1964-03-06 - All-Beings
Summary: Amora seeks Strange's help in the matter of Thor or Not-Thor. And eventually has relations with Thor-Not-Thor regardless.
Related: Asgardian logs
Theme Song: None
amora strange thor 

Another day, another task to finish out. The wind might be brisk, but it doesn't keep the Sorcerer from winding his way through Central Park. He has a short-list of places to check upon and having been interrupted by the distraction of a new Mystical presence with power he'll need to keep half an eye on, he needs to finish them out. Besides, the wood sprites in the grove containing a stitch in the veils sewn by none other but himself have been complaining of disruptions.

Thus, Strange finds himself in the small clearing wherein a Jotun once trespassed. Little flakes of snow fall and he glances to the sky, sniffing at the air. It might get heavier later and his hands are aching with the cold, so he has no intent to linger. Blinking the Sight over his eyes, he finds the tightly-stitched seam and inspects it closely, looking for hints of forced passage from the other side, glimpses of blue ice not known to his realm.


Amora appeared as much was her wont, as if from nothing. A flicker of power, of green and gold light and she simply was. Unlike her usual confident, sultry look though, was a hint of.. distress? There, pinched around the corner of her eyes and twist of her lips as she strode forward toward the good Doctor Strange. Her form curling into a mortal shape and figure, thick coat lined in a white fur collar and green wool of the finest material. High heeled boots of deep green to match hugged her legs.

"I have been searching for you," A pause, "Past be past, Strange. I have a concern, dearly wrought and of high need in the measure of the realms."


A flicker that travels up his spine in familiar phantasmal brush of fingernail causes him to straighten up from squinting at what seems to be mid-air and, frowning, Strange turns in time to discover that, indeed, it is Lady Amora approaching him. She speaks even before he can find some terse remark to make and those eyebrows rise up beyond neutrality into mild surprise. Dare we say even some interest despite their past…altercations.

"And now you've found me," he murmurs, shoving aching hands deeper into coat pockets. The crimson scarf snuggles up as a chill gust of wind slices by. "A concern? Lots of people have those these days, but by all means, do share with me." He can't help be a smidge tart. Personality flaw and all.


A frown against the wind, as it teased golden curls around her. The air was warmer around the Enchantress, a spell of course, and perhaps a hint of the promise of Spring to come. The onward march toward Spring and Summer seemed to only add to her personage, and charms, golden highlights in her skin matching the rosey hue the wind made of her fair skin.

"Something.. something is wrong," She licked her lips, pushing her hair back from her face. "I found the Thunderer.. but.." Her expression crumbled and fear, honest and wide and yawning flashed to life in her green eyes.

"He is mortal. Without memories. The hammer.. it .. the power is gone." She breathed, and in a flicker of light the hammer appeared in her hands. Lifeless. Dead. Uru-metal without power behind it. The fact alone that she was able to hold it?

Well, if he hadn't believed her before..

"The Bifrost was restored and Loki is said to be dead, and I know not by what this power is. Only the All-father has the power to do such things but I know not if he is awake and on the throne.. I know naught what has occured." Her voice choked as she spoke, and she struggled for a long moment with her shoulder rising and falling.


The steep upshoot of attention granted to Amora from the very second the word 'Thunderer' passes her lips has the Sorcerer holding himself very still, very tall, and watching her now with intensity.

Gods below, she can't be serious?! He remembers very well the presence of the Prince of Asgard within the Sanctum, the aura of foreign power around the blonde warrior and especially so around the artifact Mjolnir, the Hammer now lying across the span of the Enchantress's palms. If that wasn't going to convince him, nothing else was going to. Strange's squint flicks up from the weapon to her as she continues. She knows nothing and…

"I wasn't aware that the youngest Prince had passed." Her shaking shoulders are noted and his inherent sympathy brutally forced down. Once bitten, twice shy, and he'll never trust a sobbing Amora beyond the reach of his arms. "If the Bifrost is restored, what keeps you here, Lady Amora? Why not go question the All-Father himself? Does the realm itself continue to bar you from entering?"

The Sorcerer doesn't reach out to touch the relic; he doesn't need to. It seems a hollow shell to him, though don't think he's not continually flipping through scenarios in his mind as to how it's managed this state.


Amora seemed to cradle the hammer close, stroking a delicate hand over the leather grip as if it might turn to dust before her. "I don't know if he has or not for certain. I have not been able to return to the realm, or rather I am unwilling to risk the All-father's wrath of breaking my exile if he is as he should be." Her jaw worked over the words with a stubborn tilt.

"Especially if this is his doing. Tis not unknown for the All-father's wrath to extend to his children. Nor to such extremes.." Her brows furrowed, "But I fear tis not him. To strip away the enchantments of the hammer, to leave the realms unprotected to such an extent? I fear greatly what it is. The drop-staff gives naught in the weave and spin of fate. It tastes ill. Like an omen." She breathed.


