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*
His lean form is silhouetted against the grey light that falls through the panes of the Window to the Worlds. He still wears his Cape, its crimson folds lying tamely about him in a small spread, and it hides his clapsed hands behind his back. Dr. Strange stares out, not quite at anything, for his focus is inwards and rapidly mulling over the impending discussion he needs to have with his apprentice. Summoning demons and aiding in deals with mortals simply will not do.
He inhales and closes his eyes, feeling the knots of tension in his shoulders ease somewhat as the familiar herbal incenses swirl in silvery coils in the air of the Loft. However, the feeling of uncertainty does not change within him and he opens his eyes once again. About the center of his irises glows the Mystic glow, the indicator of the Sorcerer Supreme wielding his arcane powers, and he reaches out with a sixth sense that he's honed over the years.
The wellbeing of the world…it remains…fateful. Something…something has happened - is happening - will happen. Time is such a fluid thing and paradoxes abound and he finally withdraws his tendrils of thought. The wards of the Sanctum hum in quiet resonance with his eldritch casting and he allows himself a small, somewhat-contented smile of satisfaction. At least, within the Sanctum, he is the only paradox.
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 17
*
Outside the gathering dark brings folk songs deriding war at the footsteps of the Village, students listening to their champions in the great American revival rather than poring over their textbooks and syllabi at Columbia, NYU, Barnard, Fordham, Juilliard.
You lie and deceive
A world war can be won;
You want me to believe.
But I see through your eyes,
And I see through your brain.
Further afield, men plot and ambitions soar upon the cooling temperatures of a late summer night. Summer is the season of violence, ruled by the red star of war. They pen their treatises as part of a greater thought exercise to subjugate unruly lands and dangerous minds.
Nearest at hand, a young woman bears the diplomatic offerings of a proper black tea. The tin tucked against her side falls under the saturnine orbit of her broad-brimmed hat. Singers drowned by the loud chant of irritable voices filter past her as she approaches a singular manor. There she stops, and raises a finger. Focus is so hard to capture, so difficult to register. Energy warps and bends and surges, the wrath of those behind her feeding through the dark. The spark of white light turns a plasmic green, and it's not light at all, but hot enough to burn right through her gloved fingertip.
Skin beneath is impervious; the white glove is not, scorched with a fine, delicate hole that opens wider as the excited ember twirls and churns back at her.
Tiny. But the sanctum's wards ought to pick that up.
*
The warning of the wards, that delicate mental chime that tells Strange of approaching intent, is not of use for once. He's already seen the wide-brimmed hat walking up the sidewalks towards the mansion and if he wasn't sure of its wearer, he is the moment he sees the small but brilliant spark of the spring-green fire at her fingertips.
It takes but a moment to rift down to the front door and he opens it with little preamble and a softly-spoken, "Miss Scarlett, please, come in - and be mindful of your magic," he adds in gentle reprimand. He did not miss the gatherings of the war protestors from atop his Lofty perch. In his haste, he's forgotten to remove his Cape and looks entirely the part of the Sorcerer Supreme, down to the still-fading glow of Mystic magic about the centers of his eyes. Perhaps the only thing making him approachable is a bit of muss to his hair, where he'd idly scratched at the back of his scalp while pondering his ponderings.
*
"I but ring the bells to sound vespers." Trust that a man of his seasoned experience might remember in this godless day and age what vespers actually is, and stands for. She extends her offering, a rather blocky square tin embossed by a squat version of the Tower of London. "You may forgive the design as some conjured by a well-meaning artist, though the contents are a fine blend charmingly called the White Tower. It holds a smooth golden liquor tinged by certain briskness, aromas of dark vanilla and the merest blessing of black currant. You might mistake it for another fruit, but it's more complex than that."
Tea, tea the familiar basis, is settled upon as a gift. The way a prized sword or some antique from the hoary depths of an Orient merchant's estate might be displayed to an expert, she speaks of its values.
Then she lends a light step to carry her within. "I do not believe it suitable to disrupt your peace without purpose." Dark, grave eyes hold the world-building depths of iridescent nebulas, fine strands drawn around her pupils. "But this disquiet cannot settle, and my attempts to divine an end have turned out poorly. I would call it coincidence, but the cards and the futhark came up with identical messages."
*
With a quirk to his lips borne of muted amusement, Strange takes the tin from the young woman's gloved hands and holds it as he listens to her description of the offering. Goodness, she does ply him with the most delightful of teas. The front door is shut with a snap and locked in new habit; he has stepped past her to do this and now turns around, the motion causing his Cloak to swirl about his form with graceful flow.
Of course there is purpose to her visit. He is one to pick up on patterns and never has Miss Scarlett visited without leaving him much to think over in his quiet times. It is when she chooses the word 'disquiet' that the fine hairs on his neck rise. One could see him straighten, become taller, tuck his chin in, and the scalpel-edged glint come to his steel-blue eyes.
"And what messages have the cards and futhark shared with you, Miss Scarlett?" His question is posed as he leads the way to the living room, where the tea set stands sentinel by the hearth, the kettle magically warmed and ready to receive its herbal leaves. Assuming that Scarlett has followed him, he begins the process, but not after disrobing of his Cape. It seems to float over to his chair, the one bearing the grooves of familiar use, and drapes itself artfully over the piece of furniture. He wears the storm-blue leather garb of his title beneath it and it lends the air of ancient power to any who do not know of his title.
*
The tin is somewhat abundant within the crenellations and folds of hammered metal. Those loose leaves jingle around in there with an autumnal melody all their own, a wafting trace of citrus managing to escape the confinement so many victims of the Henries and Richards and Williams could never manage. An irony in that.
