1964-04-11 - Dragons of New York
Summary: Donald Blake finds a dragon near Central Park. Amora shows up for emotional support.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
amora thor 

The air was sweet and warmer than usual for the time of the year. Sun overhead shined brightly and cheerfully, birds sang from the windows and roof tops where they perched. There were vast numbers of tourists and other native residents out and about, enjoying the Spring air that for once, was forgiving. Even if it still sank below freezing at night, with the sun it was warm and comfortable with a light jacket.

All was as it should be, without thought or concern for the wider world at large, people went to and fro with their own lives and cares wrapped around themselves. Traffic carried on without major incident, people crossed streets, and went shopping.

At least, until a loud crash and sharp roar pierced the air. The scream of metal followed, crushing sound of glass shattering and the shrieks of frightened mortals disturbed it all, however. From Central Park a giant, dark red, reptilian mass came crawling out. It was massive, bigger than a tractor-trailer truck. Claws like steak knives and teeth that curled inwards wickedly on row upon row as it opened its mouth and the reek of rotten meat spilled out. It caught some poor man fleeing for his life between its teeth, snapping him off at the legs.

Pink, forked tongue hissed out as it plowed forward, clawed foot flattening its prey to the pavement as it chewed up the remains of the dead man. Clothes and all.


Donald, running as fast as his strong legs can carry him, makes it to the dragon's rampage bare minutes after it starts. He skids to a stop, gawking at the beast, and reaches into his ever-present daybag for his Uru hammer.

But he hesitates, just for a moment, flicking the hammer on his fingertips. "I— how do you even -fight- this thing?" he wonders aloud, trying to get an angle. It's huge. Faster than it looks, with sharp claws, thick hide, and a lashing tail.

For the moment, it seems occupied with its meal, and he bows his head to mutter a prayer for the dead man.

"Amora? Can you hear me?" Donald wonders aloud, focusing his will behind his words. "I could use some advice on… er… dealing with an angry dragon," he says, taking a few cautious steps towards the beast and readying himself to intervene if it launches at the next person.


As if in answer to his prayers, or perhaps she was always watching, Amora appeared in a flicker of green light. There were no attempts to hide herself this time, and why should she? There was a dragon apparently, one that was taking up much of the panicked Midgardian's attention. Her light show, for once, went unremarked upon. Blonde hair was tossed over a shoulder as she stepped toward Donald's side, a brow hooking upwards as she eyed the greater wyrm feasting on mortals.

"Hmm, well darling, the good news is that it looks to be a young one. Not particularly old, otherwise—" She broke off as a gout of fire consumed a few more fleeing mortals.

"Well, perhaps a juvenile. Not fully grown it looks like. My, my, it seems rather hungry. Poor dear. They don't typically eat too often, much less leave their lairs. 'Tis not Nidhogg. How interesting. I wonder how it got here." She mused.

The drake continued its path down the street, its long whip chord tail knocking people and the alike aside and into the air without a thought.


Donald gives Amora a baleful look at her lack of immediately helpful advice, breaking into a run at the sight of fire consuming screaming civilians. "Faster and more to the point, next time!" he tells her— and then he's hauling some serious ass towards the dragon. First, though, he swings his hammer at a hydrant cap and smacks a spray of heavy water at the people afire, trying to douse the dragon's flames.

He takes a deep breath, soaked to the bone almost immediately, and rushes at the dragon head on with his hammer in hand, trying to blindside it mid-roar and aim his hammer at the dragon's shoulder to lame it.


Even if Amora doesn't herself charge the dragon, only a flicker of power is required for her continue her conversation with Thor. Her magic encasing him with lime tinted light as she waved her hands in his direction.

"Dragons are creatures of magic, and violence. They are drawn like to like. Yon hammer should know the way by now." Her words trailed after him, whispered on the wind while elemental sprites aided his speed.

The Enchantress kept her spot yards back, watching, hands raised. Even as the dragon was blindsided by the hammer's swing. Thick hide protecting it from the greater damage intended for it, the thing was tough. But Donald most assuredly had turned its attention from the screaming, panicked mortals.

With a great cry and hiss, it turned around toward him, jaw snapping repeatedly as acidic saliva dripped from its gaping maw.

"I would suggest you avoid the claws and its teeth, darling. I can be your shield magically, but you must defeat it. If you attack the base of its skull, at the back, you might yet win.."


Donald leaps sideways with a celerity that no baseline human could manage, almost side flipping into a cartwheel. It's big, and quick, but there's only so much one can do to overcome sheer inertia and the dragon's got a LOT of mass.

