The Cleansing Pt. 2

May 14, 2017:

In Asgard, Siege is sent on his first of many challenges.

Asgard - Amora's Keep - The Grounds

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

Unintended, Amora was his odr, his burðar-dagr,  and when she sat along the slope of the waters bay, the fire burned high, the remnants of attire worth anything, drying beside the ember glow as she stared out towards the unrelenting fall of waters that came from nowhere above, but fell like a crushing fist against cliffs, carving something she claimed as her own into a mountainous crag where her Keep’s walls resided overlooking.
 
While he slept, a glow overtook the bank, her fingers rising to paint upward and call down, the stell’ations flecking with a pattern and multiple persona falling like snow to hit the bank and spark outward like a net-work, a web-work, a pattern as she kneels upon the moist earth, sinking into it from unclad feet, to knees - bent and forming the arch in which the curve of lower body bears angry red across skin to ascend and slowly fade just beneath the blade of shoulders that pushes out and straddles the regal draw of spine and poise of shoulders.
 
Hair seems made of honey in some lights, but in direct line it is the hue of webbing, silver, pearl, pale… Inhuman, made of something else, even as the weight of braids begins to retake in the slow work of fingers wrap, lacking the beaded ends, or the metallic twist, all lost to the knots of fingers and the crush of stone that still leaves her tracing tongue along the inner fold of lower lip before teeth.

But the descent like a cast of fallen stars now has one drawn, no spell, an inquiry that has her hand extending towards his sleeping form with the fire between them, casting the blaze higher, the fetters of the blaze not what is watches as the heat emanates, it is the shadow it casts, where her eyes even cast an incandescent predatorial glow in response.
 
 
    The sun rises, eventually..
        Standing at the edge of the bay, bare toes laced in tiny rings and decorated by the ascent of those chains disappear beneath slips of a long skirt that seems almost earthen in the many hues of green to clay, as if the stricken ebb had created it in a splash of wave…
            When Mattias wakes she will still be there, with cloak clutched over shoulders, held there in embrace like a vigil has been taken, only braids of two folding some of the excess from her facade.
 
Once his shadow so much as touches along her, before he even can..
        “Have you ever hunted before?” A look back, a glimpse over her shoulder with a slow draw of a smile while her cheek strokes along the ulfhed lining of fenrir-ilk that accents her cloak with far more meaning.
        “You have earned your place in a rite of alignment.” A pause and Amora flicks her gaze to the depths and back, that glow of green there once more. She offered him the ber-sekir, and part is by fault of her own, but his display in the hall…
        A lift and stroke of finger through the fur she wears.
 
“Time to get your own.” A pause.
        “Bathe. Don’t dress. Your stay is extended.”
 
//

When sleep takes Mattias, leaving him without defense save for the watch kept by Amora, under the watchful eye of her own keep, his state is one of silence. The strength, sapped from his bones, given over as an offering to Amora the Enchantress, leaves his naked form sleeping beside the fire. The heat from the flames warms the rocks and terra beneath his skin. The flicker of new shadows, light provided by a distant world, one not of Midgard, leaves the woman with a placid face and new shades to consider in his slumber.
 
    What was a mystery hours ago,
        Becomes less of a mystery,
            But one still.

When his eyes open, there’s a change in direction in the air. So much magic spilled in his sleeping state, a display of lights that had gone entirely unnoticed in his catatonic state, has left enough latent sorcery in the crisp, morning air to signal the demigod’s awakening. The smooth, multicolored pebbles lining the lake shift, another sound heralding his approach.

She asks him if he has hunted before.
    His silence and the stare she finds in his eyes, forward into the coming dawn, is answer enough.
 
“It is a lost art in Midgard.” Mattias answers her, picking through the words in Asgardian.
    His head shakes in the negative.
        His eyes refuse to show shame.
 
Fingers brushing over her side once more, they retreat, offering in favor of the Midgardian custom of a kiss, a quiet stare. The questions he’d yelled into her face, fingers threatening to wrap about her throat, are gone, boring through her emerald-huen eyes instead with an earthen willingness to understand. To act, not to obey. To become, not to seek.

