Mere Trinkets (Open)

Participants: Amora /Open
Open/Closed: Open
Location(s): Norwegian Wilderness
Time of Day: Mid-afternoon
Weather: Cold, overcast, snowing
Summary: Amora leads an interested party to the site of Fafnir's horde, a veritable treasure trove of riches, trinkets and artefacts. She fails to mention that the gold is thought to be cursed, or what she is seeking herself...

Four stone obelisks jutted from the snow, great rocks reaching toward a sullen, grey sky. They stood as guards might, eternally vigilant, at attention, before a cave, its edges - carved into the mountainside – only just visible about a sheet of ice that tried its utmost to hide it from view. At her back, a blizzard raged; the north winds howling as they lashed clothing and stung skin. But standing among the natural-wrought pillars, there was an eerie calm, and the anger of the Norse weather could have been a world away, little more than a distant memory.

Stepping toward one of the structures, she rested pale fingertips on its uneven surface, trailing them across its gravelled skin. Though centuries had weathered the markings, she found them soon enough – ancient runes of power, carved into the rock. She smirked a little, her full lips raising at their corners. “And thou thought thou couldst hide it…” she breathed, her voice little more than a whisper, words spoken in her native Asgardian tongue.

Overhead passed a shadow, and in a flurry of black feathers, a flapping of dark wings, a single raven came to perch on the carved obelisk opposite the one she stood at. It cawed loudly, staring at her with blank eyes, before cawing again. It felt like a warning, a threat, a demand. ‘You do not belong here. Go back.’ Unperturbed, Amora locked her gaze with that of the bird, irises a brilliant green. “Eyes of the All-Father,” she murmured, “Still keeping watch after all this time.” As if understanding the Asgardian sorceress, the raven shrieked, and made to take to the air.

It barely managed a single wing beat before it dropped, encircled in a bright, emerald energy. It struggled and writhed, trying to break the bonds that held it, but it had not the strength to fight against the arcane might of the Enchantress. Stepping through the snow drift toward the captive avian, movements careful and measured, not hurried and urgent, Amora stooped, crouching over it. Reaching down, she lifted the bird in both hands, while its feet kicked desperately, as if trying to claw at her arms in an attempt to earn its freedom.

It failed in its attempts once again.

Raising it to eye level, she again locked her gaze with its.
“Stop thy struggling, little bird,” her voice had an almost musical quality to it, melodic and sweet, and the creature in her grip instantly calmed. “Thou needs not worry. No longer does thou serve the One-Eyed King. No longer must thy spy for Odin. Instead, thou will be eyes of mine.”
Extending her influence over such a creature was child’s play – it had such little will with which to contend her magics. The raven’s eyes, no longer black, flashed green, and the shackle that held it fell away.

So too did Amora’s hands, allowing the bird to take flight. It circled her twice, before finally coming to rest upon her shoulder, nudging its sharp beak adoringly against her cheek. Looking back over her shoulder, The Enchantress looked to those that accompanied her. When she spoke, she no longer did so in Asgardian, but in perfect, unbroken English. “It’s here,” she said simply, gesturing to the cave entrance. “Fafnir’s horde.”

The wilderness was bitter and unforgiving, a test to any man's power of will and ability to survive. The wind howled like creatures of the night as a light snow began to fall. The sky was painted coral and there was nary a cloud to disturb its beauty. A flash of cold steel caught the glare of the orange sky as a blade bit into skin and flesh, and red spilled onto the stark white of the wilderness floor. 

Angela collected her bounty and with one hand she towed the deceased animal behind her. The hunt in Midgard was a far cry than that which she had experienced in Heven. The simple act of catching herself something to end dug up memories of her former home, the torment endured and like falling dominos she ended reminded of Sera walking out of her life. Angela was alone, but she was used to that wasn't she. She had always been a loner and that brief time with Sera had simply been her trying to convince herself otherwise. It was foolish, she thought.

A small campsite had been made from toppled trees and a few gathered stones. Angela gave herself a place to sit and a pit in which she could cook her game, she also had quarters to spend the night in. It was nothing fancy; a far cry from the manors and apartments and palaces she was used to. It was but a humble tent composed of branch thickets and animal pelts - more than cozy enough for a hunter such as herself. Angela sat abruptly on a stool carved from stone and began to use Xiphos, her cherished sword, to rend coat from flesh of her quarry. The ox's meat would be good dinner for the night and its hide would make for excellent cover, though the cold wasn't much affecting her anyway.