"Skull, got it," Donald grunts, dashing in for another blow with the hammer. He hits it, /hard/, harder than he should be able to with that weapon. It weighs easily fifty pounds, but he bandies it about with little effort, and the dragon— weighing at least a ton or more— simply shouldn't be budged by such a small weapon.

But he hits it in the ribs with a swinging golf blow, and the force of the impact knocks the dragon a stumbling few yards sideways, *whuffing* in pain.


Amora mutters under her breath something along the sides of foolish warrior, and keeps up her spell work. Her eyes following Donald's figure with a practice gaze that belied her knowledge of how a fighter moved after such large prey. For her part, she wasn't surprised to see Donald's skill in battle, though the speed with which he moved and the strength behind his blows warmed some far cockle of her heart.

Even as the drake roared in pain, stumbling a step, two, as it was knocked yards backwards. The pained sound didn't last, for it inhaled and with a deep, guttural sound, released a wave of fire and foul odors after the blonde hammer wielder.

Amora's magic flickered to life in a protective shield, regardless of whether or not Donald had managed to escape the flames on his own.


Donald inhales a shock gasp and— for what it's worth— hoists his Uru-hammer ahead of the flames, as if trying to hide behind it. Here, though, his magic fails him, but Amora's doesn't, and shimmering emerald light wards off the fire from his skin.

He emerges from the flames with a discomforted grunt— the shield can't stop superheated air from flowing— and plunges at the dragon, which looks surprised that he's not a barbecue.

With a shout of fury and force, Donald swings his hammer square at the dragon's snout in an overhand blow, crackling mystical energies luminescing momentarily in the hammer's runes.


Another great roar of pain escapes the beast, confused as it was to see the blonde hammer-wielder survive the flames, it was even more confused when the sparkling magic of the uru-hammer impacted it atop the snout. Its head went crashing into the pavement with a horrendous crunch, teeth popping out crushed to the street below.

The greater wyrm collapsed downwards with a thunderous smack that rumbled the ground in which Donald and Amora stood, for all others had cleared out of the area in a hurry. It lay there stunned for a breath, two, perhaps long enough for Donald to get to the base of its skull and end the creature once and for all.

"Hurry! The base of the skull, 'tis stunned but shall be up again in short order!" Amora shouted, hands out stretched to cover Donald protectively once more in magic.


"Grant me strength," Donald roars, a prayer of faith hurled skywards. He hoists the hammer again and gets two running steps, then runs /up/ the dragon's snout and atop the crest of hard bone surmounting the center of the skull. He hauls the hammer up behind him with both hands extended, body bending backwards, and then with every ounce of force and focus he can muster, he brings the heavy hammer swinging down at the weak, bulbous protrusion at the base of the dragon's cranium with a shout of exultant victory.


Several things happen at once as the hammer strikes downwards at the skull of the downed beast. The dragon's mouth opens, damaged, splintered teeth gaping open as it spouts one last gout of flame. A roar of aggression snapping shut and off as the hammer's blow hits home and the lights go out in the creature's eyes all at once with a sudden finality of death. Lastly, Amora's powers, protectively coating Donald flicker up defensively and fade as the creature dies.

Once the Enchantress seemed content that the drake was in fact, well and truly dead, she was lightly stepping up to Donald with a smile.

"Oh, that was lovely darling. Bravo." She clapped her hands, leaning forward to kiss him soundly on the lips, balancing her weight on a single foot.


Donald hops off the dragon with a dazed sort of motion, clearly a bit thunderstruck at his victory against the immense beast. He doesn't complain when Amora kisses him, though he's a bit too overwhelmed to do her proper justice. Still, it brings him from blinking reverie, and he looks around after a moment, squeezing Amora's hip against him with an absent affection.

"There are many injured here, Amora," he tells the blonde, gesturing with his hammer. "A victory well-earned, but I think I cannot declare it complete until I've tended to the injured here. Help me?" he asks her, with a look, before breaking away and moving to the first injured person.


A quirked brow followed his comment on the injured mortals that lay in various pained states. A dismissive glance was aimed their way, as if to say 'Who cares they'll die anyways'. Yet as per Donald's request a sigh dragged from Amora's full ruby lips. "Darling, I am no healer. My magic is not strongest that way, and such spells are especially draining. I cannot offer more aid than is strictly necessary as per your request." She glanced down her nose at one young man, half his side blackened and charred with burns from the dragon's breath.