Occam's razor in his gaze meets the drowning, limitless abyss of hers. One moment permitted to stare into the verdant void without a blink assures her purpose, the quasi-declared student to the master. Another might raise their chin, set their shoulders, and shout defiance at the world from every singing muscle and marrow in their being. Not Scarlett.
She unconsciously thumbs the golden chain spanning her throat, all but forgotten under the deliberately positioned neckline of her dress. Its links span a lifetime, caught in the infinity loop at the back of her neck. "Raido, the journeyer. There lie obstacles ahead upon the path, one that must be surpassed for any gain. A disruption of communication or travel follow, and speaks to the need for such. It keeps coming up reversed, so suggest that a position which is not morally sound and justice gone askew." Her words are measured, terribly soft as she averts her gaze rather than remain lost in the Sorcerer Supreme's. If he wears the Eye visibly, that might snag her questing attention; the ceiling is equally as likely as she centers her drifting thoughts.
"The risk that arises is Ansuz, reversed. It tumbles like ice from my fingertips and it stings. The words of the divine are misconstrued, perhaps deliberately so. Do we stopper our ears? What advice is given is fallible, what is spoken is being twisted to a given end. And that end seethes with violence. Order is faulty and corrupted; it needs to break to be cleansed, to reveal the light within.
"An end, always, at Wunjo or its counterpart. Joy stands on the other side, and it is not merely the delight of one. It is perfection, a lasting moment that focuses upon the satisfaction of overcoming difficulty. I could turn over a Celtic cross and find the same as if I toss the stones, or even that strangeness with the gemstones."
*
The tea finishes steeping in the time it takes for the fate of the cards to be shared with the Sorcerer Supreme. He stands there, before the fire, one hand tucked across his chest to his ribs and the other idly stroking along the line of his goatee. His eyes never stray from Scarlett as she speaks and his mind runs about madly in a quest to put a line of logic to the nebulous tale.
The ambient light of the flames play along his form, accenting the lines of his cheekbones and shadow his eyes beneath their thoughtfully-furrowed brow. Finally, he breaks pose to serve up the tea. The porcelain cups make soft clinks of protest as he settles them on their saucers before pouring the amber-hued liquid into their curved collectives. A cuppa is offered to the pensive young woman and his eyes meet hers once again. "Please, the other chair is yours if you wish to sit," he says as he sets one of the teacups on the side table beside the empty chair. He takes his place in the other and the Cape wraps itself about his legs with eerie sentience, keeping away any wisps of cold that might slip past. "I don't disagree with your scryings. There is…a malcontent to the world, some stirring that bodes results less than well." Strange sips at his tea and gives a humming sigh. "Wonderful tea as always, Miss Scarlett."
*
The offered hospitality shall not be ignored, nor a nose turned up at the gracious behaviour of the Doctor, however peculiar his choice of attire may be. Considering her own usually blurs sensibilities and good taste as the strict social rules of New York allow, the bohemian is not one to talk.
Truth told, she has a thing for men with well-defined senses of style that perhaps go counter to current tastes.
Or any human tastes whatsoever.
She laces her fingertips around the cup of tea, the amber brew within given time and reason to mature while she blows across the surface. Seated then, Scarlett closes her thoughts together. "Anger one might expect. This goes deeper than the gatherings on the Columbia lawn or the signs waved down in Washington, demanding equal rights." The urge to chafe heat back into her upper arms does nothing even as her braided hair prickles at the nape, fed by the scales of a serpent weaving across her nerves. "It haunts my dreams this past night and drives me to distraction enough that I would pay it at least some heed. But I feel a wrongness. That weight of a storm about to break in the moments before it passes. Doctor, call me mad or strange or simply overwrought, and I will accept the reprove for what it is. Perhaps an affliction of undue concern on my part."
Staring down into her tea would be far too forlorn an image. She instead takes a sip, her veiled eyes doing a fine enough job of holding back the deep concern and stirred, deeper passions slamming at the dam holding them back. "He has taken a temporary leave. That, too, concerns me." He. Of all the hes in the world…
…only one of them is a sorcerer worthy of /that/ contemplation in their company.
*
It takes Strange some number of moments to draw the connections needed to put a face and a name to this 'he' that Scarlett speaks of. Remembering back to his brief visit to the office named Glory and King and the mischievous comments of the sly-tongued Asgardian in regards to future travels beyond Midgard, Strange sets aside his cup of tea and leans forwards. His elbow rests on his thigh, bone buried into the musculature beneath the Cape, while the line of his arm runs up to the supporting palm that cups his jaw. The muscles of his face around his temples work as he unconsciously grinds frustration between his teeth. His other hand is laid out, palm up, and the werelight that has become his boon companion in his teachings with Scarlett appears with a silent swirl of foamy light. He bobbles it between his fingers, his eyes following its highly-controlled path as it slips in and out like a playful fish.
"I don't think it's coincidence that you bring up the professor," he finally says, voice low and thoughtful, though lightly mocking in the use of the title, being as a mask as it was. "I took the opportunity to gauge the ambience of this world, this reality, as a whole today during my meditations. His signature was markedly absent." Leaning back into his chair once again, the good doctor then lazily transfers the werelight to the other palm, where it dances a bit, before he snuffs it out in a quick closure within a fist. "Do your dreamings point you towards him?" The question may be asked lightly, but Strange's gaze slides from the fireplace towards his guest, watching her once again with pointed interest.
