1963-12-19 - A Game For A Goddess
Summary: (Old log just now completed) Amora plans and plots with Mordo.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
mordo amora 

Amora the Enchantress looked, well, troubled to put it lightly and downright distressed to put it bluntly. The beautiful blonde sat perched on a tall bar-stool, having helped herself into the Baron’s apartment in New York sometime ago. It was the usual to find her coming and going as she pleased, more often than not after causing some manner of chaos and leaving.

It was her way.

This time, however, perched on the barstool as she was, in a deliciously low cut satin nightgown, she was deeply upset. A golden hand mirror was clutched in hand and she furiously swung a crystal over it again and again, increasingly becoming irritated as she attempted to divine something that gave her no answer.

Eventually, she huffed, slamming it down on the counter top with a muffled sound of frustration peeling from her ruby hued lips.

“By Bor’s blood, what in the name of the Nine Realms is going on?” She snarled down at the mirror, looking down at her own spell’ed hands and finding the magic there working just fine..

Karl Mordo emerges from the bathroom wearing his preferred tunic, if little else. The V-neck of the garment exposes plenty of chest-hair, and is belted around the waist with a wide belt of tooled leather. He is not wearing any shoes or boots.

Walking toward the drinks-cabinet, he withdraws a bottle of brandy — at least, it looks like brandy — along with two glasses, and pours a pair of drinks. He spots the minute flare of magic around Amora's hands and smiles reassuringly.

"That, my dear," says he as he walks around the bar to her side, a drink in either hand. "That is a very broad question. I would hesitate to answer it as such. Perhaps if you were narrow it down somewhat…?" he smiles and offers her the second drink.


Irritation flared, bright and deadly as she glared at the mirror and scowled. Many a mortal, and immortal had quailed under such a look from the Enchantress. Unfortunately, the mirror wasn’t so willing to lend the appropriate cowering to her.

Still, Mordo’s appearance from the bedroom earned a flicker of a glance, her expression still twisted with irritation. There had been chaos on Midgard as of late, with the Frost Giants and the veils between the realms being broken with Loki’s death.. That was another thing. The youngest Prince’s death had seen an increase in Amora’s irritation. Her passions tempering toward the more violent ends, craving an outlet for the tangle of emotions she shouldn’t be feeling. Though not once had she shed even a single tear over it. Something had clearly been under her skin. In and out of the apartment she'd flitted, as was her way, though more than once she had been dangerously low on magic..

A grumbled string of ancient curses pulled from her lips and she took the offered drink with a perfectly manicured hand. “Attilan’s King it seems, has fallen from his position. The foolish mortal. I offered him a means to secure his crown and the vile man ignores me. I am sick,” Her voice dropped into a sharp hiss. “Of ignorant men ignoring my perfectly good advice.” The glass groaned in her grip and she seemed to shudder with barely restrained anger.

“Brunnhilde’s spirit walks in a mortal’s form after I had locked her away for centuries, and Strange dared,” Her voice dropped and she snarled. “Dared to insult me. I am sure it twas he that cloaked the scrying spell I had given to that miserable Inhuman king.” She was angry, and only seemed to get angrier. Such had been her temper in the last week. A shorter fuse and more violence. But now her voice carried a frustrated edge to it, a wounded manner of aching there that lingered.


"Hush, Mine Empress," the baron all but croons at the captivating enchantress beside him. He makes no effort to hide or mask his admiration for her — devotion, would be the word. Did she use magic to gain his loyalty thus? Unlikely — unless one were talking of her beauty, which is mesmerising. "I'm sure this storm will blow over, my dear. And when the dust settles, you will certainly be there, standing above everything else. As it should be."

A little flattery never hurt anyone.

Mordo lifts his drink to his lips and drains it of a mouthful or two before lowering it again, nursing it in his hand. With his other hand, he reaches out toward Amora's shoulder to gently caress it. With his injuries from battling Belathauzer with Strange, Mordo has been somewhat out of touch with the goings-on of late in Earth and Asgard. Most of it gives him a headache.

