Pubescent Blackmail

June 01, 2015:

Amora gets blackmailed by a pubescent little shit known as Mordred.



NPCs: Mordred


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

The store is closed. Even as Amora shows up at the door, probably with some intent to continue trying not to be bored with her latest interest, the store is definitely closed. Her strongest magics would have a hard time even denting the locks put on this damn magic shop, in fact.

Of course, there's the kid sitting over there, on the curb, looking at the doors to the magic shop like he wants to burn them to cinders.

You know what? That is really fucking irritating. It took the statuesque blonde in the green sequined mini dress a moment to realize just how irksome this upstart human's wards were, thinking at first she's brush them aside like so many cobwebs but… nope. And after a passing first try, and narrow-eyed second attempt and finally a quite earnest and focused third attempt, Amora stands scowling on his front step, her hands clutched into fists and finally… stomps her high heel shod foot. Clack!

"… put a demon inside a monkey and watch him start giving himself airs and graces…" She mutters before whipping her head around to look right and left, her eyes sliding right over the angry looking child at first before she bothers to wonder what /he/ has to be so peevish about.

"It's not the demon that makes him so formidable. It's his experience," the young boy says with a tilt of his imperious chin upwards, as he eyes Amora. "You are Amora the Enchantress, goddess of sorcery of the Aesir, are you not?" There is a sharp, old-world tone to his voice.

Oh god, autographs. Amora sighs a soft, longsuffering sigh as she rakes a perfectly manicured hand through her luxurious blonde tresses. It?s hard to be a goddess, what with all the supplication and abject worship and all. It gets tiring. "Mmm-hmm. Do you know when he'll be back small child?"

Wait, is this normal? There hasn't been actually a ton of worshipers that she's noticed, and upon reflection it seems odd that some oddly well-spoken boy would be the first… Her head tilts a bit to one side as she finally gets 'round to giving the child her full attention. "Who… or what… are you, boy?"

"It took you a longer moment than I thought. You're growing complacent in this realm," the young boy tells her. He pushes himself to his feet. He's in a pair of skinny jeans and a blue t-shirt with a broken sword on it. "I am Mordred, son of the Witch."

Eh. There's a little twitch of her delicately sloped shoulders as the goddess turns, resting a hip on the railing of the shop's front stair and looking the child up and down with a faint but growing glimmer of interest. "/Generally/ there has yet to be much worth my interest." She laments airily, her green eyes winding her way back to the boy's face and the serious, hostile expression at odds with his juvenile features.

"Mmm…" She says pursing her lips for an instant. "I seem to recall something about your linage. Your mother was it? And the shopkeeper." There's the smallest twitch of a smile that tugs at one corner of her mouth. "What I recall suggests this is an unlikely place for you to be paying a social call.."

"I was waiting for you. The Erinyes told me you would be here at this hour." Mordred lifts a hand and drags his fingers through his dark, black hair, pushing it back. His eyes are a little sunken in, dark bags under them, but they're blue; though it's not bright. It is a dark blue, shiftless and still. "He would never let me into his shop."

"Then you haven't practiced enough." Amora replies, untroubled by modesty and looking arch and confident irrespective of the truthfulness of her implied ability to goddess her way through his magical barriers. She turns, descending the short concrete staircase with a serpentine sway and approaching the angry young wizard. "And what, pray tell, do you require, Son of the Witch? What brings you to the doorstep of the creature your mother betrayed?"

"It's not that I haven't tried, but you couldn't get in either, so your critique is misplaced," Mordred points out. He shrugs, petulantly, and says, "I want something he has hidden within. An amulet that is rightfully mine." It's always 'rightfully theirs' when an asshole villain wants something they don't have anymore.

Already this is getting boring. Amora's pale brows lift incredulously as the sad story of the stolen locket is laid out for her. To say she looks skeptical would be an understatement.

"My observation thus far…" She drawls back at him in a voice as dry as the Sahara desert, "is that the shopkeeper is dreadfully, /tediously/ moral. It seems rather… unlikely that he would steal anything /rightfully/ yours. But perhaps there's a story there…" She muses, letting her gaze drift up towards the twinkle of the city lights. "… or perhaps, just perhaps… there's the faintest reason I should care about any of this."

"There is." Mordred smiles a little bit and then says, "My mother, Morgan La Fey, has been casting a spell since you showed here; and she has been channeling it through me. We're binding your physical form to this plane of existence. In fact, we've bound it. It's a miracle what a little spell cloaking can achieve when your victim is busy trying to decide whether to listen to a child or not." Mordred shrugs. "If you ever want to see Asgard again? You'll get my amulet."