 
Mattias Larsson steps past Amora, the framed outline of his naked body captured in the morning sun as he wades back into the icy waters. Once the waters have buried him to his chest, he dunks his head under and lashes his hair back, splashing it over his face, washing the day prior off of his skin.
 
He turns to stride towards her, the same look in his eyes from the mead hall, one of anticipation and the heightened sense of readiness creased into his brow.

 

 
There was no falter in her knelt vigil over the waters where the sun reflects pale warm hues over the still surface nearby, still remaining that pure cerulean in the slight distance where night still clings with the fall of night to escape the light.
 
His shadow is looked upon, hands still rested upon tops of bare thighs, the outer little finger having parted enough through the //ulfhed
fur just for the assurance perhaps, or the sensation… The knowledge.

The words are exchanged and his touch is accepted, in his passing, but she remains a statue even as there is a light that flickers within that pale green gaze when he breaks back above the water.
 
Sentinel, as the levity of it is left to hand from the air around them like the synapses of remaining magics that could stroke over skin and leave it laden in bumps and an alertness unbidden.
 
Mattias’ approach closer as he leaves the water step-by-step, has Amora rolling back to heels and rising, the cloak gathered to seal around her form in that curled clutch of fisted knuckles. So much can be veiled, shielded, but not the fact that as he takes every step closer she takes another back, but not without a light press beneath the cloak, a roll of hips that casts contours and shadows beneath fabric and the silhouette he can see - a walk that tells, just as much as that sweep of tongue births just before she turns away.
        He is ready..
            Again..
                But this is for the Ber - His Ber.

To become one of those that is let loose in the field and known for ferocity, for the fearlessness, for the armor unworn aside from the head of a bear over his crown or the line of fur over shoulders and down back, some even whispered to become more.
 
But the risk now is life or death of one or the other, and even the souls of the beasts are revered, honored, and once loosed into the sacred forests for this hunt, the soul of the man could be revered just as much…
 
Once the cloak is shoved aside with Amora’s spin to face the flames, thin strips of fabric fall down from twin drapes over her shoulders, a gauze of pitch with a lighter green only adding contour to where darkness keeps coveted, bound just beneath the curve of breasts to continue descent, in mate with the strips that fall from twine around hips and loop in loose dips of fabric from the birth of contours to that of solid press to drop in layers around calves and ankles now truly laced and held by gladiatorial style sandals, also topped in that lining of fur.
 
Chains extend from the laurel-vined circlet that frames eyes, the emerald hanging in accent as they extend from beneath the blonde twists of hair, all before his very eyes fabrication is tearing, melding, and left in revelation, but in her hand that is clasped and bound in the gauntlets of the night before is that wallet, but the leather reworked, solidified, and the chains woven with the similar sinew, but attached is a tuft of unknown fur, a small root, and a berry that is far too red to be edible.
 
“Become the Bersekir, Mattias. Find him and become him, then more will await you after rest…
            When you return.”
 
There was pause in her words, but no doubt, not as she stood before him, the only distance between them the length of her extended hand that hold the refabricated Midgardian hold of his personal effects - which are about to grow beyond the folds of leather if this hunt goes well. But Enchantress holds no doubt, none given in the sway of her words to him, only accented now almost naturally, but lifted by the upward draw of lips that curl in a manner to narrow corners of eyes while they finally settle fully upon his own.
 
    “How much more?”
 
Even as they stand there though, there are whispers, words, and evidence in the return of clansmen across Asgard - The seeds planted, the roots spreading, and now to set that foundation in a heavier layer of stone.
 
//

An errant wind cools his skin, drawing his arms in an uneven cross about his chest and to his shoulders to rub warmth into them. On Midgard, such vulnerable nakedness as he displays now is a breaking of dozens of laws, a forbidden state. In a brief tensing of his fingers against his shoulders, he swallows back the reminder that he is not on Midgard, that there is no law, no forbidden line written in ink that he cannot run naked through the forest, but risk? There is plenty of risk.
 