Hmm. Too many unknowns for his liking. Strange looks off beyond Amora for a moment, eyes going distant as he does some rapid calculations and comes to some conclusion. It brings him back to the present and his breath ghosts around him like dragon-smoke.

"I wonder if this is a lesson to be learned…but at the expense of Asgard itself? It does seem unlike the All-Father. I remember Prince Thor to be the foremost warrior of your Realm, the first into battle if someone else dared to threaten it." His brows shift together as he observes the silent Hammer once more. "And you said he's mortal? As in, he has none of the typical Asgardian strength? Or any memory of having been a Prince of Asgard? This sounds like a spell, a curse. You can't sense any magical manipulations about him?"


Tears welled up in the Enchantress' eyes, but they did not fall. "He has no memory of Asgard. Of being Prince. Of aught to do with his life previously. I could not sense him for he was not himself. A mortal. He thinks his name to be Donald Blake, and insists on working at the mortal's medical halls as a nurse of some manner. I know it not. I cannot sense anything from him. Yet I know it is him. Twas not simple the hammer's presence, but I know 'tis him. Truly." She blinked away that moisture and it was gone as she stared down at the hammer in her hands and banished it away in a cloud of smoke and magic.

"The Lady Sif has disappeared, possibly slain. Loki seems to be dead, the Bifrost returned … a-and I know not how such things came to be. The elemental sprites know it not.."


The Sorcerer nods and shifts his weight, if only to keep the blood flowing through legs and feet. Brr. "No sense of a curse. That leaves…very little." Chewing on the inner lining of his cheek for a moment doesn't bring to change his mind. His heart aches to hear of the loss of the Lady Warrior, Sif. She was a welcome addition to his small social circle, with their similar childhoods and love of the simpler things in life. There had even been the wonderings about letting her borrow a very specific relic in the case of a sword-arm desperately needed — but no longer. Another foggy sigh.

"I get the impression that this is a mystery that might require my assistance. What do you need of me?" While his tone is faintly resigned, it is resolute and professional by nature.


The Enchantress leveled a look upon him, her expression pinched. "I know naught where to begin, much less what I can do nor what can be done. I fear though, the tremors that I have sensed in the future. 'Tis a murky subject at best, but I fear what might occur." She exhaled a breath, closing her eyes.

"If you can aid me in finding out what occurred, or how to restore the Thunderer, in some capacity?" She swallowed a lump in her throat and bowed her head, her hands spread out before her in a pleading manner.

"I beg for your aid, Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme of Midgard. Please."


Strange's brows seem fit to disappear into his hairline for such a formal gesture and wording by the Enchantress. It was not expected in the least. To be honest, he was waiting for more waterworks and batting of eyelashes. Even with the feeling that he might regret this decision at some point, he finally grants her a curt nod.

"I grant you my aid, Lady Amora, Enchantress of Asgard, in what capacity I deem fit. My guess is that you'd like me to meet this mortal and see what I can sense." That you did not is unspoken.


Amora straightened, her arms falling back to her side as she inclined her head simply once. Formal request for aid finished, she seemed to glance around once and then back.

"Indeed. However I was unwilling to bring you to him until you agreed to such aid. I could not.. I dare not risk him. He is.." She trailed off, her voice thick with emotion that she barely with held.

With a gesture a portal opened and she stepped inside. "If you're free, come along."


It's clear that Amora truly believes the mortal man is the Thunderer, especially by the fact that he's been kept under lock and key — perhaps? — by the Enchantress. Strange is even more curious now. Imagination cavorts about; did the banishment of the Prince's inherent powers mean even a change in form itself? He can't assume to see the Prince in his heraldic armor of linked metal and that cape. Not as nifty as the Cloak, of course. The relic around the Sorcerer's neck catches a whiff of that little mental musing and snuggles closer still, pleased as pie.

"I suppose I'm free," he hedges, glancing over his shoulder. Another few moments to communicate with the wood sprites and they are content with his check-in. "Yes, I'm free." Wearing his usual air of mild suspicion, he follows behind the Enchantress and through the portal.


Donald— Amora's wayward pet project— is in her penthouse. And when the two of them come to his room, he's praying.

He's constructed a crude altar, albeit lovingly, atop his bureau. A thick animal pelt, a flagon of mead that's gone somewhat flat, and a number of other odds and ends that are clearly meant to be devotions or gifts to a spirit are scattered on the pelt.

And standing upright, impossibly balanced on the narrow handle, is Mjolnir.

Not Mjolnir— not with a Third look. But a hammer precisely in Mjolnir's dimensions, and made of Uru. But the runework doesn't have the sharp edges that the true weapon has, and there is a lack of… density around the device. Mjolnir had a gravity so immense reality bent around it at times.

This is little more than well-crafted rock, albeit nigh-indestructible.

At the sound of voices behind him, the man turns and rises. He's tall, and built like a brick house. His blonde hair's been recently cut conservatively short and his beard is neatly trimmed.

