1964-02-19 - Lacking Thunder
Summary: Amora finally finds Thor, and he is unexpectedly lacking in … well, everything, namely power, strength and of course.. his memories.
Related: Asgardian stuff
Theme Song: None
amora thor 

Weeks of fruitless searching had started to wear Amora down. Asgard, closed off. Loki on the throne, or at least in power. Odin, gone. Thor, gone. Heimdall silent. The Bifrost, blocked.

Even the immortal goddess, who had seen centuries of dark and dangerous times, was hard-pressed to deny the fact that she was feeling genuine fear for the future of the Nine Worlds. What rot would set into Yggdrasil? Where would the Norns go? What of the giants, of the other worlds? Without Odin's sure hand to hold them on a steady course, Yggdrasil could tear itself apart in a few short years.

And the key to all these problems— Thor, Prince of Asgard— was nowhere to be found.

And then, of all things, a glimmer of something unusual. Not gleaned from sorcerous knowledge or trafficking with imps and fae alike, but an overheard snippet of conversation. Two women, passing Amora on the street.

"Never seen anything like it. Bolt of lightning, out of a clear blue sky," one of them remarked.

"Weird weather for Treadwell, isn't it?" the other said.

Something— even Amora wasn't entirely sure— niggled at her. Compelled her to investigate. Gathering herself in suitably subtle attire, she travelled the hour west of Manhattan towards the tiny town of Treadwell— more a hamlet than city— and investigated. A few others had seen it. A crash of thunder from clear skies. A bolt of lightning somewhere in a hayfield. A brief battle with a brush fire that had put it all out of mind.

'Convincing' a farmer to drive her to the area, it took Amora most of ten minutes for her magical senses to detect some stray, subtle wisps of magical aura, almost washed out by time and recent rains— but the unavoidable certainty that the scorchmarks on the ground were once runes consistent with a trajectory from the Bifrost. An Asgardian had landed there, and not long ago.


The whisp of the magical tang in the air, the scent of ozone. Amora knew it well. Her hand was splayed out against the ground, feeling the signature of who had tread there, and between her finger tips tiny elementals of earth came to life. Her conversation with the tiny figures was enlightening to the Enchantress, offering her details of who exactly arrived and in what state. She smiled with a slow curve of her red lips and stood, dismissing the elemental sprites with a wave of her hand.

A glance was spared toward the mortal behind her and she waved another hand over him. "Your usefulness is at an end to me. Away with you." She murmured, and turned. Her heels remaining clean, magically, despite the soil and earth that was still hardened with Winter's frost beneath her feet.

Her mortal guise remained in place as she dragged her hand through golden locks, sunglasses glinting in the sunlight as she faded away from view of the mortal toward the destination of the one she sought. The ambient, magical, signature of an Asgardian was almost impossible for her to miss when she had a taste of it previously.

Even when hidden.

Between one blink and the next, Amora vanished from sight, to reappear near to the one dearest to her heart and desire.


Amora arrives in the middle of an unkempt, unmaintained asphalt road near a handful of broken down single-wide mobile homes. Two children fighting with a dog over a broken basketball stare at her in slack-jawed shock; an old man on the porch eyes Amora, eyes his whiskey bottle, and takes another hefty slug.

Something's… wrong. Wrong in her magic? The sense of Thor, of his /presence/, is scattered. Nebulous. Once away from the sigil of Bifrost, burned into the ground, it seems to dissipate into the winds. Thor never once indicated any talent for concealing himself— possibly the work of Loki?

Whatever the cause, Amora's powers do not bring her swiftly winging to Thor's presence.


A frown at the lack of the appearance of the golden haired god she sought. Frustration pulled her lips into a thin line, a golden eyebrow looking upwards as she swept her locks from her face. A narrowed eyed look followed down the length of her nose as she strode forward. Her manicured hand closed on a child's shoulder nearby and she turned the little boy around to face her.

"A gold coin boy, if you lead me to the prince. Golden of hair and blue of eye." She spoke, and pressed an index finger against his forehead, pushing the image into his mind's eye.

Her voice was sweet and warm, dripping with power of command as she waved her will onto the child's and shaped it to her desire. If a locating spell did not have the desired effect then forcing a mortal to do her bidding would have to be enough. If need be, she'd take over a few dozen to get the job done.


"A wha?" the boy drawls, with the accent common to uneducated folks in the backwoods of New York. He blinks several times in confusion at the image Amora draws in his mind— a fellow tall and broad of build, with flaxen hair and a commanding presence.

