1963-11-12 - Flirtatious Gossip
Summary: Amora finds Doctor Strange and his apprentice and gossips over her newest 'friend'
Related: http://marvel1963mush.wikidot.com/log:1963-11-12-dangerous-liaisons
Theme Song: None
amora strange illyana 

Evening finds the little tea shop, just a few blocks down from Bleeker Street, occupied only by owner and two guests. The tea is served by old Mrs. O'Riley with a suspicious eye towards the silver-templed man and the youthful blonde waif until allayed with,

"My niece, Mrs. O'Riley. This is Illyana." A little lie. Mollified that the young woman was not the recipient of the special box of tea ordered a few weeks back, the matronly woman makes her way back behind the counter to continue working at a small batch of scones.

Strange sips at his blackberry tea and sighs. It's delightful, just dark enough to cleave to his palate, just sweet enough to be left entirely to its devices. No cream or sugar or honey needed. He looks across the small table at his apprentice and offers her a small smile.

"So, been in Limbo lately? Did anything change within it in response to recent events?"

Recent events being, of course, the closure of the Hellmouth portal and the attack from within on the Sanctum Sanctorum. Rather than Gating to the alleyway next to the shop, Strange had taken the opportunity to walk instead and explain, most dourly, along the way about why the Sanctum wasn't exactly the same as when Illyana had last set foot within it.


Getting Illy up to speed hadn't taken long. She'd taken it pretty well— after all, it's not like Limbo didn't get invaded every time the co-tangent planes of the lower realms rotated into auspicious complement.

Sipping her own tea, she's looking a bit 'too' Illy— face set into flat, unreadable planes, her high Slavic features stark and cool. Her legs are folded crossways under her on the chair's seat, her simple flats and leggings and peasant dress giving her an unsophisticated appearance. Blonde hair hangs to her lower back— a straight, shimmering sheet of blonde.

"Da. Limbo is in upheaval, but is nothing new. Several subplanar demesnes are in sync with Limbo for some time," she tells Strange. "So, you know— invaders. Immigrants. Trade issues. And so on."


A click of high heels announced Amora's entrance, the tall, leggy blonde stepping inside with all the fanfare that one could expect of a goddess of desire. Golden hair spilled freely down her back once more, bouncing with each step she took. She wore a form fitting sweater and mini-skirt, both of various shades of green. A leather belt of golden braid slung low on her hips and high heeled boots hugged her calves.

Green eyes flit about the cafe, landing on sorcerer and apprentice and a shapely smile pulled at her ruby lips. A hand rose and adjusted an impossible flower still tucked behind an ear, the petals changing colors in the light with gossamer intricacy.

With a sway of hips and roll of her shoulders, Amora the Enchantress, renewed with the full brunt of her emotions—approached. "Doctor Strange," She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, leaning against his side as she came to a stop with a brush of her hip.

"Illyana the Apprentice. How do you two do?" She practically purred, dripping with foreign magic that Strange would doubtlessly find familiar if he stopped to notice.


The Sorcerer nods before taking a sip of his tea once more. "Sounds like business is normal then," he replies to Illyana with a mildly-resigned laugh. "I know you'll roll your eyes at me, so spare me, but I have to ask: need any assistance with anything there?"

The little bell dings at the shop door and Strange's nonchalant glance over towards it abruptly becomes acutely intense. He narrows his eyes and then sighs a loooong, slow sigh as he puts two and two together: Lady Amora has solved whatever problem plagued her and is her normal perky self.

He looks rather like he's trying to avoid the show of sucking on a lemon as he watches her approach and then leans ever-so-slightly away from the Enchantress even as her perfume becomes quite evident.

"Lady Amora," he says with professional coolness in the face of such blatant assumed familiarity. "Good evening. We are taking tea and discussing matters of importance."

He's glad he kept his crimson scarf about his neck, though it's far too late to don the psychological armor of his black coat, slung as it is across the back of his chair. It leaves him in dress shirt and pants. The glint of gold chain from beneath scarf and white shirt hints at the Eye on his person.

There's…something different about the Asgardian. Strange squints at a point somewhere towards the door as he tries as quickly as possible to put his finger on it. Tea is sipped once again.


