Deeper Designs

May 04, 2017:

Mattias is still crawling his way through his birthday celebration, and finds answers to questions…

That bring more questions and an answer he was not expecting in the form of The Enchantress.

Lower Manhattan - New York City - Club Obscure

The southern end of the island of Manhattan is the seat of Wall Street and
City Hall. Bounded by the Hudson on the west, the East River on the east,
and the harbor to the south, it's a veritable mosaic of smaller, storied
neighborhoods that fill in the patchwork south of 14th street. From the
arts-friendly, boutique-laden, gentrified areas of Greenwich Village, SoHo,
and TriBeCa, to the tenement dwelling, immigrant-filled, working class
districts in the Lower East Side, Bowery, Little Italy, Lower Manhattan is
one of the most diverse places in the city. Just about anything can be found
here, and often is.

((Club desc in RP))

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions: Loki

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Clubs line the strip, and at this hour, neon lights cast a pulsing light of varying colors, also casting darker shadows that seem to "run" with every rhythmic shuttle of light along the narrow fluorescent tubing that simply guides the (dis)abled bodies from one to the next place.

Velvet ropes of green hang in bowed extensions from one pole to the next, forcing a line if entry is wanted into the Club 'Obscure'. A bit more upscale perhaps, but then again when ID's are checked, so are the almos adulterous sweeps of the figures before the bounders. One man and woman protest as they are literally lifted like little dolls, and set on the other side of the ropes and given a child-scorning shove towards the other rows of bars and clubs.
"We're of age!!"
"What the *Hiccup*'ell?? We got rights!!"

"You, him, everyone else here." One of the massive guards mutters, the other offering a throaty chuckle. Oafs, one word, describing both, if not 'Orks', by their build and attitude alone, as well as that smile that annunciates smiles bearing more underbite in the flash of teeth as they resume permitting passage, or denying.

One rowdy collegiate frat boy gets launched up and over the ropes, his tuck-and-roll not on point and saggy pants as well as Cardinal's ball-cap end up somewhere at his ankles while road rash becomes his nights "thing".
"That's for the Team. You took one for them." The other grunts his laughter and they return to place.

It's a job for them, but one that may draw curiosity, or the ropes alone that form a corral doing just that, lining them up, then shuffling them like a deck of cards.

Inside the club though, large wooden doors coated in a mesh of almost iron grating are what forms the main entry, unfolding to the black lacquered flooring that leads through security detail, coat check, and down a few steps rimmed in a light green neon cast to show where foot-placement should be had. But down two steps… The fog rolls over the ground, making it obscured from lower calves on down, so if you slip… Worry later…

A split is formed, the place does not just cater to one, it caters to all.
The left side bears neon lighting, beer signs, vanity openers, kegs, drafts, and shots… Wooden stools, a scraped up wooden bar that bears burrows along it's surface as if Coyote Ugly occurs here. The hollers and cheers almost seem unheard from the main vantage of the bottom of those illuminated stairs.

To the right, tables are laid out, gambling, betting, dealing, small screens flicker what is not truly played before hands, waitresses almost bearing a style that caters to the speakeasy, and yet… Modern tryst while trays handle more aged alcohols.

Split between the two? A stage, as all of this just may be….
But if you walk just beside and head back, parting on one side, a saloon door, on the other a door made of beaded and crystalline strings…
Stairs wind upwards and doors once more vary , but along the banister where you can look down upon the stage and below, cages can be viewed, hanging from the lofted almost 'warehouse' ceiling above, as well as the comings and goings //between
, but here a slender bar winds for placement upon the banister for ordered drinks and those of the voyeurs.

Right where the stairs land in their spiral to the second floor, and just behind a third set picks up, there is a 'balcony', more centered then the rest, and it has its own flickering light as a small screen plays on a tablet before a woman whose eyes are focused upon the security reels. It was like a game…
One sweep of finger to the right and they are gone, to the left… And that door on the main (sub) level opens…

Mattias Larsson is not so lost in a city that he's begun to understand the complex layout of. The streets are all named differently; the signs are in a dozen languages that he may not be able to read, but he can understand the hundreds of dialects shouted from taxicab, to streetside stand, to Korean butcher's shop. He's always finding new routes, new buildings to explore, and in this night…a club he'd never quite noticed before in his dozens of cab rides past the place.

When Mattias enters, his eyes are barely reflective. He'd gone from bar to bar and the cash in his dangling chain wallet has diminished to a trio of twenty dollar bills. The human meat-golems at the door receive a quiet grunt and a tick of his brows upon entering. The leather jacket he wears is scuffed enough at the elbows and the leftover blood from a concert has made some of the pseudo-Luciferian lettering on the back run pink, but not from tonight. Skulls and the goat-face of Baphomet are gray now, tingling with the leftover, dried ink of blood of a kraken.

On the tiniest, least mortal-noticeable level, Mattias strides into Obscure, smelling faintly of beasts he's battled, sweat, the cloying scent of alcohol from the last three bars, and the cheap cologne on his knuckles from a six foot tall college football type who'd learned four bars back that Mattias could lift a man as high against a wall as his arms would allow. With ease.

Hair framing his eyes and whispering against a faded shirt that reads: NEVERMORE, Mattias is walking from room to room with the curiosity that comes from house parties. The strongest beer he could find on hand is in a frosty pint against his knuckles as he peeks into the Silver Bullet room, watching the crowd cheer, then for another five minutes overseeing the casino.

