1964-07-18 - Marshmellow Challenge
Summary: Amora flirts with Strange.. and that's all?
Related: ehhh Amora and Strange logs
Theme Song: None
strange amora 

Caution is the name of the game. Circumspection could be his middle name if it weren't for that rictus of a confident grin he wears time to time facing down the various difficulties in his life.

It's in the name of caution that Strange finds himself at the doors to the Asgardian Embassy. He's dressed not in the casual-dapper wear he usually sports, but in the storm-blues of his mantle. The crimson Cloak hangs as a sash about his waist and its gentle waving, supple in manner, is conspicuous for the absense of wind entirely.

"Behave," he murmurs, hitting each of the two syllables in cadence. It stills after giving his hips a little snug. In a pique, he knocks 'shave-and-a-haircut, two-bits" before entering the main foyer of the Embassy. It was too warm outside. He wasn't waiting any longer in the direct sunshine. Presuming there's someone present on the grounds, he announces himself. "Doctor Strange, Sorcerer Supreme…here to see the eldest Prince of Asgard." Folding his arms, he then stands there…and waits.


A guard most assuredly would have been there to greet Strange, or at least a maid, directing him toward the main hall. The whole decor screamed gaudy Asgardian articture, from the ceilings to the floor. Even the artwork that was on display. At least, what artwork there was. Tapestries and the alike hung here and there in a scattered manner.

In the main hall, it was actually quiet. It would seem a great many of the host were absent. Food littered the large table, and near the very head of the table, sprawled Amora. She wore a silken gown of the deepest green, woven through with golden thread. It slipped off her shoulders, her hair toussled and tangled in golden curls. She was devoid of jewelery today, but the thick scent of her perfume was a heady delight that surrounded her just as assuredly as her magic did.

Barefooted she nursed a goblet of mead, and picked at a plate piled high with grapes and apples, dotted with sugared violets and strawberries.


Well…that's odd. No one to greet him? No…servants even? His cross-armed stance relaxes only to tense up in a subtly martial stance, ready in the case of having interrupted a successful infiltration of the Embassy itself. It's a harrowing thought.

Thus, it's with hands readied before his belt that Strange enters the main hall to the continued silence, the dish-covered long table, and there…the Enchantress. His eyes, bright with the Sight, can't miss her — and her aura, fully empowered as she is — and they narrow. She'll probably catch the low hum, thoughtful and somehow disapproving.

"Lady Amora," he says as he walks slowly along the opposite side of the table, hands now folded behind his back and his stance tall, self-assured and present. "I came to speak with Prince Thor. Is he not present within?" All the while, she's measured visually where she lounges, dress and fruit and all.


Amora paused, shifting slightly, her legs swung over one of the thick arms of the chair she sprawled in. A strawberry played about her lips as she took a long and careful bite from it under Strange's gaze. Green eyes glittered with amusement as she rolled her shoulders back, fluttering her eyelashes. "Good day to you, Doctor Strange." Her voice oozing confidence and interest.

"I fear his highness goes as he desires. I believe he went out with his brother? I heard something of a contest, or brotherly-bonding time, I know not."


"Hmm. A shame." The table is bulwark between the two practitioners and Strange pauses directly across from her. "And yes, good day to you as well, Lady Amora. I came to speak of caution to him, per your earlier request."

What a diplomat is he, this Sorcerer Supreme, though he wears the mask of formality rather than friendliness around the Enchantress.


Amora eyed Strange up and down, doing little to disguise what she was doing. She chuckled softly, and she inclined her head toward the chair closest to him. "I see, well," She smiled, fluttering her eyelashes.

"Welcome, in his highness' stead. Help yourself to whatever you desire." She leaned forward, golden hair hanging over her shoulder, her nekcline dipping dangerously low as she reached for a grape and popped it into her mouth.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon enough."


Mark the disapproval in the thinning of his mouth and little sniff. Still, manners rule all when engaging in inter-World statecraft. Pulling out the chair, the Sorcerer settles himself within its rather comfortable pillowing and eyes Amora across the platter of fruit.

"I have no problem waiting a little while to see if he returns, but my plans for the evening cannot be disrupted by more than an hour at most." His gaze falls to the strawberries in particular and he sighs slowly. "Thank you, but no fare of Midgard can suit my physiology these days. Also, in case you care, I don't if you eat in front of me. My feelings aren't injured." Strange smirks faintly.


Amora reached for another strawberry, taking her time to drag it from her lips as she eyed him from her cushioned sprawl, a smirk playing over those ruby lips as she finished it off. "Well then, I shall be more than happy to keep you company, darling." She fluttered her eyelashes, her voice low and silky. "Can you enjoy the food of the other realms? Would a drink of Asgard be suitable?" She hitched a golden eyebrow upwards.

