1964-07-10 - Irritation and Flirtation
Summary: Amora stops by to bother Strange
Related: None
Theme Song: None
amora strange 

With the blossoming of pleasant weather, in this brief spate of time before the mugginess of high summer, comes the opening of the New York Botanical Gardens. He has some spare time — I know, crazy, right? — and so the Sorcerer Supreme mindfully Gates into the space lesser occupied by guests and travelers. He wears a dress shirt in slate-blue along with his slacks and shoes; slung loosely about his neck in the thinnest material possible, the crimson scarf, infamous Cloak in disguise. A golden chain catches the sun at odd moment, indicative of the bronze key that hangs at his mid-sternum, beneath the shirt, never far from his person.

Strange finds himself in the section known as the 'Native Plant Garden', home to the most colorful of the state's flora. Hibiscus flowers in brilliant fuschia peek from their tendrils alongside the cubic mirror-ponds, complete with miniature waterfalls from each tier to the next. It's peaceful. The breeze rustles the leaves of old oak trees all around and makes the tended grasses wave. His reflection sighs back at him, its entire posture indicating contentment in the moment and, like as not, a rare public note of fondness. He's considering when to bring Wanda along. She'd appreciate the gardens more than most.


Amora the Enchantress of Asgard had seen an elevation in her status. Returned to her full power, her titles and lands renewed, her position in the Court restored. Even further more, she'd snagged a return to Thor's side. Once more becoming the on again off again lover that she'd coveted so jealously for centuries. She, by all means, should be content.

Yet here she was. Appearing out of the reflection set by the water, like a mirror that she slipped through. Disturbing Strange's reflection and his meditative thoughts. In the reflection she was wrapping her arms around his shoulders, leaning her golden head against his side and pressing her full lips against his cheeks.

Her magic more than enough to avert the mortal gaze as she stepped out of the water's reflection and onto firmer land. She offered a wave and a smirk toward Strange, snickering softly behind a manicured hand. "Hello Doctor.." She murmured.


The Sorcerer narrows his eyes and watches in disbelief as what he sees does not match up with the total lack of physical contact. He wrinkles his nose and takes a fluid side-step away from the Enchantress as she emerges, a scarred hand rising up to stop short of the cheek kissed in the reflection of the pond. Fingers close to a tight fist before he centers himself, inhaling and exhaling audibly.

"Lady Amora," he replies crisply, all formality and composure, every single bit of his posture broadcasting the usual, nearly-palpable chill he takes on around the Enchantress. His folded arms accent the breadth of his shoulders within the button-down. "What brings you to Midgard and the gardens today?"

Kill 'em with diplomatic kindness…well, just diplomacy, technically.


Amora pouted, crossing her arms as she halted at his halting hand. She flicked her hair over her shoulders, glancing back at her own reflection for a long moment to arrange her hair most artfully. "I am here upon Midgard at my Prince's command." She fluttered her dark lashes and then turned back around to face him. "At the Embassy."

A pause followed and she settled her hand upon her hips. "You must see that he cannot keep the Embassy here on Midgard for long, no? It and what Loki did to proclaim us to the world at large violated the Treaty of the Gods. There was nearly war. The mess with Kai was directly linked. If only Chernabog hadn't attacked the other Pantheons, Asgard could very well have been in danger." She murmured, hopping right to the point, all business in her tone.

"If I bring it up, he shall not believe me and think it a plot. However, by remaining here we continue to violate the non interference pact."


"Noninterference pact." Strange's tone conveys the disdain almost as well as the flat look the Enchantress receives. "If I may be honest, as the Mystical liaison of Midgard to the Courts of Asgard, that pact was broken thousands of years ago. The past should not be touched. Midgard continues to exist in reality proper and we are at peace, our worlds." He shakes his head slowly and sighs again, looking towards the ponds at the plop of a snapping turtle from a sunning spot into the cooler waters.