It would be dark soon, nightfall was barely hours away. Angela planned to get herself some sleep once done with cleaning the prize of her hunt, and in the morning perhaps she would fish. She exhaled slowly and watched the wisps of frost leave her mouth, she didn't mind being alone but she knew this was a very distance lifestyle than galavanting amongst the stars with the Guardians of the Galaxy. Still, Angela felt this was what she deserved and where she belonged. Frigid solitude was what she knew best, aside from hunting, and she was now making herself experience both of those things. Perhaps somewhere down the line it would get old and she would allow herself to cross paths with Gamora and the others again, but for the time being she could only see herself here in the wintery wilderness.

Going about her work skinning her kill, Angela heard the sounds of voices not too far off. The lands she had chosen were not easily accessible, nor were they such locale that others were even commonly allowed. The falling snow obscured her view at such a distance, but the chattering of voices was impossible to miss. Her eyes narrowed as she stood from her stone carving, Xiphos tight in her grip and dripping with blood and plasma. 

Angela's form slowly came peeking over the maw of the cave faced by Amora  and those she escorted. Standing atop said cave Angela placed a hand on her hip as she leveled her sword, which had now been cleaned of blood, across her shoulder. 

"Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

The enchanted raven sat upon Amora’s shoulder alerted her to the presence of another before the witless humans she’d escorted to the cave – researchers and mercenaries serving one of many rebellious mortal organisations. Cawing twice, it flapped its wings in mild distress, feathers batting against her soft neck. The sorceress tore her gaze from the men at her back, all of whom were chittering animatedly, excited at the prospect of finding an ancient site of power, filled with ancient treasures. The promise of such things always made greedy Midgardian’s glib, warping their cold grumblings into glee, as if they’d never complained about a single flake of snow.

Emerald eyes fell upon a towering, flame-haired maiden, clad in golden armour and furs, stood atop the mouth of the cave Amora and her escort sought to enter. Across one shoulder was slung a sword, unsheathed – its sharpened edge glinting, catching what little light penetrated the overcast skies. Her jaw was strong, as was her body – exposed skin taut over rippling muscles – and her eyes were white, lacking the irises and pupils most boasted. The woman’s cheeks were lined with red markings, jagged shards that reminded the Enchantress of those once tattooed upon her Executioner’s head, and indeed worn by other warriors not of Midgard.

When she spoke, her voice was level and uncompromising. "Abandon hope all ye who enter here."

Tilting her head, a cascade of blonde hair falling over her shoulder, Amora eyed this complication for a long while. She made no immediate move to respond, nor to offer comfort to those she’d accompanied, whose joy had quickly evaporated, only to be replaced with the creeping chill of fear: though they had weapons, they had not expected confrontation with a sword-wielding maiden.
“You told us there would be no guards!”
“A forgotten hold, supposedly!”
“Lying witch!”
Their complaints began sounding thick and fast, though Amora silenced them with a flick of her wrist, fingers on her left hand coiling and uncoiling, drawing their voices from their throats as snakes of emerald energy, warping them into a pulsating orb of green light.

“Be silent,” she murmured over her shoulder, “before you offend this sword-maiden. Or indeed me.” Turning her attention to the warrior, Amora smiled, shifting her speech to that of native Asgardians - a tongue unrecognisable to her human accompaniment. “Do pardon the Midgardians. They are lacking in tact.” Raising her hands, showing them empty but for the orb of glowing light, the Enchantress assumed a posture that suggested surrender. “We bare thee no ill-will or intent. We simply seek entrance to the cave over which thou presides.”

Aldrif Odinsdottir

Angela knew the effect she had on people, her presence alone able to inject uncertainty into those who were usually so sure of themselves. Her confidence in her own ability as an accomplished warrior carried beyond her mental state and extended outward like a pressure on those who were lesser. Men especially seemed to tremble before her, their prejudices of what they imagined a woman to be (or ought to be) challenged and thoroughly crushed beneath the aura of power exuded by the fiery haired woman. And of course her casually slung sword did not hurt to aid in that affect. The men bickering under the tension of their fears and confusion largely went ignored, instead Angela chose to focus on the other woman.

She was a mystic. Even without witnessing the emerald tendrils of energy under her beck Angela would have been able to tell. Heven's Wingless-One had spent enough time around mystics to have a certain feel for them. A pang of memory shot through her that was just as swiftly ignored as it had come about. Things were beginning to make sense now.