*
ROLL: Strange +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 13
*
Put fifteen people in front of the same Renaissance painting and seek an interpretation. You'll end up with twenty of them, at bare minimum. Something as simple as a pretty woman in a black dress becomes a grand treatise on betrayal and pregnancy or encoded secrets of the Merovingian dynasty. All can hinge on the slightest of smiles and heavy-lidded eyes delivering a look inscrutable even to the very kings and queens of the mystic. Nothing in life is simple. Nothing is straightforward. She sips her tea, forbidden from calling out the faerie lights that might just burn holes in the ceiling and the floor or through her gloves, for that matter. Heat percolates through the singe-mark devoured at her fingertip, leaving perfectly unmarked, fair skin underneath. While Doctor Strange contemplates what he knows from the paltry offerings thrown to him by an ingenue and pauper, the bohemian in turn considers the reflections in a cup without seeing them at all.
Her too-wide pupils more than attest to fading away into the vaults of a subaqueous reverie. Memories bestirred on the swell of properly steeped black tea tainted by a currant and vanilla liquor conjure up no more than the faintest flowering at her cheeks. "He is my professor," she reiterates without quite laying a glancing blow on the irony or the amusement shared by the men themselves. It goes right over her head, perhaps. "In his absence, my education stands to suffer at a critical time when traction towards some distant degree might be achieved. Possibly. Naturally a good many concerns arise when someone takes an unexpected jaunt." Or wholly expected. What plan is not subject to the tyranny of chaos?
"My dreams are fey and unpredictable things, Doctor." Scarlett's mouth tightens a fraction, the crystallizing of attention slanting through her gaze. "At times I believe them nearly achievable, a hairsbreadth away. Others they feel as distant as the stars viewed through a portal, distorted by the imperfect lens through the which I view the world. A torment every one. Too oft I am told such dreams cannot be trusted for the very fickle essence of what they are, and I deafen myself to the voices even as I sing my own truths into the void for hopes somehow they might amount to a narrative that holds any sense." It's a long explanation, and she knows it. Her fingers curled around the cup threaten to shatter the porcelain, the very substance being slowly and irrevocably squeezed until the strain is audible and she bears off.
The whisper isn't so much audible as present, a statement of bare truth on a summer's night. "My lodestone." A breath. Then French, idle. "Always and always."
*
He doesn't quite catch her whisper, something in another language that gets lost in the crackling of the logs on the fire, but Scarlett seems haunted enough by it all that he doesn't pry further. Strange doesn't know quite what he's touched on, but perhaps there's something more there - for now, it's not the focus of his concerns. What he gets from her lengthy expansion on her dreams is that they remain exactly that: dreams. Fictions of an overly-tired mind that pull from the odd aspects of reality, sometimes enough so that one wakes grasping at visions that rapidly fade in the moonlight and shadows of the dark hours. The slow rise and fall of his head in a single nod communicates most of his response, but he still speaks quietly.
"I do wonder what on earth the world is coming to these days, what with Asgardians and demons and mutant powers… What will be next, angels and zombies?" His smile is wry and touched with dissatisfaction. Wearing the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme means that his own dreams as of late have been touched with the murmurings of godly fates and always, without fail, he wakes up to incomprehensible echoes in his ears. "I wish that I could be of more service to you, Miss Scarlett, but it seems that the fates have resigned me to waiting until I am much needed." He goes back to nursing his tea and staring broodingly at the fire.
*
"Having already met the demons, the angels may prove less accommodating. Risen dead hold little attraction, though aren't there voodoo users down by New Orleans?" Countercultural tangents are well known to her, especially from those broken memories strewn across the South. One pries itself free and she shudders, turning her face away. "Winged disir and legions of Hela, come restless to the night. I should not read the Eddas so very late. Would it terrorize you overmuch to know I have met the Olympians and found rather peculiar proof of their existence? Sadly none of the British or the Australian Aborigines, either, but maybe Coyote will… ah."
Scarlett's eyes close a moment and she laughs into the cup. "No. I have met Coyote too."
The span of gold twists around her slender fingers, and there it is, something infused by Asgardian power in the faintest of echoes but utterly, coherently pure in the radiant skein. His words bring her round as she teases the spindle this way and that. "The Fates have been toying with us all."
A spindle and the Fates, a prodigal daughter. "What thread they threw in my making, I know not, only where some end be directed."
*
"It would not terrorize me at all," Strange replies with a one-sided smile. "After all, we apparently share an acquaintance from another world entirely. Regretfully, I am currently standing in as errand-boy for a god." He shrugs his shoulders in a manner akin to a lazing housecat, with a little roll to loosen the lingering tightness about the base of his neck. "I think the Bard said it best with Hamlet's line of 'There are more things in heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' Certainly my experiences as of late with Miss Illyana have challenged my idea of impossibilities." His nostrils flare in a brief moment of outward emotion regarding his young apprentice before he tampers them down and away.
"Have you seen her lately? I visited the Institute today in order to chat with her, but she was apparently not in. I expected her to be at her studies rather than cavorting about." And his lips thin in that familiar moue of disappointment.
Witchfire eyes simmering in luminous detail rise from the foggy depths. "Hadst thou lived in days of old, o what wonders had been told." She sings her own verse in graceful course, circumnavigating the inquiry of Illyana by drawing out her own thoughts in a glowing verse. "I have not seen Miss Illyana since we recovered a number of lost associates, though I imagine it may well have exhausted her, and required a period of convalescence. Alternatively she may be studying, though I cannot say for sure. This preoccupies me too much to spend long hours at the institute, which holds limited advantages for me. I walk another path."
Such a revelation is safe within these walls, with this man, and she speaks it with the heavy knell of a conclusion drawn after long subconscious regard. Blinking twice, she sits up, her fingers still and curving over her knees. Whirlwind paths branch and converge elsewhere, showing her different futures, different troubles, as fast as she can draw a conclusion. It would be appropriate for her to say 'Oh bloody hell,' but no. That would be unseemly.