"M-ma'am, I'm sorry, I ain't got no idea who yer lookin' fer," the boy apologizes, stammering and looking thoroughly embarassed that he's let The Lady down. "I ain't never seen no one like that. If yer husband done gone missin' maybe you should go down to the Police station?" he suggests, pointing a finger north-easterly. "Might be someone in town saw him passing through," he explains, lower lip trembling fearfully— not at Amora's wrath, but at the thought he's somehow failed her!


If Amora had a single bone in her body that was even vaguely maternal, then she might have offered a pat on the head toward the boy. As it stood, however, she cared not. A dismissive flick of her wrist followed and she rose and strode away from the boy. "Mortal minds are so weak and prone to failure. I trust them not.." She muttered under her breath. Then, turning a corner, deeper into the alley way, she took a measure of her surroundings. Finding herself mostly alone, save a drunkard passed out in the nearby waste heap, Amora sighed.

With another twist of her hands, she muttered several incantations. This time, to summon an elemental of the air.

"Tell me, sprite, where is the Asgardian Prince of Golden hair? He fell naught days ago, and something blocks my magic from locating him with ease. I dare not waste more magic upon a fruitless endeavor. So thusly, lead me the way toward the Thunderer, ere I command more mortals to my presence to locate him."


Dust and vapor condense into a zephy boggin, a little living tornado that has a difficult time staying still in such a confined position. It darts around Amora, buffeted by the vagaries of wind, and turns alien attention towards the Enchantress.

<No Prince of Asgard walks these lands,> it says, at length. <The winds carry two scents yet. Yours is fresh and new. The other is two days old. Weak. Human.> There is a pause as the elemental communes with other primal forces.

<An echo of thunder and lightning. This is all I can offer,> the elemental says, and falls silent.


Amora had never been kind, or patient. Such traits were not particularly known to be linked to The Enchantress. Her hand, glowing with power, closed around the breeze as she dragged it by what served as hair before her, twisting painfully. "You will offer me more, sprite. You will track the scent of that echo and show me where the Thunderer lies. Be he alive or not. Or I will put you into the smallest crystal I yet own and keep you there till Ragnarok comes. You shall never roam free, nor feel the grass or branches of trees play at ease at your command." She snarled in a soft hiss.

"This is my summons and you will heed it."


The sprite twists in alarm when the Enchantress seizes it. Clearly, the creature was expecting a minor hedge wizard, not someone of Amora's raw talent. Her fingers crush it easily, and it yields after only a few moments of struggle.

<I must comply,> the boggin emotes, as if stating a simple fact. Once Amora releases the tiny paraelemental, it flickers left and right, then is off with a whirr of motion. Not fleeing— merely moving like the literal wind.

It guides Amora into town, though the path it takes is circuitous and fleeting. Here, there— tracing a scent path, trying to follow it around. Finally, it alights in front of the local police station, which clearly consists of all of one officer and two part-time deputies. The building cannot be more than a thousand square feet, jail cell included.

<Thunder and lightning,> the boggin states. <Inside this building is the freshest scent I can find. >


Amora released the elemental sprite as needed, allowing it to fly about as directed. Her stride was long and determined and as she followed after the wind elemental. She glanced upwards at the building she'd been led to, her brow rising as she gazed at it. Her lips curled backwards and she waved a dismissive hand toward the sprite. "Very well. Be on your way." She muttered.

Then she was moving forward, into the building with a click of her heels. She opened the door, and made her way to the front desk, or at least what served as a front desk.

"I am looking for my husband. A blonde gentleman, blue eyes, well built. He went missing a few days ago…"


The lone officer— who looks like he might not have so much as fired his handgun in ten years— is a fellow in his late forties, getting a bit sedentary around the belly, and his jaw hits the desk when Amora walks in. Even without any attempt at glamouring him, she's a stunner, and he's on his feet in a moment, stammering.

"Er— yes ma'am, I'm sorry, I'll— blonde, you say?" he asks, blinking. "Well— we've got one fellow here, but I don't know if I'd call him well-built," he admits, beckoning her around the corner of the offices to where the cells are— really, just one cell, likely for a drunk tank. He opens the door, glancing quizzically from Amora to the man inside.

"Hey, Don, you know this lady?" he asks. The fellow in the room— wearing a hoodie and worn jeans that both look loaned— peers at Amora.

It's not Thor.

He could be his brother, though. A bit too slender. His beard is ratty and unkempt, and his hair flat and without much luster. He could do with a shower, and he's visibly missing Thor's muscle.

