1964-06-21 - Midsummer Blot
Summary: Amora and Thor return to Midgard for Midsummer's Blot. Amora gets fallen down drunk
Related: Asgardian Dramas
Theme Song: None
amora rogue strange thor 

It was Midsummer Blot, and while most of the old traditions associated with the holiday had long since faded from memory, there were still places that kept them. It was such a place that Heimdall set Thor and Amora down. After all, the two had planned to set foot back onto Midgardian soil just the other day. Plans had been set into motion. A hunt for the hunter set.

So the two arrived on the outskirts of a celebration for Midsummer, some place in Europe. A Maypole was dressed with flowers and ribbons in the distance, forgotten while mortals danced to the late sunset to bonfires that sparked and the merry sounds of a folk band. Flowers and garlands of greenery decorated picnic tables, with ribbons. Food, and drink were passed around liberally as laughter rang out around them.

The Enchantress, for her part, had sent word to her apprentice, and (hopefully) through her to the Doctor. Other than that though, the Enchantress had steadfastly remained in her quarters in Asgard until the time had come for their departure. Amora, however, hardly looked ready for a rescue mission. Her golden hair was mussed, her clothes of green silk were rumpled. Mascara smudged around her eyes and the scent of mead was heavy upon her as she staggered away from Thor and wandered aimlessly off toward the festivities. She was already drunk on a few centuries old mead and looked ready to seek out more.


Thor gives Amora a look of wary uncertainty, but lets her go her way— though the Thunder God keeps a watchful eye on the Enchantress. Drunk, pained, and angry was not a good way to keep Amora around mortals, and he follows at a discreet distance to make sure she doesn't get into too much trouble.

Still it's hard not to be bemusedly distracted by the festivities; dancing, cavorting mortals celebrating a holiday for reasons lost to time even by Asgardian standards. A strange bit of cultural appropriation that makes Thor laugh in high amusement, as they frolic to the tune of drums and pagan music older than some civilizations still alive.


The joys of drink come with distraction and it's this the Sorcerer Supreme takes advantage of to arrive at the festivities. One moment, the air behind a stall is empty and the next, it splits silently to reveal his arrival. In the usual battle-leathers, Cloak gracing his shoulders, he's wearing formality about him as well. He doesn't travel far beyond the scintillating Gateway before glancing back to make sure his fellow traveler makes it through. She does, of course, but he is the impeccable gentleman when acting in diplomatic stead.

Its collapse shuts off any ambient light and it's easy enough to slip into the milling of humanity around them. Strange eyes it all with mild amusement. If only the mundane knew what they emulated was so very nearby…


With rings on her fingers,
And bells on her toes
She shall have music
Wherever she goes.

A spot of Morris dancing and earning herself another chaplet of flowers to join the peonies woven throughout her thinly plaited hair would serve Scarlett well. Already her long braids reach past her waist, other bits of her flaming hair loose. A dance in motion, every element of her speaks to celebration of a kind. Trust the bohemienne to know the means to be glad for life: bracelets on her wrists, a spiralling chain of bells around her ankle, rattling sonorous fortunes to anyone given to listen to the divining charms anchoring those tresses. She steps through the collapsing gateway and spins on her toes, cavorting three steps that might seem inebriated. And in no way are they, integrating classical Odissi dance to the whirling of the dancers around a pole. "Come! There is naught to be gained by standing still," Scarlett warmly gestures to Strange, her palms upright and fingers curling in. He isn't in any danger of being hauled into the elaborate spindle of motion, but she will guide him right along as she inserts herself to the rhythms of a crowd.


Amora stumbles in among the dancing throng of mortals, quickly catching looks and drawing attention as was her way. Only, she didn't seem all that intent on playing the crowd for once. With her golden hair in tangles around her, makeup smeared and her dress half off her shoulders she looked a tragic sight, that had immediately at least three mortal men at her side.

