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Amora had not returned to Thor's chambers the night before. In fact her clothes, and assorted gifts from admirers had vanished along with her presence in the royal suite. All the furniture that she commandeered had been placed back into its proper place as well. The servants certainly didn't seem to know, or much care where the Enchantress had gone, shrugs and muttered who knows, followed if there were any inquiries made by the mortal member of the group.
Yet if asked by the guards, there were grins, shared glances and attempts at hiding comments behind closed fists and fake coughing. More than a few snide comments were made about where Amora had spent her night, and morning into noon.
Such was the lateness of the hour that Amora finally bestirred herself to wander the halls, this time only a singular guard standing outside to follow her along from Fandral the Dashing's quarters to the great hall. There Amora had summoned up a book and found herself tucked into a corner looking out over the entire room, seeming to ignore the gaggles of men that came up to her and offered fawning affections.
*
Whatever else may be said of Scarlett, she keeps to nearly Asgardian rhythms of life. Little sleep taken except in snatches, her forays take her between the library and the marketplace, the outskirts where natural order overtakes the city, and supposedly the Bifrost Bridge.
A mortal on the bridge is no exceptional matter, except she went to dance among the rainbows of energy and politely pay her regards to its glorious architecture. Always guards survey her, and always she treats them respectfully as one should. The Princess' handmaid will be cause for no complaint or whispers, even if her very existence compounds a measure of curiosity.
She dwells upon the volumes at a prodigious rate, devouring what they contain. Even those Amora selected for her on diverse subjects, including tantric amours, fall before her executioner's mind. Guards might speak only to the oddity of how she reads: resting on her elbows, her body vertical to a column in a modified peacock asana with the tome tipped in front of her. Though eventually she must go forth for food, mostly at the prodding of a wilting guard unable to quite keep up with her ascetic's pace. Thus they arrive, two flanking her, the simple jade gown belted around her waist making all the ostentatious beauty of Asgard seem rather unusual next to her spartan graces.
*
The flutter of muttering on the other end of the hall as Scarlett enters brings Amora's attention up to inspect the room with a cursory glance from her own book. She sat up from the dramatic recline she had taken up against the wall and stood. Her hips rolling with each step that drew the eyes of every male in the room as was usual. Yet she didn't seem to preen overly about it nor cast a single look over them.
"How have you taken to the libraries, Scarlett?" She offered, a golden brow hooked upwards as she inspected the mortal critically. "You smell as if you have not left the crumbling stacks for days. So I must assume that you have been exhausting yourself at the stores of Asgard's knowledge.."
*
The pair keep back and to the side, far from impeding passage around them but neither permitting Scarlett to become uncomfortably boxed in. In every way the procession might appear natural, a simple visitor admiring the hall, save the deviation of her under the crown prince's diplomatic aegis. A plethora of tiny iridescent Asgardian alpine blossoms frost her elaborate plaits, woven in and out, and they sway when she tips her head towards Amora. "My lady?"
The cutting purity of her voice is definitively English. "Quite well, thank you. With your gracious assistance, and that of Lord Fandral, the librarians quite tolerate me ransacking the depths of their archives." Depths that presumably include elementary primers for Asgardian children to learn about manners and svartalfjar, not exactly difficult. Right? "Do the energies of this place restore you after your time abroad?"
*
Amora shoots a pair of muttering Asgardian women a sharp look as they pass by at some distance, her ears sharp enough to catch their insults said behind cupped hands. Then she's all smiles as she looks back to Scarlett and tosses her hair over her shoulder with her free hand, the other occupied by a thick leather bound tome held it out in offering to Scarlett.
"Well, enough. If all goes well I shall be fully recovered from my time spent abroad by this weekend." She inclined her head to the book, "You should find it entertaining. It was written during the last major conflict that Asgard aided Midgard in. It speaks of your Kings and your people who were exceptionally brave." She then sighed, and drew back.
"If you have need to speak with me, or find me…" She trailed off and waved, "You can ask any of your escorts. They'll know." And then she was off, her head held high and her gaze distant as she swept out of the hall.
*
The book shall be taken from the golden-haired woman's hands, if necessary, though she presumably has not an idea of what lies within. Curtseying slightly by bending her knees, she bobs up again, as valiant as any buoy in a storm. Save Scarlett is a good deal more resilient, in all truth, at least physical. Spiritual, mental? The jury is out, a verdict torn by those who probably think Midgardners still hide in wattle-daub huts and the height of their technological forays are ink and cement.
Quite a bit different now. She gently glances over the pages, marking it. "I do hold relief to know you will soon have the comforts of your palace and favour installed again. No doubt they shall be preciously glad to hear of your experiences." If the Allfather's agents listen, they might report nothing more interesting than this. The woman drifting out leaves her not entirely out of sorts. "Farewell, my lady, and road rise to meet your feet."