Disdain marred her beautiful features at the pained sounds that drew from the fallen and she flicked a hand out to the fallen drake's body, with a flash of light it vanished, hidden away to some other place that would doubtlessly feed Amora's spells in the future.

"I can offer potions for those you think can not heal without as well. T'would be better to allow mortal medicine to treat the ones that would otherwise survive though."


"Aye, fair enough," Donald says, dropping his hammer carelessly aside and kneeling next to one of the injured parties. He mutters a prayer to Thor, but in this case, it seems the God of Thunder is not as inclined in aiding wounded as making them.

"Mostly second and third degree burns," Donald says, with a clinical detachment. He tries to ignore the screams and cries of pain, checking each one, and looking into their mouths as he goes.

"Here— this one. Smoke damage to the lungs," he tells Amora. "He'll need it. And her," he says, pointing at an unconscious woman on the ground with no hair or clothes left to her. "They are the worst injured. I think the others will survive well enough, though the scars will be grim," he remarks. He glances at the dragon's first meal— but that man was dead the moment the dragon took a leg off.


A wave of her hands, irritation plainly written on Amora's face, and the screaming stops. Not because time had been halted or because sound had been turned off, but rather because Amora had quite frankly, knocked out all of the mortals in the area with her magic. Blessed, peaceful silence followed save for the natural backdrop of the city in the distance.

A pleased sound escaped the blonde, and she tossed her hair over her shoulders as she walked along behind Donald as he inspected the worst of the fallen. A puff of green smoke followed Nurse Blake's orders, and two vials of some clear looking liquid appeared in the Enchantress' delicate grip. A few words were whispered over each and then Amora held them out toward Donald.

"Sprinkle over the injuries you desire to heal and they shall be so. These cannot bring back to life what death has already stolen, but they shall heal even dragon damage."


Donald works quickly as he can, binding wounds, distributing the salve with a parsimony to make best use of it possible. What little is left he uses to bind the worst of the other wounds. "Can you do something to keep dust and grit from the air?" he inquires, as he works. "We must keep infectious material out of their wounds."

It takes about half an hour for the wounded to get mounted in their ambulances and sent off, leaving Donald and Amora in the middle of a fire and rescue effort as the last fires are put out, the mildly injured are treated on site, and people start the labors to return things to normal.

He turns to Amora, reaching out, and touches her cheek with gentle affection. "My thanks for your aid, Amora," he tells her. "You saved lives, today. I'll be sure that when they wake, they know to whom they should express gratitude. I think your name will be said by their family reverently for generations."


A huff of an amused breath follows his request for clean air, a wry smile twitching at the corners of her lips. A few whispered words to the sprites that she'd commanded to aid Donald's speed, and the air is sweeter and purer than anything seen or felt in the city prior to the Industrial Revolution. The breeze in the air carried no dust, no breath of harm within it for those that lay otherwise helpless on the ground.

Yet as police, as first responders arrive, Amora herself, shrinks in appearance. A mortal guise blurring over the other-worldly beauty that was her natural and magical gift to command. She was none the less beautiful, but she looked mortal, down to the heels that clad her feet.

By the time Donald turns his focus toward her, she was already standing off to the side, not ignored but projecting a spell that kept mortals from questioning her presence overly. A smile, warm and sweet pulled at her lips as he reached out toward her cheek and she clasped her own manicured hand over it, leaning into the touch. "I did so at your behest, my love. For you asked it of me and I would be remiss to neglect such a sweet askance."


Donald retrieves his hammer, but his day bag is gone, burned to shreds, so he shrugs and simply carries it in his left hand. The hammer flickers approval at the big man, and he smiles, as if it gave him some private praise Amora can't hear.

"I think my Lord is well pleased with us for courage and victory in equal measure," he tells Amora, wrapping a big arm around one of her shoulders. "Shall we return to your home then, my dear? I think I could use a change of clothing, if nothing else," he remarks, gesturing at his smoke-singed togs.


A wide, sultry smile pulls at Amora's lips as Donald returns to her and wraps an arm around her shoulders. Her oh so very mortal appearing shoulders, her figure slimmed down from its usual impressive height to the ideal of human standards for the era. She fluttered her eyelashes, a hand rising to press against his side as they started forward.

"Darling, I don't think you'll have to worry overly about the tatters of your clothing when we get home." She purred, head tilting upwards to press a kiss against his jawline. Her blonde hair cascading down her back in a halo of gold that felt, as always, silken to the touch.

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