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It's early morning, the time where the hustle and bustle of New York is accented by, oddly enough, its relative silence. Sure, there are still cars and busses and taxis and the occasional shouting match over crosswalk ownership between pedestrian and vehicle. But shoulders are hunched, scarves drawn up close, chins dropped as the workers trudge to their desks.
He Gates in near to the banks of one of the many ponds, one within eye-sight of the main entrance, with a crackling of golden lightning and wave of power before his arrival. It's risky, but he's quick to cast one of his many illusory charms; any passerby in the process of doing their double-take quickly find that the mist rising from the lake lingers in place of a crimson-Cloaked man and dismiss the whole thing as having had not enough coffee.
"Now then…where were you exactly?" he muses to himself, steel-blue eyes scanning the surrounding area. Strange is here because an Asgardian has tripped his spell-alarms, once again, and he has a suspicion that he'll recognize the Mystical signature once he locates its fading essence.
*
Lynette had been told to leave the park. She had been warned of it by the spider, himself. Something was wrong in that place, and painfully enough, when the well dressed, dapper fellow had left, the racing images and sounds flooded back into the girl's brain. She left, runing, clutching her temples until she found her boots slapping against concrete. Out of that beautiful slice of life shoved into the concrete obyss, she finds silence.
Turning, she clutches at the gold coin that hangs around her neck and stares at nothing in particular. She's searching for something, anything, that might make more sense. She begins to pace now, mumbling to herself, her fingers ribbing at her brow and then back through her massive collection of curls. Gold and glimmer catch her attention, only to become a fog a blink afterward. Even so, there's a voice, and it causes the girl to skirt the very edge of the park, as she attempts to get a better look.
*
Strange can sense it, just the faintest wisps of the signature, much like the distant scent of bakery pies on a blustery day. He stretches out his hand and closes his eyes, focusing on what his Arts-bolstered skin can tell him. Asgardian in nature, slippery enough to seem to lean away from his searching, and so cold, like ice… His eyes flash when they open.
"I shouldn't be surprised in the least," he growls. His hunt leads him only a few steps towards the pond and there, the signature grounds out over the water, ever a magically-nulling element. His sigh fogs in the air, mixing in with the rising mists. "What were you up to?"
*
"D-don' stay dere." The girl then voices, her tone heavy with warning and concern. She didn't think it was anything, that mist. Perhaps it was a by product of the location, and what she had learned. But then, she saw him, as clear as day. His movements, his eyes glowing electric, and that crimson of a billowing cape. "It ain't safe." She offers again, almost meekly now, as her hand continues to clutch at the coin stamped with Norse runes. "Dat place is sick. Dey somet'ing wrong wit it. Y'feel it, don' you?"
*
Someone is talking… Wait - someone is talking to him? At him?
Strange glances over his shoulders to see a young woman at a distance and she's clearly looking dead at him. With a 'hmph' of self-recrimination (he should have cast a more thorough glamour, honestly now), he then begins to slowly make his way towards her. She seems like one of the many homeless that call this Park home and her warning makes sense in this context; if one's safe-place was compromised, one would warn neighbors and visitors alike. Her words, while of warning, had been utterly nervously and he has already made the effort to relax the general aura of Mystical power about his person, just in case she's sensitive to the feeling of the prickling magic. It has returned his eyes to their normal steel-blue, no longer lambent sea-green about the centers of his irises.
The good doctor stops a ways away, sensing that if he gets much closer, she'll bolt, and offers her a kind smile, one meant to diffuse and disarm. "It's very sick, yes," he replies, low and calm as ever when dealing with strangers, "I'm here to check on it. Did you see something in the Park?" Genuine curiosity, not pandering in the least. It is his literal job to make certain that the Hellmouth's influence is kept minimal. He notes her clenched hand on some charm hanging from the necklace on her person, but his attention flicks just as quickly back to her face.
*
Now, she gives his attire the once over. Tense, rigid, she sinks into herself, but at least stays where she is. The corner of her mouth twitches, and the dark skinned girl looks up and down the sidewalk cautiously. "Sick how, dough?" She questions, taking a timid, but purposeful, step forward. Now, she allows her voice to soften. "I don' understand it, is all, but dey somet'ing wrong dere. Like de roads of de spirits are toxic." Thinning her lips, the fill back out naturally, and with a deep breath, she allows herself to relax. Her hands down, the rest at her sides in a gingerly, doll like manner.
"I did, I just don' know what it was. Was fast, n' loud. Couldn' tell what t't'ink 'bout it. Den a man came. He was lookin', too. He was Ti Malice. Anansi."
