5898/1000 Faces: A Dish Served Cold

1000 Faces: A Dish Served Cold
Date of Scene:	09 April 2021
Location:	Orkney, Scotland
Synopsis:	Amora deals with a badly behaved draugr.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Amora
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

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Jane Foster has posed:
Few sights stir such fear as the descending brothers Odinson and the Norn-trained sorceress. The balance of power trickles through stormclouds and green-limned energies rooted back in the mighty golden realm at the heart of the World Tree. Reason to fear.

But the Ring of Brodgar is old, even by Asgardian standards, raised by Stone Age peoples long lost to history. It remains, standing defiant against the swelling grey rage locked in the North Sea. Battered, worn stones millennia older than Thor Odinson himself reach their fingers to the dark skies. They prove a dangerous anchor for power seething on a prodigious cycle, deflecting the glittering spellcraft that emanates from Loki and Amora both.

Something repels them, black and slow-moving as the veil of night, hauled out of the surging cycle bending the ley lines here and making use of that stone dance. Light flashes in sickly bursts that smell of burnt kelp and scorched bone. A wave rushes at them, deadly and sharp.

A chaotic bolt explodes from the draugr sorcerer, splitting and forking into a hailstorm. One becomes three, three becomes nine. Soon a whole volley rains down, leaving bleached soil and dead ground in its wake.

Amora has posed:
It's quite the rush for Amora, that scent of battle of ages long past, of when they used to battle side by side when she wasn't busy tricking a sorcerer or two, or betraying Thor for the nth time. Yet this felt right in a way she could not explain. Or perhaps it was the norn-training in her telling her this was how it should be. The Seer in her.

Blue eyes were wide, heeding the call for battle.., and for revenge. Yes, she knew what they were to find. WHO they were to find. And blood called to blood. A smile of anticipation was creeping into her expression just as they step out onto the norn stones. A place of power. She can feel it, coursing through the place, hand resting against the hilt of the rather nondescript sword by her waist. This magic in the air .., she knew it.

The blast comes at a surprise though, she just barely in time to erect a small barrier to protect herself just before that hailstorm starts to pound around them. Or in this case, her.. She could not see the others anymore. "Loki?" she calls out, "Thor?" a glance around, eyes narrowing.

Still, there was only one way to go, and that was forward, she focusing and strengthening the barrier to keep most of that hail at bay. Or at least out of her face. Hail into her face? No, thank you.

Jane Foster has posed:
Black rainfall scours the view of the sea. Sickly mists explode from rounded bomblets, adding to the precipitation until fog shrouds the landscape. Visibility shrinks from kilometers to meters, banishing any favourable light from the stars. Drizzle hisses on contact, burning skin like acid, even where the typical defenses of a doughty Aesir or Vanir provide protection.

Blind. Muffled, too, for the hissing waves and fallen mist suppress much sound. The ground itself rumbles in protest of her feet upon it, the Enchantress' presence denied. Small rocks and quagmired peat and sand try to trip her up.

If Loki and Thor are about, she won't necessarily sense it. Stifled precipitation snuffs out the assurance of the Thunderer; the pops of magic spark and gutter like fireworks. Dizzying and bewildering, the whole purpose is to confound the woman's preternatural Sight.

The next volley of explosive bursts impact the shield, too many to be accidental. Not one source, either. Chaotic energies wound up have a horribly necrotic effect, the better to hit true, the better to eat away at the protective onion-skin layers.

It's dangerous, beyond that. The reality is meant to undermine everything she does.

Amora has posed:
The falling rain is all but natural, Amora feeling it sizzle against her armor as it falls. It's perhaps a good thing that her skin remains impervious to it or she might get rather upset with said sorcerer. More than she is, that is. And her wrath is never something to take lightly. She takes a step forward, then another, sending out small echoes through the mists, attempting to discern where the others might be though frowns as her preternatural Sight eludes her.

"Trying to elude an illusionist..? Oh, no no no." She murmurs out into the air, lips curling up into an amused smile. She could at least say this sorcerer was ballsy. She is just about in the process of empowering that shield further when it hits. The various chaos bolts hitting against it like a wave of necromancy. She extends her hands forward to reinforce it just in the nick of time so it isn't fully broken down, teeth gritting.

"Come out, come out." She calls out into the darkness. "Are you so scared of me that you hide in the middle of this hailstorm?" bold words. Not very like her. But she needs to set up the grounds.