"Not unless you know way to breed giant wasps faster. I am having shifts of prisoners for a while," Illyana says, with a neutral lift of one skinny, athletic shoulder. "The offer is kind, though not necessary." She sips her own tea carefully, cup balanced on her short fingernails, and her eyes flicker to follow Strange's eyes when they track to Amora. Her own face remains unreadable as Amora approaches, following her swaying, sensual path with a look that's only mildly envious of her effortless grace; when she dithers near their place, she dips her head fractionally at Amora.

Queen, after all.

"Lady Amora," Illyana says. "Is good to see you again. Apprentice Illyana is someone only who exists in the Sanctum," she says, a bit crisply. "/Queen/ Illyana of Limbo is preferred title," she adds, her face set quite seriously.


Amora pulled a chair over with a delicate curl of her fingers around the chair's back. A hooked smile pulling at her lips as she perched on the edge, crossing her legs with a slow, sinuous movement. A flash of skin teasingly displayed of her thighs before she leaned forward. "I have noted that you managed to close the Hellmouth, very nicely done Doctor. A feat indeed. I see you are not ill for your brush, which is indeed a praiseworthy thing."

Then her gaze alights on Illyana and she offers a polite nod and wave of her hand. "Very well indeed, as you desire. I merely was aware of your apprenticeship in such that the good Doctor here was very protective of such a thing." She murmured softly, leaning back briefly in her chair.

A hand rose to brush thick golden waves back from her features as she eyed Strange up and down in silence, a golden brow hooking upwards.


'Queen of Limbo'. True. Strange hides most of his sudden smile behind his tea cup, though perhaps the women can spot the quick flash of amusement before it is composed away behind the distant mask. He's missed how tart his apprentice can be.

"Thank you, Lady Amora." He nods to her even as he shifts farther over still in his seat; now half of his thigh hangs from the far side. "It's a relief to have it done and over with. Never been better," he adds with a shrug. As far as the comment to Illyana regarding the apprenticeship, he remains mum. Let the young waif make her own decisions regarding the remark.

Then, raked by the Enchantress's emerald gaze, he straightens in his chair and returns her look with a half-lidded glare. The tea cup is set to rest on the table, both scarred hands curled about it for warmth and steadying against the near-constant tremors that happen without steadying magics. "Yes, Lady Amora?" He tries for bored.

Around him, to the Sight, his aura is already beginning to flicker with dual-colored apprehension, sky-blue and vibrant-scarlet. There's something nagging at his subconscious, but still - it remains beyond his immediate discovery.


Illyana lifts one shoulder slightly at Amora— accepting the apology as offered and clearly considering the matter not bearing further mention. She watches Amora slipping into a seat, eyes intent and despite her youth, shrewdly perceptive of a great deal. Strange asks the question, and Illyana sits and watches as he presses Amora politely for an explanation of her intrusion.

The look she gives Amora mostly dismisses the woman's sensual proclivities— mostly, anyway. Something about Amora's appearance clearly nags at Illyana's perceptions as well, but for the moment, much like Strange, she doesn't let her body language or expression give lie to what her thoughts are.

But she watches Amora. Closely.


Amora practically bounces out of her seat with energy as she reaches up into her hair and removes the impossible flower, turning it over between her fingers as if she were merely fasinated with watching the colors shift and change in the light. Her full lips pulling wide as she watched Strange from over it, slowly, she leaned forward—attempting to brush the flower beneath his chin as he scooted away from her.

"I have made a lovely new friend, though I believe he is more familiar to you darling." She purred, her eyes glittering with mischief and manic glee.

"He believes you've not a right to your power, which I found utterly fascinating and curious in the extreme." Her lips quirked as she spoke, her voice low and soft as warm chocolate.

"Has a /lovely/ bathhouse too, I might add."


Leaning away from the multi-hued flower, Strange quickly looks from it to the smiling woman and listens while his uneasiness grows.

His heart triple-times in his chest, beating like a bird against the bars of a cage, as he slowly inhales. It cannot be. It should not be. Fate must be yanking his chain. Not these two, not crossing paths like that. Easy now, easy. It may be someone else. A unfortunate number of people disagree with you these days, the cool surgeon's logic asserts. He settles back into the chair with a feint of nonchalance, even as his aura snaps close to his skin.

