1964-05-11 - Scrambling for Answers
Summary: Thor confronts Amora about the shadow that is causing mischief
Related: Amora's shadow logs
Theme Song: None
amora thor 

When Donald arrives, it's as if a tempest bangs through Amora's front door.

"Amora! I'd have words with you!" Donald bellows into the magnificent apartment. His hand grips and relaxes around the haft of his hammer repeatedly, and water streams from the partial armor around his shoulders and wrists. One of Amora's goons strides up to Donald, his blank features set in mild alarm at the big man's anger.

Donald grabs the fellow by the suit front and flings him away, one-handed, with a careless disregard for the fellow's mass, and sends him to skitter backwards and land heavily on the floor ten feet away.


Amora came striding out of her bedroom, dressed as she usually was wont to do around the apartment. In little more than a silken robe and a few otherwise scandalous scraps of gold and green. She blinked repeatedly at Donald as she approached him, her brows drawing high upon her forehead as she considered him. "Darling? What's the matter? I'm here. I'm here." She repeated, as she paused to consider the fallen mortal.

She frowned faintly, and with a wave of her hand the man faded away, teleported else where.

"What's the meaning of all this?" She asked, her gaze sweeping over him and his armored figure.


"I care not for your games this time!" Donald declares, fuming. A faint scent of ozone crackles around him, little touches of electromagnetism responding viscerally to his ire. "Your tricks and clever words are not of amusement when innocents are made to suffer," he states, heading directly for Amora like a bull intent on walking straight through an unwary farmer, pushing into her personal space.

"You can cloak your visage in shadow and puzzles, but I know well the touch of your magic by now," he says, glowering down at the ravishing blonde. "Bringing innocents to harm is far from a lark, and coyly dodging my questions does not amuse me."


Amora looked confused, but knew that scent well. She backed up under his angry invasion of her space. Her brows climbing higher and higher as she stared up at him, mouth agape. "What? Magic? I have not cast aught today. What do you mean harm mortals?!" Her own pride spiked at his words and she stopped gaping at him to glower at him, chin tilted upwards.

"Why do you not speak plainly instead of hurling accusations at me?" She snapped back, smacking at his chest. "I know what you speak of! You speak of games and yet I know them not! I speak truly, please. I beg you." Her voice dropped, and so did her eyes shy away from those thunderous blues of his.



Donald grunts in surprise at Amora's blow. Half-breed that he might be, Amora is a true Asgardian and the casual strike is like a punch thrown by a grown man. Still, her feminine supplication stops him more thoroughly than a blow to the face, and uneasily he shifts his gaze away from her fine features, trying to find the core of his anger again.

"Not an hour ago, I watched four cars piling up with one another on Meridian road," he tells Amora. "I felt a trickle of magic and of all things, found /you/ on the roof, making merry with a darkling form to your face. But 'twas -your- voice that gloated as to the suffering of the mortals below," he says, finding his anger again, "and -your- voice that mocked me and threatened me with an agent of your will. Babbling in nonsense about anger and retribution, and making so little sense I could scarce follow it."

He takes a step back from her, anger writ on his large features. "I had thought we had some special connection, Amora, and it seems now I am but a cat's paw in your games."


Amora looked blown over by his tale, and rather than strike out at him as she was more known to do. She sagged back against the wall of the apartment and seemed to crumble inwards on herself at his words. The proud line of her jaw went slack and she pressed a hand to her temple. She slowly shut her eyes and then escaped a hiss of a breath.

"Tis not me." She whispered.

"Tis not me at all." She opened her eyes to gaze at him, shifting her position, and then glanced downwards.

"Quite literally, to say. It is not me and my shadow." She exhaled a breath and pinched the bridge of her nose before she pushed away from the wall, looking tired.

"I tried to rid myself of Loki's spellwork. He had attached his memories of himself to all that knew him. I wanted to get rid of it without losing my memories of him. As happened to others whom I tried such on." She exhaled, her lips twisting. "I only knew that something had gone wrong. I thought, perhaps it would right itself.. With that bald mortal… the one that struck us both?" She hitched a brow upwards.

"I knew that my magic was somehow all over him. I was going to speak to Doctor Strange.. but.. well, he respects me not."


"The Doctor?" Donald's eyes narrow a little suspiciously— a bit of jealousy in them? "He seems little inclined to aid you, and from the stories I've gathered, you've given him little cause for trust."

He processes Amora's words, eyes screwing almost shut, then widening in shock. "Wait. You— you set that cur upon us?" he demands, aghast. "Why in Odin's name would you do such a thing? A craven wretch like him, is, is a man but set on -harming- others. No warrior, just a villain! Even I could see that," Donald says. He shakes his head at Amora in stunned disbelief, looking away.