Teacup to saucer, she lowers them both to the side. "My dear Doctor, the professor teaches at Columbia. Indeed, I am enrolled in one of his courses this semester. As this week represents the resumption of the autumn semester, his absence will be markedly noted. Worse, I think, he may lose the tenure and anchorage for his work." If she touches on deeper subjects, she trusts or assumes he knows them, perchance. Perhaps not. Her brows wing together, and the span of it is plain enough. Stretching out her legs, she gets to her feet and paces a perfect square. "Claiming an illness might be one resolution, but if this absence lingers too long he stands to be cut off from his income, and what else? His lease, his purpose? I…" Her eyes shut, lips pressed between her teeth. "This may go too far, but oblige me your thoughts a moment. Is it possible to assume another's likeness?" A pause. "For the purpose of saving their livelihood, not to benefit my own ends. I mean, I am in the course but the coursework is still… he can probably defer or correct my grades when he is back, but suppose a few days? Would that violate any unnamed rule?"
*
ROLL: Strange +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 31
*
The fact that Scarlett, one of Illyana's known associates, hasn't seen the blonde waif is not only unfortunate to Strange, but worrying as well. Never mind that she is often not on the premises of the Institute. Illyana is - well, at least he /thought/ the two young women were friends - so naturally, they would talk a lot. Wouldn't they?
Then the conversation takes a turn that he didn't expect. Slowly, he sits up straighter in his chair, his eyes watching the not-quite-apprentice pace as she explains her thoughts. The fate of his future chat with Illyana is shuffled off to one side for now. The merry crackle of the fire holds sway until he shares his thoughts, a slight tilt to his head and quiet suspicion in his eyes.
"No rules would be violated, since I'm aware of this…subterfuge." He means as the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth, of course. He /should/ know about shenanigans of this nature. "An illusion would do just fine, I suppose. You realize that if this goes against the professor's wishes that I'm unable to turn his hand? Not many people appreciate another acting in their stead, especially without knowledge of it beforehand." His shoulders ripple in a shrug. "How deeply you would want to…act as the professor directly influences the amount of magic needed to cast and sustain the illusion. The strongest of illusions have a focus and an anchor, oftentimes an object with a personal connection to the illusion's image source. Do you have anything directly connected to the professor on your person?"
*
"This is important, Doctor. I do not want to run afoul of something I do not know, even if the reasons are sound. The road to Hell being paved with good intentions and all, I am altogether too likely to bungle something unknowingly and the price of that could be steep. I can tolerate the cost from him, but not if I do something forbidden." Scarlett raises her hands to her sides, showing them to be empty. Gloved, yes, and their deadly intentions are lost in the same delicate motion that speaks to trouble. "Should Mr. King have caused himself trouble, or wandered off on a lark to study in Israel, then we can have a good laugh about putting my judgment in the wrong corner. A lesson for me about life, and getting on with my work instead of taking on someone else's. But if this proves worse, I think he would appreciate that he has something to come back to with minimal disruption." And no doubt that formidable mind is capable of grasping the cost of a debt and the consequence of what that means, even if it's likely the bohemian does not think in those terms.
Perchance she does, squaring a debt barely traced.
"He can take the consequences from me. I accept that, atop whatever Columbia might level on me if I went awry. I do not shirk that by hiding behind your lovely cape." Her gaze lifts and she holds her hand to her chest. "A few things. Though…." Now or never. "Must it be a thing? Would a memory suffice?"
*
A pause, naturally, follows. Then Scarlett clarifies quietly, "One of his memories. Not mine of him, but one made in his own mind."
*
Hmm…one of /Louis's/ memories. Strange idly rubs a finger alongside his goatee as he looks at the young woman thoughtfully. Interesting indeed.
"Made in his own mind," he says quietly, echoing her word choice. There are implications of powers there that he has not yet seen or experienced with young Miss Scarlett. Mysteries upon mysteries… "I don't feel the need to ask a debt of you, Miss Scarlett, not for something as benign as this. You seem to mean well." He doesn't feel the need to expand further on the consequences of her actions should they mean less-than-well. There would be no hiding from him, especially when bound to a spell of his own devising. "My only concerns are Professor King's reactions to your plans. That is all." An experienced practitioner like Louis would easily trace the magical signature back to Strange and while they may not come to blows, he would rather avoid interaction with the Asgardian magician until he was completely prepared for it. His Cape slithers from his lap to lay itself across each arm of the chair after he rises to his feet. "A memory could suffice, yes, but it would be more taxing for you seeing as you would need to consistently hold it within your mind during the illusion. Conversely, the illusion would be far easier to banish. If you truly wish this of me, I can cast the spell here and now. It requires little preparation beyond your extreme focus on this…memory."
*
"He can be as angry as he likes, I happen to surmise he enjoys his job. The students think he does quite well, and I have to face down the iron trap of his secretary, not you, for which the whole of world peace is grateful for." Scarlett shudders slightly at the consequence of that. "I am fairly certain with limited interaction, I can slip past her. The students are straightforward enough, and he already supplied the syllabus so I can put time into developing a course plan and activities based upon that. A few visits to the Met or Cloisters might provide a suitable introduction. The worrisome part comes deeper in, with the arcane finagling of marking, though I have Barnard to thank for rigorous application of academic methods." Where she eighteen, this might be a horror, but she is not, though guessing how old, exactly, she is might be a moot point. The memories of childhood are torn to pieces and thrown like confetti.
