Witches Bearing Gifts

November 20, 2014: Emma Frost attempts to negotiate an alliance with Atlantis.

Numenor's Wrath

The personal flagship of King Namor. Currently patrolling the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.



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Mood Music:

When one lives in the darkest depths of the ocean, the concepts of 'Night' and 'Day' mean less than they do to the poor saps who live on the Surface World. This does not, however, mean that the men of Atlantis need less sleep than their human cousins.

On Numenor's Wrath, King Namor's personal flagship, all is silent. The bridge crew is commanded by one of the lower-ranking shift officers, while the Captain, the First Officer, and most of the senior staff are sound asleep in their quarters. Minimal security is posted in the corridors, aside from the detail that constantly guard's Namor's personal chambers.

Even around the ship, all is peaceful. Fish drift lazily by, mostly unaware of the presence of the entire 7th Atlantean Fleet. But considering the countermeasures the ships have against detection, this is perhaps no surprise. In fact, they're almost completely invisible from above, even to methods like sonar.

Yet, despite all being seemingly well, the King is unable to sleep. Alone in his quarters, he groans and mumbles, even though his eyes are closed. He floats in the center of his chamber, his body suspended vertically in the water. His chin rests on his hairless chest, his arms hang limply. But the rest of his body is tense, as if he feels threatened.

In short: he looks as if he's fighting off some sort of trance.


It is done carefuly, of course. At first, towards the earlier part of Namor's attempt at sleep, his mind was merely brushed against, that then replaced by a slightly less than subtle attempt to probe here and there to test for mental defenses and 'traps' that might cause feedback if accidentally triggered. Once determined it is safe, however, the person on the other end - a person hundreds of miles away - starts to implant ideas into that brain.

A warmth not unlike a tight embrace filters down, starting at the top of Namor's head and then slowly drifting towards his fingers and toes, an all-encompassing heat that is supposed to be comforting. It is paired with flashes of imagery fed directly to his memory, fleeting glimpses of a blonde woman, beautiful and young, dressed in all white. The style of what she wears - what little she wears, it bears to note - borders on lingere, leaving very little to the imagination. Arousing? Perhaps, if the Alantean finds such to be attractive. But there's more to why she's doing this. It isn't just to turn him on that she feeds him such lovely mental pictures. No, there's another, much more important reason she is doing this.

She wants to make sure he'll never forget her.

"My lovely king," is spoken directly into his head after fifteen or so minutes pass, the tone a cooing, almost sing-song quality. "What is wrong? Can not sleep?"

While this all is occuring the one trying to put the man under her spell is sitting in a high back, finely upholstered chair, dressed nicely although not anywhere near as provocatively as she is in the visions she's feeding Namor. A fire burns brightly in the marble fireplace, lending some illumination to the otherwise dark room, bathing her in its glow as she works her proverbial magic.


At the depths which Namor lives, the water is pretty much always freezing. But Atlanteans still respond to the feeling of 'warmth,' even if their definition is quite a few degrees colder than what humans are used to. But although the sensation is a comforting one, it isn't an entirely relaxing one for Namor.

Held indefinitely in the sweet limbo between wakefulness and sleep, Namor's mind is at it's most vulnerable. But every time it feels as if he's drifting off for good, something shocks him back to semi-wakefulness. Which means that the images he's receiving are mixing with little snippets of dreams, which alternate from terrifying to ecstatic, and hit every other tone in between.

Until finally, it's over, and Namor is just plain under. With his mind disconnected from his unconscious body, he communicates directly with the source of his troubles. "Namora?"

"No… this is some form of trickery. Explain your presence in my quarters. Where are my guards?"


"Fah! Namor's mind is as impregnable as the iron hull of a Charna-Class Battleboat! Any attempt to divine my secrets will only end with your feeble human brain running out of… your…" It's right about then that the warming sensation hits him once again, killing off both his objections and what was shaping up to be a lengthy boasting session.

He visibly relaxes, both his body and his mental 'image.' His perpetually-clenced brow unfurrows, and he looks almost as if he's taken a hit of whatever it is that Atlanteans do instead of smoking.

"… it's perfectly fine. I rarely get visitors now that I've gained a reputation for bloodlust, so this is a nice surprise. You have no idea how lonely it gets ruling seventy percent of the planet. Sometimes I think that my people don't really appreciate all that I do for them, and this makes me very sad."

Apparently whatever she's doing to his mind has put Namor in a sharing mood.


Feeble human brain? Hardly. But she doesn't contradict him. No, his inflated opinion is allowed to be given voice until he stops, his train of thought seemingly derailed. The silence lingers for as long as he speaks once his voice is found again. "It is a shame," she 'whispers' as she rises from her chair, her path taking her to where a bottle of champagne sits waiting in a bucket of ice. "You should be treated as a king, not left without the appreciation of your people." A fluted glass is taken and some of the bubbly wine is poured, the beverage sipped as she continues this very strange conversation with Namor.