"I wondered why the Tree beyond us seemed restless…" he murmurs, watching the ripples spread, light glittering and vanishing away along the tiniest waves. His irises flash briefly to that supernaturally-violet hue and back to normalcy before he glance at Amora. "That the gods war is concerning, but how does Asgard benefit from isolation? Reach beyond the eldest Prince if you will, take it to Odin himself, but I doubt the All-Father, in his…wisdom — will withdraw his interests from Midgard. We are not hiding around the fires at night anymore, Enchantress. The people of Midgard grow, evolve…" and he holds out a palm. A witchlight, bright and golden, swirls up into celestial existence before he snuffs it out within a closed fist. "We are a power of our own in the Tree now." He curls a thin-lipped smirk.


"You do not understand me, I care little, Midgard or Asgard, Alfheim or what. It matters not to me. But there is a treaty between the Pantheons. It matters greatly to the worshippers and where their souls go when they die. Chernabog was responsible for the attack not only on Hel but in Hades and other realms like it. T'was a trick using soldiers of other Pantheons in an attempt to make a war." She muttered, pursing her lips.

"What Loki did was announce that Asgard was real and true. Now we have more worshippers in the open. Now Hel sees more souls than it has in centuries. With a few exceptions with the Greeks, we see not the other Pantheons holding anything akin here on Midgard." She hooked a golden brow upwards, and folded her arms beneath her bust.

"The treaty very clearly stated that the Gods were not to interfere directly with the matter of worship." She muttered and looked irritated.


"Yes, and you may grouse to me as you will, Lady Amora, but this sounds like a discussion between the gods themselves, not you or I. I can assure you, with absolutely certainty, that my patrons have no involvement in these events." Strange desperately wants to add that they intend to avoid getting involved as well, but hey, he's the Conduit, the deific puppet at the best of times. He doesn't get a say in who pulls his marionette strings and when.

"Can Hel not take in the increase of souls? I expect Hela herself to have reacted accordingly to the burgeoning number of worshippers. Unless…" He straightens a little in place, growing suddenly grave. "You think that there's to be another clash, with the larger influx of souls in every Pantheon's variation of the afterlife."


Amora shook her head, "Hel can, each new soul adds to her power. All worshippers add to one's power. Which is why the treaty was formed in the first place by the Council of the Gods." She made a face, and waved her hand in Strange's direction. "Hence why Chernabog attacked for Loki's proclamation." She murmured and turned her gaze out to the flowers beyond. She stooped to collect one in her hand, twirling it between her green painted nails.

"For now Asgard was in the right, if only because the Black God made a very ill error. But it may very well not continue to be so. The Trickster is currently, as good as a wanted criminal, and Thor is only just returned to himself.."


Inwardly, the Sorcerer is relieved. For as irritating as the Enchantress is, if she'd shared concerns over the possibility of a clash of souls, he might have considered taking it to the Courts of Asgard and even beyond.

"Yes, I remember the Gardens well enough," he murmurs, his lips thinning. The Sisters — having to practically coach the mortal Donald to his death — it remains a light bruise within memory. "Fine and dandy that the Prince has his power back and high time, with your worries about the Pantheons. It's…unfortunate that he would consider your warnings a plot. Still — why disturb the peace." She receives a rather sardonic side-look before he wanders away a few steps, to the edge of the looking pond. The clouds pass by above, keeping the temperature balmy instead of muggy. "Keep watch, Enchantress. That is my suggestion to you. By your general air of confidence and…" He faces her and narrows his eyes again, "…aura, you are no longer under any geas of the All-Father. Sound the alarm if you must." Arms unfold and scarred hands are spread out at oblique angles before himself. "What would you have me do, as Sorcerer Supreme and diplomat to the Courts? I will listen. I may not agree." Thus, the forewarning.


Amora twirled the flower between her thumb and forefinger for a while, before letting the wind take it and plop soundly down into the water. She stepped closer to the edge, her gaze drifting to follow the flower's path when the Doctor spoke of the Gardens. While there was no halt on her powers, there was a chunk of something that did not belong in her aura. A grey strand, dead and cold. It did not grow, or change, but it was there. A debt as of yet uncalled.