Her clothing and one of two belongings he cares about in her fingers, his chained wallet, altered in her grand design, leaves Mattias, son of Lars, feeling all the more exposed.
 
She is the voice telling him to jump from the plane.
The buxom cattle prod.
The devil not on his shoulders…

“How much more can I take?” Mattias retorts with a flex of one pectoral muscle. His arms fall back into place as he comes to a stop before her, naked as the day he came screaming in Malekith’s treacherous fingertips. For what he's told, Malekith was his midwife. The cursed Dark Elf had laid eyes upon his crying face before the woman he called mother. “I haven't found a challenge, yet, that I didn't demand of myself to survive. I've only ever hunted,” Mattias holds up a solitary finger, head jerking to peer past the digit to her face. “One creature. A ber,” Mattias lowers his hand with a half-row of teeth grating together. “Will only make me more ready to face him.”
 
The thought of hunting Malekith brings a furied light to his eyes and a line of tension within his jaw. No longer bound by her enchantment, the thought of his hunt, his answers, come to the forefront. He steps forward, dirt and rocks oozing between his toes until he is brought nearly face to face with Amora. Her outstretched hand, chains dangling, grazes his ribs on his steady walk that halts, nose millimeters from her own. The hunger, the shame of being meddled with, full on display, his means to show her hire fire, but at the same time, the collar he can be brought down with.

“When I get back, will you explain to me what those things you've attached to my wallet signify?” Mattias pulls away, declining himself the urgency of a press of her lips before leaving. The sweep of his eyes to her lips is enough to convey the thought of doing so. With his own work to do, he steps aside, and with a brush of his shoulder to hers, he starts off for the woods in the distance, naked and unarmed.
 
“Am I to return to this lake or that keep over there?” Mattias calls out to be heard over his departing stalk towards the densely cropped forest, and, quite possibly to his death. A child of the Scandinavian nations, he knows these rituals as legend, doubtlessly calling back to old stories of Beowulf. “If that is your keep, let it be there. I've dreamt too many times of pushing through doors into some ancient place, bloody and victorious. If that dream is about to become a prophecy?”
 
Mattias spares one look over his shoulder as he crests to the top of a hill. Blue eyes through golden, blonde strands peer back.
 
“I would present my changed self to you.”
 
And then…the tip of his head disappears over the hill, his legs churning up mud, running for the forest in search of his ber.

//

Enchantress takes her steps back, even as the “Green” vines over her body, not only in cloth, but in the accents that are forever a part of the woman. The circlet spiring through the woven passes of pale blonde, spearing braids and ascending through towards the Hevens above, all the while the reach down is in a trace much akin to that of wind-blown tears in path - crowning around pale jade gaze, only to hand emerald teardrops of the hooked edge that spires beneath her eyes.
 
The cloth there, illusory, a fabrication that served as a detraction for the moment.
        Has Amora become Karnilla?
            Is Mattias her prodigy? .. Hers to mold based on her very own..
 
When he nears she does not shy back, her hand remains extended, giving that display of his Midgardian person melded with that of who he is, the chain-inked, woven twixt fingers capped, gauntleted, cupped, and spired. Only the sound of those metallic claws gathering chain comes when he presses so close she can almost feel the heat of his breath mingled with the heat of his personal war that emanates not only off body -
        Soul.
 
The brush of his shoulder against her own pulls the cloak aside slightly, casting it back for the barren slope of shoulder that tenses and shows the accent of sinew beneath, all the while her eyes follow him in passing.

~Your heart is like a drum,
        The chase has just begun..
~
 
 
*I'm selling heavenly sketches
A world out of my mind
Ready to explode in purity to fill the holes inside..

 
 
“The keep, it is then,” Enchantress watches him go in that haste for the forest edge, a haste that could very well come to a dead still and release more ghosts from the veil of fog that ever dances above the deeply shadowed canopy of branches.
 
    “Come back first.” The wallet is lowered to her side, beside exposed thigh within fold of that fallen pieces and loops of fabric. Her words of finality a demand at his heels.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 License