The door clicks open.
Mattias turns to look to it.
With a sip of his beer, the week of his birthday is looking up, and without any friends daring the nightlife of the city (truly, a man as strong and as capable as he is his own bodyguard), Mattias turns through the door to ascend higher into the club.

Some rabbit holes lead down.
Others, lead up.

Are you feeling pretty?
Universally adored?

Mattias is allowed in, but in reflection of the tablet screen, those pale green eyes of jade lighten in the narrow instead of cast a darker glow. Can jade become arctic?.
It does…

"Midnight lock down. Seal the doors!"
"We got 5 more min—-"
"You arguing with me, Gul?"
Radio Silence.

The Club itself, inside, carries on, while the line outside is siphoned off and filtered out with passes or discards for the night on the 'morrow.

"Max capacity. The Marshall asked nicely…" The lips unpainted, and yet bearing a thrushed red call to the comms before they shut off and she is on silence.

The music pulses, radiating the place, the lights flickering to accent the atmosphere, but now Amora rises and peels from the shadowed seat, coming to the arched lip of her balcony.
Pale hand curl fingers around the banister as she watches, braids slither over bare shoulders to dangle before the loop of emerald dress that loops around her body like a lasso'd serpent. A catch around slender neck, a cross along chest, a stretch to expand over the birth of hips and cling to upper thighs with the press forward. Thighs exposed, unclad, and just beneath knees gladiator sandals lace downward to stiletto heels that alter her height to….

Well over six foot, but where laces seem to keep the wrappings of fabric there are small 'tufts' of fur, lining just along the small valleys made in shadow by the press of shoulders as she watches the masses…
..and the ascent of Mattias.

"Serve him the ber-serkir."

Are you feeling awesome?
Everybody loves a Queen.
See your state of awesome,
High and low, and in-between…

Mattias ascends the stairs with his curiosity held forth. His shoulders are back and his blue eyes lift to the path above. Midgard-brewed beer in his glass wavering with each step, he holds it in an over-handed grip, palm against the top, keeping it safe. Though the sounds of the cheering, whistling, and gambling grow further away, the man is over six feet of muscle and the fearless confidence of someone who's yet to be served his match. He need not sneak.
The men at the door didn't look so tough.

The steel-toed boot makes a dull sound against the floor at the second floor's landing. Blonde hair framed in shadows that pull against the dim lighting, he strolls in his lonesome down the catwalk that overlooks the cages hanging. He trails a fingertip along the bannister, sipping from his glass of beer, counting the souls he sees below.

He turns to find one of the serving staff with a tray setting down an iced mug of a different selection of ale with the froth scraped off of the top. His brows pitch together.

"I didn't order another." Mattias explains when the server smiles, motioning to the glass that it's truly been delivered for him. Quietly, she bids him to enjoy, then leaves back down the stairs from whence he came.

The old glass is set down.
The new is taken into his hands.

The wayward Asgardian, cast by strange magics down to Midgard from the treachery of Malekith himself, casts his tongue to the corner of his mouth while he hovers his nose above the mug, breathing in the sensation that comes from the bubbles popping and cracking against his lips.

He lifts the mug against his lips and swallows his first sampling of the ber-serkir ale.

There is no cough.
There is no wavering.

Mattias wags his brows over the mug and turns his back to the stairwell, content to carry his new friend, an alcohol that can pierce his liver, for one last trip down the other side of the walkway, counting the cages on the other side.

Amora finally surfaces…
..A stroke of pale hand along the banister..

A flicker of lighting and she watches,
waits..

"In all the years, who do you seek?" A slithering traipseof body that gathers emerald fabric in a -hike- along her right hip, casting it over the 'mount' of pale flesh as she presents herself, and utters towards Mattias.
Human? He would die of alcohol poison.
Mutant? It would comatose him for days.

Theirs? He would challenge her…
For now…

Amora finally surfaces…
..A stroke of pale hand along the banister..

A flicker of lighting and she watches,
waits..

"In all the years, who do you seek?" A slithering traipseof body that gathers emerald fabric in a -hike- along her right hip, casting it over the 'mount' of pale flesh as she presents herself, and utters towards Mattias.
Human? He would die of alcohol poison.
Mutant? It would comatose him for days.

Theirs? He would challenge her…
For now..

Exposed hip is lofted, arched, slid along the banister he has a hand placed upon while his pale gaze is upon the cages…

A roll of neck, those braids, slip away and dangle over the flooring below while her gaze is upon emptiness. "Do you want the cages filled?" And like the touch in Oblivion, fingertips loft, but instead of tipping his drink, when he peers between the cages bear bodies that paint along cold steel and offer up an entertainment of women that are only capturedbecause they wish to be…

Then there is Amora, reclined against the banister, that smile half-cocked just like that of the prop of elbows along the banister, teetering fearlessly over the floor two reaches below.

But when she looks at Mattias… watches him, her eyes are almost pale in hue against the lighting… Leaving pupils all to bear… No color… Save what twines about her svelte frame and the thrust of hips' contour where fabric takes its own life-or-death, cling…

"What is your name… Boy" The final word, one of test, one of trial…

PUSH.

Seek.
Who does Mattias Larsson seek?