An idea comes to mind and, with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, the blonde murmurs, her voice dropping a bit in volume now. "What you need is a queen to treat you as you should be, Namor. Like the royalty you are."


"A… queen?"

Images of a blue-skinned woman in traditional Atlantean garb flash suddenly through Namor's (and, by proxy, Emma's) brain. She's vibrant, with red hair that billows around her head like a cloud in the ever shifting currents of the ocean's depths. Most of the images are of her laughing or swimming. Some are of a more risque nature. But when an image of the woman with blood running out of her mouth, nose and eyes appears, Namor suddenly suppresses the memories.

And he suddenly doesn't look mellow anymore.

"I had a queen." Namor's teeth clench involuntarily, and his voice sounds a bit choked up when he places stress on the word 'had.' "And you are not to mention her again." The connection between Namor's mind and Emma's begins to grow strained, as his blood pressure steadily rises.

"Cease this charade. You wish to broker some manner of truce with Atlantis, so that you might be spared when I slaughter the rest of your kind like dolphins. Is this correct?"


This is not how she wanted this to go and the fading image of the dying woman is replaced by another. This one is of Namor sitting upon a very elaborately designed throne, a crown of gold and gems and corals seated regally upon his brow. And to his right, standing just behind him, is the blonde. Dressed in a gown of diaphanous pearl silk, designed so that it clings rather than floats about her. Like Namor, she wears a crown but her own is silver and bears many little diamonds, the gems glinting in the light as do her blue eyes.

"Why form an alliance when we could rule together, my king?"


The contact grows less strained, but Namor seems to have regained about… eighty percent of his senses. Maybe his mind isn't as impregnable as he boasts, but he's still capable of putting up an impressive fight.

With one of his dramatically-angled black eyebrows arched, he views the image the way someone might view a much more mundane sales pitch. "I'm certainly aware of the effect that I have on females of your species, so I'll forgive this marriage proposal. It's one of the more creative ones I've received this week. How unsatisfied you must be by the spongy, weak-willed human males that you see all around you. To you, I must seem like some sort of demi-god or myth, so perfectly sculpted are my abdominal muscles. So fully do I fill out my Royal Trunks."

He surveys the image of himself with a sense of smug self-satisfaction. But he looks less impressed as he views the image Emma projects. "But unfortunately, I see no reason to take you as my new Queen. You're a surface worlder, with fragile hips and a tragic inability to survive underwater. And if that were not reason enough to reject you, you're also some sort of magical trickster who invades the privacy of my thoughts."

"What is it, exactly, that you bring to the table that an intelligent, well-cultured monarch like myself would find appealing?"


Such a proud creature, something the Alantean has in common with the humans he seems to hate although she will not point that out for as to do so would undoubtedly make this already difficult task impossible. What she does do is answer him in two different ways.

The first 'answer' is not spoken but rather given in sensations. Very pleasurable sensations. Nothing too specific but he should recognize them and that might suffice for part of her response.

The second half is spoken, now, her tone amused. "Who better to help you with the surface dwellers than a surface dweller, my king? I could act as an ambassador, if such services are required. Be your voice when you grow weary of dealing with the humans who vex you often." The champagne is sipped again before, with a mental shrug, she adds, "I am not as fragile as you assume, my dear."


As she probably expected, her abilities have the desired effect almost immediately. Despite himself, Namor finds himself wanting desperately to succumb to the sensations, and it is only by a miracle of willpower that he doesn't agree to her terms right then and there. At the very least, he should be very glade that she decided to use this approach rather than starting off with pain. But fortunately for Atlantis, Namor is made of pretty stern stuff.

"I see. But what you propose is the sort of task that befits a vassal. Perhaps… yes…"

Stroking his narrow chin, Namor ponders for the briefest of moments. "I will allow you to serve me, Surface Witch. By doing the bidding of Atlantis you may save your own life, and that of your family. Perhaps when my conquest of the surface world is complete, I will keep you as a pet for my amusement." He says this as if the idea of being his pet is a vast promotion from being a free Surface Worlder.

"I will, of course, require you to prove your willingness first. Some demonstration of your loyalty and resolve is called for. Contact me when this has been done, and I will speak with you further. But for now, I grow tired of this conversation."


A pet? Did he just say that? It takes all of her own willpower not to bristle but she manages to keep herself from doing so, if only barely. "A pet," she sighs, trying to make it sound dreamy so he'll believe that it has been a life long ambition of hers. "I would love for nothing more than to…" Here her nose wrinkles, "… submit my will to that of yours." Blue eyes roll heavenward afterwards and for a moment she feels very, very dirty.

When his conditions for further communication and consideration are given she chuckles. "Of course. I will try to think of something you'll find worthy as a sign of my devotion. Until then." And like that, the lines of communication are severed and Emma flops back into her chair. "This better be worth it," is grumbled to herself.

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