"A good number of people want what they can't have," the Sorcerer replies in a disinterested tone, as if it's nothing new to him. In a sad sense, it isn't. He takes to dragging a fingertip along the outside of the tea cup as a way to fidget. "It's the way of the world."


Abruptly Illyana's eyes flatten and she sets her tea down with a clatter on the saucer. She leans forward, then over the table, well into Amora's personal space. Her eyes lid like a predator's and she sniffs at the air, repeatedly, chasing a scent lingering on Amora's skin.

She growls, the sound low and feline. One can almost see the hackles despite the sheets of blonde hair— but it's not entirely antagonistic, either. A predator scenting another predator.

"I smell the black workings," she announces, barely leaning back out of Amora's space. "You've been around dark powers. Profoundly dark ones," she adds. "It reeks of the workings of the Lord of Shadow and the Devourer. Have you petitioned Chthon or his cousins for power, then?" she asks Amora, with sibilant curiosity. "With who have you made alliance?"


A laugh escaped Amora as Strange leaned away from her teasing with the flower which she tucked back into her hair with a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. "Oh indeed, but I found it curious none the less. How many sorcerers of such powers live here on Midgard? I had no knowledge of him previously, or I would've teased a few nights from him before." She drawled, her lips pulling wide as she propped her chin up with a hand.

And then Illyana was invading her personal space, but the goddess didn't so much as flinch. Rather she wiggled her fingers in the young woman's direction, "Oh darling please, I have made no calls to other powers, please. Do stop being dramatic. I am flirting with your master over this delicious new bedmate I've found, and you're spoiling it with this talk of dark powers." She rolled her eyes upwards, and sighed as if much put upon.

"You're killing the mood." She drawled, her gaze shifting back to Strange.


If his own instincts weren't enough, the abrupt move and oddly-appropriate revelations of his apprentice are enough to put him on his toes. Illyana's hackles are up? His are most certainly up now. Perhaps the flickering of Strange's aura can now be physically felt.

Normally, that pale-cerulean magic would be kept tightly in check; after all, the Sorcerer is all about focus and fine control. There must be something else, mingled within it, that's causing it to frisson. The other color? Foreign but still interwoven without need for force. Rather, a blending via uncanny ease. He notes this and with a quick flash of Mystic light in his eyes, he draws it in close once more.

"Flirt away, Lady Amora, but by all means, tell us both - who has allied with you?" His jaw muscles clench tightly once he's finished speaking. This is one game he's not fond of, this cat-and-mouse teasing.


Amora seemed to only enjoy herself all the more for his direct question and she preened for a long moment, running her fingers through her hair as if she had all the time in the world. Then she leaned back, gaining the shopkeeper's attention and calling for an order of earl grey. She rolled her shoulders back, a smile fixedly painted on her features in a teasingly coy manner.

"I have your permission?" A pout, "It's never so much fun as when you /don't/ wish me to flirt," She murmured, leaning forward to try to trace a green manicured fingernail over his arm.

"But.. if you must know, he is an excellent bed-fellow. Doesn't blush at all, but he is a gentleman. Portal'ed me home this morning," She winked, and pressed closer to Strange, unless he leaned away.

"Tell me how very badly you wish to know, Doctor. For /he/ knows you quite well.."


Should Amora be cognizant of it, the approach of her fingernail to his sleeve is met by the curling spiral of scarlet-hued aura, imminent threat in its effervescent light. Regardless - Strange draws himself once more out of reach of her. Now she'll have to make a show of effort to touch him - and that's tantamount to attacking him, which puts him well within his rights to act defensively.

"I will find out one way or another, Lady Amora. I can ask around easily enough." This is the honest truth. The Bar with No Doors welcomes gossip with open arms.


"You flirt like alley cat," Illyana tells Amora, bluntly, and sniffing once in haughty disdain. "Yes, you were laid in bed. All very proud. Round applause." She claps sarcastically for Amor a few times. "You have brother, or something?" she asks Strange, lifting both brows and talking directly past Amora, a bit dismissively. Clearly, she doesn't appreciate Amora's attempt to bait her mentor— or the pressing, casual insinuation into his presence.


