Forged in Ice

December 29, 2017:

Siege forges a binding to The Enchantress, one intended to be kept..

But we all know how that goes.

//Vanaheim Amora's Keep - The 9 Realms - Somewhere Beyond //

"Home of the Vanir."
"The Sister Race to the Asgardians."

Vanaheim remains its own place of natural beauty and the embrace of
history. Held close in dense forests where magic still prevails, where as
Asgard has chosen to advance beyond. The Highest of the Realms upon the
World Tree ( Yggdrasil ), this still hosts the 'abandoned city of the Vanir'
- Relics of the Æsir-Vanir War, where the end only came in an alliance with
the marriage of Odin and Freyja.

(More to come)

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

If and when Syn and Mattias made their own way up the narrow and craggy path, winding to the keep that overlooks frozen terrain, the waterfall beneath the base of the high rise frozen still in time, massive crystalline spears a dangerous accent laid in place by 'natural causes' of winter.

Once those massive doors open the spanse of the main hall opens widely, the floor of stone that had once formed run-offs while a bear was skinned here, covered as if in remembrance in massive furs, other creatures fallen and now used for warmth beneath feet, keeping the creeping chill trapped as meant even when alive.

Beyond an archway a massive hearth is surrounded by a chaise, high backed chairs and all arched around a pyre that is only held by the deep hollow to contain such an emanation of heat and the dance of flames stoked towards the Hevens.

Empty, aside from the live crack of massive logs that burn and resettle, sending a spray of sparks and cinder through the open air, settling on the carpeting of furs but leaving them in tact.

Where Amora is, is beyond, a small spiraled staircase that leads upward, a private area of lifted anti-chamber bearing a small balcony. Hands are wrapped in a stained mossy huen hide, fingers left bared while the twine leads to the lining of fur upon forearms. Bare until solid metal bracers to wrap around biceps. The top is a matching hide, haltered in fashion, corseted over the heave of chest, criss crossing and tugging every end of stretched sinew over her chest exposing what lie beneath but hindering vision by x's and o's of strained 'bars'.

Abdomen is bare, the drop of skirt clinging low upon hips and held in place by the matching latticework of laces just where apex dips and a long strip drops between…

Stepping from the ledge she grips the doors, sealing them closed to stop at the top of the stairs, and listen.

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Amora has brought Mattias back to the second act of their play; the stage where his Midgardian roots were stripped bare and laid before the forest in the distance. From the waterfall he'd dove from into the icy waters below, to the hundreds of miles of forest where his heart was tested against that of a monstrous /ber/, it isn't Amora's magics that have tied Mattias to her keep, but his /story/.

His eyes strayed from the two women for the walk up to the keep, gazing down at the falls and the waters, the fog covering the trees. It's not so different from the labyrinth he'd walked on All Hallow's Eve. Labyrinths are designed to force the traveler into a state of being lost so that they may find themselves once more, and in his eyes burn the memories, thinking long on them.

He returns to the halls of Amora's keeps, separating from the blonde sorceress to be left in the main hall, staring at the fire with a heavy, wooden mug in his hand. His weapons and his beloved leather jacket have been squared away, leaving the mutant hybrid looking out of place in the fantastical setting in his mortal clothing. Trading long, silent conversation with the fire, he tilts the mug of mead above his concert tee that is so well loved and worn that it's faded to the color of charcoal.

He drinks.

He thumbs the pendants around his neck, brushing the teardrop of emerald and the bear's claw, thoughts continuing their descent towards this /place/.

And Amora is not here.

It isn't the sound of conversation that Amora hears, but the sound of leather boots against stone. Mattias' head is low, bowed, swaying his hair back and forth with each step that he takes to ascend to her chambers. The chain at the back of his hip flaps against his backside, chiming the steel links against each other. The magics tied to the emerald around his neck, and the sounds of his footfalls, announce his approach.

His blue eyes count the steps, paying no mind to the possibility of her presence. Instead, as he nears, he lowers his mug, gripping it with fingertips that tuck a thumb into the petrified iron snake's head on his belt buckle, and reaches out for her door on a crash course to /collide/ with the ancient blonde.

