From On High

Brief Title:
From On High

Enchantress, Ares

Scene Runner/Watcher:

IC Date:

Chrysler Building

Enchantress hassles poor innocent Ares

Social or Plot:


Thirty one hours. And counting. The city has endured much, and from so far on high it is easy to see the damage and the destruction. The Chrysler building is thankfully still mostly intact, the lower floors having suffered some damage but a group of heroes had made a stand there far below during the day and driven off one of the smaller warbands. Within its confines in the basement a group of citizens are huddled together, clinging to each other, praying for a savior and for an answer from heaven.
Unfortunately the only gods nearby have no care to respond. With his hands upon the railing and his gaze cast outwards, the man known as John Aaron looks out upon the tendrils of smoke that wisp up into the sky. Night's falling now, the second night, and there's still the flicker of fires across the skyline. Most of the street lights are out, power is down for many of the boroughs yet there are still flickers of activity, still the occasional scream. Sometimes it is a mortal that wails, sometimes it is a creature of shadow.

Some people are heroes. Some people are villains. Some people? Aren't people at all. Case in point? Amora, the Enchantress, returned from a trip to Asgard to find the city overrun by shades. Her first action? To ward her apartment building so that the beasts couldn't come near it and cause damage to her precious possessions. After that? She watched for a while. That was amusing. She wandered the city and destroyed a few shades. Even helped a few people. That was a lark. She took a particularly tasty diamond necklace from a woman at Tiffany's. The old owner didn't need it anymore.
Then she had lunch. Finally... perhaps a little bit curious, she used her magic to track all the gods in the city until she found one in particular. Flash! Woosh! Here's Amora, standing next to Ares high above the city. "Lovely show you've put on, Ares. Not quite your style, though."

"This is not my show, Enchantress." The tall man's voice is a steady rumble, grim in tone and as severe as the aspect of the man himself. He leans forward against the railing, his eyes still distanced upon what occurs to the city. He glances sidelong at her, then away almost as quickly. His features contort into a grimace of a scowl. "The hands raised here are not mine. I do naught." Though the very fact he does naught but be in part one of the most damning things for him.

"Mmmm. I thought you were currently lord of the underworld?" Amora says, peering out into the city. The chaos. "These things reek of the underworld.... so.. ooooooh.." She smiles wickedly. "I see. Is it Hades? Or one of his children? Someone is making a power play for your throne and you're sitting here sulking like a child? Delicious."

A smirk flickers over his features and he looks sidelong at Amora. He shakes his head and there's a faint shift of his eyes, she baits him at times, and sometimes he even bites, but it is always lovely when she tries. Any form of attention can be enjoyable... with the right mindset.
"I never ascended the throne." He lifts a calloused hand and gestures casually to the side as he pushes away from that railing. "I stood sentinel for a time. No longer." As he says this he starts to walk along the cement balcony that surrounds the Chrysler building, the wind picking up around them as he moves. "You're welcome to make the attempt if you wish. Have you no ambition? Amora of the Dead?"

"Yes. An Asgardian goddess attempting to take the throne of the Olympian underworld. THAT will go over well." Amora rolls her eyes, "Really, darling, as charming as Persephone is, I wouldn't want it. Those annual business meetings with Hela and Mephisto and the others must be an absolute BORE."

"Never went to them," Ares pauses to lean back against the railing, watching her with a furrowed gaze. He folds his arms over his chest and then lifts his chin. "So do you have any plants to capitalize on the situation, or just care to spectate?" He leans forward a touch, as if getting a different angle at which to consider her.

Amora's eyes turn skyward, watching flickers of lightning. Thor? Storm? Beta Ray Bill? Hell, maybe Erik Masterson is back on Midgard. "Me? Oh, I already have. At least three people who have annoyed me in the past few months have gone missing. No doubt, they are victims of this horrible crisis." She touches her hand to her heart. "Dreadful."

For a moment there's a glimmer of something in those dark red eyes of his, a faint pursing of his lips, a gleam of a reaction. Something almost akin to distaste as he considers the Enchantress before him. Then he straightens up and smirks, shaking his head slightly and murmuring in that level tone of his. "Remind me not to get on your bad side." There's a pause, the space of a handful of heartbeats before he asks, "Is there aught you would have of me or are you here merely to enjoy the glow of the burning city at night?"