The unfamiliar voice brings Mattias Larsson's muscular frame to turn on the heel of his boot. One layer of chain swings about his hip, battering the jean fabric that clads his legs down to the concealed steel cap in his boot. He tucks a thumb in the skull-faced buckle of his belt, frowning at first that he'd be interrupted why keeping company with himself, enjoying his people-watching from a tall height.

The ale has only helped him to focus on his good time.
Did he ask for company?

Though…that dress.

Mattias blinks his cerulean eyes over the mug's lip as he drinks. Swallowing another demigod-sized portion, his eyes take the grand tour. From her pale eyes and down to the cling of the dress against her curves, his eyes come to a stop upon her legs before he ends his world tour with a brash twist of his lip.

She called him…boy.
This will not do.

"Do you need help getting into one of those cages, lady?" Mattias counters with a humored narrow to his eyes. She's tall, but she's curvaceous. His nose flares like a bear stabbing a paw into a freezing river for a fish.

He steps forward with a roll of his neck that sends sinew popping. Challenging her in return, he doesn't bother leaving his drink behind. He's not yet angered to the point of fighting, he's a few sips yet into that.

"This man is named Mattias," He continues, voice a warning tone to her despite the extra flick of his eyes down to her exposed navel. The tiny hammer on a leather cord bounces against his chest, words reverberating against it. "And the person I seek wouldn't have to call me boy for me to force his body through those cages, whether his skeleton could handle it or not. So spare me the tiny women in the cages long enough to understand this." Mattias comes to a stop, just within arm's reach of the woman.

"Do not call me boy."

Mattias pauses, pregnantly, dramatically.

"I am a man." A beat.
"And you don't want to take first place in line in front of the elf."

He challenged…
She knew it!

All his words, all those offerings he wanted to give her. Amora simply lifted her own glass of her own Ber, to her lips and sip. Lips touch to glass, the golden honey hue tapping upon pillowed tier before she kips corners of lips up and knocks the entirety back in a drain!

"Shove me in a cage, Mattias, I dare you!" And the empty glass is extended over the floor below them where gambling and ale is fruitful…
But now her hand recoils, fingers curl, and glass -shatters- to descend below in a snowfall of reflective-clear.

His eyes may scathe over Amora's body, what is exposed by the dress that leaves diamond(back) patterns agape, a pale contrast of venom against the jaden aboriginal origins… Honed figure, that once she fully rises easily is a meet for Mattias' height, those pleated locks bearing tiny 'puscles, of bone at the edges, whispering into the fur that lines along shoulders and paints edges along pale skin…

"You name an elf! Yet threaten Me!. His name better be above…" A pause, that hammer at his throat and plexus…
Brows dip and she reaches for it, seeking to gather it in clutches, attached or not!
"Of Odin, who is your elf?" But that maleficence does not dwindle, even fingers seek to spindle the cord attached to Mattias' neck…
Spider to the fly…?

…."Do you not know a test…" If he does not withdraw in force… she is raveling him in closer
.. Just to listen…?

"No, seriously, I will put you in one of those cages, break the lock-" Mattias snaps a finger out towards her face while she divebombs her glass to the club below. Facing down his challenge, his broad shoulders clench in a sudden hackle that ripples a space between his pectoral muscles straining against his tee shirt. Fingers roll, rattling off the sound of bubble-wrap popping in a quick reforming of his pointed finger. "-and pour myself another drink before I leave."

She's not backing down.
Mattias' pupils constrict, darkening into pinholes as the challenge is met at eye level. His upper lip peels back, revealing a row of glistening white teeth that sway left to right in a warning shake of his head.

Mattias' hand lifts, pressing back against her shoulder. Were he from Midgard, he wouldn't be able to save himself from her grasp, but beneath layers of leather jacket, his biceps ripen and sinew pulls, pressing hard against the woman, forming a wall of force against her grip.

"I don't remember owing you any answers."
The cheap leather cord strains, the dark color to the leather lightening at the back of his neck as it prepares to tear. The silver pendant dangles from Amora's tightening grasp, flickering in black divots a Swedish artist's name, ending in a stylized (tm).

"I see you've gone…"
Mattias' nostrils flare in the twist of his powerful neck muscles, holding back her draw of the necklace for as long as the cheap leather will allow it.
"…for giving orders to asking questions."

And then, the displaced Mattias Larsson makes a mistake. Not one trained in the art of diplomacy or the pulse of a court, a warrior, a survivor, a mystery, his words that follow are fearless, but words that dig more than they challenge.

"Name the elf, win a prize." Mattias growls with a tightening of his fingers against her shoulder. "But that pendant was a gift from my mother." He clarifies, returning his Ber-fueled venom pound for pound. "Do. Not."

Fingers curl
The glass that shatters and very weel should be dangerous to thise below turns to a glisten, a glitter they rise into and smile!

I saw,
something in your eyes…
I wanted it for //myself
..//

That curl of his fingers may have broken bones, but when his fist of threat, meets her, the onyl thinghe gets its a light and pale possibility of brusing, before it fades away.
and thse nearly iris'less eyes slither back his way with a devil-may-care, tilt to lips only painted in the stroke of tongue as her crooked finger gives him no bidden release.

