The Cleansing (Part 1)

May 13, 2017:

After Mattias suffers his burðar-dagr in an Asgardian Mead Hall during celebration, Amora let's on that he is not done.

Severance from Midgard is many Rites away.


In RP.


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…

The night drove on, the Mead Hall bore twists of bodies unconscious from one form of exhaustion or another while rags laden in blood have been burnt within the now embering pyres.
The only cloth not added to the cleansing and after-burn was the ball of black Nevermore t-shirt, almost unrecognizable as it is shades darker due to the blood of his and many that she had wiped from him to at least not have it run from sweat laden brow into his eyes.
            The fight may be over, but sometimes scavengers that do not join in the festivities and wait for moments like that.
Perhaps one hour before dawn, at least here, but how long in truth has this gone on? Time passes differently here and between. A single foot, now bare save for the webbed drape and dip of chains over the arch and span of top, is propped upon the arm of his chair, the cloak long dropped and a ripple of fabric and fur around her seated position upon the table as it had all begun, but now - different.
“This nights celebration is complete, but more will span the next few days before the change is settled.” The change in him? The change in the seasons? The all encompassing, even through the trial and test, that leaves everything breathing anew. “There is no need to recall your Midgardian day of birth, your age is determined by your strength, feats, achievements; at least here.”
The voice is low, her form shifting to lean delicately forward, lower just enough to meet Mattias’ gaze still rimmed in blood-dried-black around the edges. “You need far better than this before you begin to ferment.” A wrinkle of nose with a small lift of lips and her foots slides from the armrest to drop towards the ground.
Serpentine in motion it nearly slithers her from the seat to stand before him and extend her hand, seemingly an offering in the light curl of fingers, a choice… But then they sweep through his matted hair, along the defined set of his jaw beneath, staining the backs of nails in the draw that even cracks dried vitae and sends it to fall like ash below.
One blink, all it takes, and when the haze fades, where they are is very different, they stand upon an arch of stone, a cliff worn bare and opening to the shore beneath, the waters cascading openly, steaming in the path that moves quick enough to threaten the foundation of the already carved away mass of hearty nature. Mists rise in front of them, at that drop off where the water spills hundreds of feet below into a body of water that as its distance sans further away, is a deep cerulean placidity. Behind them? Empty space between that arch and the cliff it was originally cut from centuries ago, and before its edge a massive structure that is as aged as the people they are.
Amora looks to Mattias, the smile a play over of his image in her mind, of the past hours and stretch of time that has left him standing as such upon the precipice - now literal. Her eyes only tear from him to look forward in her walk that brings toes to the edge, that spray of blood that painted her long dried in place, even in the lines she smeared through one path and cut along the arch of throat to shoulder.
“You need a force of nature to clean what cannot simply be rubbed free. I think this is enough.” One moment given, a pause in those words as the kick-back of wind and mist from the peak of the waterfall picks up edges of her hair, lifting them like a fan along the side of her face.

A satiated beast through the hours of revelry, Mattias leaned forward in his chair, face pressed against the cheap fabric of a shirt once thought beloved; now it is forgotten, of lesser import. Each mug and stein of mead weaves glass into his eyes once more, soothing the wolf with the addition of cooked meat and cheese, filling his belly and restoring energy to his weary bones lost in the melee. Yet, through his cleaning, his eyes remained on Amora, leaning into her ministrations with eyes that don’t stray to the women who serve them.
Silent, through the ritual celebration, he nods slowly to her words, accepting the path she’s laid out before him.
It isn’t until they stand above so large a pool, sprayed with mist from the waterfall that disappears over the edge below, that he speaks with his lips, where his eyes have directed his thoughts for hours upon hours.
“So I’m privileged with days to let this all sink in?” Mattias’ Midgardian accent, clipped over the vowels, sounds out against the wind that flakes dried blood from his chest. His blonde brows pull against divots in the skin that were once wounds and have since healed over into quickly kneading flesh. Mattias looks to Amora at his side as he steps into place beside her, eyes her way, perpendicular to her forward gaze. “There’s a piece of me that’s been untethered for far too long, and I’ve found it, thanks to you. If there’s a choice to be made, I’d choose far longer than days.”
Flaked blood falls from Mattias’ shoulder as his arms jerk. Metal scrapes over metal and old leather as the skull-faced buckle holding his ruined, blue jeans to his hips slackens. He looks down the peaks and valleys of his muscular torso, watching as he pops a button and sews metal teeth apart, preparing for his descent. Two black boots, scuffed and spent, are stepped out of.
      He bends at the hips.
            The jeans, left behind, are the carcass of a serpent, hollowed and discarded, skin shed.
“I should apologize for hitting him before your mug ruined his face.” Mattias mutters to Amora, naked toes creeping over the edge. His matted-together hair swings like wet rope through the spray as he looks down the hundreds of yards, past the breathtaking curl of water that rushes down below. “But I’m not sorry. It was an honor to hurt him for touching you like he did.”
With a turn of his body and a cock of his head, Mattias graces Amora with a wolfish, arrogant smirk and extends his arms wide.
      His body leans back.
            Gravity takes him.
                  When he falls, his pale, norse flesh disappears into the waterfall’s surf.
The pool of water below accepts him.

