Amora stands upon the Isle of Idunn, a sanctuary hidden from civilisation on the lost archipelagos of the Caribbean. Covered by a veil of magic linked directly to her lifeforce, Amora remains the keeper of the Golden Apples after using the vast force of her magical prowess to bring them back into existence. All who attempt to find her home usually return empty handed. However to a select few Amora welcomes them upon her shores with open arms.
Asgardian sorceress, known as the accomplished apprentice to Karnilla despite being expelled for being too undisciplined. Aligned neutrally regardless of her attempted conquest of Asgard, Enchantress manipulates and seduces her way into the lives of the powerful in order to learn their secrets and is considered one of the most powerful sorceresses known to all nine realms.
She possesses superhuman strength, speed, stamina, longevity, agility and has inhumane reflexes. She has the ability to teleport, to manipulate gravity, to heal regeneratively and along with her potent magic she’s nigh unstoppable when she’s after something she greatly desires. She is extremely intelligent and exceptionally stubborn.
1*8+ only due to mature themes. Back after a long hiatus.
You keep looking at her like she’s some kind of model. Don’t get it twisted: there is model beauty, and then there is a kind of weaponized beauty that distracts you, disarms you until it’s too late. Madame Hydra made it clear to you last year: not all gangsters come in pinstriped suits and expensive loafers.
So let’s do a process of elimination here, answer our own rhetorical question: who is this? We’re talking the confidence of a Silvermane or Tombstone, the presence of a Wilson Fisk—all those heads turning from the bar just to watch her walk into the back room—and the allure of a celebrity. Bo Derek in “10” over here. Look how she had poor Led mesmerized standing next to her.
That kinda combination is unusual even for all your superpowered types in New York. Your Spider-Men. Silk Spiders. Captain Marvelseses; your Avengers. This lady stands out amongst –all- of them.
What else? Well… there was a chance maybe she was with these new Russian crews in Manhattan investing in high end real estate, running all those crazy money laundering schemes. Or maybe she was with the Polish in South Jersey. Could come back legit, so it’s worth checking out. You never know.
But you’re dreaming you think any wise guy's heard of her. Six foot tall hot blondes dressed lavish silks tend to stand out in the New York underworld.
And listen to how she talks:
“Bring me your finest wine.” Amora murmured sweetly at Led.
Persuasive. Like a knife to the throat. Led said “yes ma’am” like he was talking to his high school principal or something and then –booked- for the bar. Cops raided the place with shotguns last year and he didn’t run that fast.
Mac himself said something like, “Pleasure, hon,” his usual hello. You know: be charming and what-not.
She ignored it. Let his arm hang in mid-air. “Yeah, alright. Who needs handshakes anyways.” Dimple in his grin.
Returning from the bar, Led brought back two glasses bubbling full of Dom Pérignon. Stumbling over himself to get the glass to Amora. “Bottle is seventeen years p-post harvest,” he said. “I was, um, saving it for the day my brother got out of prison, but I can tell this meeting’s more important.”
Mac raising an eyebrow. This suck-up. “You don’t get to talk about me tripping over barstools ever again.”
Lifting his middle finger, Led exited the room, leaving them be.
Mac taking a sip of his wine glass. Trying to still decide who, in fact, he was dealing with.
She had these gorgeous green eyes, but it was her -stare- that got him. Observing the room for a minute and then looking at him, affixed. Kind of stare that clutched claws around his heart and threatened to squeeze.
“Something tells me you don’t do small talk.” Mac leaning back on his desk. “Or, um, names. Or handshakes. In fact, you’re pretty f***in terrifying, lady, and I don’t even know why.” Putting his glass down. “Guess I should stop hoping for the ‘meet cute’ moment and just ask how can I help you.”
She looked right him. “You possessed a few things of mine quite recently, I believe.” Voice of liquid silk. Sweet as a lily. Filled with amusement. “I want them back."
Jesus, that -tone-. Champagne spilling from Mac's glass, middle of her sentence. Right onto the floor.
“Hey, now. We haven’t met. –Your- things could be a lot of people’s things.”
Relax. Take deep breaths.
...There we go. Your hand’s steady now. Perfectly fine. No more champagne splashing around your glass. You’ve got this. Be cool.
“How do I know what these things are? How do I know if I have said things someone won’t come in claiming the same thing and blast my head off?”
She stared right at him.
“You, um, don’t really care if that happens, do you?”
Yo, think you can safely conclude just from this brief conversation you got a new player operating outside the normal chessboard here. Who out-Fisks Wilson Fisk. Hammers Hammerhead.
Because, see, weirdest thing of all was he couldn’t read her mind. Identity should’ve been jumping out at him by now. Nothing.
Maybe a mutant?
Maybe. Gut feeling said she was something else entirely.
“Listen, lady, I’d love to help. But technically? I dunno who you are. You –could- be wearing a wire.” Wagging a finger. "I should speak into it."
He did. Leaning forward, right off the desk.
“So all you cops listening in are well aware, I’m here in this drug-free backroom, minding my own business and not playing pool. …As one does in a billiards bar.”
And then looked Amora right in the eye:
“Because, hon: if I –did- know something what you're talking about? I’d tell you there’s a procedure to things.
"I’d hypothetically have a friend come back with a clean report on you, tell me you’re cool to even be back here.
“And then there’d be the little matter of my finder’s fee, safely recovering these things of yours and then bringing them back to you. Because I,” snapping his vest with pride, “Am a businessman. You know. Hypothetically.”
Another indulgent sip from his glass.
“I mean, who even knows anything about a bushel of Golden Apples moving through New York? –I- sure don’t.”