Amora does not have to hear it to know. Every stroke of his finger across that precious gem causes a reaction, from a spark beyond the depth of pupils, to a curl of pinky to bite into her palm, to swallow slowly, the traced straddle of tendons at her throat accenting the slow rise and fall in the shadows between. She had never fully informed him of the crux, and by the slow seal of lips bearing a single stripe of black to divide in perfected twixt, there is reason.

When her doors swing open and arms remain extended to usher her out, the chill air from her vigil outside washes over bared expanse of her back, pushing around her with a waver of the ends of pale blonde hair, the sweep of a braid falling from the bend of hip to traipse forward in pale tongues that curl along laces and leather thongs that form binding. Pale jade eyes meet his own while hands fall from the frigid metal handles, her shoulders rolling to a place squared-off with his own alignment when their forms collide and one foot sweeps back, toes curled over the stone where just behind similar wrapping covets from the ball of her foot, over the arch and towards thighs where tufts of fur peer along edges to interrupt the broken swathe of straps. Between, tiny chains of gold hang in loose arches.

The only motion offered at the impact upon the Enchantress with Siege, Mattias of Gothenberg, Son of Lars, Ber-sekir, wielder of Sigrnir.

"You are plagued, despite this all, you should be far more joyous and drink in celebration." Her words are even in tone, making that slow forming smile indeed, just as faux.

Mattias snaps his fingers upwards when he misses the door. The bear's fur at his forearm, coarse, yet soft in the way animal hide tends to, smears across her hip as he's forced to lean in and /rap/ his knuckles against her door for balance. The warmed emerald pendant presses between their bodies, flaring off yet another signal of his attentions, no different than the oft-signals she'd received from it through the weeks after exposing his parents to her /lie/. Casual reminders that she's been running through his mind, for better or for worse, the magicked amulet reminds her /again/ that the emerald has been touched in her presence alone. Even magic, when commanded to do so, states the obvious.

A splash of mead, merely a drop, dabs against her belly at the impact. A bone-tied braid in his hair whips out like a tendril, batting her cheek. Mattias lifts the drink from his hip and thrusts it out to the side, sparing the heavy mug of mead at their shoulder-to-shoulder, breast-to-breast impact in front of the door. His apology is a grunt.

A grunt and a lift of his eyes to hers, staring his blue orbs through hooded stairwell shadows that flicker with the torchlight.

"As are you, Amora the Enchantress." Mattias replies in her native tongue, righting himself with a clearing of his throat that tastes of mead and awkward tidings. He corrects his face, removing the frown for his own stoic lack of expression that builds in the direction of a returned smile, but just as faux and weak as hers.

Mattias falls silent.

"We are partners in this," Mattias, so far he's come, has learned to stop mincing words and behave like an Asgardian. "Have I offended thee? This is your keep, why are you not warmed by your own fires?"

Amora, the Enchantress, Goddess to some who have borne witness, and even that that is scraping the surface of Scrye…

Every bit of that pressure keeps her unmoving, the reminder in bracered fur along her hip, the unmoving impact of chest upon her own, crushing pliant flesh inward, forcing a breathe outward from her lips, a warmth over that braid that drags along from the ridge of defined cheek to jawline, leaving lips parted for the moment, eyes not dropping in fear or apprehension, but to gather in the outlining - outlaying disposition that is as fleeting and reminding as the descent of his drinks spatter in a rivulet along abdomen and towards the strip of leathers twining hips.

"I am glad you speak it, like you believe it." Stated lowly, that natural tongue rolled forth in a low growling purr, a predatorial thing that comes with the defense his words rose into her, that unease she has felt, backed in anger, and it is shared in a part where that light whirls in iris' hue.

"But you have doubts, the /ber/ rarely paces in unrest unless there is a bigger predator and threat." No words minced, she is not taking blows at his position, his right, but by no means is she 'sugared' in coating to him to keep his rolling boil at bay.

That would not be Amora, afterall…

"I know when to remain cold, and alert, it makes the warmth so much more worth it." A slow shake of her head and her hand drops from the hold on door handle, shoving the massive wooden blockade aside.

"So are you going to speak fully, My Ber-Odr, or do you need more time by that /fire/?" The foot that had planted back for bracing now joins beside the other, slightly parted in stance, rocking from centered towards the balance near toes.