Jane Foster has posed:
Unnatural in every respect, that cold rain. Slippery trails leave destroyed remnants in their wake, whether earth or rock or moss. It would gladly leach away Amora's flesh, her cosmetics, and her clothes without a care. Water doesn't keep the spell from diluting or falling apart. The ghastly precipitation pelts her, constantly falling in icy tears that hold no warmth. Bound into the spell is a core of something fell and old, threatening to cut through her skin, her shield.

The magic in that is ruthless and cruel, the sort Loki might bother to use in his darkest moments. The kind Karnilla keeps bound up in grimoires not for an enchanter's hands (and certainly /not/ her untrustworthy little sister). It feels ghastly, the antithesis of clean rain and bracing grey sea winds struck with salt and a tang of life. Teeming seas act as the cradle for life, but this is something unhallowed by compare.

Necrotic but not purely necromantic, a vicious reflection. Those sizzling marks turn deep, livid greens like stains on stone. They blacken and curl on Amora's shield as though they mock her, the deliberate strikes blasted one, two, three, four and five leaving behind a rather horrendous little display of a death's head grinning. Well, that or it's a mean looking smiley-face with pointy teeth. Meant to be scary, and in some ways, it might be.

Her taunts don't produce a response other than the ground itself shuddering to throw her to her knees, if it can.

Amora has posed:
With the assault continuing on her shields Amora frowns. Dirty little draugr. But was she in their position she might just do the same. Of course she'll never be, because she is the Enchantress. And she always finds a way. As the attacks continue to pelt against her shield the woman stops. A step back as if she was being driven away by the constant attack... She moves her cloak up and around a shoulder as if to protect herself from the acid rain, though it's mostly to keep the blade she carries concealed, out of sight and out of mind. She does need to bide her time after all.

Amora brings one hand up and then unleashes a bolt of her own towards the emptiness that is the surrounding mist. An attempt at finding her mark even if it's shot mostly blindly. Or perhaps testing things. It's shortly followed by a rising wind that she conjures, by reaching into the primordial forces of the earth.. Not exactly her strong point, but perhaps it will help in a pinch. She shoots that blast of wind forward to try and push the mists away and give her vision of the battlefield.

But still she continues stepping back, as if she was losing, expression that one of close to desperate. She's a great actress!

Jane Foster has posed:
Dirty draugr indeed. Where are they within the ring, or beyond it? That's a question eyes won't show, for the concealing mists make it difficult to use regular sight to see. Hearing is likewise hampered, and it's not like they smell entirely of the grave. If they move, they use light feet and cautious steps to maneuver around the Aesir woman. What risks she runs staying where she is in the rain could well exist beyond the ground trying to knock her over, disrupting her footing.

Another arcing blast crashes down from the sky, not a little unlike the lightning that Thor wields with such impunity. Only that, forking shadows that hit the ground and rebound as gaunt, horrid emanations with twisted faces and yawning mouths. Her sizzling green bolts evaporate into the shadows as the stones creak and hold. A stunted tree clearly falls, for certain; other corrupted flames and bursts are hard to pick out from the mire around her. Certainly no one screams.

The circling gaunts pounce, striking in pairs and threes, claws out.

Amora has posed:
The approaching gaunts bring Amora to arch a golden brow. As if asking that's their true intent. Not that she expects response, these creatures normally do not have a mind of their own, often controlled by a puppeteer somewhere. A bit similar to how she does with her own thralls. Yet there's always that small touch of insanity as if Amora expected to be obeyed even by those of a mindless nature.

Not that she will stay there to wait and see if it worked, mind you. No, she takes another step back, then another, gesturing with both hands and calling upon her own energies to step back and start going airborne. A claw comes close, she moving to the side, answering with a backhanded fist across the draugr's face to send it sprawling out. Another finds her armor, ripping through leather but not finding skin. Yet then she flies up, frowning. And how do you fight claws? Unfairly of course. She calls upon her eldritch energy to run through the approaching gaunts, safe from her flying position. But she doesn't linger. It was time to find her prey.

She zips further forward through the field, seeking out the source of that power, and the one shooting at her. She knew the draugr had to be close.

Jane Foster has posed:
Why yes, yes it is. The gaunts intend to strike as they will, slender and deadly as arrows shot from a Welsh longbow against an unsuspecting English raiding party. Their obvious difference lies in strength and the ability to reach out and strike something at arm's length. Still, they move with precision and speed something thrown down by a spell shouldn't.

