1964-02-14 - Love Potion #9
Summary: Love is in the Air! Amora has loosed Love Potions as part of her Valentine's Day celebration
Related: None
Theme Song: Love Potion #9
amora rogue marie-ange dazzler 

Prayers, spoken or not, reached any of the 'gods' immortal or otherwise if they had an ear for such topics. Desire, love, lust and all such emotions connected, were Amora the Enchantress' domain. Whether it was meant on any actual 'kindness' however remained to be seen. Especially as chaos grew. As people slipped each other love potions, men and women alike fell in love with whatever living creature they saw first, human or not.

New York would find itself with a very strange increase of Valentines Day drama. The day dawned bright and rosy, and only grew more heated in terms of violent passions leading to more chaos as the sun continued on its path over the sky.

By afternoon, it was very, very clear, that something was horribly, terribly, wrong. More so than usual. Little heart shaped vials could be found all over, either tossed out onto the sidewalks or clung to with desperation. Though the weather remained a frosty temperature, heated arguments sprung up as lovers were lost and found.

At the center of it all, walked one Amora the Enchantress. Resplendent in a white fur coat, and tight, form fitting green dress that cut off well above her knees. Sunglasses glinted over green eyes as she walked, stepping over one of her own crushed potion bottles. A smirk painted on her lips as she watched a man chase after his rather confused looking cat, his wife chasing after him, tears trickling down her cheers as she railed against him.

Love was in the air, and in all the wrong places.


Ways to spend the saint's day of the third-century Roman martyr include many pastimes: feeding ducks in Central Park, getting a dessert together somewhere classy, movie and dinner. Nothing spells a celebration like an exciting beheading after beatings and persecution in the era of Emperor Aurelian! All those quintessentially romantic locations around the city are overwhelmed by swooning and would-be swooning couples, the tyranny of affectionate gestures by lovey-dovey people bubble-wrapped from the rest of existence. Their displays trend from tame to over the top, one poor girl carrying a bridal bouquet and weighed down by chocolates, another being serenaded by three angelic children in red and pink coats.

None such display applies to the bohemian with a chaplet of flowers crowning her hair, white ranunculus and fragile peonies adorning her flaming braids, the wicker basket slung over her arm full of zantedeschias and white carnations, golden jonquils and sprigs of delicate maidenhair fern. She hands these out at random to passersby, singling them out for no particular reason at all. Her gifts are delivered upon the unfortunates without a partner, deprived of a glass bottle. For reasons unto herself, she has at least six of those little vials rattling under the blooms and a mat of thatched, woven grass, gifts, not claimed any other way.

"Have a delightful day," she tells an amused teenaged girl who runs off with her carnation. A gorgeous flame-licked lily-like bloom goes to a gentleman with a faraway look in his eyes, a blessing simply tendered. "Be happy today." And on she goes, a mote of peace amidst the chaos, serenity enshrined where the rest of the city bubbles in passion's shattering wrath.


Dazzler was in an odd situation thanks to Amora's playfulness, one moment she was performing a concert, the next, love crazed fans were charging the stage and causing havok. Lucky for her, security was on hand to rush her off stage through a back door exit to escape the rioting fans.

While musing over just how the media will later paint that debacle, Dazzler finds herself walking the street in her stage dress, glittery sparkles and all, which might draw more attention to herself than she'd like.


The blonde Asgardian approached Scarlett, peering down at the redhead over the rim of her sunglasses. Ruby lips pulled into a sinister smile at the chaos that her magical potions had wrought. She seemed to be utterly enthused with the results, as love struck mortals ran about. A nearby car crashed with a squeal of tires and a young man fled from the scene as a young woman zealously chased after him.

"Hello Darling," She practically purred, and then those green eyes of her's landed on Dazzler as the woman exited the back door of a nearby building just before them.

A faint narrowing of her eyes followed, and with a flick of her wrist, a spark of magic swirled about. There was a seeming shout from the other side of the building and the stamp of feet trod down the alley way. Cries of "Dazzler!" Followed, young men baying like hounds after the well dressed young lady.