More than that, he lacks Thor's /presence/. Charisma. The aura of power and energy that surrounds a God. This… is just a man.

His expression brightens upon spying Amora, though he doesn't quite yet speak.


Amora didn't even have to try to flirt with the man, such was her draw without even a hint of magic splayed between her fingers. After all, the man was a mere mortal. In her tight fitting, clevage showing green dress, it was impossible to ignore her. As the man spluttered and nodded she offered him a cool smile and a regal nod of her head.

Yet as he escorted her to the back, to the cells, her disgust for the holding facility increased. So much so that the appearance of the blonde man, or rather, his lack of decidedly less than perfectly 'Thorness' took a good moment for it to register. The smells of the cell reached her first though, and her nose wrinkled delicately.

A hand waved before her, and she shifted her grip on a purse, opening it up and pulling free a handkerchief to hold to her nose. "What is this sad state indeed? The smells of this cell are beyond comprehension." She muttered toward the officer. Then she waved a hand his way. "Please, fetch me a glass of water?" She arched a brow, assuming her request would be followed.

Her gaze swung toward the man in the cell finally, and her skin blanched at the sight. "Thor?"



The officer hurries off to get Amora a glass of water— by hustling to the convenience store to get a crate of Perriere and a fresh lemon. Only the best for Amora!

"Who, me?" The fellow laughs, smiling at Amora. It's a familair expression, though not quite right. "No. Don Blake," he tells her, wiping his hands on his trousers and rising. Unlike the officer, he doesn't seem as thoroughly smitten by Amora's charms as the other man. "It's okay, I guess I kinda look like him," he says, with a smile that's a bit boyish. "I'm sorry, I'm a little addled. The officer says they found me passed out near a brushfire. I guess I had too much to drink and passed out. They brought me here and sobered me up. Do— do I know you?" he asks, squinting at Amora. "I feel like I'd remember someone as pretty as you, but I can't recall much of… well, anything," he admits.


As soon as the mortal was gone, Amora raised her hands to press against the iron bars. A sigh pulled from full lips and Amora tossed her hair back from her features. "A pity you seem to have been damaged thusly, Thunderer, but Thor you are. The scent of Asgard is weak, but 'tis no mistake that you are.. you. Memory, or not. A mortal figure or not.." Her gaze narrowed faintly.

"T'would seem you have been changed from your fall or some such power. I know not. Only the Odin-Force is known to have such strength. And yet the All-father.. well.." She shook her head, shifting her weight upon her heels.

"And aye, you should recall me indeed. We are long known to each other. I am Amora. The Enchantress." She purred.


"I— I think you're wrong, lady," Don says, with a frown. "I'm sorry. I think I'd know being a God, but all I remember is an apartment in New York and a job…" his frown deepens. "Doing… something. I was helping people? I remember trying to help someone who was injured. I think… I'm a healer. A nurse?"

At that moment, the cop hustles back, sweating from his jog, and with a case of San Pellegrino under one arm. "Miss! I've got the best cold water we have in town," he declares, offering her a bottle. He glances at Don, then dismisses the fellow and stares lovingly at Amora's face. "I… so this is your husband?" he asks, sounding disappointed. "You'll be leaving, then."

He brightens. "Oh! You'll want his personal effects. I'll get them for you." He hustles off, and comes back with a plastic tote. Opening it, it's filled with the scent of char and ozone— remnants of cloth and leather, though it's so badly singed it's impossible to be sure if it's Asgardian or Midgardian in origin.

"And here, he had this thing," he says, stepping behind his desk— and he comes up with Mjolnir in his hand.

And hands it to Amora. "Pretty good prop, huh?" he inquires, offering her the grip of the mighty weapon. The moment she touches it, her senses would confirm her worst fears.

Mjolnir's enchantment was gone, and possibly the power— the very essence— of Thor, along with it.


Shock. Stunned shock and aw followed as the man returned, left and returned in rapid fire movements. Or perhaps, that's just how it seemed to Amora, as she was still struggling to figure out what had happened to the Golden Prince of Asgard.

So when the famed hammer, Mjolnir, was held out in offer to her hands she practically jumped as the uru-metal touched her skin. There was no threat of storms. No promise of thunder and lightening. The infinity storm that had once been held within the bounds of the uru-metal was gone it would seem.

Amora turned, statuesque in form and pale in her cheeks as she stared at the mortal bound Prince. "Tis true.. 'tis true indeed.." She whispered, then slowly blinked a flutter of eyelashes as she stared at the man in the cell.

"Please let my husband out, good sir."