*
Her accent is fascinating and Strange finds himself tilting his head slightly, as if to take in more of it. He's heard it a few times before and wonders idly what section of the South she comes from originally. Her ability to compose herself is somewhat impressive and his estimation of her rises as he listens to her short answer to his question.
'Ti Malice'? The good doctor has never heard of that title before. 'Anansi' sounds a bit more familiar and he voices aloud yet another title in hopes of drawing two and two together: "Did this man also mention the name 'Coyote'?"
*
Lynette nods, reaching up one of her hands to brush away some stray curls. "'course he did. He de Trickster." A pause, "Loki." That name rolls off her tongue in a way that might make it sacred. It was weighted, like naming a demon before it was to be cast out. "He told me t'not come 'round here again. Or sleep here. S'dangerous." She reminds the towering figure that is Strange. Then, the faintest hint of a smile forms on her lips. "He made dem stop, de voices. De visions. Don' know how, n' I didn' t'ink I'd see such a pale lwa b'fore. But, he did." With a huff, she offers her hand out. "Com'on, now. Y'gotta get outta dat place."
*
Of course. As if it would have been anyone else, especially after that ghostly frisson of icy magic left in the wake of the Trickster God's disappearance. Strange directs his glare off to one side, towards another section of the park, and the knuckles of one hand crackle with his fleeting clenched fists.
Unfortunately… "Loki is correct. You shouldn't be in the Park right now. It's not safe in the least." Her offered hand is met, at first, with skepticism, but perhaps he can lead her to someplace warmer and safer. "One moment," he murmurs, and gestures at himself from chin to waist. His smoky-blue leather battle armor and crimson Cloak melt into more public-friendly garb: black dress pants, white dress shirt, Eye of Agamotto at his neck in a bolo tie, and red blazer, such a deep red as to be the darkest shadow of fresh blood. One can only tell that it's red when the riffles of light hit the fabric just right. "We can discuss these voices you're hearing over a cup of coffee. Dr. Strange," he adds, taking her hand to shake as introduction, and —
His eyes slam shut against the wave of Mystical information that floods him. Phantom pain, in various places on his torso, combines in tingling agony with metallic fear and the pounding of deep-bellied drums. Firelight flashes on edged metal that drips with syrupy, recently-spilled blood. Coiling ability, hidden away beneath layer upon layer of terror. The brush of dark wings, heavy with foreboding and the kiss of ability from beyond the grave.
Strange yanks his hand back and stares thunderously at her. "Voodoo," he murmurs, only able to hazard a guess due to recent talks with a rather heartless Asgardian woman.
*
Watching the glamor work across the man's body, the girl seems at a loss for words, though, she does leave her hand out, just waiting. The touch only drives a sensation through her body like a spark. The smell of heavy ozone just waiting to crack and burn, to be set ablaze by the elements; and she watches it from a distant shore. Her body twists and writhes in place as the darkness looms over her, and eyes peer out from a void, all settling and focusing on her; coils of smoke twist and tendril into nothing.
Gasping, she reaches and holds onto her wrist, feeling some backlash of unexpected pain from the whole ordeal. Biting, hard, into her lower lip, she gazes up at the man in his red jacket, her tired eyes slick and heavy with ready tears. "What?" She questions, flexing her fingers gently. "W-what about it?" A pause, "What de hell was dat? What'd you do t'me?"
*
A grimace. "You've never shaken hands with a Sorcerer before, have you?" Of course not, silly question to ask - she's obviously close to fearful tears over the event. "Sometimes, there's feedback as the latent powers within each magician greet. Your powers seem to be of Voodun origin, though it's a guess based on your accent as well," he adds, trying hard to relax himself, posture and expression alike. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I have…great power through my mantle. I am the Sorcerer Supreme of this Realm, of Earth."
He's glad that they haven't drawn any attention beyond curious stares and whispered chatter, but it's enough to make him want to move on. "There's a coffee stand just down the way. I'll get your some coffee and a muffin. Oh, and your name?"
*
There was a number of reasons to talk; the odd contact. The girl's exclaimation. Their class. Their skin tone. Still, she stares at the man, giving a fierce shake of her head at the question presented to her about who she shakes hands with. "I dunno." She stalls then, taking a step back. "Dey let me in t'dis place y'talkin' 'bout? I ain't sayin' no, ain't eat yet t'day, n'after dat…t'ing dat jus' happened, I t'ink y'owe me somet'ing." A pause, "Dese better be s'm pretty damn good muffins." Thankfully, she follows after the man, giving her hand a few shakes as if she were trying to get the feeling back into it. "Lynette. M'name's Lynette."