First time Mac ever saw a god was in a village in Lynd Valley.
Was in a town called Osuna, established 5th Century AD and full of dilapidated buildings, theaters, and bathhouses. Out there for two days visiting with Cadence, his girlfriend at the time, to offload a blue chrome p89 Ruger with a 17-round mag to a retired wiseguy.
Laying in a field of grass near an orchard when the god appeared over a hill: thing of fire, whirling shadows, and ram horns that thundered the terrain when it walked. It dwarfed a temple he and Cadence had been taking pictures in front of just minutes prior. Put its finger through the temple’s marble cella, marveling at the building with childlike fascination, and cracked its portico. The building collapsed into chalk dust and buzzing insects. Lost the god’s attention. It walked off, hooves punching basins of fire into the grass plains, and trailed a tail made of flames behind it. Looking like a Balrog from one of those old story books full of folk tales.
Remembered asking Cadence what kind of god was that.
It isn’t one, she’d said.
-That-? The giant goat-looking thing with fire eyes setting off car alarms with every footstep?
She told him it was a actually an Aeon—a physical manifestation of humans sealed in statues in a state of dreaming, but it was easy to confuse the two.
Because, see, your imagination could f*** with you: if it’s big, it’s otherworldly. Was the comment he made to his dad bringing Cadence over the house that night for an Italian dinner, continuing their conversation about mistaking massive beasts for gods, because why wouldn’t you? Say the word ‘god ‘ and you think big, epic, and world-ending.
“Not true,” his dad, Gino Xenakis, replied. “That’s your problem, Mac, is you’re limited.”
“What're you, a f***in parrot? I just said that.” Gino dumping a pack of ravioli into a pot of boiling water. “You’re thinking small. A god can be –anyone-.”
“I’m –limited- because I figure if a god’s gonna come to Earth, she’s gonna tower over everything.”
“Exactly. It’s wrongheaded.”
“Pop, if you’re a god, why wouldn’t you look the part? If you’re coming to a land of humans, aren’t you gonna be like fifty feet tall and made of spikes and speaking backwards and sh*t to trip out our tiny little human brains?” He’d turned to Cadence and said, “Don’t tell me I’m the only one thinks like that. I’d be Megatron in a f***in tunic.”
“What’d I just say?” Gino whacking him on the back of the head. “You don’t listen. A god can be anyone. Can look like you or me. Your first grade teacher. …Hell, your mother’s divorce lawyer, which would explain a lot. How many times I tell you to keep a few bucks in your wallet for homeless people with signs?”
“’Could be Jesus.’ You say it all the time.”
“Because consider it could be.”
“I did, pop. The first ten times you said it. I’m actually repeating it right now to get you to stop reminding me so much.”
Regardless of their forms, gods were fearsome enough for Mac simply being gods. He didn’t need the thought of the toothless guy he found going through his sock drawer for loose cash to cop Oxy was maybe a divine entity. Throwing that f***er out of a window shouldn’t feel blasphemous.
So yeah: Mac was struggling with stereotypes just a little bit when it came to gods.
…For example, he didn’t think curvy blonde with red-painted lipstick. Jesus –Christ-.
-Who- was this walking in right now?
Like meeting a professional singer you like in person for the first time. You’re all nervous, your f***in hands are twitching. On his phone but looking into the depths of her eyes, these tiny emeralds that shimmered like something hidden in ancient caves.
Wanted to say she reminded him of one of those Cosmo or GQ models and what-not, but there was something way more regal to her, sh*t you don’t see every day. Way she was covered in green silks, for example—how they moved pure specter around her body, finding breezes that weren’t there. Cleopatra-style sophistication in a presence that defied the smoke-filled office she’d been led to.
Was Led Andrews that brought her back to see Mac. Had been on one of his blowout phones chopping it up with a dog trainer from Jersey. Speaking in baseball terms to cover up an arranged meeting for an assault rifle, the guy wanting something high-powered to protect his kennel. Crunching peanuts and ‘yeah, Saturday sounds good, can do,’ and scribbling things in a black book when Led came in with his THE POLICE—DINGWALLS, LONDON, ENGLAND, 1977 black tee and a woman who looked like she’d stepped off a tapestry.
“…Holy mother of f***. Philly, I got the date. Saturday’s good. I’m gonna call you back, alright?”
Didn’t know if he even hung up the phone or if he’d just hurriedly shoved it into his vest pocket. He’d been sitting on a barstool trying to be all cool and sh*t. Got up to say hello to his visitor, felt his knees wobble, and tumbled onto the floor right in front of she and Led. Barstool upside down. His foot trapped in it. Led with a worried look. “Um… you alright, dude?”
“Totally fine.” Mac wallowing on the floor. "Wasn’t planning on functional use of my legs today.”
“And we really gotta dust this floor.”
Led said, “Whenever you get up, this nice lady came all the way from out of town to see you. In freaking Bed-Stuy, in the fall and stuff, to see –you-, and here you are on the floor.” Turning to Amora. “If you want a drink and stuff, I can bring you guys something from the bar.”
Mac was to his feet by the time Led left and reminded him with that stupid grin about how this lady was really nice and she has questions and you better answer them.
Presented a handshake to her. Nervous out of his mind, but he didn’t know why. Was just some visitor. Okay, really pretty visitor, like mindblowingly pretty, but business was business.
“Hi. Name’s Mac. Sorry about that earlier. I, um… wobbly. Legs.” An expression that said he’d totally made sense and explained everything in full. “Come on, lemme get you a seat, hon. Tell me what can I do for you.”