Sinister meets blithe, calculating hitting the feckless. Auroral green eyes luminesce above the copper-fringed arc of her bangs, gathered in those lush braids crackling with fiery sunlight. Many things might Scarlett be mistaken as, but threatening is very rarely one of them. "Lady. You are taking well to the celebrations," she notes, the dulcet soprano inflected oddly to the ear given she's speaking a language dead for centuries.

The bohemian pinches the stem of another jonquil, twirling the miniature saucer bloom around, left and right. With a stream of manic fans flooding into the street, the sheer noise alone attracts her attention briefly, and she draws nearer to a wall rather than be caught in the heady flood. Impossible to avoid being rushed around in the current of humanity, if not swept away, given people are everywhere. The shouts for the famous singer building in a groundswell warrant a lift of her eyebrows. English, then, for the previous tongue simply hasn't a term for what she seeks. "Being an agent provocateur, are we?"


"Oh, come on," Dazzler snaps as she's spotted and has a new group of admirers chasing her. That was so weird, sure, she had her fans, but she was never quite that big. This was a Beatles like reaction she was getting, she never had to flee before. But she's not about to find out what will happen if she doesn't, so rather than wait and see, she starts rushing away from her chasers, trying to signal a cab. The last thing she needs is for anyone to observe her using powers.


Marie-Ange Colbert was a great many things; pious was not exactly one of those things — not in the traditional sense, at least — but lovelorn? Maybe just a little bit. As such, it's probably little surprise that she was one who'd found those little vials outside her door, that label attached enticingly. She'd gathered it upu, eyed it… but ultimately had not had a drink.

Not yet, at least, for the simple reason that she wasn't thristy. But a drink was made for drinking, and surely there wouldn't be a single thing wrong with it, right?

But the cards had called her out today, and so she walks through the park, holding the vial between her fingers and looking here and there at the various displays of affection. It's truly times like this that she wishes that she could've just stayed inside.


Wicked glee and delight followed as Amora watched the chaos born of the seeds of her love potions. Her delight lighting up her features as she gestured with a manicured finger toward the fleeing Starlet. The adoring, possibly crazed fans shouting promises of undying love and marriage proposals echoed down the alley and into the street as the men spilled out onto the side walk.

"I am merely answering the call of love of all the love-lorn fools that reach my ears this day. I am being generous. These men desire a lady, and I am only here to aid their prayers in finding said fair maiden." She grinned, and as a taxi slowed, she cupped her hands, and blew. A small gust of wind blowing up to swirl around Dazzler in a tiny torrent, blowing up dust and puffs of frozen and refrozen snow that still dotted the sidewalks in some places.

A laugh followed and Amora grinned as she watched at least two men break out into fisticuffs as they approached the woman. The violence spreading to the desirous gentlemen beyond in short order.


Marie-Ange draws King Pentacles.


Dazzler lets out a shriek at the gust of wind causing swirls of puffs of snow, chilling her quite a bit, while she gets a glimpse of one guy nearly reaching her only for another to pick up a fight with him. "Guys! This is crazy! Don't fight over me…we're not in a movie!" But as she looks at the two fighters, she notes a dozen more guys closing the gap and she dives into the waiting cab, "take me out of here! Anywhere! Doesn't matter!" She yells at the cabbie.


The starlet runs fast as she can and the redhead watches that blonde in her performance attire fly over street and under building shadows fast as she can. The shouts and cries in her wake are nearly maddening, not quite on par with Beatlemania, but damn close enough for a girl to elevate her eyebrows. She hands out the next flower to someone rushing past, glaring daggers at Amora, and how not? She's the damn Asgardian goddess of broken relationships and soul-sickening envy, inadequacy and low self-esteem. The flower girl is the handmaiden, the balance in the scales, for all her heavy-lidded eyes compound those pains in a crystal ball.