His words give her pause, and she offers a smile almost as sorrowful as the caryatids over fallen Athens, the city at their feet more Turkish than the ancient culture that birthed them. "I have things at my flat, a shirt, for example. Though…" Trust, it's all down to trust. "The memory would not be difficult, Doctor. You see, it lives in here, always." She taps her hand and then draws a straight line down to her breast, and then straight to her veins running to her wrist. "I can conjure up that piece. Perhaps not in full, but my… self… cannot let it go. He is part of me. A gift, just as you are the King of Cups." Her palms open and she exhales a breath. "It sounds mad, I know, but that is why I never touch anyone. It is why I don't simply offer hugs to Illyana. Because the choice is not always voluntary, though this time, it was. And if there is any time I must repay that gift, I think now is it."
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 33
*
Strange has to take a moment and council himself about the impossibilities within possibilities and all of this after hearing Scarlett expound on her abilities. His initial expression, one of quiet concern, slowly morphs into reserved fascination. He is very glad now that he hasn't offered the young woman any sort of handshake, if she is able to…absorb essences, for lack of a better understanding within his head. The idea of her taking from him… He swallows, the only visible sign of that trepidation.
"I believe I understand what you're saying," he replies before letting out a short sigh. "I don't have to touch you in order to cast this spell, so you don't have to be afraid of…accidentally borrowing things from me," and he gives her a half-smile, one of gentle teasing that reaches his grey-blue eyes. "If you'll center yourself and bring that memory to the front of your mind, I will ready the spell."
He takes a few steps away, more to keep his own aura from interfering with the casting than anything else, and raises his hands. Their trembling vanishes entirely as soul-powered magic flows through his veins and out around his fingertips. He has formed counter-gestures, their meanings based loosely in a myriad of ancient mystic sources, and he keeps his posture loose as he waits for Scarlett to compose herself. Within his irises, the spell's color, a glittering silver, like the billowing fog of a waterfall's cascade, rings their center and causes them to glow.
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 53
*
The world is full of impossibilities. He is the man who went to his knees before the Ancient One, he is the one who spoke of the desire all those ages and lifetimes ago in preparation to understand. She tips her head towards him with the awful weight of knowing. "You see, it is not just Professor King who could do what he wishes for the knowing of things, but you as well. I do not do what I do loosely or without purpose, but rather every moment must be calculated and considered." Her gaze flows away from him, turned towards the window or the hearth or the inscrutable magic around her. Playthings of the divine; they both are, in their way, though at much different levels. "I have a measure of control, though not profound. Upsetting me is always a poor idea, though I can be startled and treated in the same fashion. Though the control is there, if narrow in scope. So an idle touch will likely do no harm unto you or those around me, or else I would live at the top of a tower in the middle of nowhere like the mystics of old."
To be fair this is a rather amusing notion. "But for this, I am likely to lose the focus to sustain what lies within me. I think— I cannot be sure, but I may be able to resuscitate more than a memory. It doesn't always come to the fore and my conscious efforts after the fact are unpredictable." It only galvanizes the resolve to try. Her gaze floats away again, eyes shut as she conjures up a moment, a place and a time. Green flowers and foliage lush around her, the breath of the earth centering her with a pulse. The twilight descending, that hour belonging to none but mortals, seeps into the mind's eye. She seizes hold of it, and whispers the wordless prayers with her soul to the green mother below and the one above, the figure who holds the measure of her faith. A raven's feather brushes her thoughts, and dissolves into lightning, lightning taking the shape of the coyote and then laughing with a harsh crack of ice in a glacier. Another shift, and the light comes to her, drawn in by some unconscious purpose, even as she murmurs a sound.
Her aura comes alive, roaring out not from the soul but the blood, from every tiny element of her being encoded with the imprint of a stolen gift. The void is in her essence, in the being of her, and it simply infuses her with the memories. Sitting in a classroom, in the pained moments, a demand, and faith — even /he/ should be able to tell at true believer when he sees one, and the mystic she is fuels off magic ambient, and magic of pure, utter faith in a higher power. A power she knows, a power who takes a mortal face. Does he recognize it when he observes it, or know its brand — or that this young woman, broken and shattered psyche as she has, aligns every piece along the backbone of her love for something *else*? That she believes in the Asgardian for what he is, and that focused channel is there, at some level?
Her genetics, at least, are a simpler factor. They hook onto the spell, the moment it comes into being, already throwing echoes of /who/ Louis King is, and who the man behind him is, even if it's a gossamer thread compared to the massive other presences, including the one that gives her flight and has altered her nigh permanent. The soul thief doesn't need quantity for it to exist, and it exists: Louis King is her, and she is him, for shreds of a second.
*
The good doctor notes especially the point Scarlett makes about not upsetting her and how an idle touch is least likely to cause him any modicum of harm. The facts are filed away within his memory file of the young woman along with the growing suspicion that there is more than a simple teacher-pupil relationship between the professor and his student. Still, being so grounded in the sciences, he will not make such a lofty assumption until he sees dramatic evidence of such a thing. Besides, he can't truly see such a thing happening, not between what he knows of Asgardian physiology and life expectancies and with what he knows now of the results of Scarlett's simple touch. It isn't his right to scoff at it anyways…not with his record of relationships.
He feels the moment that everything becomes /right/ - when the spell's requirements of Scarlett align with her willful projection of this deeply-defined memory of Professor King. It's as easy for him as a balanced, mirror-angled rotation of his wrists, a whispered word in Latin, and then a gesture of release that sends the misty writhing ribbon of silvery spell over to Scarlett.