"Speak with Thor, caution him. I daren't." She murmured. No, anything she brought about seemed to be taken as a plot or a ploy on her part. Which was in part true, but never wholly.

"He trusts your council and advice." She swallowed thickly, and turned green eyes back to Strange, her full lips thinned into a white line.


"Caution him," Strange repeats quietly, thoughtfully. "Council. Yes, I have no issue in counseling him to be cautious with the games of the gods. It will be a warning he's heard from me before, but…a reminder never hurts anyone."

He holds those grass-green eyes with his usual self-assured fearlessness. "You're well aware of why he holds my words of more weight, Enchantress. I don't play games." Except for he does, total lies, he's just the cosmic chess player with the poker face. "Why not prove your loyalties to the Prince instead of indulging in cat's-foot? Keep your hands to yourself instead of sampling the cookie jar?" The Sorcerer is absolutely implying everything she thinks within that statement.


Amora turned about, "Donald's Spirit rests within him." She said simply, and her features twisted with an ache. "I learned of it from Hela. His soul was never there to begin with, for it was only one part of Thor's." She stepped closer toward the Doctor, her voice low, even as she held her head up to meet his gaze evenly.

"I told him. Now, all that I say may be taken as some slight to who he is now and was before. Now, all my loyalties are in question. All that I have done. For he sees my love of his diminished self as unequal to my love of him." She looked distinctly uncomfortable sharing these words with Strange of all people. Yet, Loki and Kai were not an option. Too wrapped up in love to the point that it made Amora's stomach twist sickeningly.


Strange is equally uncomfortable, simply for the fact that this is a brutal baring of soul from the being before him. Given a betting pool, he would have wagered himself as the last possible recipient of it. Or maybe not…he considers, the steely suspicion slapping through the upwelling of awkward, masculine sympathy. Once bitten, forever shy, in his case.

"I'm not sure what council I can offer you in this instance, Lady Amora, other than he is proud and may need things repeated to him. Love as one will. Make what you will of it. I can offer you nothing else than this." Despite his neutral expression, his arms are folded, hiding away his hands once more, and not a lick of invitation stands to enter his personal space.


Amora shrugged, stepping back with a much put upon sigh. The mask of simpering, sultry heat once more returned to her expression. "You wished to know why I believed that Thor would not trust my council, even in regards to caution amongst the other Gods. And I have shared it. I may have been about for centuries for other misdeeds but that hangs upon my head most unfairly." She huffed a breath, dragging a hand through her golden locks and letting it gall back as she glanced back at her reflection in the water.

"Everyone so fears Loki's misery and broken heart but none consider what I might do." She muttered lightly, her head tilting to the side. "If Thor had not been restored.. well Loki would likely have been slaughtered by Chernabog. Kai lost.. the war upon the Gods continued without an Heir to Asgard.."


Whew, crisis averted. Strange raises his chin slightly as he listens, sharp eyes not missing a microtic of her posturing and he finds himself rather disturbed at what he can surmise of the Enchantress's musings.

"Respectfully, Lady Amora, be careful of what you speak and remember to whom you speak. I seem to remember a third son to the All-Father and Queen, if the Eddas are to be believed. You needn't worry about the royal line continuing. Regardless…the eldest Prince is restored and that line of future snipped." Two fingers emerge from hiding to mime the action — snip — and they disappear again. "Best focus on the here and the now, with not salting the field of growing trust, hmm?"


Amora turned about, "Tis not as if my beloved can be brought back from death's clutches, for he never truly died. Tis not as if I can merge the two, for they have been merged. One body, and one soul. As is fitting." She murmured, her gaze settling heavily upon Strange. Her hand settled on her hip as she mused, pacing back and forth before the water. "But not the same memory.."

A pause followed and she seemed to cool the tempers that ran hot and too near the surface of her expression. "Balder is the third Prince, aye, but he as of late has been as absent as his brothers. And while he is brave, he has not Thor's strength. Few do." She murmured, her brows furrowing.


