1963-12-13 - Chilly Allies
Summary: Amora and Strange run into each other while patching up the various rips in reality
Related: Jotun/ Asgardian Plots
Theme Song: None
amora strange 

Utter chaos. Not one moment's peace is he granted.

With the assassination of the youngest Prince of Asgard comes the falling of the wards he apparently tended in his stead as Protector of Midgard.

The clarion call, like the shattering of a building made entirely of glass, reached him across the Mystical airwaves and immediately ratcheted his heart into his throat.

Wards. Wards, wards, ward, all day long, sometimes into the night. He sews up the disturbances in the veils between Realms and retreats to the Sanctum to snatch a few hours' sleep, drink tea, attempt food, and then — back at it once more.

The early darkening of evening finds him on the outskirts of Greenwich Village, just beyond the immediate reach of his strongest powers. No wards have fallen here, not within the immediate reach of the Sanctum's leyline-bolstered strength, but at the periphery, another game entirely.

Thank the gods it was a small incursion here, just two sentries attempting a sneak in a back door, if you will. The giants are defeated, booted rudely into another dimension entirely to deal with carnivorous plants without predilection for a certain type of meat. Munch-munch-munch.

The Sorcerer Supreme stands in martial balance before the tear in reality, hands upraised in blindingly-verdant magic. He's currently weaving a cat's-cradle between him and the frayed edges. It's slow work, and he's having to remain illusioned out of mortal sight in the process. It's not impossible to work two difficult spells like this at once, but it is draining and it's beginning to show. There's a little perspiration at his silvered temples as he forces the threads of his will through and yanks brutally to draw the two sides together. It's like attempting to sew shut stiff leather; the giants made a huge mess of things, as they always do. At least he's able to draw on the magic in the nearby leylines to keep him grounded and empowered.

Just…a little…more…


A surge of magic follows after Strange's careful knitting of the two pieces of reality together. The feeling that one would get of suddenly having aid when none was expected in pushing something immensely heavy, could liken to it. Arcane limelight burst out over the gap, helping to seal it close and Amora the Enchantress came striding out of the rough hewn shadows of her teleportation.

She was not in her mortal guise, nor did she spend magical energy in hiding herself. Not when jotun walked the streets freely. The normally beautiful goddess was no less so, but the green armor she wore bore marks of battle. Scorches and burnished patches indicated that she too had been struggling against foes as well.

As the walls of reality sealed shut, her magic would flicker and fade almost as instantly, an exhausted, panting breath escaping her as she dropped her hands and turned her gaze toward the Sorcerer Supreme. A golen brow arching as she eyed him, unlike him, she had no access no practice drawing on the leylines of Midgard, and if he noted it at all, her magic was at an all time low.

"My, my, aren't we getting a little hot and bothered, Doctor.."


The shift in ease is startling, absolutely. That last knot, which was fighting him left and right like a game fish at the end of a bent-near-to-breaking rod, slips into place like a lock.

Clickt, comes the Mystical sound of a mended wound in the veils and, breathing heavily, he drops his hands.

Strange knows that magic, would know that magic anywhere. His scrunched expression of weary discontent fades much like Amora's magic does as he glances over at her, though, also like her magic, it doesn't disappear entirely.

"Invading giants from other Realms tends to do this to me," he quips dryly. The goddess is granted a nod as well as a summary step or two backwards to put respectfully-wary distance between them. Those Mystically-brightened eyes linger on her for a moment more before he sighs slowly. "My condolences, Lady Amora. This is a disaster."

Understatement of the moment, surely.


The amount of engery Amora had expanded on magic in the last day or so truly showed in the simple fact that she didn't so much as remark on his step back or his wary gaze as she moved to lean against a nearby tree. Her expression pinched as she dragged a hand through her hair and released a heavy breath of a sigh. "Thank you." She murmured, casting a wary glance around the area for more Jotun or other such creatures that might've spilled from the rip between the veil.

"And aye, 'tis true enough. The Thunderer will not sleep and Asgard's armies march in defense of the realm…" A grimace pulled from her ruby lips and she pushed off from the tree.

A glance was spared down to her hands and a look of irritation flashed there. "I am limited and bound by the All-father still, unable to do what I should be able to.." She grumbled softly.


A subtle tightening around his eyes before he nods again, folding his arms with less than his usual gumption in her presence. Strange can tell she's near to being as drained as he is, from long hours of magic, and can guess why.