The spell comes into direct contact with her aura and explodes out in a shimmery veil of thousands of minute, icy, moonlit snowflakes that refract a thousand more images of her - now the Professor - now the room they stand in - now a verdant forest - now the glistening ivory of teeth - now the aurora borealis - and then they coalesce before her current form in a shimmering ghost of the Asgardian prince. Then, as softly as a falling feather, they drift backwards and suffuse her person with a glow that momentarily blinds Strange.
When he blinks away the lingering effects of the spell's binding to Scarlett, he's left to slowly let his hands fall and look on her with a growing smile of utterly-smug satisfaction. "Well," he murmurs, brushing his palms off on his vest in a completely unnecessary habit that he can't be rid of, "I would say that you'd fool just about anyone shy of the professor himself."
*
Throughout she is still. Her desire aligns to understand what he does, but she cannot do that if she is to remain still, if she is to focus upon that gossamer fine memory of a tremendously layered and complicated individual. She is not the Asgardian prince, she is not the Trickster, she is not the elegies of lives come and gone. She is the man behind the desk, the one who frowned at her work and then rejoiced when another student make a breakthrough. She is the one who strides upon the stage of his classroom as though it owes him to be a stage, and it does, a hundred years into exile — and I am he, and he is me, and I am me.
The spell crashes into her, and she drowns in the bliss of its feather light presence. Light drips down into the corresponding cracks in her soul, hooking the barbs in the psyche stolen from another. It is not truly stolen, but she laughs, and the soft tenor notes roll together with satisfaction just this side of cruelty, a borderline on mirth and restrained measures. The language skills are already there, refined out of the south's memory of England to bonny old Cambridge itself. "I daresay you have outdone yourself, Doctor. I could hardly complain if I didn't know better," she says, though it's not in the promising soprano that naturally comes with the task. She has to remember the cadences, but they whisper in her dreams and come out of memory, burnished and not exactly perfect because a complete understanding of the man isn't built on hours upon hours together. Not quite.
"Will I be able to don this and doff it, or will it be something triggered?" She glances through the room, something reflective assuring what her broken mind loathes to hold: an illusion, sure and fast. Scarlett puts her hands upon her hips— and it's not her, but Louis adopting one of those thoughtful positions, even as he stands, about to challenge one point or another. The assured nature is there; if she can just concentrate, the mannerisms lock in with a ghost of memory, enough to count. "You do look rather chuffed about it. Are you so certain you'll ever release me or am I to be your favourite piece of work?"
*
A delighted laugh of his echoes about the room to accompany the brief back-tilt of his chin. With a bemused shake of his head, Strange looks not-Scarlett up and down with the satisfied posture of a sculpture having complete a piece of art.
"Gods above and below, you even /sound/ like him," he murmurs, still shaking his head as his eyes rise to meet hers - no, his, those same icy-blue eyes of Professor King. He's hard-pressed to find Miss Scarlett within their depths and eventually turns away with another soft laugh, disturbed on some level that he aided in such an exemplary illusion of a man who still counted as more foe than friend. He reminds himself that he's helping out Miss Scarlett and perhaps even returning the favor that Professor King so kindly 'shared' with him on that evening when drink got the better of his judgment. He hopes more deeply still that it will leave them even.
"I've always thought it somewhat adorable, how the British use 'chuffed'." He smirks as he pours himself one last cup of tea. "You can release yourself whenever you feel, Scarlett. You hold control over the anchor to this spell with the memory. If you lose track of the memory, the spell will fall apart. If you wish it back in place, simply bring up the memory and say, 'Cogitatio'."
The word in Latin translates to 'reflection'. He wonders if the professor will find some sort of delicious irony in Strange's choice of spell-word.
"It can be a taxing spell," he continues after he sips at the brew. "I don't recommend using it unless absolutely necessary. However, I do recommend drinking tea once you've dismissed it. I can share my particular recipe for a blend that staves off the more unfortunate effects of a long-term casting." He's had years to perfect the combination of herbs and more than enough opportunities to use it.
*
The finest sculptures can be those made in likeness, a reversal of Galatea as invented by a deluded Pygmalion.
"Indeed," deadpans the dark-haired man, leaning back on his heel, even if her boots — his shoes — can support such a thing. The depths of his gaze are clouded behind a mirth ridden smirk, a knowing look on a fellow who can veer between a thoughtful air of a hotelier to a devious archaeologist within a heartbeat. His movements are precise, aware in the way that people who are accustomed to think of their position in the world, their physical placement and actions more than conquering the earth sort of stance.
"Adorable, from a nation that gave us the definition of 'cherry,'" he remarks dryly. "Oh, let me contemplate what other peculiar slang you have created. You do the most uncivilised things to the queen's own language."
A pause follows, and Latin is easily enough parsed; she has a classical education, moreover, she speaks French. He does, too. They string their poetic arcs together and his presence in the spell probably thickens all the more. "I see. Is she the reflection of me, Doctor, or am I the reflection of her? I'm sure it's a delightful little game to contemplate over two fingers of cognac. Tea, man, you'd put me with that instead of a stiff proper drink? Only a physician. Well then, let's hear what this cuppa is."
The words and the mannerisms, they're building. But Doctor Strange has unleashed even *worse* mischief, perhaps, than he knows. He hasn't given the world an Asgardian of three millennia, oh no.
He's given them all an Asgardian of /twenty-two/, and the underlying one of untapped passions and emotions that only a twenty-two year old can possibly exist.
He's probably waving a big red flag at Odin going, 'Ha! Ha, old man! Can you see me now?!'
*
Rogue has reconnected.
*
Rogue has partially disconnected.