A glance was spared for Illyana as Strange retreated and brushed off her teasing. A pout pulling at full lips as she crossed her arms over her chest. "Yes, well, for a goddess who has been locked away from her /heart/ for months without any manner of feelings, the return of the necessitates a certain little amount of joy, my darling, at a return to old ways. Without a heart it /is/ rather hard for me to draw magic from such acts. Impossible, really." She drawled, waving a hand idly, before she crossed her legs and sat back in her chair.

"Besides, your master—" She eyes Strange up and down with another smirk, "Is by far the most stubbornly handsome Midgardian I have ever met." She sighed, glancing down at her fingernails.

"Most would be more than happy at a night of pleasure with a goddess of desire, including your old .. hmm, is friend too strong a word?" She paused dramatically. "Baron Karl Mordo, I believe was the name he gave me. Quite a gentleman."


"No, I don't," he replies to Illyana and gives her a sharp side-look. Not that he would have ever subjected his brother to the Enchantress. Not of his own devices, anyways. Free will and all that. Unless Amora has a thing for dead bodies, his brother won't ever meet her.

Compliment noted, even if offered in a back-handed manner. Wanda would agree, no doubt.

Then, the Sorcerer Supreme becomes still, much like his apprentice had minutes before. His irises flash to mote-dappled amaranthine and the first audible discharge of his aura happens with the distant roll of Mystical thunder.

The dreaded two words drip from his lips with all the delightful touch of battery acid: "I see."


"More like goddess of .. being on back," Illyana mutters, mostly under her breath. Mostly.

She gives Amora a haughty look that's still a bit envious, but mostly manages to affect sneering disdain for the blonde enchantress. She glances curiously at Strange when the name 'Mordo' is dropped, but it's clearly someone with whom she is not acquainted— still, the obvious acrimony dripping off his tongue is impossible to miss.

Illyana looks at Strange, then Amora, then at her tea, then at Strange.

"She is trying to bait you, you know," she points out to Strange, once more opting to deliver the insult of more or less talking past the curvy blonde. "Did you two have the sex?" she inquires, a bit directly. "If not, then seems she is not as satisfied with this… Mordo as she claims. Otherwise, why come here to fake brag?" she asks. She wiggles her shoulders at Strange and reaches for her tea.


Amora leaned forward, her chin propped up by her hand as she watched Strange's reaction like a cat. At the arcane storm he brews, her smirk widens and she grins once more. "Do you now?" She murmured, arching a golden brow upwards.

Then her gaze flickered toward Illyana and she inhaled a breath, scenting the young woman and catching every muttered word. "You my dear have never experienced the pleasures of a good lover, 'tis nothing to be ashamed over. And besides," She winked, "I'm normally not the one on their back.." She drawled, green eyes lingering on the young woman as if amusing herself with some thought.

"And no, we did not, though it was not through lack of trying on my part. Your master rejected me, not only on the idea of the best night he's ever had or ever going to have, but also when I freely offered him aid." She shrugged, leaning back in her chair as she dragged her hands over her thighs and then up her own frame to pull her hair back from her features with a much put upon sigh.

"Oh, I am quite pleased with the Baron. I was merely curious as to what he said in regards to the good Doctor here. I, unlike some, check in on things when they catch my interest…"


Illyana turns an exquisite shade of pink and scowls at Amora furiously. Her jaw snaps shut and then grinds so hard that a tendon visible in her cheek *clicks*, and there's a shuddering lurch from the shadows around her as the darkling power of Limbo itself coalesces around the suddenly furious young Queen of that nether realm.

A /lot/ of power. The coins on a nearby table stand upright and rotate on their edges. Retroactively a half-second of probabilities randomly reverse themselves as the raw chaotic power of Limbo seeps from her skin and causes the lights— not just the lights, light itself— to flicker in violent bursts that manifest as independent shadows.


Cue the good Doctor chewing mightily on the inside of his cheek in an effort to keep his status as gentleman in the face of such insouciance.

This time, the aura isn't checked, merely held at bay. Fine. Let the Asgardian have her delight in pricking him. Don't give her the satisfaction beyond the keen, power-lightened glare.

"Yes, I do," he replies with frustration tightly-leashed. Around his neck, the crimson scarf shifts an inch of its own accord, like a snake scenting danger and undecided as to strike or merely hiss. "So thrilled that you're pleased with him. You may keep him. Many happy nights to you both." A smile that could freeze the tea Strange brings to his lips briefly.