When next the woman spoke Angela's iris-less eyes narrowed into dangerous ivory daggers. The words spoken to her was the language of the Asgardians. While Angela had made peace with the people the Angels had long warred with, she still harbored a residual distaste for Asgardians - especially those she had not encountered before. But at least this helped to further make sense of the situation at hand. The reason Angela was held up in these woods was because the Allfather had allowed it. Odin still showed gratitude for Angela saving his infant daughter and when she sought to carve out her own area of solitude the Allfather had been kind enough to point her these woods. The wood was supposed to be off limits to the Midgardians, impossible for them to gain access. That was, unless they had the guidance of an Asgardian.

Angela's eyes glanced toward the towering rune-inscribed obelisks and then the raven on the blond woman's shoulder: the Eyes of Odin. So, to Angela, that solidified the notion that this place was in fact protected by Odin. So then why was this Asgardian brining in humans to a place not meant for them? Still planted firmly atop the cave Angela remained unmoving and let no emotion wash over her face save for the narrowing her eyes had already done.

The sorceress adjusted her stance and posture, taking on a more submissive one. She had just silenced men with a flick of her wrist, there was no mistaking she was powerful. Angela was a natural born skeptic and her most recent years of life had only hardened that fact about the woman. Trust was not easily extended to strangers, that went double for those who practiced the arts of mysticism.

"I do not know what is inside this cave but even I can infer that it wasn't meant for human eyes." Angela was not in the frozen forest to act as a protector of its land but if she was a guest in the Allfather's house then the least she could do was turn away any would be intruders. Perhaps the mystic had been granted permission...however, that did not seem likely.

"I am going to have to suggest you wrangle your Midgardians and turn around." Angela shifted and planted her sword in the ground before her, hands resting comfortably atop its hilt at waist level. "Thank you."

Amora

The cave’s guardian narrowed her eyes as Amora spoke, but remained upon her rocky perch, towering above the Enchantress and her Midgardian escort. Seemingly unmoved by the mystic’s brief show of submission and attempted pacification, the flame-haired warrior suggested she knew not what was in the cave, but was certain it was not to be freely witnessed by the mortals of Earth. She was not incorrect – within cave’s depths was a treasure trove, gold once hoarded by Fafnir Hriedmarson, one of the Vanir. His greed was legendary, and tales told of him both betraying and murdering his kin in exchange for his wealth. Upon his death, his life-blood was said to have formed a cursed pool, washing over every trinket. To drink from the waters of the cave or to take the gold was to lead to an irreversible transfiguration – transfiguration into a mighty, scaled beast.

Truly, that was what Amora sought. Not for herself, of course, but for the Midgardians foolish enough to believe she had needed their protection upon her voyage into the wilderness. As greedy as Hriedmarson, she had promised them unimaginable riches, which in turn would have warped them into dragons with near-impenetrable hides, possessing the simple minds of men: easy to twist to her whims. With a band of draconic warriors at her beck and call, there was little to stand in the way of her achieving her goals, whatever they may have been.

The protector was not an encounter Amora had expected, for no-one who knew of the curse would be foolish enough to risk claiming Fafnir’s treasure. At least, no-one of sound mind.

The Enchantress pursed her lips a little. It was clear the sword-maiden was not going to allow easy access to the cavern, even though she knew not what it held. Indeed, she made mention of the group turning away from the hidden trove, and planting her huge blade in the frosted earth, rested her hands upon its pommel defiantly.

So be it.

“We have travelled far, guardian. It shan't be for naught.” Bringing her hands together, Amora’s fingers laced a hex into the glowing orb of emerald light already formed, a simple charm, far weaker than the ones brought about by her physical touch. In the blink of an eye, she cast it forth. It vanished from view, reappearing before the armoured woman’s face, dazzlingly bright. Then it wormed its way into her conscious, whispering sweet nothings into her ears, doing its utmost to warp her perception of reality.

The strong-willed might have a chance of resisting such a spell. If the maiden possessed such resilience, the Enchantress would try something a little more forceful. However, she wished to avoid open battle where possible, lest her Midgardian defenders be cut down before they’d had a chance to assume their new forms.

Aldrif Odinsdottir

Angela held no sovereignty nor authority over any land within the icy forest, this was true, but there was still a duty she had taken on onto herself upon being gifted the land for an extended period of time. She was not trying to lay claim to any territory or whatever may lay within the confines of the cave that men and sorceress alike sought. As far as Angela was concerned, the lot of them could do whatever they wished with whatever parts of this whole lot of land, it was of no matter to her. That is to say that would be the case normally, for she was not one so preoccupied with Midgard that she saw it gravely important to involve herself with all its matters. The case now was not a normal or standard one and it was simply unfortunate that the mystic and her ilk had embarked on their adventure at such a time when Angela was present and acting as the Allfather's guest. They should blame poor timing and not the angel.