*
Strange watches not-Scarlett begin to get a feel for the professor and smiles behind the tipped curve of his cup of tea. She's clearly enjoying that Cambridge accent, down to the insinuations from the other continent that American folk are oh-so-passe. The demitasse and saucer land with a quiet clink on the prep table - after all, he's done for now - and he walks over to a small writing desk tucked off beneath one of the tall arced windows of the Sanctum's front wall of the living room. He takes a pen, writes down a short list of ingredients as well as amounts, and then tears off the piece of paper from the notepad. With long strides, he returns over to not-Scarlett and offers her the slip.
"Drink one cup after you've dismissed the spell and have some time to sit. Doctor's orders," he adds with a completely straight face. Well, not entirely - the corners of one line of his goatee rise just slightly. "Oh, and you'll find that there are some limitations to this spell," he adds, once again slipping into the role of responsible mentor. "Seeing as it is of my devising, I can remove it at any time and from any distance. I do not want to do so." And he really doesn't. Not only is it a pain to do, but the repercussions of having to draw back the spell could be disastrous. "Also, you will find that it cannot travel between dimensions. I understand the allure of walking about in another form, but seeing as you currently are guised as royalty from another world entirely…I know you'll understand that it helps to keep Earth and its people in good standing."
*
Rogue has reconnected.
*
Rogue has partially disconnected.
*
Rogue has left.
*
Jennifer arrives from Sanctum Sanctorum.
*
Jennifer has arrived.
*
Tea is a pleasure to which the redhead, turned Louis, is well accustomed. However not in his long, foreshortened span of years? He waits as is his wont, not staring at any of the surroundings, but examining his own hands with a curious attentiveness to the span of the digits, the curved lines on the palms. They are most agile and wondrous, no? Things to be savoured, to be experienced, all in good time.
He pauses, then, and approaches the handsome windows and the torn off paper. "Very good," he says, after surveying the contents written out. "Not too difficult to obtain. I grow that one, actually." He flicks a finger along the slip's edges, measuring the tear. "Equal bits, steeped how long then? Five minutes? Ten?" The curtness is a habitual change from her usual speech habits, though she takes to that like a mutant fish to waters of the Milky Way Galaxy, one altogether suited for the strange environment. "Of course, Doctor. Mustn't rock the boat by denying your recommendations."
When Strange goes to stroke his goatee, Louis does the same, rubbing his chin. His expression doesn't change much save for the slight narrowing of his eyes, sharpened almost like a fox. A red fox, to match the silver already there. "Oh, very tidily done. Bravo." A clap around the message is terribly polite, and the grin brief as it is sharp.
"I appreciate the diplomatic sensitivity of the mantle I've adopted. Rather like becoming Nikita Khrushchev and walking through Politburo offices." The smile fades away to a smirk. Then that too vanishes, a hint of the old feminine cadence and words superseding the others before. "The ramifications of bearing a spell with your … touch, your fingerprint, are not lost upon me, and the very consequences of even going this far acting in his stead are substantial. He might try me for treason of personal rights over it, and if he does, that's my cross to bear as it were. But we shan't be triggering any wars unless he says so. And if he says so, my guess is he can do it himself."
*
And there's Miss Scarlett, once again, and the good doctor's smirk relaxes into something more along the lines of a regretful half-smile. It is still the very oddest thing he's come across in a long time to see Professor King speaking to him with such a /lack/ of guile in his features. The crow's lines of old worry appear about the corners of Strange's steel-blue eyes and he walks away from not-Scarlett towards the fire. He keeps his hands folded behind his back as he stands ramrod-straight, his form outlined by the homely red glow from within the hearth.
"There cannot be war," he says softly, glancing back over his shoulder towards her. "I will not have Asgardians pounding on the doors to the Sanctum and demanding explanations for something that you and he started." Shadows and firelight play across his face as he looks away from her, off towards some far point that lies beyond the Sanctum and its walls. "I granted you aid because you asked kindly, Scarlett, and because we are mortal-kin. You are of my world and ergo, under my jurisdiction." His voice is low and cool, not meaning to hurt, but booking no arguments. "Remember this when you ask me for help again."
*
When the Norns cast their threads at the foot of Yggdrasil, they allot to each life a span of events great and tedious. For a god they spin no differently than a mewling babe too weak to nurse save by forcible assistance. Urd cuts what Verdandi weaves, and Skuld spins with favour for none in her future-blinded eyes. What they wove for an abandoned child seems wrought of gold, shot by pain. For a promising physician, such terrible lessons and exhilarating moments to learn. For a prodigal daughter opening witchfire eyes to their secrets, so much is unseen.
*
When the Norns cast their threads at the foot of Yggdrasil, they allot to each life a span of events great and tedious. For a god they spin no differently than a mewling babe too weak to nurse save by forcible assistance. Urd cuts what Verdandi weaves, and Skuld spins with favour for none in her future-blinded eyes. What they wove for an abandoned child seems wrought of gold, shot by pain. For a promising physician, such terrible lessons and exhilarating moments to learn. For a prodigal daughter opening witchfire eyes to their secrets, so much is unseen.
The professor dips his head away from the sorcerer supreme in a way that Asgardian prince, even as a humble archaeology instructor, never would. Humbleness is not a known quantity for Louis King, at least as observed by one of his students.
"I swore," he begins, and then takes another tack entirely after the words sound awry to his own ears. Scarlett-as-Louis draws a breath. "No, that's not right." A pause then, thoughts gathered painfully enough, shuffled and rotated along a different axis.