"Amora," Donald says, giving the blonde woman a smile. He transfers his blue-eyed gaze to Strange, looking a little wary but with a geniality uncommon to most people. "Greetings," he tells the magician, walking up. He /is/ a big one— taller than Strange, even, and his footsteps indicate he weighs at least two hundred kilograms. Maybe more. "I'm Donald. You're a friend of Amora's?" he inquires, offering Strange a handshake that proves to be a hearty clasp of the forearm.


Amora stepped into the room, her winter coat of fur and wool fading into nothing, and revealing her in her mortal guise but in a short sleeved dress of gauzy silk, the green glinted with threads of gold interwoven between the stands. A chain belt in the shape of hearts linked around her hips and high heels of a matching hue clicked as she moved.

"Darling, this is Doctor Strange. I asked him to have a look at you, to make sure that you're well.." There was a tightness to her voice, in her posture as she reached out to trace a hand over Donald's shoulder.

"What have you been up to?" She breathed, leaning in to press a kiss against his cheek.

Stubbornly Amora never, not once called him Donald. And it seemed that such a trend would continue. Always darling, or dearest, or beloved. Never Thor. And never Donald.


Well. The gods be damned. Strange pauses at the doorway to the room, taking in the sight before him. It's not the altar that intrigues him, not even the empty shell of Mjolnir, Uru-metal hollowed of hallowed ability. It's the blonde man who greets Amora first and then him with perfectly understandable hesitation. There's no spark of recognition in those eyes. Walking into the room proper brings him before…Donald — that is a decidedly non-Asgardian name — and the Sorcerer returns the warrior-like arm-clasp with motion slowed for dubious wonderings. Does this Donald even recognize that his actions are similar to the Prince that the Enchantress swears up and down is hidden somewhere within that leaner build?

Stepped within the natural cloud of Donald's aura and perhaps even returning the shake skin-to-skin, Strange realizes on a Mystical level that something precious is missing from the taller blonde man. There is a void…a very deliberate void within him, one whose origins beg to be unraveled.

"Yes, I'm Dr. Strange. Amora wanted me to make sure you were…alright," he hedges, glancing over at Amora with subtle gravity.


Donald looks… oddly uncertain when Amora kisses his cheek. As if wary of her, and unsure of /why/ he should be wary.

Still, Amora's kisses could coax a zombie back to life, so Donald flashes a smile at her when she touches him.

"Hail, then— doctor? A doctor?" he blinks. "Well, twice well met, then. I'm a nurse at Mercy Hospital," he tells Strange. "I just started a few days ago." An odd thing, a male nurse. "Amora's been kind enough to give me a place to rest my head, but I find myself strangely unable to idle the hours away, even in her company. Helping those who are sick and injured seemed a worthy enough cause."


Amora hovered, yes hovered as she watched Strange look over the Thunderer. Her hands clenched together, golden rings and bracelets jangling in her manicured grip that was most assuredly tight enough to bend steel. Her lips pursed together as she watched, like a nervous parent or mother waiting to hear a death knell at the hospital. Whatever had occurred, it was clear that Amora was shaken, raw to the bone with nerves and unlike anytime the Doctor had ever seen the otherwise confident woman.

"I am unaware what skills the Doctor has in healing, though I believe the burns have all healed aright, my dearest. But I am still concerned and asked if he might have a look at you." She breathed, voice tight.


Even the cadence of speech is the same. Strange is impressed, though this is shaded heavily with pity. The amnesia seems to be solid through and through the once-Asgardian's personality.

"Ah, Mercy. Yes, I know the place. I was at New York-Presbyterian for some time. I know the draw of medicine and the pride that comes with healing the injured very well." His smile is a bit wry. Now on to the difficult part. "Your…friend, Amora — she mentioned that you weren't…feeling like yourself. Are you having any other issues besides the burns? They seem to be healing normally from what I can see." At this point, he'd dropped the friendly arm-clasp and those scarred hands have retreated back inside his coat.


"Some memory loss," Donald admits readily, eyes flickering to Amora and back again. "Probably a side effect of the lightning. A little slurring of my words and my balance is a bit off at times, but aside from some headaches, I'm well, otherwise."

To Amora, of course, it's all perfectly conversational. Strange, however, would hear Latin— precise, medically-specific Latin, a thoroughly accurate summary of the damages done to Thor's neocortex and parts of the brain as understood by science in this era. Maybe a bit /more/ advanced— a neurosurgeon of Strange's stature would be blinkingly surprised to hear how damage to the inferior vena calpa could possibly affect the Broca's region, but the way Donald explains the damage, it couldn't /be/ anything else.

And Donald seems unaware of the fact he just laid a university-level theory on brain damage at Strange's feet. Small wonder they picked him up as a /nurse/ at Mercy.


Amora went to sit in a chair, the plush cushions were clearly of her design and taste, something that had been slow to be corrected in terms of the room she'd given to 'Donald'. Still, attempts had been made to allow him the need to decorate as he saw fit. Infact, practically anything he'd asked for had been offered to him. More often than not with that same pained expression from the blonde's part. Everything seemed to cause that tightening around her eyes and in her shoulders these days.

