"What If..?" - The swords and the staff
Vincent Amorason, mage in practicum, glared out the window of his keep in Asgard as a horse flew by, the clash of metal following it. It wasn't actually his keep alone, but it was his private study at the sorcery school. He had mastered every course put before him ever since his mother petitioned for his placement, despite reservations by the leaders of the school. Now he was at the top of his classes... and the only male in the entire school. In a strange coincidence, it was the first time for only one male to have been in attendance since Loki himself attended the school.

Not that that part bothered him much. He had his pick of charming young sorceresses, and girls outside the school, to spend his time with. He'd never needed anything in the way of magic to glamor them. He smirked to himself, but the satisfaction was fleeting.

Although he had a small handful of friends unconcerned with his lineage, murmurs of 'half blood' and 'witchspawn' always seemed to drift around him. More than that, while sorcery commanded respect in Asgard, it did not command adoration. Cheers rose up with each practice bout down in the courtyard for the warrior school. He seated himself in the window, looking down on them as he bit harshly into an apple. There. Central to all the glory, companionship, and respect Asgard had to offer. Lord Thor's warrior children. Accomplished alumni of the warrior school and celebrities to every oaf with no greater aspirations in life than to swing a weapon and splinter shields and bodies.

He spared a moment to mentally congratulate himself on making the sleeping poison's taste vanish entirely. It wasn't meant to take effect for an hour yet, so he had plenty of time to uncork a bottle with the antidote and take a few drops as needed. For all his venom towards the Thorspawn, he was not so foolish as to make a move against them. The poison was an intellectual exercise, although perhaps it could be put to some use for Moira and Danielle, baiting ambushes. It had become a long-standing game of theirs for him to add a bit of magical tactic to their small hunts.

A messenger imp fluttered into the chambers, shrieking noisily before it dropped a parchment into Vincent's lap and vanished.

Mother. She could just as easily have channeled the message, or sent a living messenger; but then she would hardly be Amora if she did.

He unrolled the paper and scowled. What did she want him at home for now? He pitched the remainder of the apple into the fire, swirling his cloak around him to transport him home. Whoever it was he was meant to meet had best be worth his time.