Yet the Asgardian paid them little heed as she went for the make shift 'bar' that was set up on the picnic table and swiped a plastic cup of drink. With a muttered word, and a flair of power, it was turned into something far stronger that would actually maintain her drunken state.

There were no greetings for Strange or Rogue, only the Enchantress curling up at the base of the picnic table and downing the contents of her cup in seeming misery.


Thor turns to look behind him, sensing the snap of magic ripping a new hole in reality and Strange and Scarlett being released to join the festivities.

He keeps one eye on Amora yet, but backs up a few paces until he can spot the cavorting Bohemian and the stalwart Sorcerer Supreme— tall as he is, now, it's little effort to wave at Strange in greeting to get the Doctor's attention, before Thor quickly looks back at Amora to make sure she's not unmaking reality with her drunken spell weavings.


Strange lifts and waves a hand towards the red-headed Bohemienne, shaking his head to accent the call of, "Oh no, that's not my purview, Lady Scarlett. Dance for us both!" Still, he laughs truly enough and the sound carries as it will, brightly baritone. The flash of a greeting palm against the open air above the crowd brings him to glance towards it. Ah, the eldest Prince, Thor. Very good. Now…where was the Enchantress? Last the Sorcerer parted from the two, they were very much in each other's good company.

"Lady Scarlett, care to join me in touching base with the Prince?" Maybe she can hear him over the skirling music and joyous ringing of bells that accompanies her wherever she goes. Thor gets a return wave followed by an uplifted finger signaling 'patience, please'.


"I believe all matters mundane and humanistic fall within your purview, Doctor. The very definition of terrestrial falls upon the cultural spectrum, does it not?" Scarlett's voice plies a radiant melody tinged by the immeasurably bright soprano notes, escalating through the gilded heights of her octave. Something espied from the corner of her lambent emerald eyes bids her to turn, and stand upon tiptoe. Not in her bailiwick to go taller than that, her feet still in the ground. Brassy bells chime lone warning to Thor as the central object of her distracted affinity. The wave signals a greeting, even so, excitement brimming to the point of being a presence unto itself, a silhouette prepared to go dashing across the distance and tackle him while the young woman herself remains in place.

"I should like that very much." Restraint on her part is ever Scarlett's watchword, but the raw, furious splendour of her smile out glows the sun in a way. Nonetheless, she casts her gaze askance in the other direction Thor has marked, Amora's state warranting raised eyebrows some.


Between one glance and the next Amora had stolen a kiss from one, two, and a third young mortal man that had come to her 'aid'. In short order she had herself a gaggle of young men to sprawl out on, one of each hair color: red, blonde and brunette in turn. All handsome, all well built. Her head settled on the lap of one, cradled in his arms while he stroked her hair, while another draped her bare feet over his, and the third had found himself unable to do more than provide crooning notes of her beauty and his utter at her state.

All in all, utterly typical for the Enchantress.

What was odd, perhaps was that she'd purposefully turned her back on the golden Prince of Asgard, and continued to sip her mead as if ignoring the gathering that she herself had set up.


Thor flashes a positively beatific smile at Scarlett when the redhead boheme spots him, and his wave includes her too. He offers Strange a clasp of the wrist when the Doctor gets in range, but Scarlett gets an enthusiastic (if cautious) hug.

"Scarlett! My friend," he grins at the woman, chucking her chin quickly. "'tis good to see you again. Both of you," he tells Strange. He speaks with the booming voice of Thor, God of Thunder— and he even /looks/ the part. Radiating that sense of serene authority that only a godling can exude. "The Lady Amora is… sporting," he says, delicately as he's able. "She's had … a small upset, and it's wearing on her," he remarks, clearing his throat. Mostly because he's to blame for it.


The Sorcerer can't resist the glow of happiness in his fellow human and returns the grin with his full charm on display. "Let us go and mingle then. You can suffer my attempts to transmute the waltz to this bravado later."