It takes less than ten minutes to get 'Don' out of jail and on their way. It would have gone even faster, but the officer kept pestering Amora for a phone number— even offering to drive her in a squad car to the nearest major town. Finally, the two are cut loose, with Don shouldering his ravaged gear and the famous hammer in a loaned duffel bag.

"Nice of you to lie for me, Amora," he tells her, shuffling along. "But I'm pretty sure I'd remember being married," he chuckles. "Especially to someone like you." He squints at the sky, looking around. "I— I guess I should try to find a bus, or something," he says, with a sigh. "I'm pretty sure I used to live in the city. I found a set of keys in those charred clothes, and a little stub for a pizza place near Brooklyn," he explains, extricating a set of singed keys from the bag. Much of the clothing had simply been disposed of, leaving him with little but what he's wearing. He frowns at the keys. "Hey, maybe I got struck by lightning," he says, the thought dawning on him slowly. "That'd explain some things, right?" he asks her. "My memory, the fire, the singed clothes."


Amora took the officer's infatuation with ease that came with expected behavior working toward her advantage. Yet as they stepped out of the police station and out into the winter air, Amora couldn't help the worried lines that pulled at the corners of her eyes. Espeically as Thor, she refused to call him by the mortal name he demanded to go by, showed no signs of being her darling Thunderer.

"I have tried time and again to earn the title, Thunderer, but you have forever spurned my hand. Yet more is at stake than just my heart." Her voice was soft as she drew to a halt, reaching out to try to catch him by the arm and halt his movement forward.

"You are the God of Thunder. Asgardian. A golden Prince of the Realm Eternal. First in line to the throne. Thor Odinson." She whispered, and the wind that blew, tossed her hair about her features.

"You have no memory of it. Aye. True enough. I know not by what magics you have been made thusly into such a low form, but I have sworn to you before to be there for you. Even if you were not Prince. If you had naught to offer me. I keep my vow this day. Though the you who I made it to, knows not." She shook her head, eyes closing briefly.

"And do not be foolish, you shall stay in my apartment. Tis furnished and worthy of you. But more over tis a safe place. Naught can harm you there. As I am sure your enemies would leap at the sight of you now."


He's strong. Not as strong as Amora— but stronger than most mortals. Still, she brings him around easily enough, perplexity on his rugged, lean features. "Look, lady," he says, uncomfortable. "I— not that you aren't gorgeous," he tells her. "But I don't know you. I'm pretty sure I'm not Thor, either," he says. "I'm Don. Don Blake. I know that for sure," he says, stubbornly. "I've seen pictures of him. He's… I mean, he's a /god/. Look at me," he says, spreading his arms a little. "I'm pretty sure he's got about sixty pounds of muscle on me."

He runs a hand through his ragged hair, then winces at the sensation.

"Ugh. On the other hand, I haven't had anything but fast food burgers for two days and I really need a shower," he admits, sighing. "So… how's that go, those who beg, cannot choose?" he hazards. "I'm not Thor, but… I guess if that doesn't matter to you, I'd be crazy to turn the help down."

He looks around. "How far is your apartment?"


Whatever made up Amora's heart shrank back from the image the man presented to her. Slighter of build, but lacking worlds of confidence as well. That magnetism. That charisma that had so won Amora's heart those centuries ago was gone. It stung worse than any cut or barb that she'd known in her long life.

Still, he was her prince, and memory or not. She'd see to his care. To his safety. And if he was with her, she could work on breaking whatever it was that bound him thusly. Convinced at least that it was not some measure of the Odin-Force hobbling him so.

A smile pulled at her lips as she leaned closer to him, a manicured hand pressing against the side of his cheek. "Close your eyes darling, a moment and we shall be there." She leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips. And with a flicker of power, green smoke wrapped around them and teleported them to her fantastical penthouse apartment.


"Hmmp!" Don is pleasantly surprised by the kiss and then when he realizes the world actually /did/ move, he starts in surprise. "Sorcery!" he gasps, but doesn't look terribly shocked. Merely surprised. "That's— how did you do that?" he demands, utterly missing how own explanative explicative. He wheels in place, taking in Amora's residence with a slack jaw.

"You /live/ here?" he asks. He whistles low, dropping the duffel at his feet. Mjolnir's haft sticks out of the bag's zipper. "This is incredible," he mutters, finishing the slow circle and looking back at Amora.

His expression becomes guarded. "I— lady, I mean, I appreciate this. A lot." He sighs, as if frustrated by some innate core of honesty. "But I think I'd know if I were Thor. I— I don't want to get your hopes up, if you're looking for him," he tells her. "Or to stop looking for him, because you found… me."