"You do make me think upon 'be careful what you wish for,'" Scarlett idly notes, measuring the distance to the next who drift past. So much repeats itself, and others do not. She was in a riot not long ago, months passed, and how much changed then? Another familiar face in the crowd eventually catches her attention but not immediately, for Marie is not especially tall or great, though something sets off her sense of the wrong and the tremors in the skein of destiny prickle up her neck. A blink. Another, and the perturbations will strike her as they will.

A flick of her tongue and then she murmurs, "Are we but amusing ourselves or using this for some aim to restore the proper and rightful balance denied in these past weeks, my lady?"


Of course. Even on a day so reserved for love, violence would have to break out. The fact alone made Marie frown a little more than she already was. But to interfere, or not? The cards would be consulted, as they always were. The King of Pentacles revealed himself in turn — it was time to stick to the normal way of doing things. Which, for her, was going to involve pulling her cards for an entirely different use.

A deep breath is taken, and she decides a bit of liquid courage would come in handy about now, too. Vial is therefore uncorked, head tilted back, vial goes to lips and liquid goes down the hatch. Immediately, eyes snap shut as she recoils at the strength of it. She wasn't expecting anything quite so strong! It'll be a couple moments before those orbs reopen, and the question is who will they fall upon first?



As the starlet escapes via taxi ride away from the passions that run riot over the street, more than a few men break away to try to chase after her on foot. It would be in vain, but Amora was amused none the less. Her lips curled as she watched, bemused as she let the charm run its course over the mortals that dared to play fate's hand in love. Even if it had been at her interference.

Scarlett's words catch the green eyed goddess' attention and she glanced back at her, over the rim of golden wired sunglasses. "Tis a fact indeed that mortals who tempt the whims of a goddess of desire will meet a flickle fate. Some might yet find everlasting love today. While others will find their relations tested or broken as a result of their mishaps."

A glance was spared in Marie's direction as the woman downed the potion, Amora remained where she was, watching with cat-like grace. She could sense where the potions had ended up, and seemed to be feeding off the passions enacted therein.

"This day is a ritual of love. Which is my domain. I gain strength from it, aye. But as I am bereft of my beloved, I was less than… gracious to those that prayed for silly whims without specific terms given, it is within my right to offer a forked gift. They need not use it. But if they do, all shall be restored to rights by midnight. A tiny charm.."


Who indeed?

Men throwing fisticuffs and scuffling over the right to court this girl or that woman fill the side street, nothing more than a pinwheel of puppies fighting over dinner. Watch them spin and swirl, catching up the besotted lovebirds too engrossed in one another's perfection to care, and they snarl or hiss condemning words to anyone who gets near.

"And for those who know no better about what they do?" The question hangs in the balance, heavy as a golden shaft of sunlight, a light, glittering coin. Flashing a curve of a smile that may not have equal play in her eyes. "All in the hands of the Norns. The alfar norns, the svartalf norns, and on and on it goes." The language comes far more easily than it used to, and she allows the arc of the basket to slide down her forearm, hitching above her wrist. "Best tidings to you today," she calls, and tosses another flower, an airborne missile fletched in verdant greenery that lands among a clutch of gawking fans trying to figure out if Dazzler's show is open, or that redhead over there knows where Times Square is.

So many of the potions linger with her, six, not yet tasted. Kept, for whatever reason, the price of a bloom.


She'd expected to take the drink and charge into battle — well. Send her cards charging into battle, in order to separate the people who wished to harm one another. Instead? Opening her eyes resulted in a grassy gaze falling upon what was suddenly the only person that mattered at all.

Card is tucked away, feet walk with purpose… and barring someone stopping her from doing so? The diminutive redhead is going to throw her arms around the object of her affections, a positively enamoured look upon her features as fate called her number once again.

That's right; the first person Marie's gaze had caught? None other than her very own roommate.

"Mon amour, ta beaut? m'enchante d'une mani?re que les mots ne peuvent pas d?crire." she recites in her native tongue, words adrift on the wind for one without another care in the world right now. Let people fight as they will. It doesn't, and won't matter to her at all until the end of the night.