Leading the way over, he manages to avoid getting jostled (and the Cloak manages to avoid dirtied hems from mud or misstep by drunken revelers). Thor's arm is firmly clasped in greeting and Strange steps back to allow the following hug to occur.

"Amora? Out of sorts?" Following the Prince's gaze, his dark brows are quick to flick upwards. A slow nod and the quiet comment follows. "That whole display reminds me of the cheerleader dumped by the homecoming king not a day after Prom. Unfortunate, your highness," he adds, ever the diplomat between the Realms.


"Suffer, as if you could possibly hurt my toes. You neglect to recall who taught me to dance." On that note, however, Scarlett relinquishes Strange to the duties of a healer, the Hippocratic oath as suitable to attending upon devastated golden-haired mistresses of obscene despair as cuts and bruises acquired in the follies of inebriation. That final tether snaps and frees her to shuttle on her original course at the elder Asgardian prince.

Let it be said the flame-tressed Midgardner moves especially fast when motivated. Celerity launches her into that welcoming embrace, a muffled burble of laughter loosening some soul-deep seated knot left in the after echoes of events. His mortal guardian no longer need act the haunt, but her arms weave around his neck in as near tight an embrace as might be safe. Lesser beings would have broken ribs and pulverized spinal columns. "You are here. Truly, Thor, here." Emotion piles up and tumbles through the crescendo of a symphony in those statements alone. "I know. Let us ease what we may. But let me have this moment too."

A breathless pause, and all the illuminated hope finally has an outlet as she leans back. "May you know in your heart one day how much this means."


As if to demonstrate how 'out of sorts' Amora was, the Enchantress didn't so much as budge or greet Strange or her apprentice. Her usual means of amusement seemed to hold no interest in her. She shifted against the pillow of mortals she had made herself, and seemingly ignored the reunion that brought about laughter, as if it were anathema to the golden haired goddess.

Her misery thus projected even led to the mortal men around her breaking into soft weeping. Particularly of the man who had been composing songs about her beauty, which trailed off into lamenting tears that had more than a few other mortals glancing his way in confusion.

Yet little else seemed to occur to incite tragedy or panic.


Thor welcomes Scarlett's embrace and tosses her a little into the air, a booming laugh coming from his broad chest and his sturdy features wreathed in a grin. "Aye, 'tis me and myself," Thor tells her, smiling beatifically. "And no other. The efforts of Doctor Strange and Amora returned me to my wits, and my heart sings to see the pleasure of my presence among my friends."

He sets Scarlett down, finally, and turns to look over his shoulder— and his face falls a little at Amora's somnolescent disregard for the hearts she is in the process of breaking.

"The… lady Amora is taking the loss of her friend Donald quite poorly," he admits, his voice dropping a little. "She has finally admitted he is gone, but instead of moving to heal, her grief overwhelms her even further."


"I'm vaguely impressed at the projected waterworks," mutters Strange, eyeing the Enchantress with mild exasperation. "Lady Scarlett has the right of things. There should be enjoyment of the festivities, not moping about. This gathering only happens once a year. It should be marked with life."

He glances between the Prince and the Bohemian and folds his arms. "Mind you, I'd be the least likely candidate for talking her out of her state. We are no bosom friends, the Enchantress and I." Understatement of the century. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, maybe?

"Or perhaps we should leave her to her emotional devices." A shrug follows.


Toss her into the air and does she not cry her mirth to the furthest stars? Invoke the Norns and does her soprano not hold a shard of perpetual sunshine and the emberglow of the Bifrost to restore hope in dark hours? Perhaps a little.

"Grief and recovery follow no set pattern or course of time. I thought to speak with her but, truth, the Doctor may be better suited to minister to her needs," Scarlett observes, the frank declamation for her inferior purpose of tending to her arcane mistress not without purpose. United by common purpose, she lifts her gaze back to Thor. "Speak where I may lend aid and you have my commitment to do my utmost to restore harmony between you."

