1964-04-28 - Not Quite There
Summary: Amora tries to distract Thor after his show of fighting off Creel
Related: http://marvel1963mush.wikidot.com/log:1964-04-28-thunder-and-lightning
Theme Song: None
amora thor 

Amora was able to teleport them back to her penthouse after a few minutes rest in the street. Wards shimmered as she stepped away from Donald, breath short, and collapsed onto her couch. She looked exhausted from the little bit of magic she'd actually shown, more so than she should have been. Yet those green eyes of her's returned to the blond's figure close by.

"Darling, please, pass me the potion upon the second shelf down in the cabinet behind you. 'Tis marked for health and has the blue wax cork.." She mumbled, dragging a hand over her mostly healed shoulder with a wince. Full lips pursed as she inspected what she had managed to heal on her own and she frowned after a moment.


"Aye, a moment," Donald says. He sounds a bit off— his voice tight with battle-thrill, eyes alight with an inner fire. The hammer is tossed aside with a *thunk*, not even bouncing as it hits the floor. He shreds a piece of linen and without consulting Amora, quickly binds her wound as swiftly as possible to staunch the bleeding.

"If this potion does not cure what ails, you'll need stitches," Donald says, retrieving the indicated poultice. "I'll seek out needle and thread. Do you need something for the pain?" he inquires, handing the bottle to her.


Amora looked vaguely amused as Donald grabbed a piece of linen to bind the wound without so much as consulting her. She smiled faintly, reaching up with a free hand to cup his cheek and hold his attention as he handed her the bottle. Her other hand working free the waxed cork and she downed the contents of the potion. "Tis magic love, I'll have no need of such mundane means of healing my person. I am not the best at healing spells, but potions are a specialty of mine. I shall be whole and hale within the hour." Never mind the fact that she was already operating at half her usual powers since she'd been banished to Midgard…

She tossed aside the little empty bottle and it vanished, only to reappear where it belonged upon the shelf once more. The blaze set in his eyes, in his musculature had her heart thumping in her veins and she edged closer to him, sitting up on the couch.

"Now, are you still lusty for battle, darling?" She arched a brow, tilting her head to the side as she inspected him anew.


Amora's question catches him by surprise, but a grin splits Donald's face. Something wild and primal is alight in him, his breathing and heart rate accelerated and excitement afire in his blue eyes, the color of a stroke of lightning.

"Aye, I am," he confirms, jittering a heel once against the ground. "'Never before have I felt such— such power!" he says, curling his fingers in frustrated lack of articulation. "To call down a stroke of lightning from the heavens above, to -feel- the hammer— the hammer, it spoke to me!" he remarks, wonder on his face. He steps over and picks up the weapon, tossing it once by the handle and catching it with a grin of joy. The runes, sharp and bright, look as if they were freshly carved without a ding or scratch to them."


Amora watched a curious look upon her face as he flashed a grin her way. Her own pulse rapid compared to its usual as she kept her attention upon him as he turned and pulled up the hammer in hand and tossed it up and about. She rose slower than usual, though hips still swayed with her usual grace as she came up alongside him. Finger tips brushing against his forearm as she leaned forward to consider the runes upon the weapon.

Slowly, hesitantly, she reached out her index finger to tap at the brightly lit hammer as it settled in his grip as if it belonged there and no where else.

"How curious.." Her brows furrowed and she glanced up at him, arching a brow. "And what do you make of such a transformation, darling?"


"Why, I… uh…"

Donald looks perplexed by the question. Not perplexed— confused. As if it has jarred him from a train of thought. Some of the light leaves his eyes, and the hammer dips a few inches.

A small *zot* of lingering power flickers against Amora's fingertips.

"I have been blessed, by Thor, of course," Donald says, finding 'his' voice. "Why else would the Thunderer grant me not just this fine relic, but the very essence of his great weapon, to call lightning from the sky? I must be doing him a noble service," he declares, looking skywards with pride.


Amora shakes out her hand from the zap, and looks somewhat saddened at the dimming of his inner light. Her heart clenches and she reaches out with both hands to try to turn his features toward her's so she might steal a long and lingering kiss. One of demand, and some vague attempt at renewing that spark that she'd felt, that she'd seen. Whatever had pushed him closer to toward the Thunderer's aspect did not seem to last, and Amora was determined to make the most that she could out of it.

She sent a returning puff of magic, her own toward the hammer, while she tried to twine her arms around his neck and pull herself closer to him. A vague attempt to gain some manner of knowledge at least mystically, in regards to what had happened to the hammer.


Donald leans into the kiss, but— he is but Donald again. Perhaps the spark fled when Amora reached a hand out to try and address the power in the weapon, or when she jarred him into introspection.

He returns the kiss with willing enthusiasm, but the battle-light has fled him, and if Amora seeks to capture a bit of the lightning storm remaining, she is disappointed.

The hammer, however, does something new— it refuses Amora's magic. It does not fight it or repulse it. But whatever mystical sounding Amora sends merely meets… nothing. As if a vast emptiness fills the rune-graved weapon, something so vast even her magic cannot fill it.


Amora leans away after a breath or two, her heated kiss dimming to match his own. She sighed, a pinched expression crossing over her, eyebrows held high as she glances down at the hammer. A small sound escapes her as she inspected the weapon in his grip, "How strange.." She breathed, and then stepped back, playing lightly with a hand running down the length of Donald's arm.

"That man, he was not destroyed, did you mark it? He absorbed.. became one with the lightning bolt. He was dispersed, but I sensed the magic in the air. He is not dead yet. And he seeks Thor.." She shook her head, and pursed full ruby lips together.


"I… .no, I had not noticed," Donald says, frowning. "A curious fellow. I was a bit… distracted when he vanished." His frown deepens, and he flicks the hammer in his hand, thinking. "A curious thing. He carried a stone, and seemed to be seeking someone with it— seeking me, as he tracked me as a dog tracks quarry in the brush. And that axe, strange and dangerous magics that he used himself as a weapon. Where did he come by such dreadful weaponry?"


A flicker of anxiety seems worm its way into her gaze and she drops back, a sigh pulling from her lips as she drags her fingers through her golden locks and tilts her head back to eye the ceiling above. "His magic was.." She shook her head and dropped back to the couch, sizing Donald up and down and lifting a pleading hand out toward him, beckoning him to her.

"I have a theory, but 'tis all it is. And not a particularly flattering one for myself.." A pause as she fluttered eyelashes and peered up at him from beneath their fringe. "But come, you wish not to hear this, hmm? A hero, you were victorious none the less. And saved my life. You deserve a reward.." She murmured, her voice low and warm like melted chocolate and wine.


Donald's distraction is artfully gained, and the big fellow grins down at Amora when she flutters and writhes at him, under his nose. "A reward, you say?" he inquires, a good humor in his voice. His hands rise and grip Amora's triceps gently, caressing the skin, and his grin spreads boyishly. "What sort of reward did you have in mind, lady of mine?" he inquires, pulling her close against him and leaning down to kiss her again.


Amora truly was fairly exhausted from her magics, unused to fighting a man that literally absorbed everything she threw at him, much less made her shielding pointless. Yet, the distraction was one that she found comfort it. As he came to her she smiled, warm and inviting, lacking the usual manipulations that had so characterized her personage for centuries past. She was happy to relish his affections and return them full force.

The healing shoulder ignored, she had no qualms with returning his kisses. A breathless moment or two after and she was quite contently curled up against him, her fingers reached up to trace the shell of his ear as she leaned in to whisper.

"The sort that t'would make the skalds blush to sing it." She whispered wickedly.

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