Post by Firelizard on Aug 9, 2024 18:58:17 GMT
Artificial sounds of a once very real time and place echoed throughout a myriad of briar patches. Thorny bushes enveloped a series of brightly colored and patched tents. People walked to and thro, some garbed in cargo pants and flower laden Hawaiian shirts. Others in threadbare dresses and breeches, tunics and leather as far as the eye could see. Animals neighed and humans ate, turkey legs glistening with sweat as they descended into hungry maws of teeth. What had once been a sleepy Irish village had been turned into a rendition of a time all too medieval. Chords and notes that may have once emitted from the all too real strings and callused fingers of traveling minstrels or bards emanated from cheap speaker stands.
“Tickets still available for Shakespeare’s King Lear! Watch the Traveling Midsommar Acting Troupe in their thousandth rendition of a fabulous clas-”
Amora turned her ears and attention away from the overly dressed and tomato debris laden ad hoc town crier. She could have admired his obsessively perfected medieval garb were it not for the Timberland boots peeking out from beyond his breeches and the digital watch around his too pale wrist. Even the Asgardian’s disregard for the authenticity to his dress paled in comparison to her loathing of his voice and the play it announced. To think that humans to this day revered the vulgar and peasant coddling lines that playwright oaf had concocted made her blood boil. A merchant she had been wooing had taken her to a show so long ago, and he had seemingly been more enamored with the theatrical idiocy than the all too stunning woman upon his wrist.
“His loss, I reckon.”
The sorceress giggled at the thought. She remembered how the merchant had seemingly vanished from public life. It could have been due to their affair becoming the talk of the London gentry. That or his own wife coming down with boils and a tongue of fur that could only speak in the infuriating scribe of that damned Shakespeare. Amora had not thought of him or his ilk for centuries. Perhaps his descendants still suffered the curse. She had not been too careful in its application, after all.
Amora took her mind off the jaunt back in time. She clicked her fingers, a chair of tree and leaves responding upward from the ground at the gesture. Nobody seemed to pay much mind to the spell, as if their very eyes were commanded to look away from the sight. A university aged boy came running forth, fermented grape juice sloshing around the edge of the plastic cup he held in a dual handed grip. He fell to his knees and offered the vessel above his head toward the blond headed woman. Her reflection sparkled in those glazed over spheres, offset by the red upon his chubby cheeks.
“Thank you, my dear. Run along now, you mustn't keep your lovely paramour waiting.”
The man lifted up from the ground, not even deigning to swipe the dirt and dust from his knees. His cheeks went from blushed to pure crimson as Amora blew a kiss his way. The simple gesture almost had a power all his own, sending him back in the direction of an all too angry girl who shared his age. Amora looked down at the cup in her hand and grimaced. A moment later energy rushed from her fingertips and ran across the vessel’s surface. The red liquid inside it seemed to suspend in the air before flowing back down into a golden goblet. Jewels and runes ran across the new vessel’s surface, a hint of a smile gleaming in their glittering surfaces where a grimace had been but moments before. Amora took a sip of the wine within, lazily sweeping her gaze upon the hastily put together renaissance fair set before her. She had sent out a flare of sorts, magic seeping into the roots and stones of the Irish landscape. Perhaps those she might even call her equals would arrive in response, though they were already late. Or maybe she was early. Amora cared not for the difference between the two.