As they arrived in her apartment, Amora's mortal guise falls away in the same breath. She barely spared a glance for her apartment. For the glittering picture frames that held her image, for the mirrors, the plush furniture. All of it went unseen in her eyes. Rather her gaze was only for the blonde haired male in her presence. She bent, plucking up the hammer and cradling it close to her chest.

"Do you know how this hammer was made? Twas forged in the heart of a star. Uru-metal is so extremely hard to craft. The mold itself was destroyed. So that none may create an equal. There is also the tale, that Odin, the All-father.. when faced with a dreaded storm, the Infinity Storm, of magic born, threatened Asgard. That the All-father sealed it inside the hammer, which is how it came to have such a power.." Her lips twitched.

"Of course there are a great many other tales. None know for certain what happened to create it. None save the All-father himself." She mused. Then set it down on her glass topped coffee table.

"But there are none of its like. None. Tis alone in the universe. That it was in your possession speaks volumes to your personage."


"…it's a chunk of rock," Don tells Amora, patiently. "It's a really /handsome/ chunk of rock, but— I mean, it's not Thor's hammer. I mean, it couldn't be, right? Everyone knows, only Thor can lift it. It's just a— I don't know." Confusion washes over his features. "It's… I mean, maybe…"

He shakes the idea off. "No, it's ridiculous. I'm a nobody. I'm not Thor. I don't know why I have it," he says. Suddenly uneasy, he rubs his arms and hugs his chest. "No one can lift Thor's hammer but him, right? I've seen it in the news. Maybe… I don't know," he mutters. "Maybe I'm not Thor, maybe I'm … maybe Thor … blessed me?" His brows perk as he explores this thought. "I mean, that makes sense, right? It'd explain some things, I mean, the hammer, the bolt of lightning, my amnesia… maybe I'm supposed to, like… honor him. Honor Asgard," he says, standing a bit straighter. "That'd explain why you think I look like him, wouldn't it?"


A flicker of hesitation appeared in Amora's eyes and died, and she shook her head, moving to offer the hammer to the fidgeting man in denial. "I kissed you, are you aware of the power of my lips? Anyone, god or mortal alike. If I kiss them, they are under my control for up to a week of Midgard's time. Further enchantments can mean that I can bend their will for as long as I desire." She breathed, "There are two men in all of the Nine Realms that have resisted my magic. One of whom was Thor." She decidedly did not count Doctor Strange. He felt the effects of her power, she reasoned. He was not immune to her.

"And you are most decidedly not the other. So. You must be the Thunderer." She reasoned, reaching up a hand to trail over his cheek.

"And I shall fight to see you restored to your proper glory, beloved."


Donald looks at Amora, uncertainty in his eyes— then smiles, and laughs, and ducks his gaze away from her overwhelmingly emerald gaze. "Lady, you're crazy," he says, fondly. "But— it's the kind of crazy I can live with. I'm not Thor, but you don't seem to care, so…" He rolls a shoulder in a shrug that's meant to convey ease. "We'll go with it, for now. Frankly for a hot shower and warm meal, I'll pose as the King of America," he says, dryly. "Where's the bathroom? And, uh…" he tugs at his ratty togs. "I think I better wash these. Do you have a .." He blanks on the term 'laundromat'. "…place I can clean these? Or a robe or something I can borrow?"


An annoyed sigh pulled from the blonde goddess' lips, but none the less she didn't seem inclined to kick the man out anytime soon either. So with a clap of her hands, one, two. Several men in suits appeared at her command. "Hello my dears. Please fetch my beloved everything he desires. Including clothes suitable for his personage. Bring him a robe to change into after his bath." A glance was spared toward one man in particular.

"Go and run the bath. Bottle number 7 will do I think for the scents." Then her gaze lifted and turned to another servant.

"Prepare a feast for my lord, and convey to him all manner of the best wines as well." Then she waved her fingers in their direction, dismissing them with the doe eyes they cast her way.

"Do you require anything else, darling?"


Don whirls, in surprise, at the liveried servants— his jaw slacks, but the men all seem like trained professionals, so he goes with it. Bag, hammer, clothes, all gone, and he turns to follow one of the men— but pauses, and smiles at Amora.

That expression, unlike any other, would do more than anything else to reassure her heart, as familiar as it is. "Thanks, Amora," he tells her. "I really appreciate it. I guess— I'll see you at dinner." And with that, he's off in the tow of a servant, craning his neck this way and that as he takes in the guided tour.

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