Amora shrugged with a regal roll of her shoulders, the fur coat shifting with every movement in a flutter of pristine white. "Then as you say, my darling apprentice. Tis in the fate's hands. I am not one to play with fate," A flicker of a smile danced a tango in her luminous green eyes.

"At least not in regards to foolish mortals." She grinned a sharp toothed grin, a flash of white teeth against red lips. The smile shifted, turning into gales of laughter as she sensed the love brew work its magic on another nearby.

When the redheaded french woman appeared and started to croon at Scarlett, well, Amora the Enchantress was well and truly amused. If the Asgardian goddess had the thought to summon popcorn and sit back and watch, she would have. As it stood, she merely watched on in wicked glee.


A game of deadly poker might ensue, but people rushing into battle with a gambler's trove may not be the wisest course of action. Marie is left to fate's devices while the Enchantress does her work, happy to see what manner of madness ensues where mankind falls for her poisoned gifts. Scarlett has little enough to add to that, her basket her sole shield against actual danger. Too many people pushing about is enough to keep the soul-thief to the periphery, gloved and observant to a slanting fault.

Mind, her fair skin still lies bare at face and throat, the rest of her appropriately guarded against a casual touch. Marie pushing through the masses warrants a pause in the conversation and the liquid transition of French: "Je ne suis pas belle, cherie. Je suis l'epee des Norns. La morte."

This is all your damn fault, Amora, don't forget it. She has not. "You know this is hardly wise. I break mortal things even worse than you do."


Gods and their servants speak around her, the masses go to war to see whom will have the honor of chasing the long-departed Dazzler, but Marie? Marie is content /precisely where she is./ Granted, the emotion was there /before,/ but more reserved and timid like the girl herself. With the aid of Asgardian magicks? Well, 'lovedrunk' is an accurate reflection of how the girl feels right now.

The response she gets? Is met with a finger — still in those simple white gloves she wears, that presses against the taller woman's lips. "Si vous etes une epee, ma cherie, laissez votre lame me dechirer!" is her response, sighing contently as she leans against her beloved friend. Nope, she won't be an easy one to convince otherwise at all!


Another chuckle, as Amora watched on over the rim of her sunglasses, amusement high in her cheeks. She winked at the two, and wiggled her fingers in their direction. "You both have my blessings, darling. Enjoy yourselves, till a simple and tiny potion. T'will fade by Midnight as I have said. No harm done to your french-maid."

A titter of laughter escaped her ruby lips again, before she turned and started to sashay down the sidewalk, away from them. A hand tossed out over her shoulder in a blase wave. "Au revoir!" Her laughter turning into full blown gales of chortles as she strode away, heels clicking on the otherwise frozen side walk.

More than a few mortal heads turned her way as she moved, and more than a few gentlemen took to doggedly trailing her path down the street into the city.


Lovedrunk, and cursed by Amora, Marie represents the very worst and best of a given situation. Eyes in eclipse are shielded by a gloved hand, Scarlett's expression incredibly difficult to measure against the darkness flung across the dramatic lines in all their uplifted splendour. Lips lengthen but a fraction, submerging any response to a measured, mild answer at that. One zantedeschia plucked from the basket requires an adjustment, her gaze dropping a moment, and she extends the bloom to the girl pressed into her for a hug, silencing her with a white finger.

"You cannot afford to bleed from my cut," she replies after withdrawing a measured step to the side, the blackened points of her pupils awash in the darkening hue of her gaze. Voices wail in her skull, and some whisper, others uttering their condemnation.


Flower is taken, and cradled like one would a proper treasure. it came from /Scarlett,/ clearly it must be! She lets her nose do the rest, inhaling dramatically, her every movement exaggerated in a way that's comical to the eye, but sincere from the heart, to be certain.

"Better to bleed from your cut than from another who would mistreat me." Marie replies, smiling fondly towards the other woman. Wasn't there another one there a moment ago? Oh, maybe, but it's of little concern to /her/ right now. "Allow me to decide upon which canvas my blood spills, this is my right, no?" she asks, following her target's every movement with her eyes, even though the rest of her remains still, for the moment.