Then, moving with the gracefulness of a cat, she rose, a hip cocking to the side as she leaned against the table and settled on the edge. A goblet appearing in her hand in a cloud of green smoke. She took a sip, rolling her shoulders back. The scent of her perfume hovering in the air around her.

"Or was it tea you sip? I can have the kitchens bring it." She snapped her fingers and some maid came in, as if she had been waiting for that very summons.


Strange considers the Enchantress, perched on the edge of the table as she is, and his smirk deepens.

"Tea, please," he replies, attention shifting to the maid to turn the response towards her moreso than his apparent hostess. He rolls his shoulders to sit back further into his chair, resting two fingers along the line of his silvery temple, and Amora is subjected to scrutiny born of his past mantle, that of surgeon-supreme. He seems to attempt to peel back her aura, to look behind those so-very-green eyes lined by dark lashes.

Eventually, he speaks again. "Enchantress, am I so entertaining to you?" A brow rises ever so slightly.


Amora shifted, twisting to lean over the table top, taking her time in seeming to look at the large spread of fruits and cheeses laid out, before picking on slice of cheese that was on the far side of the plate from her. Nearest to Strange, and giving him a good eyeful of her low neckline. The maid well forgotten. "I thought I made it perfectly clear, Doctor. You amuse me greatly." She offered him another lipsticked smile, all red stain and temptation. Her mask of sexually charged interest never once fading.

"Simply by the matter that you refuse me so very often. So few in all my centuries have ever done so. The list is quite short, and even blank when it comes to those that have not submitted to my charm ultimately."


What an eyeful. Both brows flick up before he seems to muffle down…a chuckle.

"Ooh…submitted," the Sorcerer murmurs, sibilance and mockery of the word in tone. "Truly, the Witch was right. You deal out your charms with a heavy hand, Enchantress. You must deal in those of far less sophistication in the arts." Strange drums the fingers of his other hand on the arm of the chair lightly once. "I am a list unto myself." His grin appears slowly…sharkishly. "You can't hope to succeed with such techniques."


A shrug of her shoulders, "Darling, I have had to seduce oafs and those blinded by their works and their arms and weapons for centuries. Do you truly think that subtle is a word they have ever even heard of?" She tossed her hair back from her shoulders with a flick of her wrist and flashed him a smirk.

"Not even counting my own people, mages and magic workers are normally of the socially awkward sort that cannot even tell if a woman is interested in them if she were laying naked in their bed." She tsked under her breath and shook her head.


His smile disappears to a close-lipped curl of amusement.

"I won't disagree with you, Lady Amora. When delving too deeply into books, one loses a sense of social fluency rather quickly. There's a fine balance to it all. But still…you're bound to fail." And Strange turns his hand upwards briefly towards the ceiling, his variation of a shrug. "I deal in subtlety."


Amora tilted her head to the side, and in a cloud of green reappeared just beside Strange, hip cocked against the table as she leaned against it. Not touching him, though her magic swirled around them just as her perfume did. "Darling, we have centuries to play. As long as you refuse me, I shall derive some measure of amusement." She lowered her voice to a sultry whisper as she smirked.

"T'will be our little game." She turned then, picking up a grape and popping it into her mouth.


Already leaning away from her sudden reappearance, Strange slowly sits up straighter in the chair. At his neck, a low hum begins to buzz against his skin: the bronze chit, gifted to him many months ago. Its resonance harmonizes with the fluidity of his aura, staining swathes of it as red as the strawberries within the celestial myriad of blues that compose it. Prickling along the fine hairs of his neck brings him to narrow his eyes, still lit with a candle's glow of his powers.

"Indulge me then, Enchantress," he replies quietly, voice softening to mirror her, "— so I am fully aware of the ramifications of your…pasttime. What constitutes a lack of refusal on my part?"


Amora shifted, crossing her shapely legs, snatches of pale skin showing through the high slits in her skirts. She glanced his way over her shoulder, turning her body half toward the table as she picked her way around the plates and snagged a cherry, nibbling at the red flesh pointedly then tossing the stem and pit over her shoulder. It vanished into the fireplace.

"Why, Doctor, I should think you would know. You've refused my offers time after time," She smiled, green eyes narrowing faintly like a cat's. Green and focused, even while she pretended disinterest with a casual toss of her hair once more.


"I seem to have forgotten entirely. Not going to indulge me…?" The sardonic nature of his question carries through in that faint Midwestern accent, cutting as it is.