"If you've been working to shore up the fallen wards, Lady Amora, you are doing more than enough." For now, he sets aside pride and pushes down the low-burning suspicions that always seem to flare in her presence. "Still…it's good to hear that Asgard continues to fight against this invasion. It's been utterly ridiculous," he grumbles, taking a moment to rub at his face and utter a groan from behind his hands. Were both of them not low in reserves of inherent Mystical skill, there would be no way Amora would be seeing this moment of weakness.

The Sorcerer folds his arms once more and then, of all things, gets to pacing, even as tired as he is. "This area is quarantined, as is Greenwich Village, all of it. It's along the fringes, these goddamn edges — they keep breaking through." He pauses, giving her a searching look. "I have no time to send a raven, much less report to the Embassy. Will you let them know that I've been at it day and night since the Prince fell?"


A slow nod followed that, and Amora watched him pace for a long moment, catching her breath. "My people can fight and go on for a longer time than mortals, but there will be a time when all of this will crash. I gave what magic I could to the Thunderer to bolster him. But I worry that he shall fling himself into a rage and be unable to see when he should retreat rather than fight.. He'd rather fall in battle than live to retreat." A grimace pulled at those lips, her expression pinched and it was clear that Amora feared the golden princes' death as well.

"So I set what enchantments I had upon his hammer, I can only hope it shall save him if I am not there to do so." A sigh pulled from her lips again, and she sank down to the frozen grass.

"If I have time to track down the Prince, for the Embassy is in ruins.. I shall inform him of your work." She mumbled, pressing her hands against her temples.


"Lady Amora, it can't — the Embassy can't be in ruins? You can't mean it's been attacked, collapsed?"

With all of the might shown to him by Asgardians left and right in the past, this is…inconceivable to him. The Sanctum remains stalwart. Strange has now paused in his measured walking back and forth, watching her intently where she sits upon the cold earth. The wintry wind rushes past them, fluttering his Cloak and chilling the sweat drying at his temples.

"And the All-Father surely wouldn't let the eldest Prince kill himself? He would intervene rather than let his bloodline die out?"


A wave of her hand follows and green eyes lift to stare up at the Sorcerer. "Loki warded the Embassy. What remains of it?" She shrugged, "Tis a shadow of what grandeur it was. Broken furniture and the alike. Servants set away. I do not know if it occurred due to the Jotun's attack, or the Thunderer's rage." She eyes slipped shut and she grimaced, a hand rubbing at her upper arm.

"You know not the rage of Thor when he is moved to it. A berserker's rage, I believe the mortals called it. All such things were mere shadows to him when it takes him.." She shook her head and bit back another sigh.

"The All-father and Queen have shut in the palace according to Thor. And.." Then she /did/ sigh.

"He has one son left to him in Asgard, Balder the Good."


The Sorcerer takes in this information, his expression slowly morphing into a moue of deep concern. Noting how she seems to touch at her arm tenderly, he seems to consider something for a moment.

"So…not collapsed, just…dismantled. Momentarily." It seems like a fair-enough comparison. "However, that doesn't seem like the wisest thing to do for their highnesses, shutter themselves off at a time like this."

He knows this is a dicey topic and proceeds with carefully-chosen words. "From what I've learned of your Realm, you do not do things by halves: celebrate, discuss…show intentions," the last word said with an edge of warning, in case she should attempt anything. Suspicious, is he. "I understand grieving, but this is not the time to leave aside logic. They should be there. For him. Family…" Strange swallows, taken for a moment by a shadow of weariness. A quick sigh dispels it. "Family should be together. Now, please, don't get me wrong," and he holds up a finger, "if you set spells upon his hammer, Prince Thor needs to fight. Fight madly. But — he's not alone. You, Lady Liv — he has you all. I am here as well, even if I must operate from the shadows in order to close the wards without drawing enemy attention."

The Eye around his neck seems to gleam faintly. The Sorcerer then kneels down to one knee, still certain to keep an arm's length in distance from her. "Do you need healing, Lady Amora?"


Green eyes lift to gaze at Strange, and she remained silent as he spoke, not interupting once. Merely watching: him, the surroundings, and back. There was no telling what could lurk in the shadows beyond her exhausted awareness. She was not Heimdall, after all.

"Their majesties are in mourning and Thor is the Crown Prince. He has a duty to protect the realm of Midgard and see Asgard's enemies back to their realms.. rarely does the All-father bestir himself beyond the gates of Asgard itself. 'Tis part of the pact with the other Gods of other pantheons to not interfere with Midgard beyond that."

Another pause followed as he neared and knelt down closer to her still.

"I offered the Thunderer what magic I had," A small smile at that, strained even. "I gave him the Enchantments of my kiss and twisted it to something else, for his protection. A one time teleportation to take him to safety should he fall in battle. You need not worry that I might try to ensare you, Doctor. I have given that away.." She hung her head, golden hair tumbling into her features.