That proves only the first issue. The second comes from the way they move in tandem. When they launch in, and she rises up, the gaunts prove both leathery and innovative. True, being struck by her spells hurts. They don't protest; they are dead, and what point is there in shouting or groaning like the living. Worse, though... they fly right up there with her. Her blasts certainly slow them down and rip away the residual forces animating them, but they ought to keep her busy as they dip and crash like demented crows trying to attack an eagle. A noble one at that, but it's still a dangerous sight.

As for her prey, the mists sweep all around the Ring and out to the sea, the narrow spit of land between one side of Orkney and the other well and truly concealing. Though it means she has cover, too; no random splotches of power come roaring out like a cyclone at her. On the other hand, that has to be a /problem/. The whole place is saturated in the same dire stink.

Of death.

Amora has posed:
Well, that's quite the unexpected shift. They fly. So what was to start being a draugr-hunt by Amora turns into being hunted. Fine! She twirls in the air, blasting away at the approaching creatures, some flying out, others shrugging off the blasts or getting tossed to the ground to start flying back up. And now she is getting upset.

Specially as one of those claws rip across the armor of her arm, drawing out blood. Noble Asgardian blood. And that's the last drop (Not of her blood, but of her patience).

"Begone." She murmurs, full of malice in her tone, eyes flashing as one hand wraps around the handle of the weapon she carries. For she had come prepared. The blade is drawn in a flash, dragonfang bright and shining as it slices through the offending arm that dared touch her. Then across the chest to cut the creature in half. The woman looks furious, looking at the continued approach. But now instead of running away she flies to meet them head on.

She cuts through with the sword, slicing and destroying undead with the full wrath of an Asgardian sorceress that's been slighted, letting out a war cry in defiance. It was finally time to put the blade she had stolen into work. Being worthy? Pfffttt.

Jane Foster has posed:
Damn the dead, who don't behave. Poltergeists play by some rules, zombies by others, and the litany of undead in between practically unimaginably wide. These monstrosities don't care to explain their origins, eagerly chasing after her. Scratching at her, seeking bare legs or armour, places they can cause real and true harm. Anything to feed the bloodlust, to cause pain.

Toying with the Enchantress is a dangerous business, but then, they might well be doing it for a purpose. Dragonfang is an eager murderer of undead, the draconic tooth sharpened enough to bite into arcane spell work. But it thrums in a freezing gout as the internal enchantments sizzle and writhe, repelled by the creeping darkness that would dare to permeate it. What the Ebon Sword might gleefully eat for dinner, it knows to recoil from at some fundamental level.

Because that sting rebounds right up her arm, that feeling of gossamer magic being torn away and left floating in the air like pollution atop a river. No need to be worthy, but then the stains of wrongness percolate over her in inky drifts. They want to stick. She's freeing that darkness from its summoned shells.

Amora has posed:
Necromantic magic. That's enough to have Amora turn her nose as she feels it's stench in the air, even the eagerness of the blade to consume magic turning back from it so great is it's wrongness. She frowns as the various draugr start falling all about her, void of their magic. Some of those stains are felt on her armor still, on skin where they were able to pierce. But she is still standing, and they are dead. Or rather .., more dead. Or ultimately dead. Something like that. And it counts!

As for corruption? She can deal with that later. Vengeance trumps it. She shakes the inky blood off the blade, looking about slowly before she slashes her blade /through/ the air, perhaps trying to consume at the unnatural storm all around them. Though she is also wise to start drifting away from those pockets of corruption. No need to have them stick more than they should..

"Your little guards are done for. It's only you left.." she singsongs.

Jane Foster has posed:
The laughter on the wind is no laughter at all. A low, throbbing moan roils from an unseen throat. Keening has no melody but the sonic cones blasted from the ground level, intended to fry the mind and distract the senses with nothing but pain. Shrill noises radiate through the ring, reinforced somehow. Like the stones themselves are being used to broadcast, it rebounds up into the air in hopes of making Amora's head spin.

Gaunts down. That just leave a banshee or its equivalent, not the friendly Irish mutant but something worse. Less dapper, probably just as bad a drinker.

The corruption in the air ripples, making a minefield to navigate through. A ghost draws breath again, preparing to launch another volley.

The unmistakable sign of the draugr sorcerer casting /something/ breaks through, and his presence winks out.

Because Amora can't slay *everything*. What would Loki and Thor do?