She had not come there for a fight, that was what Angela told herself. But would that be a fair or true assessment? She had been at her camp, bored and prepared to call it an early night. Sounds had grabbed her interest and she hoped to find something worth while to indulge in. It she could be honest with herself perhaps Angela would admit that a fight was exactly what she wanted.

Movement from the sorceress spurred Angela's own. In a flash her sword was ripped from the frozen ground, she gripped it tightly as she whirled the blade behind her back and over her head, momentum building in preparation to cleave whatever magical bolt was sent in her direction. The green ball of magic disappeared from view and Angela's footing pivoted in the snow, her body anticipated it to reappear at her rear, a devious plan to catch her off guard. "Witch!" She shouted in defiance of the other woman's plan. The orb of sparking green then suddenly appeared right in Angela's face, her eyes went wide and her blade met only air.

Angela felt herself falling. Wind rushed through her locks and the sea of red fluttered all around her as she finally forced her eyes open. Though she knew she was still falling the sensation was replaced by one of ease. The wind tickled her ears with soothing words of placation. Her own hair twisting about her cradled her strong arms and filled her with warmth. Angela felt peaceful and content, wondrous scents filling her nostrils as the corners of her lips twitched - almost fighting against the urge to smile. She was reminded of....

Angela's eyes flew open! She was still standing atop the cave, her feet shifted to reassure herself she was still planted firm. She blinked, her heard still swimming and the warm sensation slowly seeping away to let the dead cold back in. The warrior's eyes found the woman in green and she snarled. Settled snow exploded upward as Angela left her perch with a great speed. When she next appeared she was between the witch and her Midgardian hanger-ons. Angela's free hand shoved the group of humans back in one motion, each of them clearing several feet. The hevenly ribbons that coiled around Angela's limbs flared out behind her like agitated serpents, daring any of the humans to try and interfere. Two hands squeezed tightly the sword's grip as Angela threw the entirety of her being into driving the blade toward the blond's chest. Wind, snow, and gravel pushed out of her way under the speed she dashed with. However, Angela gave pause, just as the blade would have penetrated the witch's sternum. They locked eyes as fiery curls fell half over Angela's face, she stared past them right into the witch's pupils. She stood there, towering, unwavering and unmoving.

Amora

Amora’s full lips curled in the slightest of smirks as her enchantment took root in the warrior maiden’s psyche. Her cold, aggressive demeanour melted away, and instead peace blossomed. Her arms relaxed, her eyes closed, and her mouth twitched, a smile momentarily replacing her grim frown and gritted teeth. Whatever it was she day-dreamed, it was far more pleasant than the frozen northlands they currently roamed. Satisfied the other was placated, she gestured to the men at her heel and snapped her fingers, a signal for them to approach the cave’s entrance.

They had made it no more than two steps before the fire-haired warrior fought off the magic that clouded her senses. With a snarl akin to an animal’s growl, she hurled herself from her vantage point, leaping far further than any mortal could. She landed between Amora and her escort, hurling the Midgardian’s back with an open-palmed shove, before she turned on The Enchantress herself. Long ribbons wound about the red-head’s neck - which had, at first, appeared little more than a sparse cloak - took on a life of their own, lashing out at any that dared approach, keeping Amora’s entourage at bay.

Then, with all her might, she drove her heavy blade toward the sorceress’ midriff, as if to impale her. Its point stopped mere inches from her chest.

If Amora had been nervous, she most certainly didn’t show it. Instead, she looked from the blade to its bearer slowly, and then tilted her head. Carefully, she raised a finger, and rested it on the weapon’s sharpened edge. “Despite all thy rage, thou hast no true desire to harm me…” She pushed gently upon the blade, as if to force it toward the ground. “If thou wanted me dead, I would already be impaled upon thy blade.” Amora’s eyelashes fluttered a little, giving her an air of innocence that belay the vast power she possessed.

“Perhaps thou wishes something else of me?” Her eyes flashed near-imperceptibly, an emerald spark that reflected in the warrior-maiden’s blade. Another enchantment weaved into her words, spoken to beguile the cave’s defender.

Aldrif Odinsdottir