"Shove me in a cage, Mattiasss~, see how far you go before you see the lie you create…" No, Enchantress does not render the emblem from his neck, but she holds tight and where he is pulled forward,
The Lady in Green rocks forwards, like a wave broken from the precipice…
Towards him…

"Have another drink." Back to orders, but then again, that glass is easily lofted just besie them while the glitter-painted bodies disappear and are no lnger upon the floors beneath them.

"I. Do. Not..
…Yet." A glance to that necklace, the name, his meaning, all the while pale threads interwoven with starlit silver hue spill along her back, a 'spanse exposed like the rest, but crossed in sparse fabric and lacing of moss threads.

Mattias Larsson comes face to face with the woman. His brows flex inches from hers in their boiling, cro-magnon manner. The peace in his eyes has been reduced to two icy orbs in which visions of finding whatever vengeance has burrowed under his skin reside. There is no gentle giant to be found in the alchemical poison that has found hold in his veins, pumping through his racing heart.
He seethes.
His blood sings for things long left undefined in his genetic code.

With her back to him, suddenly, the range of red pitting Mattias' peripheral vision pulls back to remember the room about him. He'd nearly forgotten the mug in his hand, and with daggers glaring at her back, he lifts the mug to his lips for a long pull that was his idea, anyway, damn her.

I'll drink when I choose." Mattias scolds at her back and summons up his abdomen. Voice made hollow by the echo in the glass, he swallows the last of his drink and slams the glass onto the runner with a loud bang. The frustration and war-lust is almost so great that he doesn't collect the glittering stardust cast upon her back and down below.

Mattias stares. His eyes, now lined with further glass in a buzz that warms his body, trail the strange magical sense that spills its way to her hips.

Magic. Or so it seems.

"STOP TOYING WITH ME!" Mattias barks roughly and storms forward. The creak of leather at his elbow signals a sudden lashing out of his arm to grab the woman around the arm. "Tell me what you know! Tell me where he is." Mattias commands, all but ready to storm out into the street with but an address, but the grip of his fingers is violent, not yet denying that she's another foe to face. "I tire of these tricks and games. If you know who this elf is, stop fucking with me and tell me." Mattias yells in his attempt to spin Amora around. He draws his fist back and slams it down on the bannister, splintering wood all about them. "If it's you, show yourself. Show me your blue face. Stop hiding from me and -face- me."

… Through Rage, they know Peace…
// With this was connected a great hot-headedness, which at last gave over into a great rage, under which they howled as wild animals, bit the edge of their shields, and cut down everything they met without discriminating between friend or foe. When this condition ceased, a great dulling of the mind and feebleness followed, which could last for one or several days.//

No, he may not have been gentle, he is not… He is of Asgard, and this is assured in the manner he takes his drink, but when he faces off with her, that pin-pricked focus is met with one of a cool demeanor, a (bi)frost over the green that seeks to end, but cannot manage to keep a hold upon the ice.

One hand rises,
fingertips barely whisper along his jaw at the challenge..

Enchantress turns away, a fight for another day…

But her back to him she felt those daggers of his (bewitched)drunken gaze before the grip that nearly spun her to about-face. Now that flourish comes as wood shatters beside them like its own form of confetti!
Head tilts to the side,
one eye closes…
Opposing hand grips his jaw and seeks to snap his head forward, to gain his focus.

Eyes met?

The splinters fall to the second tier balcony like her own sharded glitter did to the main, but this time eyes are shifted, and time seemingly stands-still, people gone, but those bits of tormented shrapnel hanging in their limbo-of-tormentuous…

"Tire?" A cock of one split upon tiers…
"You have not even started, Mattias-/Ber/…." In those words, she leans forward, barely even drawing the fullness of lower lip over his own, a breath like a breeze, the touch like an illusion, but it felt like those shards
… Still hanging in a "stasis"…
…Drew there in that stead of plush.

"I will ask for his company…" A soft tenor then, and Enchantress smiles.

My, how things change. Mere minutes ago Mattias Larsson was placidly polite in the offer of another ale, seemingly on the house. Tall and as proud as he was, the purpose of his mission was contained within a wall of restraint; a battle left for another day. The ber-ale, a poison new to his tongue and his body, tore open miles of wooden blocks over his troubles like a handful of uncooked spaghetti broken in half.
The tiny flecks fall to the floor.
The splinters hang in the air.
Like uncooked spaghetti.

Hands down, fingertips twitching, one hand moves to thrust up between their bodies to grip at Amora's throat and hold her at bay, but her lips find his and…everything stops. The feral snarl that bows the edge of his mouth is a contrast to his plump, lower lip, and when their lips meet…a gusted sigh follows. The first hiss of air leaving an air mattress, Mattias Larson's fingers never make it to her throat.
His hand lowers, slowly.
Mattias…hesitates.

Once the kiss, she ceases to be his potential enemy.

Aching muscles pinned against his collarbones unclench. The breath he was holding in his ridged abdomen tightens, then relaxes. The curl in his lip recedes.

"He is dangerous to you. His company is filled with lies." Mattias breathes in a raw, throaty way. His eyes unfocus, lowering to her mouth. His body holds in place, pensive, attention peaked, eyes waiting for words to form on her lips; words he has decided, suddenly, to become receptive to.

"If you ask for his company…I want to be there."

Shards of glass, broken things…

    Mattias was allowed a moment to see clearly. Yes, that woman before him he desired to bring to a gasping breath… Deserved it. Every moment. Down to the last.
        But sensations… is the mindkiller, not fear.