So when Strange and the mortal'ed Thunderer speak, she sat, keeping her silence as she watched and waited to hear something that mattered to her. The none sense about injuries and the alike meant little to her. Though her gaze remained raptly locked onto the blonde.


Indeed, Strange does recognize the medical jargon of his field and it is a rather pleasant surprise. It's been a long time since anyone's managed to correctly inference the process of this specific type of amnesia — save for that one intern back at Presbyterian, but he was eventually canned for being late to shifts, which was a loss, in the good Doctor's high opinion.

"That's a shame." Pure English for all. "I could see if there's anything I can do to reverse the — "

The world is suddenly slowing down dramatically around him, like someone has slammed on the temporal brakes to reality, and even as Strange realizes what's happening around him, he's wincing for the triad of voices that suddenly cleave into his mind. Alto, tenor, baritone, perfectly harmonized and overlapped hundreds of times over, still ringing with enough might that he'll have a headache for hours after this.

"This is not your place to intrude, Conduit. Your duties are to this Realm, not to that of Odin's rule. The Norns forbid it and thus, so do we. The Prince must find his own way. You cannot tell. Do not think to test us." A set of hands with icicles for nails seem to wrap around his head from behind and prickle at his scalp; his heart ratchets up into this throat. "Your silence for your sanity, Sorcerer."

The feeling of a vice around his skull retreats. Time around him speeds up again until Donald finishes the natural blink of his eyes and Amora's chest falls with the exhale in her breathing cycle. To them, it seems as if Strange froze up in mid-sentence; to the forgetful Asgardian before him, there was the faintest candle-glow in the back of the good Doctor's eyes, not too unlike the reflection of moonlight off an animal's tapetum lucidum, that flashed and died.

" — reverse the…" Strange's voice fades out as he realizes that he's been warned. Three times over. "Actually, now that I consider things as they are, I'm not sure that I can help at all. Amnesia's a tricky thing."


Donald's face falls a little, but the big fellow is clearly of a fairly sturdy disposition, and he dips his chin in a nod of acknowledgement. "Aye, I suspected as much," he assures Strange. "Don't worry yourself. The brain's a curious enough organ— perhaps it will right itself?" he offers. "My memories are fuzzy but I feel infused with… a sense of purpose, which is good enough for now. A friend suggested a game of sporting— I am thinking baseball, or the like," Donald says, grinning wide. "Exercise and fresh air, it's the cure for almost all ailments, isn't it?" he inquires.

He looks to Amora, sensing her ire at Strange's pronouncement. "Amora, I know it's not what you hoped," he tells her, face falling sympathetically. "But I fear I must remind you, I am not a god. Merely his humble servant, here to do good works in his name."


Amora could sense the bubble of magic that was around the Sorcerer Supreme, but had little inkling to what it entailed. However, there was clearly only so much the blodne goddess could take. She'd humbled herself before the Doctor, begged his aid.. and then been told he could do nothing? The combination of such a revelation coupled with 'Donald's' relaxed sympathy had her rising to her feet in a sharp movement.

Color stained her cheeks, high and bright with a thunderous look in those green eyes of her's. If it had been anyone else taking in that look, they'd surely be dead in short order.

Rather however, she merely squared her jaw and made to a hasty exit of the room. "I'll fetch the Doctor some mead or tea." She grit out, her voice thick with repressed… tears? For it seemed that there was some moisture there in those green eyes.

Her heart lurched in her throat as sharp heels clicked with each step and the door shut behind her without further notice.


"Thank you, Lady…Amora," Strange replies, his expression slowly going flat as his tone as she disappears beyond hearing. Mmm. There's going to be some ruffled feathers there for some time. Joy. Still, there's the conversation at hand and Donald mentioned baseball. That's safe to discuss…right, Vishanti?

"Baseball would be an excellent way to stay active, yes. Any sport. There might be something in the motions that triggers a memory. One memory becomes two and…perhaps it'll all come back to you." A hesitance colors his words, but when nothing churns up his brain like fruit in a smoothie machine, the lines of his shoulders relax. Then a sigh. "I should have stopped Lady Amora. I can't stay. Prior…engagements were scheduled." Not to mention that killer headache gnawing at his temples. Tea. He needs his tea. "Donald…nice to meet you." A professional nod and smile. "If you could pass on word to Lady Amora, she might be interested to hear this little thought of mine regarding recent events."

He inhales and says, in a soft baritone with elegant inflection: "Tell her, 'You, too, can be deaf, dumb, and blind as the All-Beings will, but I always speak true.' Repeat it back to me." A simple short-term memory test.


"Er… yes. 'You, too, can be deaf, dumb, and blind as… the… All-beings will…er, but… oh! I will always speak true'," Donald says. It takes a bit of work— he wasn't expecting a memory test— but he does a serviceable job of repeating it back to Strange.

