The Asgardian Sorceress

January 06, 2018:

Strange find Amora in the Oblivion Bar, drinking and wounded. It is their first meeting and they have a tense conversation about some shared problems.

The Oblivion Bar


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Malekith, Loki

Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

Amora sits at a booth while around her the Bar is alight with variant New Years celebration. Her 'emanence' is one of familiarity to any magical.
"Deter miner.." A cloth pinkened is clutched to the side and at the tabletop, dropped from lip and clutched in a hnce left /mincemeat/ that makes it 50 Shades of Red in the drop,…

The ask for another is not ignored, the drink slid across the booth-table and captured by unscathed hand, but a flask is drawn and contents tipped within.

Making potent more potent.

Residual magic's can carry from Amora backdated to Hallows Eve at Xaviers until recent where there was a battle that 'kept' blood, after drawing.

But Amora is of no concern of the 'Falgs' she raises, legs lashed in leather twine asend to mid-thigh, corssed, and the form-melding dress of a gauzy-moss clings to contours while she leans to loft her 'laced' cup and partake.

There is a reason she is left 'alone'.

Generally Strange does not pry in what happens in Westchester County area. Particularly not if it is near Salem Center. That is the territory of his disciple, one Illyana Rasputina, Queen of Limbo.

Wizards and sorcerers are often territorial. Sorceresses even moreso.

But he was at Xavier's recently. To talk with a certain mortal Valkyrie. Strange sees much, says little and forgets nothing.

There is another powerful Asgardian spellcaster in -his- territory. As if Loki wasn't enough!

In truth he had not come to the Oblivion Bar to seek this unknown person. With a Demon Bear fouling the weather and the mysterious Krampus also loose, possibly stalking children, Strange's plate is overfull with trouble. Indeed, the sorcerer was here to exchange information and listen to rumors with the local supernaturals. Sometimes a vagrant vampire or a lowly ghost can spot what even the Orb of Agamotto would miss.

But no one in the bar can miss Amora. Strange certainly doesn't.

Amora paid no minds to 'Lines" Drawn, if it is not evident….**…'Svierge by the way she 'removed', Midgardian "Mothers" from hrm of the //Ber, nor how she has performed "Parlor" Tricks for that of childer of /Mutandis./..

Drinks of the meager med can be lain before Amora, but unless she *taps* her own unto it in blessed Asgardian it holds no effectupon physique.

Amora withdrawls her flsk when Strange comes in, as th 'space' silences in wait

Everything I've ever had…

Has died…"

"What is it you want," Amora brathes, but in it is a /smile/."

((Supreme, liege…)

Amora slides those emeral eyes his way, a twist of waist pivots her towarda the Supreme while arm-rest is what keeps her in place.

Strange turns to look at the blonde Asgardian, considering her for a second, and then bows politely. "Doctor Strange, at your service," he greets.

"What is what I want?" That is a dangerous question when it comes an Asgardian asks it. The blonde could be a goddess. One of the Norns, perhaps. The Oblivion Bar wards can only protect a mortal to a point. "In truth I came for naught but good tea and interesting conversation. What is what you desire my lady? It doesn't seem the strongest liquor here would be doing much… ah, I see," he walks closer to her table, "may I?" He asks for approval before taking the seat in front of Amora.

A hand lifts, broken links of gold /scrape/ across the tabkes surface in hr accord of Earths /Sviege/, collectingthe opposing seat to her.

""Do you…" A cant of head in her pause. "…see?" Amora's voice is non-chalant, as her head tips to the seat he deigns to occupy, her eyes flicking upright to the face of the Supreme of Earth, nostrils flaring in a manner tell-tale to the seat claimed and 'given'.

"Than you shall have," A raise of hand and the wave has the 'Red Cap' Server moving to fulfill the order and depart as quickly to not cause upheaval in the 'line' they had cut in front of.

But his askance also has her holding out the flask of Asgardian Mead.

"How interesting… /Doctor/?" A rock forward and arms fold before the cleave of chest grasped in the threads of Midgardian cotton while eyes of emerald flash his way.