"Shh…" Strange adds, glancing down at the crimson length of the sash about his waist. It settles once again instead of beginning to slowly arc up and backwards, a silken cobra set to flare its hood in threat.


Amora shifted, glancing over her shoulder and looking Strange up and down from beneath the fringe of black eyelashes. Her shoulders rolled backwards, her hands settling behind her on the table as she considered him. It was a fluid movement, one well practiced as she tilted her head just enough to send a cascade of golden hair tumbling over her shoulder. She smirked.

"Come now, Doctor. We both know you've never forgotten anything in your life. Though please, continue to play coy. I am much amused." She practically purred.


"Who knows? It could have…slipped my mind. I have much to distract me from continually-failed attempts on your part," he replies…coyly.

Strange shifts to rest an ankle on one knee, keeping his two fingers aligned with his hoary temple. "It seems unusual for you to deny yourself an opportunity to dangle the bait in front of me again. Someone keeping your leash shorter…?"


Amora leaned forward, making to settle a hand on either side of the armrest of his chair. "You keep using leashes for your metaphors, darling. Is that what makes you rise to the occasion? Because if so, then you are truly limiting yourself. It's alright," She murmured, dropping her voice low to lean nearer to his ear. "I won't judge."

Then she was dipping backwards laughing as she plucked her goblet from the air and took a sip at it. "But there is so very much more out there."


His gaze, heavily-shadowed, falls from her eyes to her lips and back. She'll feel the riffling of Strange's aura close about him, drawing away and seeming to swat back at her magics swirling around him. She laughs, he weighs diplomacy verses letting his sharp tongue reign.

"I don't think you're understanding my myriad implications, Lady Amora," he finally replies. "Still. A shame you won't lay out your hand. And here I was thinking we could come to some…different impasse." He sighs and manages to look past her, towards where the maid disappeared last, with an air of resigned boredom. "Does it take this long for your staff to steep tea? A particular blend that needs special attention?"


Green eyes glittered as she considered him up and down, her aura swirling about them both in a playful brush. Where her hands remained on to herself, she let her magic ghost over him, lighting up nerves and synapses as much as if she'd trailed her fingers lightly against his flesh. She smirked over the rim of her goblet, and snapped her fingers again.

"Oh I understand perfectly darling, but I'm not about to demonstrate it in the hall.." She murmured, fluttering her eyelashes. "That would be .. mmm, messy." She sighed, the maid coming in with a cart and wheeling a full tea service that looked far more Victorian than anything Asgardian.


A little shiver dances up his spine despite the bronze key and his aura. After all, the Enchantress is at full power these days. He composes himself and manages a mild smile.

"Mmm…no, I don't think you do," and Strange laughs to himself, even as he eyes the tea cart speculatively. To the maid, he says, "Something darker, please, with a generous swirl of honey. Cream if you have it."

And of course they have it, it's the Asgardian Embassy and here, they do things right, dammit. He takes the saucer and cup from the maid when it's offered to him and sips. He licks his lips slightly and then nods. "Perfect. Thank you," he adds, inclining his head to the maid, even with her lower status. "It's a good blend, this. It has a…delicacy to it that I can appreciate." He eyes Amora before glancing about the main hall. "It's a nice place. I presume every room is as lavish within the Embassy?"


Amora remained perched as she was on the side of the table, quiet and considering Strange over the rim of her goblet as the maid poured the tea, cream and honey before curtseying and leaving. Another long sip of her mead followed, and amusement glittered in her eyes. The magical equivalent of playing footsie esstentially continued even as the maid walked out of the room.

"T'was Loki and I that secured a proper tea service here. Such things are rare in the court of Asgard." She offered smoothly, tossing her hair back. After all ale and mead were drinks of choice. Tea was usually reserved for the sick or infirmed.

His words drew a smirk to her full lips. "My quarters and the Prince's of course, are fitting to our status." She murmured, "Though I rarely keep to my own bed here."


As if shooing away a fly, Strange brings his hand up to brush past his ear. It deflects a sussurance of verdant magic from flitting about its edges, though the fog doesn't stray far per its caster's wiles.

"I can't say that I'm surprised. Your bed must be cold often." And he gives her a winning smile.


Amora practically oozed off the table with a sway of her hips, a hand settling on the swell of her curves as she looked over him from beneath her eyelashes once more. Her skirt hitching to flash thigh and bare skin.

"I suppose 'tis cold. I wouldn't know." She smirked, "As I said. I don't spend time in it." She fluttered those eyelashes of her's, settling against the arm of his chair and perching there.