Danger is titillating, raising the hairs within every pore and making a curiosity form before that of a parsing of common sense.
        And that does not negate Amora from the equation.

Malekith~ … The name alone like the coils of a serpent unraveling from the suffocationof prey.
    Amora knows his name, and knows not to speak it, much akin to the reign of glass that scrapes between self and….
        A splay of palms comes between herself and Mattias at his words, knowing better, but despite the splay of fingers over the ‘spanse of his chest and the cloth that covets…
    She smiles.

The dark face is flickering, a shadow beneath beats and pulses of light… A box held… Elongated nails curved and hooked into it..
    ”Do not trifle in the affairs…” (Years ago)
            The cackle emitted is almost ichorous…

”You…” A word (name)  born on Enchantress’ exhale, the hand hovered before her throat pressed upon with a single digit to make it fall back towards his side in a slow drag like a brush-stroke over an imaginary canvas.

The smile that curls her lips is almost akin to a grinch, but her heart cannot grow any sizes, it simply thunders against her chest while Mattias is given a look anew with a sweep of that gaze slowly losing it’s pigment within iris’. Pupils floating in oculi of smoky-white.

“No.” A single word in response to his own demand, a hand lifting to splay fingers over his facade - a thing cut by the gods and befitting his place. (Perfect… But not)…
        This alone setting that force behind the grip upon him that… Could have cast… Him - away?
    Back?
        To forget…?

So far he has passed… Pressed…

“Too soon in the cycles,” A pass of hand, lifting where two single digits cast a golden hue of sigil in their periphery..
    Were they still that close, for so long?
        “What is you given-name?” Last name.

A breeze, a breath forgotten to be taken washed between them and Amora is back where she started in a blink, that chaise occupied as shards begin to impact the floor in slow motion.
    One.
        At.
            A.
                Time…

Trapped.
Though, he doesn't know it.

The dialing back of the rage in Mattias Larsson's blood leaves his eyes reflective and dizzied. That the woman before him has become a living intoxicant has done little to satisfy the hunger in his eyes for his questions to become answered. The part of his Asgardian soul that still desires such closure is firm, but has become realigned with the touch of Amora's lips. Priorities shift in labyrinthine parallels, visible within his very eyes at so short a distance.

His desires have been recalculated.
His will is strong.

The poisonous control she's breathed into his lips fires synapses, twisting his desires into focus upon the tall, powerful sorceress. What he seeks is what she seeks, for the desire to follow and be led, is a path in which she wouldn't lead him astray.

She's right.

The granite slab of his chest rises to her touch, heart skipping a beat. His youthful features slacken with parted lips, pinned under Amora's gaze like a moth to a board. A captive audience, he stares down the thousands of miles he witnesses in her pale eyes, seeing far through infinity, fingertips twitching with awe as she touches his face.

She tells him no.
His cheek grazes her fingers, a hopeful gesture.
A ghost of a sigh crosses his lips, only barely disappointed.
She is right.

Heavy lids snap down in a blink. A mote of yearning dances in the shackles of Mattias’ eyes. His leather jacket, smelling of his past battles, cracks at the elbows as both hands lift with opened sleeves, zippers dangling, to smear a fingertip over the ghostly remnant of Amora's lips on his. The mundane trinket that bears the Midgardian imagined girth of Mjolnir, tales much weaker creatures told each other for centuries while living in the mud and idolizing beings who are very, very real, sways.

“I don't know.”

Mattias rubs his fingers over his face, scrubbing away his lack of taste for an answer that is more true than he would have dared admit minutes ago. The deeply personal revelation has him taking one step forward to present himself to Amora, feet kept in a wide stance, toes pressing down in his boots to keep his heels light.

He has been trained. His ankles curve from heel to toe like a dark elf.

Only a dark elf would teach such things to one so young.

“My mother's name is Larsson, but my father is a mystery to me. She sought help with the pregnancy, and a fertility doctor assisted her, but the name of my father is sealed.” Mattias presses the tip of his tongue to the bottom of his upper teeth, holding it there to conceal what would surely be a frown for the admission. Before the frown comes, his eyebrows tilt, seeking her pale eyes for her wisdom, her sympathy, one more touch. “But the Doctor kept the records, he said, would show me one day, he said, but…he was no doctor. He was something…else.”

Mattias lowers his fingers from his chin. Leather creaks and his feet shuffle, as his powerful arms slide behind his back to loosely grip his wrist, an unguarded stance. For her.

“A dark-haired man I met said he may have a way to guide me.” Mattias shakes his head, a quick disbelief. “But I do not think he knew my given name, either.” Mattias adds, eyes reaching across the distance to stare into hers.

“He gave me a number to call.”

Honesty, now, yields another reward.

“He claimed to be Loki.” A beat passes. “From the legends.”

Time… Is of no essence for them.
So when the damage inflicted around them ceases to fall in the seconds it should, it does not matter…
Not even creation matters as it all comes undone..

But the Nordic blonde woman curls upon the chaise as if it is the basket the cobra belongs coiled within, those stilettoed heels of gladiator leather straps and laces tuck up along the contours of the serpent in all her glory, spires poised at the curve of posterior where moss clings for survival of the fittest.