"This is a Mad World right now." A tic* of finger in Up-Down as she speaks.

"I has been a very complicated year," admits Strange, sitting down calmly. "And I suspect it is going to be the same for a while. The Heroic Age brings strife along with wonder, my lady." He offers, "and doubly so for us, those who watch the veils between worlds and can see more than most."

Those walls between worlds are now thinner they have been in millennia. Strange wishes he could blame Alfie O'Meagan and the fools of the DEO, but they are more a symptom than the cause. For Strange it started with Shuma-Gorath nearly 20 years ago. The warning signs, the first battles. The death of the Ancient One.

"Is the same also in blessed Asgard?" He asks, dreading the response. Of course Loki and Thor are in Earth, so… omens.

"I want nothing…" A rap-tap of honed nail upon flask and the way her lips hover in partial opening casts the metal and bone containment of Asgardian Alcohol in a frost, her nail pivoting it in a 'hook' upon a ledge to have a sigil face Strange as he claims his seat.

"You know how Asgard is, /Sviege/. Like all the worlds and cosmos." A loft of hand laden in lossed golden links, tiny emerals refracting the dim lighting in 'disco' effect around their table.

"It is Chaos. It is exhausting how far in a time one must extend ones-self. Hm?" A pale brow lifts, an arch degreed to devilish levels in descent.

"If not, then why else would I be here?" A lean back that leaves her in a lounge, the flask left alone for now, Amora is smiling, despite looking (in her own mind), like /Hell/.

Strange would think it is an odd place for an Asgardian sorceress to nurse injuries. But he doesn't know Amora. He doesn't even know her name. Her questions seems rhetoric, but he considers responses cautiously.

"Chaos in Asgard is seldom good news for Earth, for Migard. Not for the mystics, there are often consequences to deal with," like having Amora here, perhaps. He studies the unknown woman for a few more seconds. She has been drinking for who knows how long. "If you want nothing, then you are perhaps aiming to lose something, my lady?"

Strange does not hav to know Amora. Her presence is enough of a demand of 'attention, undeniable when legs cross, thighs tense in twine and that stretch of skirt rides higher upon thigh exposed to outer aisle. A thrust of hips rotation, the moan of sylicate seating while bared heel rises in the 'arch' of foot wrapped in leather 'moss' hue, pointing toes to the floor as if in an ascendancy unseen.

A drop of that strip of cloth from her shoulder, gathered with the rim of Ulfr fur reveals razed flesh still in healing as well as that of a more-opened palm. One a 'Bite' the other a 'slide of blade'. Both obvious markings of her 'Natural and Beloved' Home. Otherwise there would be no lingering.

"What… One EARTH could I lose?" Those emerald eyes spark in fractures of lightning as she looks at him, but in the narrow set there is a 'forecasted' shadow, her hand snapping the flask back, a flick-snap of wrist and *snap!* of fingers as if to hasten *His* tea.

Careful…. Amora is about to adjourn the meeting.

No doubt Amora commands attention everywhere. But Strange attention was drawn from her nature, not her appearance. She is an enigma at a moment where he really does not need more headaches. And he is sure she will bring some if not for her sheer presence then because she had to come to New York in some quest or errand.

And end up in this bar, drinking alone. He doesn't believe it was in the plan.

"It is not called the Oblivion Bar for nothing," he offers calmly.

Not much is in 'The Plan' anymore, as things have shifted, and everything has changed when it comes to the Enchantress and her meddlings or careful plays across the checkered board of Kings, Queens, and their 'Faithful' - one side or the other. Black and white only?


There is Red… There is Gray…

Amora is learning this. We all have our secrets..

"Yes, but even Oblivion has a limit in /our/ kind of world, does it not?" A pause then, as Amora's lips, a hue shy of Earthen Death curl into a benevolent smile, lashes layered in noir fall over those eyes and they slide away from Strange to flick a nail against an empty glass, letting the -din- of the sound rersonate from the hollow cylinder.