"'twas good to meet you as well, Doctor," Donald says, offering him another clasp of the wrist. "If you think of anything that may be of aid to me, don't hesitate to be in touch— and I'll inform you if anything changes suddenly, aye?" he assures the man, before clapping his shoulder roundly.


That recitation will do, in light of the fact that his mind is still intact, and Strange isn't going to tempt the fury of the gods any more. At least not right now. Nope nope nope.

He returns the clasp of the wrist with a note of hope in his heart — that such motions remain implicit in the man's system speak to the fact that the Prince's Asgardian memories aren't buried as deeply as he originally suspected. Muscle memory rings true again in the sturdy clap on the shoulder, the one that makes the good Doctor wince slightly for the force of it. "I won't hesitate an instant. I assume that I can find you around Mercy if so? I'll ask for Nurse Blake." He watches Donald's face carefully for subtle signs of recognition as he adds, "You can find me in Greenwich Village easily enough. 177A Bleecker Street. The Sanctum Sanctorum. Lady Amora can direct you there if need be."


Amora returned to the room with a sliver platter, and a tea cup. And a pitcher of mead with a glass. Yet as she swept into the room, the door opening and closing as per her desires, she found it lacking one Doctor Strange. Rude.

Her lips thinned into a line as she threw up her hands, the platter and drinks vanishing in a cloud of smoke into nothingness as she huffed a breath.

"I assume the good Doctor couldn't be bothered to wait and speak with me, could he?" She archly shot a look toward Donald, her arms crossing under her chest as she leaned against the wall and eyed him up and down.

"Did he say anything of use?"


Donald looks back at Amora, shaking his head minutely. "The doctor complained of a headache of staggering proportion, and excused himself," he tells her, in his too-loud voice. "He seems not the sort to withdraw over a trifling, so I begged him take his leave and hurried him along." He finishes his small task of tidying the altar and puts his hand on the hammer's head, almost affectionately.

"He had a curious message for you, and bid me repeat it to share precisely as said." He clears his throat, getting the words in line.

"'You, too, can be deaf, dumb, and blind as… the All-Beings will…er… but, I will always speak true'." He mulls his recitation, then nods. "Aye, 'twas as he said it," Donald tells Amora.

Concern ruffles his features, and he walks closer to her, taking one hand in his. "Amora… you've been beyond kind to me. But I fear that you must accept I am not your Thor," he says, with a voice of gentle compassion. "Blessed by him, aye, but— to continue serving this role in his stead, I feel as if I am taking advantage of your grief."


Amora remained where she was as Donald reiterated for her what Strange had said and why he departed. She puzzeled over it, frowning faintly in thought as she turned it over in her mind. Those full lips of her's angled into a frown, golden brows pinching in irritation as she turned the riddle over and over in her mind and came up with few options that satisfied her.

As a result, when the blonde took hold of her hand, he did so while distraction pulled at her features. Those green eyes flickered with an impassioned emotion that warred with her furious irritation at the Doctor, turned onto Donald.

A sharp jerk of her hand followed, to free it from his gentle grasp, as she shifted away from her lean against the wall. A finger jabbed at his chest in return as she drew herself up to her full height. Her expression twisting and darkening with barely restrained emotions.

"Do not attempt to coddle me like some child! I am not some foolish chit chasing after sugar spun dreams of nothingness. I have more measures of proof in your continued state as well as that of the hammer. Never mind the scent of ozone and magic that laced the ground wherein you were 'found'." Her hand shook slightly as she drew it back and then up to slide up his chest and smooth over the flesh of his neck. "If you were but a mortal," She said the word as if it was a curse.

"Then you'd be utterly at my mercy with a brush of my lips." She closed the distance between them, attempting to pin him back against the wall, and steal a kiss.


Donald tries to cool Amora's mercurial temper— the flash of anger and ire that turns to scorn and fury and then, abruptly, very sensual motion as she flings herself at him. Curves and lips and hands, and she's too quick and lovely to be stopped.

A surprise 'mph!' escapes him when she grabs his neck and hauls him down to her level to be kissed. Thoroughly. His hands grip her waist, almost reflexively, and lips compress and tug at one another in a long, electric kiss.

Donald comes out of the kiss, blinking, his breath warm on Amora's cheek as he tries to recover equilibrium. Eyes the color of the clear blue sky meet her willing green gaze, and they stare at one another for a long moment.

Abruptly he charges into her, pushing her back into the wall. Up the wall. Despite the density of her Asgardian physique, he lifts her higher until her stilettos scrape the ground for purchase. Slablike pectorals press firmly against her ample busom, and Donald kisses her again. Firmly, with a shockingly uninhibited passion.


Amora was used to having her way with men, mortal or otherwise. The woman had after all, sampled her way through multiple races, speicies, pantheons and other assorted spirits of assorted flavors. Yet she had always, always had a weakness for the golden prince of Asgard. Desired him for so long that it was as normal as breathing to her.