Amora considers that for a moment. "I am just curious about something. You are the god of war." She glances down over the side of the building to the streets below. "That is war. Of a sort. I can't imagine Hogun the Grim sitting up here watching and not testing his might against these creators. So, the question begs... why are you?"

Then, perhaps for some reason unknown, Ares confides in Amora. Not too much mind you, but she has some insight into how the Gods operate at times. "It is the great game, Enchantress." Ares looks out across the city, and his frown is genuine. His jaw tenses, the tendons bunching for a moment. "I do not interfere as I cannot. I am bound to this course of action, it must be seen through." He looks back, "There is more to what we do than the satisfaction of the moment."
Then, there is a small half-smile as the thought occurs to him and he gives voice to it. "Of course, look who I say this to. You are no stranger to gratification."

The Enchantress lifts an eyebrow. "I see. Mmmm." She shakes her head. "I suppose it is no different from having that idiotic prophecy about Ragnarok hanging over our head time and time again. It gets so frustrating, waiting to see when that moron Loki will start it all over again. It makes me want to just... just... excuse me." Amora points to the street below and an eldritch blast of green energy lances out, ripping a shadow in half. "Ah. There. Better. I will say this, they are satisfying when they blow up."

"My family is terrible, true." Ares lets his smirk grow, though edged like a newly drawn blade. "Yet I cannot fathom how yours endures that creature." He shakes his head as he looks across the city, perhaps pleased that the topic has shifted somewhat.
"My grandfather would have eaten him, and not just for the usual reasons. He has a manner which draws violence upon him. I used to think Thor was..." A rough 'heh' comes from him, "Exaggerating, I have found he was not."

Amora laughs. "Loki has, believe it or not, his moments. And it isn't as if you don't have Eris to deal with. Or your own children. I've spent time with Strife, mind you." She sighs. "The truth is, and you know this as well as I, to diminish one is to diminish us all in some way. Besides... your grandfather eating children didn't turn out very well for him, did it?"

"Ultimately, no." He draws a fingertip over the curve of his jaw, expression distancing. "Though at times I am sometimes curious how things would have fallen out if he had won the war with my father."
Then, as if the topic mispleased him, he gestures to the side sharply with one hand, as if brushing the words away. He climbs to his feet and takes a deep breath, scowling and resting his hands on his hips. "Do you ever consider that perhaps we should be diminished? That our role has passed? I realize this once again draws us into considering something beyond this moment, but still."

Amora yawns. She actually yawns. Hand over her mouth, long moment. "See... this is what you get for thinking too much. Has our role passed? Of course not. Are we worshipped as we once were? No. That doesn't mean, however, that we are any less than who we were or are. Truly, Ares, are you so depressed that you measure your worth by how many mortals bow their heads in prayer to you?"

There's a smirk upon his features, "That is not what I meant and you know it. You use a conversational gambit to deflect." Yet Ares looks to the side, his smile shifting amused. A few steps carry him towards her and he motions to the city as a whole, "Asides, I prefer quality to my worshippers, less so quantity." When he looks back and their eyes meet she's known him long enough to be able to read the joviality in his tone despite the grim visage he presents.

Amora chuckles and taps Ares on the chest. "Then I give you a simple answer, god of war. No. Our time has not passed. That we still live and breathe and have such power is full proof of that. Look at the mortals below. Insignificant little pests that they are, they can teach us a lesson or two. Each struggles to find meaning. Realized that lives are individual things. To be measures in worth or doubt, in the end, by their hand and their hands alone."

"I am so lucky to count you amongst my advisers then, Lady Amora." But even as he says this she can still see the humor there, perhaps even teasing her lightly. He then leans in, daring oh so much without even a by your leave, and touches his lips light to the corner of her mouth. Just a faint hint of a kiss given as if he were making ready to depart.

"Yes, you are." Amora says. Good humor in her voice, too. A strange counterpoint to the violence, death, and undeath running rampant in the city of New York. "Well, I suppose I should go and ensure that my mortal allies aren't too badly damaged."

"If I remain in existence in two days time, call upon me as you would so that you can gloat or celebrate. One or the other." That having been said he meets her eyes and with a companionable affection he steps away from her. A wave of his hand is given, causing the closed gateway that had brought him here to open once again, its surface gleaming like a recently poured mirror. "Take care of yourself, Amora."

"Who better." Amora answers. She lifts her hands and then lowers them in an arcane pattern. Poof! In a burst of green mist she's gone. Vanished into the ether. Or, at least, somewhere else in the city.

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