"Lady Amora." The Sorcerer places a pinch of gravity upon her name in the manner that only he can as Supreme. "Whatever you're planning, if you do so — think very hard of the consequences. I would hate to be drawn away from safe-guarding my reality to deal with any fall-out of your devising, especially if it touches upon Midgard."

With that warning (and backhanded acknowledgment of her ability to plot) having been offered, he sighs. "Memories are what they are: while precious, insubstantial. The eldest Prince is unavoidably present, wherever he goes," and Strange grins faintly. "You beat your wings on a solar pane, for all I can see."


Amora vanished and reappeared beside Strange, green smoke swirling around her as she materialized beside him, invading his personal space without actually touching him. Oddly enough she had kept her hands to herself this time. "I know not what I plan as of yet. My hand has not been forced, Doctor. And I care little for Midgard, my exile has been revoked. I only remain because Thor remains. Just think, if you convince him to return to Asgard you shall not see my return any time soon indeed." She murmured, fluttering dark eyelashes.


He refrains from flinching, but just barely. Her presence beside rather than directly in front, existence rather than obstacle, aids in this. Still, Amora earns herself the usual unamused look and subtle lean to one foot, away from her form.

"I have no reason currently to petition for the Prince to leave Midgard. The Embassy stands as a manifestation of trust between our Worlds. If you're implying that the Prince holds your leash, perhaps I should ask him to shorten it further," murmurs Strange, pinning her with said look. "Since you care so little for my realm."


Amora huffed lightly as he stepped back, her gaze narrowing faintly in her own decided amusement. She winked and fluttered her eyelashes, but it was all in jest. There was no heat behind it. No magical draw. She was toying with his reactions, plain and simple. She toed the line without actually crossing anything. It was a decidedly odd step, perhaps a remarkable one that tied in with the metaphor that Strange himself used in regards to her 'leash' such as it was.

"Your realm, not mine. I have no interest in it. Trust me, if I did, you would disapprove, Doctor." She murmured, arching a brow and flipping her hair back. "Most heartily. I am not killing, toying, or otherwise in any way harming the inhabitants here. Which in all honest is so very trying." She muttered with a roll of her eyes.

"They're so very blind and walk in, arms wide, for trouble."


"You know my feelings on the matter of compulsion and the inhabitants of this realm. Mark me well: I will speak with the Prince about confining you to your beloved Embassy if I catch the barest hint of a whisper of trouble in your name." He delivers this with crisp, calm enunciation, no more emotion injected than one's total given at a shopping till. Strange's smile given to the Enchantress is not warm. "I ask. Don't test me."


Amora flashed white hands up as if in mock defense. "Worry not, darling. I have no interest in it." She took a swinging step backwards, heels clicking as she shifted to try to come up around to his side once more. A lilting smirk painted upon ruby lips. "Besides, how could I aid my Prince when he does something foolish to attempt to save the inhabitants here?"

"And besides, they amuse me not, mortals are a dime a dozen and I have had my way with them for centuries." She leaned forward to pluck at the air around Strange, as if to touch him but thought better of it.

"You're so much more amusing Doctor."


"Amusing, am I." His eyes rise from her testing twitch of fingers and linger on her face. "I'm so very glad that you appreciate my stalwart tendencies. Or is it that you choose to beat your wings on a window that will remain closed for eternity?"

Strange draws from past discussions with the Witch who gave him the very bronze chit that warms against his skin beneath his dress shirt. "I could always inform the Prince of the amusement you take in me." Because that would go over really well. He glowers well and good at Amora.


An after-image of Amora twined from her finger tips with a breathy sigh and swam through the air in tendrils of smoke to dance around Strange. But that was all, an illusion of a touch. A phantom. It dispelled easily, leaving the true Amora still standing where she had been as she blew Strange a kiss. "I have opened nearly every doorway and window that I have so desired over the centuries, Doctor. Your refusal amuses me greatly. A goodly number of Sorcerers of their own realms gave in within moments. A flutter of my eyelashes and a twist of my lips and they're simply boring."