"Lines here are fractured, doors are sealed by force alone and require constant focus to remain that way. This is not limited to just Here. Fractures are weak points, they need mended… Sealed… Even our Valkyrie of Your Plane is experiencing this." Now Amora perks a brow, sliding her gaze back towards Strange.

"What say you, Supreme of Midgard?"

Strange nods mildly. "Everything has limits, my lady," he comments. Oh… that is some smile. It doesn't require a smile back, does it? "I'd say we have limits too. You, and me, the other great sorcerers, from Loki to the mighty Lords of Order and Chaos. Even Odin in his golden throne or the ancient Elder Gods. The walls between realms are fading, I devote more and more time to feed the ancient wards, but I am only slowing the process down. It is a conjunction like there has not been in ten thousand years. The Axis Mundi turns. The Yggdrasil, you call it. From the roots to the highest branches."

Amora stops her 'call for refill', Midgard alcohol does nothing for her, hence the flask, but it makes a nice /chase/.

"How many are trying to breach into Midgard?" Amora's smile requires none back. Her eyes show it all.

He can see it all, she is wearing no mask here, as this is neutral grounding, and there is no need for a burkha of Magii. He can see it coming, perhaps?

"It *is* Yggdrasil, and she is wilting, the Wyrd are working their Fates to mostly mystery." /Mostly. As one has been unravelled and found place in Asgard and at Amora's side, but it is always a fight…

The reminder causing her to bury nails within the mending scar across her palm, sweep her chin across bared shoulder bearing the marring towards Strange once more. "How much are You willing to fight?"

The way she said you, her tenor and the carry of it across the bar brings noise to a low sound more kin to a Fine Restaurant, not the Oblivion.

How much? "I am the Supreme Sorcerer. It has been rare for one of us to survive the office," Strange replies with a hint of pride. "Who will invade now they can? Everyone who is not a coward. And even the cowards will do it if they see a chance. And in response a thousand heroes populate the world. Was this Fate? Maybe Gaia's will? The Earth defends itself, and I am now just a wizard among many champions, mortal and immortal."

He sighs. "I am quite sure there is no single responsible. I doubt there is a solution. Not for us. The great cosmic powers, maybe they could stop it. But I expect half will oppose and half will push. So it will be up to us, the inhabitants of the realms, to weather the storm, to survive and prosper the Age of Heroes. The Age of Chaos. The Kali Yuga. Ragnarok."

Other words Strange utters bring a silencing to Death's Rattle and then nothing at all.

Amora's shoulders align, there is a Pride before the Fall, afterall and it causes muscles to sing in the stretch across the span lined in Ulfr rimmed cloak. "Do… Not… Speak of Future…" But in her eyes that flickering Emerald goes Hazel and back, a single braid tipped in bone-beads clatters over her shoulder to lash along her jawline as if a /gentler/ reminder that has her looking away and to the gathering audience around them.

They know it too.

"If you know of the Asgardian Tales, then what do you know os the Svaltalfar?" A low growl to her tone bitten back, her ire already lifted at the comparison of Yggdrasil to Midgardian belief or that of any other. Amora holds her place Higher and Holier, than Thou, but it some cases…

Whatever it takes..

"This Curse resounded from Midgard, but we are all forced to be branches of this Age." She refuses to name Ragnarok with the laughter in Dark Elven eyes in the back of her mind.

"We are to stop it. Uss!," and for that moment Amora sounded more like a Gorgon of history, serpentine hair, even as she flicks the braid from her shoulder behind to clear her view of Strange. "It's a long fight, Supreme. You ready to outlive your tenure?"

"The Svartalfar? Of course," although they are not the enemy Strange would have bet would start a war. "Ah, but there was this rumor Malekith the Accursed is leading them again." He frowns. A glance to Amora and he changes 'rumor' to 'fact' in his mental maps.

It could be worse. It could be Dormammu. Or Loki.

"I am always ready. Admittedly my platter is already full. There is a winter spirit attacking the city and the Krampus is loose," the Krampus comes with a pointed glance to the blonde sorceress. It is an Asgardian monster, isn't it? Son of Hel, said the Valkyrie Syn.

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