she continues that ominous perch to watch. Which could be more terrifying than her swinging her blade. Though there was a tiny little smirk at Scarlett's words.
*
Thor wields Mjolnir, but the great runic hammer is held loosely in hand and now down. Unthreatening.
This, right before him, as Amora does her 'thing', this is why Asgard is feared amongst all the Realms. Their warriors brave and they have the greatest of spell casters in the known universe. Mother. Loki. Amora.. and countless others use their magicks, and Thor isn't above adding them into his accounts of battle. (Granted, while he believes he gives those full measure, the truth is that they get a decreased role in the retelling. Of course.) What need is there for him to interfere when the Enchantress, so aptly named, does what it is she does best?
None.
This, in itself, allows Thor to regain some humour and he finds himself first standing beside the woman who is inarguably his best friend, but before he can take position such as her own, the swearing.. the absolute.. epithets that emerge from one so young causes brows to rise and he looks theatrically over his shoulder at Rogue, a laugh almost sounding. Almost. Silently, though now with a lopsided smile, he looks back at Sif and gives her a look before he replaces Mjolnir to his side and he, too, lowers himself. "I could not agree more. She has this well in hand, I believe."
As for those anthropologists?
Smitten, but not all in that 'aaaaah' sort of way. It's more like how those sailors viewed the Siren upon the rocks; with dread, with awe, with desire, and the distinct knowledge they were up the ship's creek without any oarsmen. But it simply didn't matter, and it doesn't. Not to them.
One, two do shed that tear for the invaluable paper.. that work done carefully transcribing each word from a collection gained all across the 'known Viking land'..
*
Oh Amora toys with them quite rightly, making her way through each one in turn and bespelling them to drag the spluttering truth from their lips with a kiss here or there. She waved a hand this way or that, a belt or a shirt flying free and disappearing to leave the poor mortals to the chill of the night in the most comical of manners. It would seem she had some humor in her work.
More than one mortal would leave this night unable to get her from their minds — another string of fertility goddess worship would undoubtedly spring up from this. As she drags more answers free, Amora continues her work of carefully destroying all hint, all trace of the summoning, while supplanting in their minds memories of her over how they worked their ritual. There would be no second attempts to be made.
When she's through she lets them fall back to the ground, in an enchanted slumber as her magic works over their minds and bends them to her will even in their dreams. She walked away without a glance back toward them, a golden brow quirked upwards as she approached the group. "They'll remember naught, but me. Their spell work is undone and they shall have no means to summon us in the old ways again. It seems happenstance that we were the ones summoned based on their runic inscriptions. They had no idea who they would get, they had no real translations of the elder runes that seemed to matter. One of them was replacing lost pieces with those from the Englishmen." She rolled her eyes and sighed.
"If you wish further trouble for them, I leave it to you." She inclined her head toward Thor, making no movement toward him nor even making an inflammatory comment toward Sif. Her gaze lifted toward Scarlett instead.
"You may travel back home with me, or them. The choice is your own. I depart now."
*
Colourful profanity aside, the redheaded bohemian closes her hands around one another and deigns then to drift within relative sword's reach of the pair of Asgardians remaining outside the charmed circle of the Enchantress' doomed anglerfish lure. The bobbing presence of so lovely a golden woman surely spells doom for those anthropologists in her needle-tooth smile or the assurance they will melt away into her embrace.
Permanently.
Then again, most men are just a pair of gonads to her, no? While Frigga flies away and the All-Father commands every Asgardian marry a Midgardner, assuring her promise of a title, Scarlett's expression firms at watching Amora in play, and how Sif and Thor have an easy candor bespeaking long, long familiarity.
"Forgive me, but I should censor their work." Trust an academic of any stripe to know of censorship. In that moment she moves, inexorably descending to capture what paper and tools and workmanship these poor souls gave their lives and independence for. Whilst Amora goes about her business, the one mortal handmaiden of the Norns executes on another task altogether, plucking up this and that, and regarding it all with a certain sense of foreboding.
*
Finally, at long last, Sif cracks a little smile. Her fingers play along the other with a few thumping taps; all the while watching Amora work and effectively play amongst the mortals and learn the tales of their trade. With Thor taking his place at her side, Sif takes in a little lean to lightly bump his shoulder with her own, holding that lean there and moving back into her own space.
And after all that was said and done? Sif slowly lets out a breath, rocking back upon her heels and forward upon the tips of her toes, lurching herself upright at a job well done. As much as she wanted to lift a finger? It was not within the cards. Far be it for her to interrupt magic at play, especially if it came from an Asgardian.
"Well then." She finally breathes out, her eyes closing as she looks up towards the night sky, and then down towards the ground where the carcasses of the animals lay. As Scarlett approaches to do her own work, Sif regards the woman quietly. "Take everything, leave nothing." Was it an order? No. But a suggestion if she chooses to follow it.
Now, one hand strikes out to smack fingers against Thor's armor. "Dinner?" She asks, splaying her arms wide. "This is a practical feast o' the gods!" In which, if he accepts?
He's carrying all that shit back to New York, skinned, quartered and diced. He killed them, after all. Waste not want not.
*
As the Thunder God and the Shield Maid crouch and watch, Thor actually chuckles to see Amora work. His voice is low and he leans, "I've missed this," he easily admits. "It has been too long since our hand was lifted."
He doesn't even glance at the shoulder bump, but he does let out a chuffed laugh as he leans back, albeit briefly. It's when the end arrives that Thor rises as well, although a little slower than his partner. "Are we done here, then, Lady Scarlett?" His voice rises for the short distance, though it's more to poke that hole in the wall that she is behind, the spell that encases her. Sif's words, however quiet, are undoubtedly wise and Thor leaves well enough alone.
It's the suggestion, however, of dinner where the Prince grows the smile widely, and lets out a laugh. He bobs his head in a quick nod, and looks out on the field once more. "I.. uh.." and he looks considering. "Um.. it is, aye. Do you really think we need all.." and his tones are light, and actually a touch on the playful side. "Right. This meat. A feast." And he follows up his words with the same, only a little louder, "A feast!"
Eventually, there will be meat in the larder of many, many people in New York City.