"Do you have so little respect for the workings of magic, then? I see you wield your powers so casually that…. that I assumed you simply had mastered them. Now it seems you are more careless, than cautious," he scolds Amora.


Amora looked irritated, her hands settling on her hips. "I did not set that mortal upon us! Did you see me expect my magic to do naught to him? To be sliced and nearly have my head off?" She snapped back, her features pinched.

"And I have tried to offer him to the Doctor time and again. Tis the former Socerer Supreme, Merlin that actually treats me fair. How cruel of you to assume the worst about me. Is that all I am? A person with no trust to gain 'ere my skin turns blue from the failed attempts to treat kindly with those around me?" She hitched a golden eyebrow upward and crossed her arms.

"I am very skilled in my magic. There are.. two, besides myself that could claim secrets I know naught besides the All-Father. One of whom is that wretch, Karnilla. The other is Loki, or at least old Loki." She sobered, her anger faltering briefly.

"I do not know how he did what he did. His failsafe before. I only learned what it was through trial and error. T'was a trap I think he laid for me, to not do mischief to his future plans. I know not."


Donald fumes a bit more, but his anger seems less directed at Amora as she deflects him with her arguments.

"Skilled does not mean a foolish misstep cannot occur," he reminds Amora. "Even a skilled fencer may perish with a single mis-step. Manipulating these darkling magics has wrought some unholy abomination upon the city. It uses your voice and honeyed words, and harms mortals on a whim. It seems to have armed that back-alley thug as well, and made him a foe even -I- hesitate to cross paths with. How can a person kill such a monster that absorbs my blows and magic alike, even turns lightning into a living weapon?" he asks, crossly.


Amora moved, pushing away from him with her own sour look. Her eyebrows lowered and her lips pursed together as she made her way to the bar, pouring herself a healthy glass of wine and knocking it back. Repeat the process twice more and she finally turned with another filled glass and sulked toward the couch. She sprawled there, sipping at her drink with a scowl.

"I did not know such a mortal could exist." She admitted, swirling her drink around the glass. "I did not do this magic on purpose with intent to hurt my reputation or you. Nor anyone for that matter." She glanced down at the wine with a loft brow.

"I am sorry."


Donald looks around with frustration on his face, but finally relents and with a heavy sigh, releases his anger and the grip of his hammer. He tosses it aside, the over-heavy weapon making an unnaturally short arc and hitting the ground with a *thump*.

"I… perhaps… owe an apology. As well," he concludes, exhaling testily. "The workings of magic are yet a mystery to me. 'twas confusing and frustrating in the extreme to encounter one who looked and spoke like you, with your face and features but with such ill intent. I am unaccustomed to such things."


Amora patted the sofa beside her, and a mirror glass of wine appeared in her free hand. "There are mysteries in magic and magery that even I know naught. The universe is grand and intent makes things contorted. I desired to be free of ill intent, possibly the deaden Loki's ill intent. But spells are tricky.." She pursed her lips.

"My magic has been lower than it should be. I am still.. unused to being exiled here on Midgard. I cannot absorb the magics in the air here. Tis not of the other Nine Realms. I needs get magic elsewise.. and tis.. chancy at best."


As the hammer arcs away, the armor vanishes, too, and the lingering crackle of ozone and electricity leaves the air. Donald sighs and sits next to Amora, though not as close as he might have beforehand. "Perhaps it is best to abandon those trappings of magic, Amora," he remarks finally. "'tis a snake that bites the hand repeatedly, it seems. Betraying you when least expected. Loki's power seems equally mischievous and impossible to predict. Is it worth it, these powers?" he asks her. "The magic that betrays those close to you and does us harm?"


Amora had no such qualms of shifting to snuggle up beside him. She made to rest her head against his shoulder, offering out the wine glass for him. "Tis all I have. And tis a womanly thing. All women train in it in Asgard. As near as the mortals have their education, so has the Realm Eternal. I just happened to be better at it than all the girls in my class." She smirked.

Pride had just as much fault in her voice as the arrogance that dripped from her words. But it was true. Out of all the girls in her class, she had been the best. Loki though had always given her a run for her money.

"I have worked it for thousands of years. The problem, arises with the All-father's commands, my exile, and the Trickster's magic. That's all."


"Better, Amora," Donald chides her, gently, "is not perfect. Something wrought of your magic, whether Loki's intent or not, brought grievous harm to many today. And nearly brought us to blows, were you not a moment faster with your words. Perhaps some forms of power were not meant for any hands, immortal or not." He leans over and kisses Amora's brow, then rises.

"It is something to think upon," he suggests, and with that, the big blonde takes his leave, heading towards his room.

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