She arched a golden brow upwards, her hands upon the swell of her hips. "And boring is just, well, one of the worst things out there, darling. And you're anything but. Simply by your staunch refusal." She winked.

"Feel free to tell him, I'm sure he'll laugh."


Waving a hand before his face, Strange dispels the illusion auroral wisps with the added touch of a summoned breeze, Midgardian air momentarily bending to his whims, and narrows his eyes further at Amora. The boys tend to either scatter or wilt before this look. The residents at Kamar-Taj wait on tenterhooks when receiving it.

"I'm not certain the Prince will. Also, believe me, Enchantress: I will not budge. I will not break. One day, it will get boring. Either that or something will give and I don't think you'll like it."


Amora didn't wither under the look, or so much as flinch. Perhaps she should have. Yet she did not and instead folded an arm beneath her chest and smirked. "Why so? Tis not as if I have harmed you. No? I have not threatened." She mused, fluttering her eyelashes.

A hand settled in her hair, dragging it back from her chest. "Come now, Doctor. I need something to amuse me through the long years."


"You have your Prince to act as amusement, Lady Amora, for all the faithfulness you show him. Your advances, feigned or not, are not appreciated. They're heavy-handed and disregard my Consort — and therefore, your safety — entirely."

The disgust is fairly plain on the Sorcerer's face. At this point, he's fairly annoyed with the Asgardian. "You're welcome to continue if you like the taste of crow."


Amora heaved a great and heavy sigh, the flirtation fading from her features to be replaced with a pout. Emotional maturity, Amora (or any Asgardian) rarely had or showed. This was one such great moment. "My faithfulness? What means have you to to attempt to measure me with some shameful disregard of those I take or do not take to bed. You, who, prior to this consort you now have, were so very, very monkish?" She hitched an eyebrow upwards.

"Lecture me not with your not so veiled attempts to shame me! When hath the Prince ever shown a hint of such regard himself?" She flung her hand out, "When I know for true, he has not only taken to bed every maiden in the villagery who had the ability to say 'aye', but well beyond those bounds! When he hath taken two women to court for wedding in the last year!" She stood there, tapping her foot and looking at Strange with an irritated glance.

It would seem he had gotten under her skin, finally, "He hath not a position to lecture me on faithfulness."


"The Prince's proclivities are a discussion between you and him. Seeing as I hold the title of 'monkish', it falls upon me to lecture," Strange replies coolly. "Though I'd prefer 'connoisseur' over 'monk', if we're mincing words…and you aren't to my tastes." He does not continue in that vein, bless his diplomatic heart. He too can show some emotional maturity.

"On that note and at this point, Lady Amora…you're boring me. I agree to take your concerns in regards to the possibilities of further conflict in the Pantheons to the Prince since it takes into account the safety of Midgard in the process. Beyond having thoroughly entertained you for the day, is there anything else you wish to petition to me in my capacity as Midgardian diplomat to the Court and Sorcerer Supreme?"


Another pout. A sigh. One that sounded greatly put upon as if the good Doctor just simply didn't understand the woes of being her. It was such a tough life. "You are intensely lucky that I like and enjoy you." She muttered, hooking an eyebrow upwards as she jutted her lower lip out again and crossed her arms.

"Keep your eyes on the Death Gods, if there will be a movement, it shall be from them. Though I think they already used up their hands." She murmured, tapping her chin.

Then she vanished in a poof of smoke. Another wisp pointedly brushing up around his cheek and trailing around his ear like a whisper of wind or a breath in a teasing vein.


"Ugh!" The Enchantress isn't around to see him swat violently at the air around his ear or to hear the blue streak of muttered curses that follow — curses, mind you, not curses. "Gods below, that woman!" No point in enjoying a meditative afternoon at the ponds now. His trip has been thoroughly interrupted.

Still scowling up a storm, he opens a Gate and doesn't quite stomp through it into the Loft. Wanda may have to listen to a good rant with the addendum that the flowers at the Botanical Garden are lovely per his observations.

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