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Amora looked to be hard at work, pouring over tombs and scrolls that were downright ancient, yellowed and would have crumbled had it not been for the magic steeped deep within the bindings. She frowned over them, would mutter now and then, leaning over her expansive work area in the otherwise modern looking kitchen; to write something down and check her books once more.
The Enchantress was in her mortal guise, though by the strength and focus of the magic concentrated in that room, it was impossible to consider her such. Blonde hair was piled high upon her head, drawn back and out of the way from her face as she leaned this way and that.
"Oh damn it all to Hela's arse." She muttered under her breath, raking a hand through her bangs as she settled back in the tall stool beside the counter.
*
The business of so many scrolls calls for tea, on a service at a distance, rather than wine or mead. It also means bowls of clear water and various other components fetched up with a growing insight for what Amora may need; this way Scarlett only messes up two or three times out of seven, rather than more. These things be offered gracefully enough, along with a sticky roll on a plate. One never knows what tempts the blonde.
The redhead prefers berries but those are hard to find. Thus, she floats in, though not literally, with a copper mixing bowl on her hip and a sprig of rowan tucked into her braided hair. "My lady? Generally it's not worth it. Her arse is not that lovely. Half-dead."
*
A laugh, if an odd mixture of bitter and amusement could be possible, it was with Amora. The blonde turned round in her perch, long legs crossed primly as she reached out to snag one of the sticky rolls on offer and nibbled away at it for several long beats. "Yes, well considering how useful the spells I peeled from the elemental and the girl are now? We're about at that rate." She shook her head, scowling faintly.
"Loki is a damned .. ugh, that idiot." She grumbled and heaved a sigh, glancing side long at the redhead.
"I might have pieced together what it was that he attempted, and carried out. I tell you, 'tis a foolish concept and is utterly his own bed to sleep in."
*
The darkness flickering over those lambent green eyes deepens their surreal shade, but not to any effect making them any more natural. Scarlett's auroral gaze may be slightly blue-shifted under the circumstances, but still it nearly glows. She crosses her forearms against the counter and leans in, looking past Amora at her work in progress, deciphering whatever she may. The girl's progress in reading runes has grown by leaps and bounds, and she can hold a conversation in Aesir at a level better than a toddler or whatever constitutes a preschooler, an advantage now.
"Spells, not fragments?" Her fingertips dance around in a series of runes, drawing a protective circle. "I suspect you are nigh to tell me that he stitched a cloak of stories and requires them be simultaneously told by the greatest bards in nine realms, all praising his name."
*
A faint tilting of her lips follows and she rolled her shouldrs back, balancing in a manner that seemed to naturally draw the eyes to her assets, despite the lack of an audience. It was natural to one such as she, as was the flip of her hair back. "In a manner of speaking, you are not incorrect, darling. It would seem that the Trickster's spells connected his essence to people and their memories of him are bound together. Remove them, and the person loses the memories of him. They .. vanish, disapear.. cease to be." She waved her fingers in a goodbye motion as she spoke and rolled her eyes.
"And the Trickster, will only appear again, in his entirity when those attached to those memories forgive him his trespasses. Or something." She made a face.
*
Should surprise reveal itself upon her features, Scarlett smothers the embers 'ere they burn. "The memories vanish, or the person? I suspect that plucking them forth would erase the traces of his tale. For he is, among other things, the god of stories if not the Trickster alone." Her fingers form a bridge, her chin resting upon the neat arch drawn from knuckle to knuckle. "How peculiar. Whyever should he stitch himself so, if not to steep in the adulation of the masses or seek a form of immortality? The bastard." She sits up slightly, and the distant haze to her features tears away, reduced to so much smoke in a stormy night. "The Egyptians held that immortality lay in a name. Damnatio memoriae; destroy the name, destroy the immortality. Tell me he did not think to establish this in some means of resurrecting himself."
The answer is already there, even as her voice is fit to coil around the echelons of laughter, and spill aside into the night enclosed around Amora's kitchen. "Have you mapped the attachments?"
*
"Cattle die, kinsmen die, you yourself will also die, but the word about you will never die.." She hummed a part of something that sounded like a song or poem. Then inclined her head and laughed. "Oh aye, he did thusly, my apprentice. To make the world sigh and desire his return and to not return until such a time." She rolled her eyes.
"Or at least those that might desire his death if he were to return.." She muttered dryly, arching a golden brow upwards. "Such a sneaky attempt to survive, I expected no less from the man." She drawled lightly.
*
"Naturally so. I would anticipate you no less capable of escaping Hela's clutches, given the opportunity. You demonstrate that Valhalla holds no appeal for you, nor that a Valkyrie should sweep up your immortal self and convey you to your justly deserved peace in afterlife," murmurs the redheaded Midgardner, straightening. She nudges the bowl along the counter, and reaches for one of the sticky buns. "According some manner of fanfare and longing, utter desire, how is that supposed to transpire? Is he going to require a stadium full of shouting and sobbing fans? Would such even work, absent his brother, his parents…?"
One assumes Frigga and Odin prowl around Asgard going about their business, but one can never be sure.
*
A shrug, "Darling, how am I to know? I merely figured out the manner of the spells and that was particularly frustrating as it is." She propped he chin up with the palm of one hand, a smirk painting her lips.
"And I am hardly one to call for the Trickster's head even when he pretended at rule in Asgard. I care not who sits the throne while I am limited to this realm." She waved a hand around them and heaved a sigh.
"For all I know he may not return until Thor himself has. I know not. There is also the issue of Sif." Her lips curled and she leaned back against the counter with a disgusted look. "I know the warrior shall never wish nor feel fondly enough toward the Trickster, especially after she's freed, I think."
*
"Even so, they were once kin and he is Thor's brother," Scarlett ripostes that point particularly easily, the quicksilver speed of her thoughts spinning around itself. "Would she act against Thor if it would pain the Thunderer? I believe not. For all her own heart is bruised by his treachery and actions to dispute the throne of Asgard, they shared a bond of brotherly love deeper than I think most any realized. Act against his younger brother, and lose his favour? It is a great risk, and Sif does not seem to me that dark a heart to harbour a grudge."
Another moment or six pass as she tears into the sweetroll, bringing a morsel to her lips, and then another. Not until she has fully savoured them does she swallow. "Who else, then, might act against him? Would this serve you?"