At the sudden rush of Limboan power, he glances to his apprentice. The tea cup hits the table's surface with a pointed clunk and Strange rises to his feet, drawing all attention to him. "«Stoy», Illyana." The one word he knows in Russian: hold. Stop. Pause a moment. "And leave Illyana out of this," he adds in the closest thing to a growl yet as he places both hands on the table and leans in slightly towards Amora. "This is between you and me, Enchantress."


Amora, for her part, does not look the least bit ruffled with Illyana's display. Her head tilts to the side, a soft chuckle of a breath escaping her. "Oh dear, I didn't mean anything by it. Merely to assure the poor girl that there's no shame in whatever it is she so chooses.. And to not judge me so unfairly, this is really your fault Doctor, she clearly lacks in clear female role models.." She pouted faintly, pressing a hand to her chest as she fluttered thick eyelashes and looked upwards at Strange from them.

"See, now I know you're cross with me. No one ever calls me 'Enchantress' when they're pleased. It's all, 'Amora' this or 'Amora' that.. 'till they're cross. Please, tell me Doctor why it so angers you? Whatever has the Baron done to earn such ire?" She hooked a golden brow upwards.

"I showed you mine, now I believe this is when the mortals say you show me your's?"


"That, Lady Amora, would be an excellent question for pillow talk. After all, you're so keen on talking about me with him. Ask him. He'll tell you all that you wish to know." A final huff and then Strange sits down. He glances over to see Mrs. O'Riley paused behind the counter, staring at them all with wide eyes. "We'll be going shortly, Mrs. O'Riley, pardon us," he says with a successful attempt at the dazzlingly-charming smile that generally gets him off the hook with the old woman. She gives a slow, unconvinced nod, mouths 'we'll talk' at him, and then goes back to pulling trays of fresh scones from the oven behind the counter.

The smile is gone by the time he meets Amora's eyes once more. "In fact, there's the door. Right there." He nods towards it. "Leave."


SEEETHE. Illyana's teeth almost crack, she grits them so hard, grinding her jaw back and forth. But probability pacifies its collective mammaries and in a few seconds, reality reasserts itself with only a few minor mischief imps of a relatively benign nature slipping into this world. Someone will either win the lottery or find their breakfast milk spoiled.

"Da," she grits at Strange. When he dismisses Amora, Illyana sniffs haughty agreement. "Do not let door hit big butt on way out," she mutters, though lacking some of the force her words normally carry. But she notably is unable to make eye contact with the blonde.


Amora arched a golden brow, waving a hand between them both. "Very well, but do not say I did not extend the olive branch. I wished to hear your side of the story. A chance to 'warn me away' if you ever desired. But—" She shrugged, a sigh spilling forth.

"I see that my offers of aid are once more shoved aside by your pride, Doctor. A pity." She wiggled her fingers and a puff of sparkly green followed, a small glass, heart shaped bottle set carefully on the table. It appeared empty, save when the sunlight glinted on it directly. Then it looked as if it were filled with pink tinted …something.

"A present for your love lorn apprentice. If she ever finds a lover… 'tis a small blessing for them both. A gift." Green eyes lifted, glimmering with laughter. "Though I doubt you'll believe it to be of good intent and will likely toss it." She waved her hand in a grand gesture.

"A pity. Ta-Ta.." And just like that she was gone in a puff of green smoke and glitter.


The good Doctor slumps back in his chair once he's certain that Amora is well and truly gone and rubs his hands down his face. His aura immediately begins to glass out until it's the smoothly-running surface of a mountain stream rather than the choppy Arctic waters of the north.

"Let's go home, Illyana. Don't worry about what she said." Strange shakes his head slowly and sighs. He glances over at the blonde waif. "She's a spiteful thing and jealous of what she can't have."

The black coat is pulled on once more and money left on the table to more than to cover their bill, partly apology for the ruckus that was briefly made. No doubt Mrs. O'Riley may wonder at why the power flickered so badly that evening and why her perfectly-good rice pudding went bad overnight, but nothing else bad came of it. The pair of practitioners leave in moods of quiet introspection.

From the alleyway next door, a flash of golden light, a faint crackling, and then the Gate to the Sanctum collapses into empty air.

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