The first kiss was a test, was he the Thunderer? Would he, too, push her away? Offer some platitude about how he cared for her but not that way? Try hard as she might, her heart was still desperate for any other reaction. Just as she both wanted and needed him to push her away.. she desired the opposing just as badly.

The moment, of blue eyes observing her, scoring over her own gaze had her breath catching. Her emotions swelled with a desperate need to know.. that was utterly thrown off as he not only returned for another kiss but aggressively returned her affections. Memories of past encounters clashed over the mortal softness that had been one Donald Blake. Confusion rioted over her mind as she melted against him.

Of all the men she had dominated, Amora never could bring herself to do so with the Thunderer. Whether this was him? As his hands glided over her curves and lifted her up, she found she really couldn't find the means to protest whether it was him or not.

Close enough? It hardly mattered to her as she responded with equal fervor. Over a week and Amora had kept her hands to herself. All her frustrations, her tangled emotions spilled out with the physical contact between them and before she could come up with a coherent thought to 'test' whether it was Thor or not?

Well, Amora found herself deliciously tired, and without that flimsy silk dress. Her golden hair sprawled out behind her as she exhaled a breath and propped herself up with a hand to look back at the blonde male beside her.

"Well. That answers nothing." She mused, reaching out to tangle her fingers through the golden strands of his hair.


"Eh? What?" Donald blinks himself awake from the post-coital somnia, in that delicious doze between wakefulness and sleep where the world seems to have stopped spinning. He rustles a little, trying to find his traction, and lifts his upper torso on one forearm, smiling affectionately at Amora.

"Did you say something, Amora?" he asks in a sleepy tone, before sitting more upright and propping his weight on one strong palm.


A thump of her heart, painful and heady pressed in her veins as she stared down at him with a smile. It would seem her mortal guise had, at some point, been cast aside and the full brightness of her form was all that was left. The goddess of desire in her element? It was enough to make most consider themselves in the most vivid of dreams.

A hand reached down to trace down his neck to his shoulder as she lowered herself down beside him, entangling herself with him once more.

"Tis nothing, beloved." She whispered, her voice a holding a roughness that had seen the rise and fall of many a mortal kingdom.

Her questions remained unanswered, and even worse, she could not decide if she wanted them answered. Thor or no, she could take what little she was given. The question of course was then, what would she do? What could she do?

Thor had never been particularly warm in their previous relationship, such as it was, or could be called. Never held her close and smiled up at her with such utter affection and warmth.

It broke her heart.


"Nothing?" Donald seems loathe to argue as Amora slips against him, and he rolls onto his back so she can nestle in the crook of arm and chest. He sighs with languid pleasure and sprawls deep into the pillows behind them, cradling Amora easily. "As you say, then," he tells her, politely letting the 'beloved' comment go.

He cradles her quietly for a time, until the shadows on the walls start to shift, and finally stirs out of his reverie and kisses her brow before moving to slip from the bed. His bare back to her reveals a disturbing realization— he lacks the millennia of scars that a warrior like Thor would have accrued. Shot, blade, laser, fire— no marks of battle on his bare back, as he casts around for his trousers and tugs them on.

"Some food appeals, aye?" he inquires to Amora. "Shall I fetch you a meal of something, Lady?" he asks, the title bestowed with a curious mix of respectful gravitas and playful insouciance.


Amora pretended while he held her, closed her eyes and pretended that it was Thor. The Thunderer as he was in her memories. Self-assured, powerful, charming and oh so perfect. While the shadows outside deepened and the sunlight faded she rested against him, head tilted against his chest as she listened to the sound of his heart beat.

The spell of her pretending was broken as he rose, and her gaze landed on his smooth back. Another squeeze of her heart and she sat up with a languid slowness. Her gaze lingered on him as he turned and questioned her, and yet again the voice, the mannerisms set her chest thumping in pain.

Her throat constricted and she propped her chin up with a hand. A smirk painting over her full lips as she watched him. "I can think of one or two things." She drawled, arching a brow upwards as she raked her gaze over him. The mask back in place as she ignored the pangs in her heart.

Then a soft laugh and she tossed her hair back over a shoulder. "Ask one of the servants to fetch something suitable. I care little. Perhaps more of the strawberry mead." She mused.


"I… it feels strange to have servants, Amora," Donald says, shaking his head. "I am well enough to fetch my own food and drink." He pauses. "I… cannot help but feel as if these trappings of wealth make life /too/ easy for me. What is life without a challenge to overcome?" he asks, wryly. "I'm enjoying the spoils of war, having fought no battles."

He departs to the kitchen to retrieve some of the mead— a curious delicacy that few mortals would enjoy, but Donald seems to find the robust flavor and content most appealing. He returns with a surprising amount of food and settles a platter between him and Amora on the bed, and digs in with an appetite that few should be able to match.


Amora settled back on the bed, arching a brow as he spoke and muttered over servants. It was so intrinsically opposite to what she knew, what she expected that it left her flabbergasted and stunned for a long moment as he departed for the ways of the kitchen and returned. She was still in bed, though a flimsy silk robe of green and gold now covered her curves.