Amora watches and listens as Mattias speaks, but the shadow of the many //looks
accented in the pale gray-green of returning hue to iris’, shows where she directs her eyes. The swollen forehead that took many blows as well as gave them in kind, the split mending in brow, the blood-laden descent of hair that still sticks in places having dried and set there like clay of a Creation…
    …sometimes with movement it cracks away, leaves an empty space, like a new vein of creation upon battle-laden skin that is much like the cliff they stand upon.
            Beaten in waves, a hole punched through, and still there is survival. Unspoken, only noted in effigy, in pictures, and in looks.
She does not seem moved by the undoing of the remnants upon him, she had dropped her cloak to preserve him in statement within the Hall and that Arena made of it for the night of celebration.
        Celebrate they did! Not only Harpa, but Mattias found his place…
                And the word of such a night will travel the Realms -
                                        -Call them out.
“Time, you will find, is irrelevant now.” Amora states as he makes his move to the edge, that precipice that could be a typical mass fall to death, even upon impact to the waters or the plummet alone stopping a heart and stealing breath.
        Not here.
            Not to them.
“He wanted my attention during the festivities,” That cloak hits the rocky surface behind her, sliding from shoulders to crumple there like a defeated beast all her own, revealing the appearance of those delicate chains, an emerald so deep the reflection in the almost /hematite/ surface could not be seen, until it is all accented by the teardrops of captured precious stone, showing the purity in the inset.  “You took it from him, Son of Lars. He wanted what he could not have. I would have told him, but you took it out of my hands.” Hook laden appendages, linked with more of those tiny chains between small plates of coating that serve decor along each slender digit, the only part reinforced upon her…
        The rest?
Mattias fell back into the mist and fog congeal of the waterfall, and as he did her silhouette seemed to ribbon, that cloth of Midgard, peeling away into the wind, dissipating in the direction of the breeze that had already swept her hair up and away.
”Champion.” Down to the very tone when it all began, Amora repeats the word and the shadow of her form leaps forward as he falls back, taking a more ‘swan-like’ approach to her dive after him where his body impacts like a hard stone, and hers slips through the waves like a shadow, not far beyond.

Mattias closes his eyes and tilts his head back, giving himself over to the fall. Her words reach his ears before the rush of wind and falling water overtakes his blinded senses. His arms spread wide, fingers splaying to feel the wind whispering through the negative space between digits. The thick, stringy waves of once-blonde hair flow against his back in the descent, and when his hair streams straight down against his cheeks, he knows his angle. His arms stretch out, cutting through the water.
    A spray of white surf and cold water, cold to mortals and unnoticeable to his Asgardian nerves.
        The very air around him is replaced by Asgard.
Less than a second after his ears blur with the sound of his own landing, another comes. Beneath the waves, he opens his eyes and kicks his legs, quickly righting himself in the water to see Amora’s contrail of bubbling water and the path her body cuts in her far more graceful swan dive. Dirt sifts off of his pores and the flecks of blood, his and others, brushes away. Fully submerged, he brushes his palms over his forearms, smearing and washing his skin, losing sight of his mysterious, hard-won prize.
Mattias turns and kicks his legs, swimming in the direction of the waterfall and the smooth rocks beneath it, cutting through the water in deep swings of his palms, seeking out the very primal source of Asgardian nature that can clean his skin and wash the remnants of his test away from his skin, leaving the only remainder of his victory within his name and his heart.
The water explodes around him as he thrusts out, climbing out onto the submerged rocks. His lungs no longer burn, save for the warmth left behind by the mead. His hands thrust under the hundreds of pounds of weight of the waterfall, washing them clean, grateful for the force against his skin before his head dunks under, fingers peeling strands of his hair apart.
The //Champion
becomes pink and blonde once more.
    The blood washes free of his jaw, mud powdering away into the pool at his feet.
The clay is washed away, revealing the chiseled, completed form of the statue.
    And when his fingers stray past his eyes, wiping the water free of them, he turns to bury his shoulders in the mighty flow of the waterfall and urge the flow against the back of his neck, seeking her.