The seriousness of her tone bleeds around the effervescence thrilling through her veins that the man, in nature and disposition, clearly isn't just a medic. "Soon, mead to celebrate you being among us once more. I cannot imagine drinking to your health now when it might offend." Manners have ever been her card to vouchsafe some presence, and they fall into place even now, measuring with far deeper sensitivity the emotional rifts trembling to the merest touch. Life teaches hard lessons to the Soul-Thief.

"Maybe she needs a cat?"


Asgardian senses were enough that Amora could and did hear each word spoken of her and around her. Even at the otherwise comfortable distance between her and the gaggle of those that knew her. Yet all that the Enchantress did was curl up on the grass, pulling her pillowed head and feet from the mortals that surrounded her. She crooned a soft and sad sounding lullaby to the grasses, rolling a drunken hand over them as she finished whatever contents were in her cup and tossed it over her shoulder in the general direction of Strange, Thor and Scarlett.

Amora looked more content to whisper her feelings at the blades of grass that poked up around her, and they at least, bent under her touch and gave way. Meanwhile the mortal men around her, at a loss at their mistress' sudden rejection had started to swing at one another.

Their fighting breaking out and upsetting a picnic table, spilling drinks and food, knocking into dancers and the alike.


Thor, Strange, and Scarlet are all busy staring at one another, and none of them are quite in time to catch Amora's outlash of emotional detachment. So the first signs of trouble are when the fistfight breaks out, and Thor groans heavily and looks skywards in mute appeal.

"Amora!" he booms, his voice carrying like a megaphone. "'tis enough of these meddlesome games. Leave the mortals to their sport instead of cajoling them to madness!" he says, walking towards her. One of the men shouts in anger and punched Thor in the face— the Asgardian barely blinks as the fellow breaks his hand, and pushes the crying fellow aside as he strides purposefully towards the blonde Enchantress.


Rule the first of dealing with gods, and not god-touched yourself: don't get in the way.

Scarlett steps back to allow Thor past. The choice to deliver expedient Asgardian justice, be that swift or hammer-blown, is not hers to question. Her expression holds a shuttered wince behind the fall of her blossom-woven hair, and the rueful gaze shared with that other representative of the gods briefly alights upon Strange's face. "Would I had the means to comfort her, but I do not."


The red-headed Bohemienne is given a side-look. He's about to comment on the cat, intending to inject the supportive stance that a Malk would do the Asgardian woman a world of good (and provide him with stories of hilarity, in turn), when the spats begin to break out.

Craning his head towards the scuffling, Strange then rubs between his brows and whispers some soothing monologue in Tibetan to himself. Perhaps a mantra of peace and reminder that this is to be a day of celebration in brightest sunshine.

"Lady Scarlett, you call yourself her handmaiden. She'll listen in part to you. If she's mad at Thor, this isn't going to end well because she won't listen to me. Either that, or she'll attempt to throw herself at me and that will be a whole other kettle of fish entirely." He sighs longsufferingly before beginning to stride after the Prince, about a dozen feet back. The fellow previously shoved to his keister by the Asgardian is ready for round two and this time, has the momentum of his attempt to tackle the Sorcerer used against him. The Cloak flicks, the man sticks out a foot, and between the relic and master, the weepy guy faceplants in a little slide across the trampled grass.

"Excuse me," Strange mutters tartly before continuing on.


Amora doesn't budge, but rather only curls up tighter on the grass, drawing her knees up against her stomach as she laid on her side. Her eyes squeezed shut as she burrowed into the curve of her arms, golden hair a mussed corona around her. Soft sounds that sounded vaguely like crying followed, and only seemed to enrage those mortals she'd enthralled to her kiss.

Even Thor's thunderous approach did nothing to stir the blonde from her position. If anything it merely made her attempt to ignore him and the rest of the party around her that was slowly devolving into chaos.