"I am not one for open battle either," She waved a hand at his offered healing, shifting upon the ground. "I will be well enough, worry not. Save your magic for the wards.."


A snort.

"No? Too proud, Lady Amora? This may be a one-time offer, knowing how I seem to attract your attention a little too often." A wry smile, probably one he shouldn't be giving, with how it quirks his goatee. Teasing the goddess in a moment of inability to retort? Prideful. Clearly an indicator that he feels himself invincible. It'll likely come back to bite him later. Or kiss him. Who knows.

"If I reframed the offer as a sharing of magic, to shore up your reserves, what would you say to that? One time only. A gift in alliance, since we are both intent on closing the wards of Midgard."

With a millisecond of hesitance, Strange then holds out one scarred hand. In his palm, glittering with the brightness of spring sunshine, is a globe of pure magic, partially drawn from his personal reserves, partially from the leylines beneath Greenwich Village.

"Take it or leave it. And I'm not kissing you for it," he adds with an icy glitter in his eyes.


A long, drawn sigh falls from her lips as she peers side long at him, then drops her gaze to his out stretched hand where glittering magic dwelt. With both hands she reaches out, and slowly makes to try to close his hand around the ball of power. A tempting offer that made her throat go dry. "I cannot. Odin's decree made it quite clear that I am to not to take magic directly. And any that might be seen as aiding me would fall to Asgard's rules. Thank you, truly, but I shall not risk bringing his wrath upon you. Given his humor, I am sure it would be fell."

Her expression was pinched, and the strain of the long hours she'd spent showed in the thin line that her lips formed. She didn't, couldn't draw on a fresh source of magic. All she had were her reserves or that which she'd gained from her more.. tantric means. "I just need to catch my breath. The veils to the far north are in sore need of patching, and the Jotun will only be stronger where the cold is natural.."


Being denied is…a sore spot for Strange. Oddly enough. Even by her, of all the Asgardians.

He allows her to close his hand upon itself, with that touch that is nearly devoid of all its usual draw — not a single rush of goosebumps rushes along but what is caused by the colder breezes that funnel through the narrow roadway — and the magic melts back into him to return to its central node beneath his sternum.

"A shame, Lady Amora, that they bind you so. We could use all of your aid." Withdrawing from his grasp, he then stands up and takes a step back, as to allow both of them comfortable room to breathe. "Can I count on you to do your work in the north then? I intended to locate the biggest tears towards the equator once New York is settled."


If her hands shake slightly as he draws back, allowing the magic to return to him, well, perhaps it was just /his/ hands shaking. Yet she does not rise from the frozen ground just yet, and instead moves back to rubbing that upper portion of her arm again. His comment about the shame of her being magically bound still earns another purse of her lips and she slowly rises to her feet once more.

"Only the All-father may release me and he has never looked fondly on me," A bitter smile stretches at her lips and she drags a hand through golden locks.

"Aye, I shall see to the northern borders of this realm. I should have enough magic in me yet to do so, barring an excess of jotun in the region.." A pause and she glanced back to Strange.

"Once, before.. when I was first exiled to Midgard, I was taken by the fire giants of Muspell. The Princes saved me, but Loki was the only one to know that they'd taken my mind and return me to who I was.." Another pause, "Thor hadn't a clue that I'd been taken, or was missing. He hadn't even realized I'd been exiled. And we had once been lovers in ages long since past.." Green eyes lifted to Strange and Amora for once, looked almost.. human..

"If I should fall, will you pass on word to the Baron? I can think of none that now live that would mourn my passing save him possibly."


The Sorcerer swallows down the knot in his throat. It nearly chokes him, the thorny ball of bitterness and unforeseen grief, all snarled up with the trappings of duties and diplomacy. Even if she ever treats him disrespectfully as mouse to her cat — he cannot deny her the request, not when she pits herself as he does against this assault when she might have little reason to at all beyond the Baron and loyalty to the eldest Prince, two tenuous relationships that could come apart as easily as frost in the morning sun. The grief — it springs in painful weeping from the soul-bourne mantra to save all he can from Death's touch.

"Yes, Lady Amora, I can pass word on to the Baron."

Strange draws himself up tall, showing the steel beneath the weariness that shadows his eyes. The Asgardian goddess is given another polite nod…and then the smirk she knows all too well.

"But don't make me talk to the man, please. I have no need to reconcile over a death. It would be…insulting to your memory." He takes a few more steps back before gesturing off to one side to open a Gate to the Sanctum. "Good luck, Lady Amora."

And with that, he's gone, leaving the goddess to continue at her work.

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