When Enchantress impacts the water it only parts to the bullet-form she took of when her dive became a ballet in the air and cut through those mists, forcing the propulsion of hair towards the Hevens, it now is painted over shoulders, along the crest and cusp of breasts, and down along defined slope of back and knife-like contours of shoulder blades, scapula re-defines with the unfurling and splay of arms that form a blade to cut through…
The impact is spun upon, her body twisting to bow and bend, akin to reeds in the torrent of undertow, a push, then a pull and it seems as if a dance that her body reacts to - coiling towards the surface where the rising sun knifes in splinters through the ripples of disturbance…
    Where the slices of light impact, the only remaining thing upon her is the intricate design of jewelry that curls over the sharp contours of structure, filigrees maintaining the hold while the vines descend in links of delicate-seeming chains, meshed and amassed into a webwork to connect it all —
But when she breaks the surface, the tide of sunrise breaks to more golden, and settles to a lighted accent reflective off the pearlescent hue of hair that drifts in ripples behind her as she lowers back within the tides.
Arms rose, pressing the wetted web of silver from her face and to the mass behind, droplets descend and add to the break of surface while she settles back into the depths, forearms pressed along the  contours of her flesh, hiding what could have been revealed fully, only to leave hints in the shadowed arch of crescent moons on either side, like a sigil..

    .. But once she touched the stone he stood upon, she pauses, if any enchantment remains - it falls away, unspoken but a whisper before fingers curl into a cut of stone and she is ascending from the water's’ edge  to the platform beneath the falls despite the torrential downfall and impact that would cast others aside, instead it batters over embodiments meant for withstanding desecration, and seeks to simply dislodge what does not truly permeate.
”It is time you recognize the spirit which dwells within you…” Her words are not accented, they are purely Asgardian, now.
In a ritual of waiting, of intent, Mattias stands upon his stone, weathering the downpour upon his back, having easily captured her form breaking the semi-placid plane of glassy water against the oncoming sun. Where the sun behind her back threatens the shadows, robbing his eyes of details in her cresting form, the oncoming dawn streaks past her, illuminating every smear of skin lies, curses, magicks, or circumstance have led him to become.
Eyes locked in rapt attention, they trace her path through the water as he works the last vestiges of blood from his hair. Wringing the golden strands, he pierces down into the water an approaching gaze that has been written in his eyes since the first touch of her lips. Enraptured, even through the punishment suffered through forty men, the silent intensity reigns, the side of his neck thrumming in time with the rise and fall of his chest. Would Mattias, Son of Lars, fought so bravely without such enchantment?
Only fate will tell.
She is a ghost. An unexpected, alien beauty.
A fallen star.
An enthralling, fallen star.
The enchantment fluttering away is a layer of glass removed from his eyes. Rose colored and heavy, Mattias blinks at the subtle change in the air about him, not knowing it for what it was. The invisible tether that anchors him to her presence snaps like a fisherman's line, but memory and his actions, seemingly of his own design, leave no harsh change to the climate.

”I…told you…that there was still strength in me.” Mattias digs deep, searching out a tongue the All-Speak bids him to know, but is a thing birthed in that moment. His first words in his mother's true tongue are committed to the scribes. ”I am stronger…than I…have ever felt.”
”I am ready.”


Mattias was a canvas devoid of truth, and once The Enchantress saw as much painted in his-story down to the very battle that left him standing amidst a Hall of bodies and accolades (even hatred), his desire to truly be… Long(ed).
… She had a pause, a moment where she saw him painted in blood and mire, dust, soot, and passion. He was her centuries ago, but she plays the part of her own first teacher and guide - even left turned away by Karnilla and left to her own devices -
                    This is where she comes to rise…
They never fully exchanged a kyssr hana, her throne being upon the table. But now…
    She loosed him from anything beyond.
The barrage of waters fall  battered over her figure, casting a silhouette lined in white that only mists at the edges like ether-reality, stripping her of a perfect fall of that length of tress, webbing it over her face in a manner that left her almost human in the sputter between a knitted mask of blonde.
        But when the rising of sun cusps over the horizon it is a reflection of the shallows depths, a prize pried from the mouths of crustaceans and lined in silver.
                        Remember the warnings of silver lining..
    In the corner of your smile,
there's been a darkness there a while,
You know…

And through a haze, one of nature, and one broken of a spell, she remains with hands rising to  press, spread palms across her face while fingers clad in a protective decollage of metal gauntlet and immortal links of tiny chains, pushes the gossamer of hair from her face - against the battering of heavy waters-fall.

Mattias lived beyond his: burðar-dagr.
“…Another, right?”
    Where are all the things that you have toiled all your life for?
        ”I know…”

From across the length of the lake, a distant place in what Mattias has yet to truly look above to see that it is a distant world, a distant //realm
, the torrential downpour of water from above forms an uneven curtain. To the open realm and sky, it’s a thin pane of blue with shadows cast upon it, a frail veneer of privacy that demands long seconds of study to put the whole of the picture into place.
    It’s a picture worthy of a tale for the scribes of Asgard.
        A lost warrior.
            A sorceress, a would-be queen in her own right.
    My, how it would look on a tapestry.
        Perhaps one day…

        ”I have strength left in me.”
Amora the Enchantress, having stumbled upon the wayward Asgardian by accident or twist of fate, has stolen one of Midgard’s denizens and rendered him unwanting to return home.
Not until…he is satisfied.
But let's not speak of the shadows on the horizon.

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