"Hmm. I find the time in mine rather warm." He drags his eyes up her body, since it's well within his personal space at this point and taking up the arm rest. The Sorcerer doesn't budge an inch.

"And look at you, Enchantress…inexorably drawn towards me. In some backwards manner, I find it a high compliment, even if you couldn't do 'subtle' to save your life." The lines of his goatee break for the smirk. "Would compliments assuage your desperate need to prove something to yourself?" He sips at his tea. "Hmm. My, what teeth you have. No…that would be one for Skali Kineseeker, not yourself," Strange muses, eyes momentarily lingering off towards what he construes to be the living quarters.


Amora watched him from out of the corner of her eye and she shrugged lightly, sipping from her goblet. "My, my, Doctor Strange has grown up from his monkish ways." She murmured and leaned slightly toward him, her hair ghosting into his line of sight.

"Subtle doesn't do anyone any favors, Doctor. Besides, it's less amusing." She reached out a hand, not so much as actually touching him, but hovering along the line of his jaw and around to his chin. She had yet to cross that line.

"Compliments? I hear them every day darling," She tilted her head to the side, considering him. "I would much rather a man to help me move my bed, 'tis a difficult thing to do alone. I would ask your aid, but you have rebuffed me in such measures countless times. You know well what I desire from you."


There is a moment where the good Doctor very seriously considers shoving the Enchantress from her demure placement upon the arm of his chair. Imagine. The tumbling of legs and frippery and the wailing. It would indulge his inner child, to be certain, but it would not be in the least diplomatic. Thus, he simply tilts his head away from the implied touch, narrowing his eyes at her.

"You have magics with which to move your bed. Or servants. You needn't ask for my assistance in that matter," Strange replies dryly.


Amora tossed her head back and laughed, bright and amused as she got up from the chair with a swing of her hips. "And that, my darling Doctor Strange, is why you shall prove to give me centuries more of amusement." She glanced at him over her shoulder, silk whispering as she moved to walk back to her seat on the other side of the table with a smirk.

Once she sprawled again, her goblet was magically back in her hand she toasted him once more. "I look forward to it."


His smile doesn't reach his eyes in the least.

"If the chill of logic gains me a table between us, so be it," and Strange lifts his tea cup in a sarcastic salute. He finishes at least half of the tea remaining much like a shot. The cup makes a little clattering as its set upon the saucer again. "Still no Prince." He checks his wrist, wrapped in the cotton lengths for protection and missing a watch. "And I shouldn't waste any more time. In the interest of peace between the Worlds, is there anything important that I need to know, Lady Amora, since I'm present within the Embassy?" The winging rise of an eyebrow should express his dislike for the current situation clearly enough.


Amora flashed him a grin, "No, still no Thunderer. I'm sure he shall appear just as he desires, likely caked in mud." She murmured, and wiggled her fingers in delight.

"Nay, there is not for the evening. Until next time, Doctor." She laughed into her goblet, her smile curving wickedly, as if she knew something he did not.


The Sorcerer Supreme sets aside the unfinished tea and rises to his feet. Wordlessly, he walks around the chair and as he does so, the crimson length of fabric at his waist unfolds impossible times over to become the Cloak. It settles at his shoulders, bright and glaringly present. He pauses, looking back to Amora. The motion proves to swirl the Cloak about his lean frame.

"You waste your time, Lady Amora. This game will only bring you sorrow in the end." He has a gravity about him now, a rare streak of concern breaking through the composure he keeps about the Enchantress. "If you would let the Prince know that I intended to speak with him and that he may contact me at the Sanctum, this will settle our account thus far."


In a brief moment, perhaps in return for his pause and sincere words, she sat up, straightening. Those green eyes of her's knowing and more mature than the Enchantress who had first pinned him against a palm tree over a year ago. "If I were ever serious about our games, Doctor, you would know. I tease to lessen the dullness of my days. For .. tis not a lie when I say you are first to ever refuse me so completely. The Prince," She paused, tracing her fingers against the rim of her cup.

"Refuses me on and off, as is his whim. But he always relents eventually." Her gaze lifted back toward him and she smiled.

"I shall let him know you stopped by."


"Since I know better than to waste my breath asking you to divert your attentions elsewhere, I shall merely thank you for the tea and for passing on word." The little dip of his head lacks all the proper respect in truth. "If you need help moving your bed…inquire elsewhere."

Strange may as well have fipped her the bird for the sheer amount of insouciance one could wring from his tone. A sparkling Gate opens up at his command and he steps through, back to the Sanctum, not too unlike his departure from a hidden sub-riverine room so many months back. The magical oculus contracts to crackling firelights that then die out. The Sorcerer has left the building.

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