She helped herself to the mead and food though, watching him in silence for a long time. "The all-being.." She mused, her eyes squinting as she considered the blonde beside her.

Then shook her head and she popped a bit of cheese into her mouth. "If you desire a challenge, darling, then I require you to help me find the Thunderer." She offered.


Donald lifts a brow. "Help you? Aye, I'll do whatever I can," he tells Amora, gravely. "It would seem to be a worthy cause to find Him, but I imagine the God of Thunder is keeping himself well away from the world for a reason." He takes a few shreds of meat and chews, looking to Amora curiously.

"I know not your powers, Amora, though I've seen you work some impressive magic," he concedes. "But Thor is a god. If he wishes not to be found, I do not know what I can do to help."


A shrug, and Amora drew a leg up to rest an arm against. Her gaze settling on the plate of food before her, "If you are blessed by him, then truly you're the best suited to find him. No other could compare to you." The change in her demeanor, was rather significant, but Amora was nothing if not duplicitous in nature.

"And aye, I have my magics, but they have been in a rare .. fog since the Bifrost was restored. I can sense its return. Sense that all is not right.." She closed her eyes and exhaled a breath, as if pained at the thought.

"I am Norn-trained and all the signs are in flux. I know not if the end or the start of the world is occurring, much less whether the realm Eternal lies in safety or ruin.."


Donald stares blankly at Amora. "I caught very little of what you said," he tells her, readily. "But it sounds dire enough, so— we must find a place to begin, yes?" he says, patting her thigh encouragingly. "Perhaps my Lord had friends and allies upon Earth who had treated with him. Those who might know his whereabouts or have suggestions where he can be found." He eyes his Uru-hammer on the dresser, pulling a face.

"And yes, I've tried praying, to little avail."


A pause, and Amora seemed to consider. "I know not…" An exhale and she took up a goblet filled with amber liquid and sipped at it.

"I.." She exhaled, her expression crumbling slightly, "There is one. The Inhuman Princess Crystalia. She was .. at one time to be his consort. She still resides here on Midgard. She may know, or have some hint to give." She ventured. Even if the man before her was the Thunderer, perhaps the reminder of a woman he had chased might draw him out. She certainly wasn't going to via magic or by virtue of being herself.

That thought stung.


"Crystalia, eh? An odd name— and a Princess?" Donald shakes his head. He walks over to the bureau and picks up his Uru-hammer, flipping it once to catch it by the handle. He misses, dropping it with an immeasurably heavy *thud* on the floor, and dives to retrieve it.

As nonchalantly as possible, he hefts it again.

"Er, anyway, Princess," he says, waggling the hammer thoughtfully. "Very good, we'll seek her out. Perhaps there are other Gods on Earth, aye?" he inquires. "We'll have to do some digging. But first, Cristalia," he nods, agreeing with Amora.


A sigh, as Amora watches him from over the wine goblet. "Aye, Crystalia. I shall.. inquire as to her where abouts and find her. There is possibly, as well, mine apprentice, Lady Scarlett. She met the Thunderer several times and has a .. unique way of testing people beyond the bounds of their physical form." A spark at that thought and Amora sat straigther.

Scarlett most assuredly offered a chance to test if Thor was indeed Thor. She had shook hands with the Thunderer before after all.

She edged forward, reaching out to brush her finger tips against his shoulder. "Be .. cautious though, my dear when you venture forth without me. Please. There are a great many creatures large and small that might seek to make a snack of one such as you.."


Donald grins broadly at Amora, sitting on the bed next to her. "One creature in particular seeks to, though it seems she's well sated and retreated to her silks for now," he teases her, reaching up to brush a stray curl of blonde hair from her ear.

"What harm can befall me?" he asks her, rhetorically. "Thor blesses me with arms and armor, and calls me His lightning when I am in danger. My God watches over me, even though He might be in hiding. What sort of hero would I be if I fled from danger?"

He mulls this over, examining the hammer. "What shall I style myself, then?" he says, thinking it over. "Perhaps I will title myself 'Thunderer'," he declares. "In honor of my God's blessings."


His teasing earned honest laughter from her and she dove into steal another heady kiss from his lips again, ever hungry for touch. She practically purred as he brushed a hand through her hair and drew back.

Thor or not, he was close enough to earn such behavior from the Enchantress. His motions too familiar. Too wanted to be brushed off easily.

"And I shall," She murmured, green eyes glinting deviously. "And I am never fully sated." She sniffed, crossing her legs and leaning back with drink in hand. "Not for long."

"If you were the Thunderer truly, then well. Tales claim he pleased an entire village of its womenfolk. You did aptly well, but I am still just one woman by comparison." She teased back.

Then sobered just as quickly. "Alas, my darling, there are a great many that will pause naught for you. Thunderer or no. Giants. Muspellheim's creatures. Dragons. Elves of dark and light demeanor. Gods of other realms great and small. Even.. well.. perhaps he is no threat now.." She mused.