A new statement, then, falls into place. "This world may be flawed and its people sadly too prone to arguing and fighting with one another, instead of uniting behind a common cause. Even in this city, we squabble when we could build our ideas. In places, fear of the unfamiliar drives good, intelligent people to act hurtfully." Fingers curl to palm, hand touched to breast. "But every one of them has right to struggle and grow, and quarrel and laugh, and love without outside interference forcing their path in one direction or another. Asgard is the same, and Vanaheim, Alfheim, all the realms we could name. It's not my place to force anything upon anyone, only preserve something valuable here." A pause follows, thoughts positioned into words.
Feet scrape upon the ground, and he turns towards Doctor Strange. "I asked you because you would understand what it means to have the choice of a path in life. I'm not choosing for him so much as keeping a door open.Professor King can tell you as much or as little of his own tale, but where it intersects mine, it is simple. He chose to teach at Columbia University and he excels at challenging the students, encouraging their development. His absence harms what he worked for, and I'll hold together his life here until he chooses to abandon it, reclaim it or he can take no more."
*
"Yes…this world is a beautifully-flawed place," and Strange turns partly to face her once again, his brows drawn together in a half-hearted frown, "And yes, I do understand how having the ability to make a choice can define us all for better or worse." Gods above and below, she was telling him the oldest news he's known in his fool life. "I hope this choice leads you down the road you see before you and not to someplace with a pit-trap to some hell of your own unknowing devising." Or perhaps even knowing. The young woman was playing with both fire and ice now - and he had a hand in it. He slowly closes his eyes against the gravity of his choice and wonders just how far he's been drawn into this mess. His chest rises and falls as he inhales and exhales. Then, he raises his gaze to her again. "Promise me you'll act in Earth's best interest, Scarlett. Promise me as yourself, not as the illusion." It's a test of sorts: can she dismiss the spell and then recall it? Also, it may show him where her loyalties truly lie. He needs to hear it from her lips.
*
ROLL: Rogue +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 97
*
What path she walks is a balance beam between damnation and ruin. The thinnest luminous thread of revelation carries her forward upon a wine-dark sea wracked by tempests, shuddering to the World Serpent's gyrations. Nothing in her predicament is unknown, but the caution warrants a softening at the edges of Louis King's mouth and a brightening in eyes already at the threshold of earthly spectra.
The spell's robust web lies in her veins, and the intuitive grasp of how those threads weave and intersect follows hard-studied skill. Perhaps the echoes of a far superior sorcerer guide the bohemian yet. Agile, skillful fingers reach forth and concentrate upon the mind's eye, and pinch the central axis of the whole splendid raiment cloaking her from sense and sight. Then she pulls inwards, drawing back the curtain, compressing the spell, like shutting an umbrella to a neat spire concealed in her hand, buried under her breast.
Compressed power storms in an arc through her, and she raises her chin to meet the sorcerer's regard. The foxfire sweep of her braids conceals the frosting at her temples, unless he knows where to look. Emerald overtakes frost, and her words ring in a soft clarion rich to the ears.
"I swear by the benevolent powers of the Earth holding me in their heart, and the Three Sisters weaving my path, and the name of the love born upon my soul," Scarlett says, "to use my magic in the best interests of the Earth. I tell to you here upon my self-given name, which is Autumn, I act with as much wisdom and judicious care as I can."
*
"Then this is all that I can ask of you." The young woman stands before him as herself, having successfully dismissed the illusion, and this gives him hope that she really does hold her spoken promise in utmost serious regard. Everything about him softens, from the line of his shoulders to the angled tilt of his head to his expression. It'll have to do - for now.
"And I acknowledge your trust in giving your name…Autumn." He says it softly and respectfully, with no force or will behind it in the least. "You have my promise as Sorcerer Supreme that it will remain safely in my care. No one else shall know if it. It is yours freely to give." He assumes that she knows of his first name; after all, he was a world-class neurosurgeon before becoming the Mystical gatekeeper to this world. It wouldn't take much digging to find his less-than-magical past.
"And now, before you leave, please show me that you can assume the guise once again. I'll sleep better tonight knowing it." Which is partly a lie. He'll be up for hours wondering just what he's got himself into this time.
*
"Cogitatio." The sound of Latin folds around her lips and lifts her tongue towards her palate, pushing forward the consonant. Mouth conforming to the final syllable, she conjures up the memory of an office, a man leaning back against the desk and staring upon the page in his hand. Secure in the knowledge she possesses, that image feeds into finer detail, watercolour layers filled in by deeper and richer textures.
Power trickles into the vessel given form and purpose, and the ambient energy pulled out from her bursts outwards along her limbs to give a distortion to her already above-average height, fusing a more deliberate presence than the catlike grace she possesses in the flesh.
Louis King lifts his shoulders and then drops them, rolling his head from side to side to loosen up the vertebrae of his neck. A pinch between his brows leaves a plain line and then the wide grin forms, sharp as a sickle moon, absolutely certain. "Ah. Better, don't you agree? Her abundance of words becomes rather tiresome."
He glances to the scrip in his hand, a tea that begs to be sampled. Gaea knows Scarlett will need it, her reserves being tested to unfamiliar levels. "Does this suit, Doctor?"
*
"It will never entirely suit you, Autumn," Dr. Strange replies with a thin smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. Unless Professor King becomes profoundly helpful and with no underlying plans in the process, he doubts he'll ever be comfortable seeing any version of the man within the confines of his Sanctum.
"It's a bit too…British, don't you think?" A flash of his teeth in a brief grin before he becomes the responsible mentor once more. "If you'll please dismiss the illusion once more before you leave. I'd rather that no one with eyes for Asgard sees their youngest prince emerging from my home. Drink some tea when you are settled in for the night. Oh, and if you see Illyana, please send her my way. We still need to talk." With that, he walks to the front doors in order to show her politely out. He very much needs to meditate on recent developments.