*
It's but a half-block to the nearest coffee stand, a little thing manned by a little man. Strange ignores any sort of condescending or judgmental looks from the mortal across the counter from him and a steaming styrafoam cup of black coffee as well as a poppy-seed muffin are offered to the young woman once they're beyond hearing range of the stand.
"Lynette, here you are," he says as he offers both items to her. If she brushes his fingers in taking them, there will be no feedback this time; he has his powers under tightest control right now. "This will make up for startling you earlier, I hope," he adds, his lips curving in that same friendly, diffusing smile.
*
Lynette sits at a small table they had selected. It was out of the way, but she still figits in her seat. It's apparent she didn't like people staring her way, even more so after the flash of Stephen's life she had just taken into her mind's eye. Drink and food down, she looks up at him. "You gettin' any?" She accepts them, careful not to touch him, though there's a slip and she tenses for the worst. Only, it doesn't happen. Blinking, her brows furrow and she reaches out again, this time, touching him on purpose. "Huh. S'broke?" She mutters to herself, her fingers wrapping around his wrist with one hand, as the other gives his a clap or two. "Why ain't it workin'?"
*
"No, no food or coffee for me. I have a rather specific diet as Sorcerer Supreme." He means nutritional shakes and tea; it's all his body can process after the years of rigorous studies in the Mystic Arts. He sits astride the seat, body turned away and ready to leave on a moment's notice in case something crops up that requires his attention. "You're not broken and neither am I," he replies with a faint laugh. "My powers are restrained currently. No need to zap you once again."
*
"Specific diet? Don' sound like much fun." She comments before stuffing the muffin away and into her cheeks. They round out, turning her into a mocha chipmunk. She chews, at least keeping her mouth closed while doing so, and swallows a few times to make it all go down. "S'good." She muffles out, going in for more. Glancing out the window, he watches people as they pass, though her gaze moves in the direction of the park. "Y'gon' tell me what's happenin' out dere, Doctor? Why all a dis is happenin'?"
*
A glance and wry smile is given to Lynette.
"It's best if you listen to the advice that Loki offered you and stay out of the Park, for now. Find shelter elsewhere, even if it's in the city neighborhoods proper. I may suggest somewhere within Greenwich Village, only because I live there and everything is in close reach should I be needed."
Strange considers explaining what precisely is going on and decides against revealing too much. "Someone has been meddling with the veil between worlds, between here and another Realm entirely, and all against my wishes. You see, I am Earth's guardian against mystical dangers. I tried to stop it and only partially succeeded." He sighs and looks away to watch the dwindling work-oriented crowds pass by. "I'm working on getting the hole in the veil closed once again, but it is taking time and I am pressed by other matters as well." Other-Realm matters. His steel-blue eyes flick back to her. "But yes, staying away from the Park was a good suggestion that I highly suggest, in turn, that you follow."
*
Lynette chews, finishing off her muffin and brushing off any crumbs. She looks at him, directly, studying him and each word that flows from his lips. "I ain't gon' back dere. Don' worry 'bout dat." She offers easily, before reaching for her coffee. The bitter swill rolls over her tongue, and at first her face twists up to display her obvious loathing of it. Sluring a curse in French, she presses it away from herself and shudders.
"T'anks, f'dis. Talkin' wit me, n'gettin' me somet'ing t'eat." Looking down, she sits silent for a moment, her shoulder hunching forward. "Y'gon' talk t'me 'bout de visions, now? De voices?"
*
Strange rests his chin on his hand as he looks across the table at Lynette. His eyes narrow, as if searching for something behind her dark gaze.
"You're welcome," he murmurs before continuing. "The voices are a result of your innate magical abilities. I guessed Voodoo before because of what I saw when we shook hands. Knives, blood, drums. Not only that, but your accent. It was only a guess, however." He's mindful that she's asking the questions of a novice, of one whose powers have not yet aligned. "You are yourself and your powers are your own to control. You make your decisions as to the use of your powers and are responsible for the consequences." He shifts on the seat, his other hand idly drawing runes on the surface of the table; each is left unfinished and wiped away with an equally-idle sweep of his palm before he moves on to another sigil, the entire action much like a piano player practicing music on an invisible set of ivory-and-black keys.
The distant chime of his spell-alarm reaches him, within only his mind and only to his Mystical ears, and Strange is instantly alert, like a guard dog sensing an intruder. "Lynette, forgive me, I am needed. Come to Sanctum Sanctorum in Greenwich Village if you need to speak with me more. About the voices - silence them. Will them away with every ounce of power in your soul. They will quiet for you." With that, he rises and quickly vanishes around a nearby corner. Perhaps Lynette can sense the ripple in reality of his Gating spell, perhaps not. Regardless, the invitation to tea and talk stands.
*