Hip cocked, her body arches and bends in the same amount of shadowed danger to provide the lean where her arm draped over the bowed back of the chaise rest, elbow crooking, dimpling into plush fabric, pushed into dimples of velvet-noir like the vintage furnishing it is, even the legs that hold it aloft a solid wood, the ‘feet’ clawed and tipped in such of a silver, burrowing into the flooring beneath like hooked nails.

Fingertips still bore that tingle, lips still burned as if cracked but no essence slipped forth seem the sweep of tongue over lower pillow of flesh to test
    When his hand touched his cheek, that honed ridge where the cusp of palm had come to meet…
        Fingers splayed, recoiled, fisted.

Pale eyes settle upon his in a meet, that calm a subtle ploy, but it does not even show as her chin lifts, the contours of jaw cast a shadow beneath that only ripples with the working of throat that hollows the point just betwixt collar bones, a resting place where his thumb would have met along the swan-like bend —-
    Amora’s head tilts, ever so slightly, a braid sweeping over bare shoulder to descend, sweeping to and fro over cloth and settling just as more of those slivers of their reality hit the ground and spread outward - an impact they do not see as time…    
                                    Stands, slowed. Forgotten.

//I can feel the knife carving…   

    …How can I trust you?!//

Amora’s eyes narrow as Mattias speaks. His sur-name given drawing a deeper curiosity that is evident in the flicker of eyes that go from his stature, to his feet (the way they plants and stance), back to his features.

Something in his words through causes her shoulders to draw rigid, the evident tension of sinew curling over the cusp of exposed appendages, down to the fact that fingers even stretch and then curl into that fabric pressed out along the rest like a wave.

The dimples within are not man-made. They become Goddess made as subtle pops give tell of the fabric succumbing to that grip while eyes, upon Mattias remain unchanging, and her smile grows into something foreboding,
something that could bring a storm borne of apathy.

“I need locations…” But now, as a muscle subtly beneath a single lid accented by kohl jumps and flickers beneath a pale verdant reflection that bears his very outline in the depths as if it has become the pupil. “Tell me of this doctor… Mattias, Son of Lars.”

One hand extends, an offering, palm up, fingers un-anchoring from the upholstery to unfurl and offer out to him, a gesture to bring him to her side.

“…and this Loki… Perhaps he is due a call, hm?” A lift of brow and with it, like strings were tugged, that corner of manicured brow also gives a *tic* towards the ‘heavens’.

The thumb tucked deep within the rounded buckle, a skull-faced buckle of tarnished metal, clicks against the latches that secure the leather to the face. One fingertip bats against the missing nose of the skull, two hollow, teardrop-shaped pockets in the steel, filled in with paint to accent their presence on the focal point of Mattias’ belt. Legs forming a towering, inverted V, Mattias remains in place, ignoring the timeless way the splinters hang in the air, though the chain dangles from his backside, swaying behind one of his legs in a way Amora’s tilted angle could only see.

“Gothenburg. Sweden.” Mattias replies, skipping over the revelation of where his Midgardian parents are in what, at the time, seems simple information to him. His chin lifts with the words, casting his own shadow upon a jawline that is wolfen, powerful, and unscarred. The warrior presents his answer with unweary brows and the cracked sheen of his eyes, somewhere desperately ready to slink into a bath with the receding rage.

    It’s been a long birthday.
        It would have been better, where I belong

When Mattias Larsson steps forward for the offered slender digits, he does so with his thumb remained tucked in his belt. His palm brushes free down the lettering of his NEVERMORE concert tee shirt, a proper response to not stain her fingers with whatever shards of wood, drops of ale, or microscopic dirt that remains. With temple-like reverence, he extends his hand to her in approach, sliding his palm over hers before curling his fingers against the inside of her fingers, clasping, matching the mote of strength in his grasp with the downward gaze of his blues into her sea of pale, hued attention.

“He waited until my mother called him, not understanding why I was so strong, why I could teleport, why I was strange. He was quiet until then.” Mattias holds in place, patient for the guiding of her hand to place him at her side, or upon the chaise. His lips bite down into the words, a sign that under other circumstances he would resist, but under her tingling spell and the time having sealed him within her domain, they’re a bitter tale best told with a pint. “He took me in for weeks to run tests, but for all the blood he took, he tested me too weigh my strength, my ability to suck in pain. He brought in people he said would teach me how to be careful, but instead they taught me to fight. Swords, shields, killing blows.” Mattias rolls his lower lip against his upper teeth, leaving two trails of pink flesh in a line where his meat-tearing canines divot.

“Then?” Mattias wets his lips and lets out a hushed laugh, sharing his inside joke with her. “I saw his two-colored face and sharp ears in a mirror. I hit him so hard his back cracked the wall. I left. He followed until I lost him. He didn’t follow me here, I don’t believe, but I’ve been watching for him because I know I was his project of some kind. He wouldn’t let me go so easily.”

Mattias quiets.
    Teeth peel back in a downward cast feral smile to the blonde sorceress before him.
        Arrogance laces across his lips.
            He bows his head in reassurance, fingernails grazing, eyes darkening.

“They say I am a mutant,” Mattias offers lowly, confidence brewing up and over the rims of his eyes. “Loki…if that is who he is, may say otherwise but his card is at my current home, in Westchester. I do not think he is this elf, though. He didn’t try to trap me.”