The moment that lovely nose is buried in the flower, the redheaded bohemian takes her chance. "No, child, truly it isn't. Have you no knowledge of the natural laws? 'Tis anathema to harm a seer." Dark lashes flicker; Scarlett gathers her resolve and gives no smile, measuring the lesser and greater of two evils. Run, which is so effortless for the likes of her, or escort the compromised roommate to safety. In the end, the choices are perilously few and far between.

"Come. You are in no condition to be out, and it would be safest to get you back home." The words are chosen with care, and she steers Marie by the shoulder or the elbow out of the way of traffic. There is one thing to being a soul thief: she's extraordinarily good at avoiding others, and that terrifying talent for finding gaps in a crowd is easier when she can literally make them.


"Fate carries me as it wishes; what is and will be simply are, loathed or not." Of course, had Scarlett run, Marie would have given chase. Likely soaring on the wings of an angel — literally — in chase, given the fickle nature of fate these days. Escorting her home, however?

Well. That turns her cheeks the deepest shade of red they can go. "Anywhere for you, Scarlett. Anywhere at all." she agrees, allowing herself to be led without hesitation. Save being abandoned? She's unlikely to put up a fight at all.


Gods above, the dark figure stares up at the night sky as much as she has to navigate through the crowds. A turn here, a switchback there, and the route cuts straight to Greenwich Village. There may be a pause along the way, notably to find a payphone, something about classmates and a notification, but that can wait until Marie is safely ensconced inside the apartment, walking up the stairs until the flat is attained. She has nothing to really hear from her roommate for Scarlett is quiet, a characteristic state when her faulted and flawed code sometimes comes to the surface. Voices in her head might not be particularly quiet, sometimes drowning out all sense of reality but for the tether of the ground under her feet.

Stairs to door, door to familiar chamber. "Inside," she murmurs, and then holds up a finger. "I need to dispense of this." The flower basket in question matters, its contents rattling and chiming. "Wait here, will you? It shouldn't take me over long."


As mentioned, Marie's led along with little incident. Utterly and completely besotted, she's even more malleable than usual. So she walks along, still holding onto that flower that she was given and keeping it close to her, each and every movement graceful enough to be a part of a long dance — maybe it's a form of improvised ballet from a girl so light on her feet (and light in general!)

As she's led inside, she nods once, simply, and smiles a positively radiant smile. "I will, my love. I await your return eagerly… but do not delay too long~"


"I shall aim not to." And with that, the door is shut securely behind the redhead with her flower basket. Such is the safest place for Marie, away from the source of fascination and enchantment. That Scarlett happens to be the epicenter for that requires a certain amount of aplomb on the fractured soul-thief's part, and she descends the stairs two flights before simply leaping over the railing, crashing towards the ground for an impact which never comes. Let them complain if they want; she's the resident guardian of the place, to some extent, and she halts to a floating hover right before the ground would strike her. Flowers bounce in the basket along with the potions. Then several steps take her towards the entryway, where she vanishes into the night.

Off to a payphone, wherein a sequence of digits punched in leads to a quiet, hurried conversation. Then she sets off across the damn breadth of the Village by known byways and median routes to a given mansion, one of two in the area, to bestow the flowers upon him. What happens after that? Windows might shake and rattle, the night claiming the skydancer when her fracturing self seeks the stars above the blinded sulfur glow of the ripped, frayed map laid down upon the earth.


As for Marie? The French girl waits. Eventually, she'll even simply sit next to the doorway, determined to be there for Scarlett's return — however long that may take. In the meantime, she'll sing — a little off-key, but happy enough — to herself, or daydream a bit…. but there wasn't a force in Heaven or Hell that could move her from that spot without violent reprisal, and only one on Earth.

Especially since her trusting nature didn't bother to ask /where/ the object of her affection would be dispensing of said flowers in order to give proper chase if the other woman took too long (by Marie's present standards). One lives, one learns.

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