"Truth, not belief."

"I'll not trouble your thoughts with mine if I can help it, but believe it? I do." Mattias hooks his brows downwards, a bite to his words as a push back to the blonde in her challenge. His pupils widen against the darkness, holding to her face as the weighty, wooden door throws upon behind her, granting him access. "These are your victories, too, yet you do not act like they are, do you?"

Mattias bites down on his lips and steps into Amora. His palm smears over her belly, dragging the wayward drop of mead across her skin. His shadow looms, casting the scent of his hide, leather, and musk across her form in a sideways step that presses past her and into her room.

"You've access to Asgard, again, yourself, much like we've placed that Valkryie onto." Mattias lifts his voice, carrying his words to bounce off of the stone walls and back over his shoulder. "My mothers ask me often about Helen Eve, Sigrnir is forged. Not that Malekith isn't your foe now whether you wish it or not, Amora, but where my path is laid out before me, yours is free to leave as you choose, and yet you've distanced since Midgard, New York. I've called you, and you've been away."

Mattias turns, stopping by a large, circular table. The tankard of mead is set down roughly as he squares his feet, standing broadly to face the door and her form on the other side. He makes use of his free hands by bringing them together to warm them, then hooks his thumbs down into his belt, staring across the floor.

"I'll weather their questions about Helen and their failed understanding of what they saw that day, they are safe, and in this, I owe you a debt. I am your Ber-Odr, Amora, but on the onset of this war I sense your growing distance…"

Mattias silences, waiting for a crackle from her fireplace to ensure that she's waiting…and listening.

"…and I do not want that distance." Mattias states, abruptly. "So close that fokking door and raise whatever Hell you have in your heart at me. I will endure."

"You will not trouble me with your *thoughts*?" Amora's voice lifts at that final word, the complacency cracked under the weight of something, be it the familiar pressure of his touch, or the hardened wall he is pressed against a woman more supple, where curves bear the Asgardian solidity beneath a compliance to 'give in'

Amora, however does not 'give in'.

When he steps around her to enter at the opened offering her jawline quivers with the firm set and grind of teeth into place, that exhale a -hiss- passing with the flare of nostrils. For several heartbeats she remains facing the doorway, her back to him, straight, stiff, the aligning muscles of shoulders that keep her in a checked place only roll when arms rise and with a whisper of steps back those doors resound and echo through the Keep with the SLAM!

"Every victory in my path, every motion I set forward," A final turn, a flash of emerald, flaring from periphery as well as that gem resting over his solid chest before it moves to incandescence, a predator's eyes alit in moonlight alone until her hearth suddenly casts a glow, several sparks and the flames rise in a dance, lower, higher, risen! Fingers dance in the call, the mist emanating in a low swirl around her palms, cupped as if accepting of an offering unseen. "Damns me, Mattias. To keep within these realms, to be Beholden to Asgard - The Realms of 9.."

Amora pauses as he mentions his Mothers, looking back as she stands before the flames, only a silhouette in that alignment of position, like planetary design, eclipsed in shadows.

"I will do anything it takes. Anything. This is my home, even if banned, and if I can be welcomed again…" A small huff, the smile one of disbelief. "If you can be despite odds more towards death for you than Our Immortal Life," Is it coming clear yet?

"That Valkyrie can as well as has a better chance at it."

"You do not have any idea…" And slowly, there it is, that ire, that rage, but it is held on a platform of another emotion entirely, but rage is a better thing to produce, stronger!

"You will eventually hate me, My Ber-Odr, and that debt I may call upon for aid will ensure it. So do you want the distance now…" A lift of her hand and that fire is drawn outward in a dancing pattern like the Serpentine Japanese Dragon, a paraded dance to sweep a path around Amora and align the path between the Ber and the Witch in a symbolism far deeper.

"Or later? Because as much as I want to answer, I should know better when the predator of a /Ber/ I helped set into path is ready to extinguish the fires in front of him."

Amora's chin rises and her stare towards Mattias is challenging, indignant, and always proud, even as the gap between them closes with every step. "I can endure as well, have you wield that Sigr yet, or not?" And in one hand where shadows creep a Sword seeks to form, slowly descending from the ether.

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