Mattias’ words slow to a crawl, arm extended, fingers clutched in a recurve bow of arms in waiting for his placement.

“But I would bring this whole city to its knees before they could come within reach of your golden hair or your perfect face.” Mattias crushes his brows low and bares his teeth to her in his promise. “I do not fear them, and neither should you.”

You never make me stay,
        So take your weight off of me..

“Ah, and so it all comes to fit,”  Stated just as his hand met her own and slipped within the proffered curl of fingers. Hers tighten in response, and in that moment he can place the fact that his senses, suspicions… That moment of pause he gave…
                    “All for reason. But now, let us find that reason.”

For a moment he is left to simply stand before her, his hand holding her own.. But with a strength that matches his own, even in such a manner that in that moment as pale ice and frigid moss come to meet in gaze, if he moved to tighten the grip, she would as well. It would not fell this woman.

Here and now. Even as his story unraveled like an ancient scroll laid out before the Head of the table within a Mead Hall, her focus remains, that slither of fingers around the heel of his accepting palm, hook around, parting to split into a ‘v’ around his wrist. Not as sturdy as his stance, but it reciprocated.

Hook…
Slowly she brings him lower to settle beside the crook of bent knees, the bend of abdomen in repose, and the prop of opposing arm that still has yet to move - perhaps just as frozen in time and yet to catch.

Line…
“So /ya/ leave tha’ Accursed, to what end?” Now that accent is slowly lilting from her lips that curl just at the very edges, unmoving as she pulls him into a seat before her, but upon the chaise and tucked within those lax coils of limbs yet to touch save the hands in a clutch that could threaten to turn a moment ever.so.slowly unravelling in broken pieces, to one of a violent accord, creating all the more.
    Whether or not he knew Malekith’s title that words play all the same. That Line. And another, “Nae, not jus’ mutant, Mattia/s/,” Her lips grow into a slightly wider stretch of a smile, flashing her own teeth in a glimpse just behind cracked and revealing lips. “You belong…”

Westchester? Her words pause, as if the Name alone should hold a meaning in the title alone, but it does not, instead it draws a slight tilt of her head that nearly brushes her cheek along her bare shoulder, that curl of her lips not only done but felt as that gesture alone of a smile reaches, and narrows, her eyes.

As if this was that very Mead Hall, the drinks are brought forth, in massive steins, a tray of 5 rested upon the table beside them by one of those door Oafs, who looked so human before, but now?
    Their bodies are massive, humanoid, and yet where muscles /should/ be in a human, or /should not/ they bear them, massive forearms to that of biceps m their faces now seemingly having undergone a reconstruction of a beating worth of Gods, reforming bone structure to something more cro-magnon, shadowing almost white irised eyes and making them look less amicable than at the door - if that could be.

Storm Giants, as those of the (Frost)Jotun are not to ‘trifle’ with… For now, and many years past.
                … For now…

But it is apparent their breed is one of not pure, not totally, if it was the hatred they should have for Amora would eventually break apart, and the Ber would have no flame to hold…

    I know your every move,
            So won't you please let me be?

    Sinker…

“Today was a good day, many years ago, Mattia/s/,” Stated now as Amora slowly rises from her repose, and for that moment it was as if she would coil around him with the way those tucked legs in a fold behind his seat, brush that chain crumpled near his hip vibrating, as it is drug in the press beneath outer thigh while she curves around him to rest just at his side while feet spill over the edge and plant daggered heels to the ground beside his.

Beers are held to them both and her hand finally ‘unhooks’ that grip from his and seeks to slip free in acceptance. “What day is it, Larsson?” Holding the large stein towards him (either in one hand -if he does not release- or in two -large cup, likely helpful but not necessary!-), she offers him a toast, and awaits the answer.

The damnable hammer of a pendant sways like a pendulum in the empty space. Bidden lower and lower, Mattias’ lengthy, blonde locks sweep the air as he allows himself to be guided. In his forward lean, the scent of kraken’s blood on his store-purchased clothing from Midgard is ever-more apparent, as is his latent trust as he’s urged backwards in the realm’s slowest trust fall in history. The backs of his jean-clad thighs settle onto the chaise before Amora, and when he’s guided to sit, the hammer stops swaying.

    If the artist had only ever actually seen the mighty Mjolnir.
        This one has rounded ends.

“My mother is out of this elf’s reach.” With a low voice, sandpapery like whiskey poured over chocolate, Mattias replies. His back to the light, the space between himself and Amora blots over in flickering shadows as he watches her body rise. His neck flushes red, pulse racing, testing the immortal weight of his veins. “It’s me that he wants, not her, and where I am and she is not…is all the better. So I feel I belong far from home, among mutants, where the fight is, even if I don’t know who I am.”

    Drown here in the silence
        Cause down to Hades I’ve gone
            And cannot get out

With his hand freed and his chain brushed aside, Mattias, not without his own sense of boldness, pins his shoulders back and allows his leather jacket to slacken down his biceps. The war-scented jacket, bloody goat-headed stitching, falls from his back and pools behind the chaise a forgotten vestment. The black shirt, another paltry cotton-weave piece of printed merchandise, flexes his collarbones against the fabric, rippling it like the bones they are under a black wave.

