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Helheim: a feast on the dusty fields of the Queen's realm. Open-air against the rearing walls of her fabled home to the dead, the place is grandiose in the way of European visitors coming to the ruins of antiquity. The sheer scale and size are enough to humble most, even those jaded to the prospects of rarity.
The others are considering their departure through the doorway in the mountain range Hela casually formed. Her Aesir shades keep watch for any summary danger, though who is fool enough to threaten her in her own realm?
Amora had risen from her kneel at as Hela had told her that Donald was in fact, not in her realm. Much the same as Kai had not, and with a likewise offer of information for a debt. The Enchantress' throat closed tightly, and she had stood, stock still and paler than she'd been a moment before. Nearly ashen, but no where near the shade she had almost become. This was a color of fear at the possibilites.
Her chest rose and fell with a sharp intake of breath and it was clear to anyone that had known Amora that she was about to do either something very drastic, or very foolish. Possibly both.
Green eyes swept over the others preparing for their departure and she stepped toward the Queen's personage minutely. "You know where he is?" She asked, her voice oddly even despite the signs of distress in her expression and posture.
Hela turns her head away from the impending rumble of tectonic activity in the distance, further solidifying changes along the front where Helheim meets Niflhel. Rivers avert their courses to her satisfaction and ice tossed airborne lands in a freshly smoothed configuration to her pleasure. She is unaffected by any of the rumbling upheaval or jarring clashes that will test how well non-flyers can hold their footing.
"Given to me are all not living," she says in that cold, disinterested tone used all along. Lashed silk flows over her alto in shreds. "For your debt, I may see."
Perhaps it was a sign to how much Amora was out of her mind in regards to Donald. Perhaps it was a sign that she knew not to push the Goddess whose realm they were in. Yet Amora did not so much as blink, pause or stop to try to make another bargain. The usually power hungry Enchantress, who had put her own survival first and foremost beyond anyone else, threw herself upon the debt quickly. "Very well. You shall have it." She murmured, green eyes steady upon the otherwise disinterested Goddess before her.
Amora rolled her shoulders back, swallowing a tightness in her throat as she watched, falling silent as she waited. A debt to Hela was no laughing matter.
"Sworn." The others might not perceive what happens, but Amora surely might. In her aura locks an ashen tendril laced in acidic green among the rest, a diffusing stain to identify a pledge made. Her slanting midnight crown and long cloak still grant a majesty of a throne room in the middle of a dusty plane to Hela. She could care less, of course. "Have you any personal artifact of his? Something touched by his hand or his life."
The feeling of foreign magic slithering into her aura took a good moment for Amora to stop her innate magic from reacting to. A hard swallow in her throat locked her jaw tight and she released a thin exhale through her nose, looking faintly ill at ease. Her eyes closed as she adjusted to the cold feeling of the ashen tendril now in her aura of summer green and tantric magics, before she opened her eyes once more to gaze upon Hela.
"Aye." She reached into her pocket, a pocket that spanned well beyond any seams or stitches, and drew out a simple scrap of a tunic. Amora had been prepared for a geat many things, when she'd joined the party to Hel it would seem. A small scrap of blue linen, stitched through with golden runes of protection. He had worn it for Ostara, briefly. Anything else she wasn't particularly willing to part with.
Then Amora was stepping forward, holding out the linen scrap with the utmost tender care toward Hela. In all honesty, she herself was likely more attuned than the fabric scrap..
Hela reaches out for the scrap with long gloved fingers. She takes it with care due to something fabric in a land where the natural resources are pitifully turned to the standard base material: rock, clay, soil, bone, souls, grain-of-time. Certainly not timber or sheep. Her position in Cataangard would be set but for that pesky business of needing sail material.
She inhales deeply of the realm of the dead. Nastrond peppers the scent of the air. The laughing children of Hel, the lives spent in Helheim, the rivers all contribute themselves. Her sustaining power drags up from the fundament and descends from the sky for her as a conduit.
"Donald Blake." Her shadowed aura slides into focus from its abeyance, a rearing hooded cobra that enfolds the death goddess in an absolute reminder her title is no mere trapping. She holds a power deeper than the wells pretended at by other Asgardians. Hers is an affinity to the bone-white faced principality, a mere objectified concept, one that clashes and rumbles with the other Death Lords strung throughout the multiverse.
Blue lifts with it, the dye eroding away at the mere proximity to her power called up.
A meandering path visible only to her and Amora spills out like spilled ink on a page. "Follow that."
"Thor seems unaware of the magic curling around him. Perhaps because it's cold and familiar all at once; Amora's energies and Hela's blended into swift, seeking thing. It rests against his shoulders, and— for a moment— a ghostly apparition twists in the opposite direction of his motion. A face, rugged and strong. Lacking a God's demeanour. Youthful, with a lifetime of experiences ahead— hair cropped short, beard neatly trimmed.
He looks at Amora with a moment of utter shock, reaching— and then he vanishes back under Thor's skin, with the God of Thunder none the wiser."'.