One of the other mortals that had not punched Thor previously, was now going for throwing a folding chair at the other mortal man who'd been enthralled. More cries of shock and surprise flitted from the gathering as the music broke off and a few not enthralled men tried to break them apart.


There's an explosive crack of thunder from the clear blue sky. Loud, and close, and shaking teeth and sensitive eardrums alike. Thor and Amora seem largely immune; the rest of the mortals scatter in fear at the threat of lightning landing in their party.

"Amora! Enough of this foolishness!" Thor booms, grabbing her arm and struggling to haul the woman to her feet. Petite as she is by Asgardian standards, she's still /heavy/, and almost entirely dead weight.

He casts a look at Strange and Scarlett— mute appeal on his rugged features. "Strange, she weaves magics even through the haze of mead," he grunts. "I can feel it battering at my skull. Can your talents forge any containment, or protect these mortals while she sleeps it off?" he begs the man.


The soft volume reserved for private conversation lies between the two representatives of humanity, when truly they belong to no such perfect category, the girl with the X-gene and the man with the mystically altered physiology. "Her heart cracked, a dream perished, Doctor," Scarlett says terribly softly. "What balm exists belongs only to time. Not in the depths of drink unless his highness wishes me to bestow another kind of peace. That will only be temporary."

The signs of violence building around them causes a fine line to appear upon her features. Her progressive nonviolent path assuredly makes for little room to maneuver, but with a stoicism present beneath the surface, she follows in the wake of prince and Sorcerer Supreme. It's only when the former has her secure that she acts.

An almost forsaken look crosses her countenance, and as it stands, she reaches out to touch Amora. Her skin, be that hand or face or lolling forked tail if it mattered. "The sweet mother guard your dreams. Give me your burdens, my lady, that you may be free of them." Blackfire void roused from its observant quiescence erupts out of the void. Life calls, and it needs nothing but the least nudge to strike.


"Indeed. This needs to continue elsewhere." A blurring of long-practiced gestures brings a coruscating ball of liquid glass-light between his palms. The Sorcerer grounds this quickly, before any of the brawlers realize that someone is manhandling their lady.

With a faint, ringing chime, reality around them flickers into the Mirror Dimension. Immediately, what magic exuding from Amora's person is contained within these Mystical boundaries. To mortal eyes, the four otherworldly beings have all but vanished into thin air.

The Sorcerer is then quick to take a few cursory steps back as he sees Scarlett reach in towards the Enchantress, most certainly not wearing a glove. A sharp inhale on his part because he can only hazard what may come of such a decision and he takes the beginnings of a militant defensive stance, hands held about his waist in readied mudras.


Thor's hand snakes out to grip Rogue's bicep, blunting her reach bare inches before disaster. He looks at his friend with a sorrowful expression and shakes his head at her.

"Nay, friend Scarlett," he tells the redhead. "Your touch is mighty but 'twould not be of aid here," he assures the woman. "Amora grieves the loss of love; 'tis a right and natural thing, but she /must/ grieve and let the wound be exposed to the air. To take her pain from her would be but a temporary panacea, and would let simmering resentment yet fester."

He looks down at the prone, intoxicated woman, sorrow on his features.


Whatever emotional magics seeped from the Enchantress were entirely, for once, accidental in her drunken misery. Which was perhaps the luckiest thing to occur for Amora, for when Thor reaches down to grab her she ceases to be dead weight and struggles against him. Screams rip from her throat between sobs and flails her arms against his grip, yet does not reach for her magic. Not once.

Of course, while Amora was strong compared to mortals, she was nothing compared to the strength of the Asgardian Prince. Especially while well into her cups.

"Leave me to my misery! I hate thee!" Another scream that trailed off.

"My beloved is gone and I am alone and I shall always be alone! I have naught to mourn. Let me alone, for I long to die. There is naught for me save long centuries alone. Unwanted and unloved." She sobbed, breaking down as her struggles slowed and she collapsed against Thor's grip. Her dress and hair askew, her make smeared and her frame trembling.

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