He could be bluffing…

What? The audacity of just making such a claim is enough to narrow Amora's green eyes and make her glare at the boy. And while it's naturally /impossible/ that he could be telling the truth, its reflexive for Amora to just… check.

There's the littlest twitch of her fingers. And then a sudden widening of her eyes.

An instant later her hand is around the boy's throat and his feet are dangling a few inches from the ground. You don't have to be a trained fighter to just… squeeze. Just a little at first. "Your mother doesn't love you very much, does she, Son of the Witch."

"Go ahead. S-squeeze. Do you really think m-my mother is g-going to ever let you go back i-if you kill me?" Mordred doesn't even try to get away. He just hangs from her hand like a rag doll, choking a little bit from his own weight, looking at her with a smug glint to his eyes.

"I am more powerful than your mother, boy." Amora intones in a voice like doom. "If that were not so, then you both wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to enlist my aid, would you? You would have just gotten your own blasted locket." Her fingers tighten just a little bit more before she purrs maliciously, "You should have asked /nicely/."

An instant later he's sailing through the air, tossed casually as a wadded up napkin into the streetlight pole with a muffled clang.


Mordred drops to the street.

And then promptly starts to pick himself up. "I didn't survive two thousand years by being vulnerable to sudden impacts. The creation of automobiles came long before seatbelts, after all." He brushes his shirt off. "And we don't need you because we're not as powerful. We need you because he lets you inside the shop. It's not about power. It's about trust. Maybe Loki has eroded your understanding of the concept?"

"Two thousand years? You're just a baby." Amora murmurs, making a fluttery little gesture with her fingertips as a suddenly tangible lash of air lashes out to snap at Mordred's cheek. "It's a pity that you shant live to see two-thousand-and-one. But did you seriously think that you could compel me to serve you through /force/?" A snort and an imperious toss of her head and she says, "If anyone's understanding is suspect here, it would be you and your wretched cow of a mother."

Mordred gets knocked a bit to the side by the sudden lash of wind, and he raises a hand up to his cheek to rub a bit. "Well. When you change your mind, and you have the Amulet of Kloh, we'll be in touch. Until then… we'll tell Odin you said 'hello'." And then Mordred lifts both hands up, and claps them, vanishing in a wisp of smoke.

There's a noise from behind her. Something like a lock being undone.

If the look on Amora's fair face as Mordred makes his goodbyes is any indication, his tact in making her acquaintance seems likely to backfire. Perhaps immediately, perhaps a hundred years hence, but at some point… her eyes promise him vengeance and more for his brazenness.

And then he's gone and she's standing there, uncertainly weighing her options. Loki? That sounds exhausting AND embarrassing. No, surely she can sort this out on her own, she thinks, before turning towards the sound of the click to see what fresh irritant Midgard has conjured.

Jason steps out of the shop, and blinks at the emerald-clad sorceress. "… Amora. I'm beginning to think you are stalking me. I'm not averse to appreciating the sentiment, but I'll confess to some trepidation." Or, more likely, unhealthy curiosity.

A half an hour ago she would have delighted in the opportunity to torment the red-haired knight, but just this second she's… distracted. Still, it only takes her a moment to banish her malevolent expression and recover her smile, turning towards the sound of his voice with a swish of golden hair and sequined hips. "Midgard offers a shocking dearth of interesting company." She purrs, letting her gaze drift from his face and slowly downward to his wrist, brushed by the tips of her fingers an instant later before she peeks across at him through her lashes. "Though if you have a more compelling engagement this evening…"

Does he? She seems to think that she's likely to have made him the best offer he's likely to get for the moment. Besides, what's a little danger? It keeps you on your toes.

"I was going to go grocery shopping," Jason admits after a brief pause. "I'm not sure you're ready to brave the horrid depths of ''supermarkets'', Amora." He smirks a little.

La-ha! She coos an amused laugh, her fingers curling against his wrist as she edges a step closer, enveloping him in the scent of sun-warmed golden apples. "As treacherous a journey as it might be, I have faith that you would be devout in your attempts to keep me from harm, Sir Knight." She purrs, leaving her fingers resting there as she shrugs a tiny shrug and adds, "… and markets are enjoyable. The bustle and commerce. I am assuming that your 'super' market is especially large?"

Jason bites back a laugh and says, "Oh, they're large all right." This ought to be hilarious.

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