Recovery is a pain.

"How shall I distract you from this… annoyance?" he inquires of the Enchantress, sipping more of his brandy.


Amora had successfully seduced a great many sorcerer before Mordo and experience made clear that using magic did not in fact work to her advantage. Sorcerers were a suspicious bunch by nature and as a result, Amora used her more… Natural, talents instead. What Mordo was experiencing was doubtlessly the same that countless others had felt for the exquisite goddess the world over. The ‘mine’ would normally have earned a sharp look of rankled behavior from her, but such was her mood that it didn't so much as register.

Still, even flattery did not soothe the white hot anger that trickled through her figure. That threaded through her shoulders and spine. Even as she downed the drink in one go, setting the glass aside before she shattered it in her grip, it as curious that the Baron had been physically able to keep up with the Asgardian. She was hardly what one would call the gentle sort. Especially when in a fit of pique.

“Come,” She whispered, rage and hatred for those perceived wrongs dripped from full ruby lips. A white hand stretched out, grabbing at his belt and tugging him closer. She reached up, running her hands over his figure when he approached, a hissed breath whispered against his neck.

“Tell me how, when you are healed, how my wrongs may be righted. I desire their pain, their misery… I want to see them broken, and whimpering at my feet in their loss. They should beg for my aid. Plead.. so I might turn them away in their hour of need.” She crooned, breath hot as she wound herself around him with long limbs.

“With Loki gone, none now reside in Midgard that know Asgardian magic and power as I do. None left in Asgard proper know the ways of the arcane as I do, none save the mourning All-father and Queen…” Nails raked over him.


Mordo smiles.

It is not merely the attention that he enjoys — and he enjoys it very much — but the mere thought of accumulating more power, showing others what can be done when the right hands are guiding events… like fingers moving over skin. Creating chills. Or instilling warmth. Manipulating flesh and soul.

Yes, he smiles.

In spite of the pain.

Putting an arm around his lover, his brandy momentarily forgotten, he lowers his lips toward her neck and plants a gentle kiss there, a hint of pleasures to come. "Patience," says he, knowing she will hate the word — and the fact that he dared to say it to her — while also relishing the attention he gives.

"With Loki gone, there is indeed a vacuum," says he in a whisper, his lips almost touching Amora's skin as he speaks. "It should be filled. There is also competition… but more than one means to overcome it." He caresses her neck with yet another kiss, and closes his eyes for a few moments. This is, by far, the best way to distract himself from the pain of his injuries.


His pain? His injuries? The Enchantress spared not magic nor glance for them, other than to know their ways and avoid inflaming them further by touch when she cared to. Oh she had crooned appropriately over the sight, but did not offer aid. Jealously holding and keeping her own arcane works to herself.

No, outside of knocking upon Hel’s door, she would allow nature’s course to run smooth.

Amora did not like being told what to do by anyone, especially that most hated word patience. She had it, but in select situations and rarely when someone told her to seek it. Such was one of the many reasons Karnilla had first kicked her out eons ago.

Moreover, it was the reason she remained by Mordo’s side this long. The more Strange protested, stated that Karl was too good for her? The more that she tried to dig her claws into the Baron’s life.

Merely because she’d been told not to.

Her nails trailed down his spine, a bite against his flesh warningly though away from where she knew his injuries were. She wasn’t that far annoyed after all.

“I care not about those who seek to compete against me, for there are none that can, after all, compare to me.” She drawled, her head tilting to the side as he pressed a kiss to her neck. Her back pressed against the counter as she tilted herself back to peer at him sidelong.

“And I have my own priorities else wise with apprentices to be molded. I have taken two thus far.” A smirk played on those ruby lips and she reached up her hands to traces along his shoulders, rolling her own shoulders back as she hooked her legs around his waist for balance.