    And the shadows…

The shadows and flickering lighting are not so dim to capture the wonder in his eyes at the sight of her ill-bred Jotun. Far too much surprise lines his eyes of blue, lids widening at the sight of the massive creature. His eyes a constant source of disbelief, now, it’s then that he captures the splintered damage from the bannister floating in the air, and the off-white of their eyes. Greed. Greed drips like foul blood into his eyes, betraying years of silent wonder.

    A better world.
        A better place.
            Where Mattias Larsson belongs.
                With the gods he admires so.

The very breath in his throat seizes mid-thought at Amora’s arrival at his side. The apple in his throat bobs past his fluttering pulse to extend his arm past her hips, accepting her, threading his fingers against the wolfen-fur lining upon her dress until it is upon a hip his fingers rest. His free hand, seeking to fill himself with the new palette of sights and sounds, in Amora’s company, loops through the offered handle of the mug, palming it, and pulling it towards his chest.

“I feel alive, tonight.” Mattias offers where he isn’t asked. With a kick of his head to one side, the offending locks of his hair on Amora’s side fling back over his shoulder, freeing his eyes from being robbed of his sight of her. “Far from home like my ancestors who came over here, far from their mothers, from their people.”

Mattias extends his arm. The heavy weight of the mug cracks against hers.

Charmed, Mattias doesn’t even bother trying to hide the pride in his eyes or upon his teeth.

“It’s my birthday. Another year old now, and…I’ve got to have your name.”

“How many years since your birth, now, then?”  But as Amora inquires her hand is pulled from his, those slender fingers clutching the mass of stein like legs of spiders, pale against the darkness off… Ale, but not an ale that bears a familiar scent, or kick, one that already heats the skin before impact is made to take the draught and tip it back…
    See me in the Shadows,
        Songs I will sing - of runes and rings…
                Just me and my harp…

And this night. ~ Amora’s lips crook at the edges, but this time that smile does not meet her eyes, in fact something stopped it as he dared to draw closer, to shed a layer of his skin, and press his fingers through the lining of fur from kin of Fenrir, propped upon her attire as a catch, as her own bait and dare if any who knew..
                                Would know,

As the stein still rocked back, daring to bring base to the ceiling of the Club that is now bearing a different /arch/ to this structure if eyes had studied and dared to look he(a)venward, his grip, that wrap of brazen palm along the lissome curve of hip coated in a fabric that even bore a velveteen of that mossy hue.

A twist of waist, a draw of hip that almost seems as if she would slide from that very seat beside him, legs extended, heelsburrowed for lift of the alpine height until that mact of jacket in descent brings nostrils to a flare…
        The beast of the depths, the fear of ancient crossing, but a welcome death of many, if any - or a battle to be foretold…

It seems offense has been had, her hand gripping the folds of long dead and cured hide, dragging it back up along that side between them while she balances on a precipice.
    Jackets lapel is lifted, but over that shadow of leather she watches Mattias, those Jotun of Storm a non-entity for the moment as an Ancient fills her senses in old blood.

“So you move like the nomad through the lands, alone - All to keep your mother safe from the harms of Curses? Do you know not what you do?” Tgose words stated as a fold of that leather is lifted, stroked with a single curl of index finger that paints the very tip of digit in a red as if she had been -pricked- herself.

“All the while you manage to keep your years and the cycles.” The drop of ichor that smears across her finger now, drawn from the seam of his leather is lifted, balanced just before her lips, but just beneath the tip of nose. The stretch of lips now, is one that softens edges, as even a blunt Mjolnir can crush a skull, and her realization of both use and benefit, what she carries in a streak of days past upon her finger, and a feat worthy of celebration in itself.

    I’ll return from darkness and save your precious skin,
            I’ll end your suffering and let the healing light come in!

But there are lines between, and one that is painted along that stilled pendant by the finger smeared in Ancient blood. “Oh Son of Lars, the years I can count back,” Her words now are nearly dulcet, a roll of tongue to emphasize the smile as her lowered stein bearing only flecks of that ale in the bottom.

“This time, this day of months in the span just before Harpa… In Your world, there is massive celebration and I am gauging you have proof to show now, that your age is met.” Kraka

    //.. Turns into myth? //

But when she leans in, that brace that leaves her nearly teetering from the lounge chaise, balanced by just that curve his hand had curled around, still bearing tips within the deep layers of ‘Old’ /F/ir. One hand now splays fingers over the broad expanse of his chest…

N / = \ M \=.   
Nevermore.

Blocked beneath the spread of fingers that press fabric into a stretch until she can feel his heartbeat beneath the cage and the fabric, slowly her body ascends, a twist at the hip, the opposing cocking, but… the shadows have grown darker and almost swallow the accent of contour that flickers as those shards and slivers..
        Steins are impacted, empty or not in a clatter light the sound of Storms. Mattias can feel that vibration down his laden hand -arm - the chest her hand is pressed upon, almost taking breath away… The threat there in her proximity as one knee tucks beneath her and lifts her…

    But when Mattias opens his eyes, that club is a Hall, and the celebrations of the oncoming seasonal shift from the Winter of Men to the Summer of Feminine /Rise/, matches just what began his nearness in (that) song. But these are definitely not the people in the Club.

“Amora.” A smile now as she rocks back and one of those rimmings of fur press higher upon shoulder with its roll as she slides off the -table- before him and feet meet the ground before his chair. “And by all means, be welcome.”

        -Oh the places you’ll go and the trouble that will grow…-

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