"More than a mere woman, I think, Amora," Donald says— and there's a crafty, knowing look in his eye that is a bit too familiar. Someone who rarely sees through things and is a bit smug when he does. "I'm starting to think you're not 'just' a woman at all."

"Regardless of the foes seeking me, I'll vanquish them," Donald declares, on his feet again. He slaps his hammer into his palm a few times, not seeing the little cracklings of electricity that trace over the runes when he does so. "Perhaps… not head on," he admits, "as I've no idea how to fight a dragon. I'll trust in my God to protect me and arm me with knowledge. But I won't retreat from someone in peril who needs aid, -that- I assure you. Thor would welcome me to Valhalla with open arms were he to see me perish in honorable, glorious combat, I think."


A laugh and Amora shifted against the pillows as she reached out a hand toward him, her eyes glinting with a flicker of desire that always lit her gaze. "Well, then I suppose you're wiser than you appear, my dear." She breathed, and then shifted, leaning forward to reach out with her hand and drag it back through his hair.

"There would be valkyries waiting to escort you, arguing all the way who would have such an honor." She murmured, her gaze locked on him.

"You are not armed and armored as the Thunderer should be." A gaze traced over his bare chest and she clicked her tongue.

"You shall need armor."


"I— well, yes," Donald is forced to agree. "I called for lightning once and Thor blessed me with steel, but… well, it seems my God thinks most armor is merely decorative. Pauldrons and vambraces, and— well, a stout leather jacket is only /so/ much protection from a sharp knife or a bullet," Donald mutters.

In fairness, it'd take a rifle round to likely do him much harm, given the slabs of muscle on his chest. But it'd probably still /hurt/. "But, armed, armored, raring to go— I can bring the fight to the enemy wherever they would meet me!"


Amora shifted, the goblet of mead vanishing beneath her grip as she shifted to the edge of the bed, reaching out with both hands to trace over his skin with a possessiveness that rivaled a great many hounds with a treat of bones. Or perhaps a dragon with gold. Either way, it was a measure of how much she desired him. Thor or not, she still was undecided either way.

"I can summon you armor." She breathed, tilting her head back to peer up at him through thick eyelashes. "From the dvergr, the dwarves of Nidavellir. T'will protect thee.." She whispered into the shell of his ear as she slide up to stand.

"Not what the Thunderer originally bore, his were of an older sort, but I have my .. connections to the blacksmiths there."


"Amora, where is the /valor/ in that?" Donald asks, with a quirked brow, turning to follow her intoxicating perfume as she slips around him like a cat marking her property. "I've been blessed by Thor already, and charged with a task, to show courage on his behalf. No," he says, shaking his head and thumping his hammer into his palm thoughtfully.

"But a /quest/ for such armor— now, that may be worthy of my patron!" he declares.

"…I am not sure /where/ to get such a quest," he admits, a few moments later. "You said perhaps a dragon needed slaying?"


Amora sighed, breath warm and sweet smelling as she hooked her hands against his jeans, leaning against him as she inhaled. "Oh aye, indeed, but what else could possibly be worthy of you." She rolled her eyes.

"You, mortal and without powers nor training against such a beast.." She faced him, her figure aligning with his oh so perfectly in aching slowness.

"Never mind that the golden Prince of Asgard needed no such quest." She wrinkled her nose and leaned back to peer at him, using her grip on his pants to balance herself.

"But aye. I know of such a place. Though tis not a dragon. But a wyrm. Which, think not little of it for sucha title. The creature is plenty dangerous." Her gaze narrowed on him and she nibbled at his lower lip. "I shant let you go alone."


"Then I shall pray," Donald says, stepping away from Amora. He moves to face the window, throwing it open. Thor— a god of fresh air, of thunderstorms, of /nature/. Always best to commune with Him when touching nature.

He clutches the hammer in both hands and holds it aloft, staring into it— past it.

"Thor, Thunderer, I beseech You for help," Donald remarks. "I crave companions for a quest of great peril and glory. Better to share the glory among others than be an epitaph towards foolhardiness, and build our greater legend. Let me hear Your voice when I might encounter one who would be a boon companion."

He blinks and lowers the hammer, turning towards Amora— and the hammer goes *ping* very softly, when it nears her. "Well! That's one," he says, grinning wide at Amora as he obviously feels Thor has spoken to him.


Amora folded her arms beneath her ample bossom as he turned and prayed. The action earning a roll of her eyes as she settled back down on the matress and that goblet of mead reappeared. Her sinuous legs folded as she tilted her head back and watched him. A golden eyebrow lifted as she eyed the hammer and then reached out to stroke it. A small hint of her magic falling away into it in much the same manner as she had done before. Uru-metal loved magic, no matter where it came from.

"Yes, I know you're thristy darling," She coo'ed at the hammer, her voice sickeningly sweet.

Green eyes flickered back toward him, "I shall gather one that I know can be trust worthy. An Asgardian in mortal form." Her lips twisted.

"Know the lengths I go to for you."

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