“No, I want to make the rest.. Not just Strange..” She hissed his name, “But those of my kin.. I want them to desire my aid.. To come to me in askance for aid.. Just so I might dangle my aid before them and snatch it away when it matters the most..”

“For them to know that I am not a mere fixture to be at their beck and call..” And here she sat up again, toying with the ties of his tunic in seeming idleness.


Mordo smiles.

Ah, this game, this delicious game. It is not the rivalry between himself and Strange that amuses him in this moment, but the dangerous seduction at play between himself and the Enchantress. He has no doubt she possesses the power to end him… if not without a fight, but the so very superficial reasons for continuing to toy with him… ah, it is music to his ears.

Indeed, he is seduced — and he knows it.

And it pleases him to know that he is 'needed' — if only to slake her thirst for vengeance. We all have our roles to play. While Amora toys with his tunic, Karl slides a hand across her back and whispers in her ear — quite casually:

"Who controls the leylines that thread through the Nine Realms? What would happen to Asgard if, say, someone were to… 'dam the river', so to speak?"


Amora desired the game. The slow give and take of dominance. She adored the scent of magic that played beneath his skin and in the air between them. She soaked it up, revelled in it. A curl of her figure against his as his hand slid along her back and he whispered.

Then emerald eyes sharpened with a illumination of her power, a flicker, a flash; of something quite old. Then she was leaning away from him, sitting up and leveling herself against the counter by her arms. Her legs continued to remained hooked around him, pulling him after her movement. Then her voice dropped into a low song, old and ancient. Some words so far from English memory that they remained in the old Nose in which they’d started.

“There stands an ash called Yggdrasil,
A mighty tree showered in white hail.
From there come the dews that fall in the valleys.
It stands evergreen above Urd’s Well.
From there come maidens, very wise,
Three from the lake that stands beneath the pole.
One is called Urd, another Verdandi,
Skuld the third; they carve into the tree
The lives and destinies of children.”

Then she was trailing off into a low hum, some old melody as sweet and soft as her song before. Her fingers reached up to play with the fabric of his tunic once more.

“Everything comes from the Tree, and by like of it, the Well of Urd… which is found in Nornheim…” A pause and she reached up to drag perfectly sculpted nails against the base of his neck in a lazy manner.

“Where I trained for most of my younger years.” She grinned, and then she sighed and tossed her hair back over her shoulder.

“But no, the Well cannot be blocked by simple means. Trust me when I speak of it thusly. Such a thing is not.. To be taken lightly..” A soft laugh escaped her and she leaned eyed him, a golden brow upraised.

“Besides the fact that Asgard itself is of magic. Everything there.. The realms are made of it. By and large due to the Asgardians that practice magery.. And the belief in us..”


"It was just a thought," Mordo replies coolly. He winces very faintly at the nails dragging down the back of his neck, and follows through with another smile. "A danger perceived is a danger indeed, after all. I'm certain we could think of something by which to distract your Asgardian…friends."

He pauses, and lays a gentle kiss against Amora's soft skin. Then another. "Their problem…" says he, in between each caress of his lips. "Is that they do not perceive their great need of you, my dear. It is their failing. Perhaps we should turn our eyes toward the possibility of creating the ideal threat — or the facsimile of one — to draw their attention toward Amora, the solution?"

He breaks contact after that and leans back to look into Amora's eyes.

He could so easily lose himself in them.

"Come. Shall we plan, or shall we play?" asks Mordo, smiling.

Laughter, both hot and cold, sweet and harsh. Her own unique laugh that had drawn men to their graves in ages past. That had seen the rise and fall of empires and had found joy in both the torment and triumph of beings great and small.

Then she was plying her hands against his cheeks, leaning in to press a kiss teasingly against his lips.

Another burst of laughter and she was leaning away again, a soft hum pulling from her throat. She looked utterly pleased with his words. Much like a cat that had its chin scratched just sooo.

“Mmm, indeed let us play..” And then she was pulling him closer still, pulling at ties and fabric with clear intent behind each movement.

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