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The Empyrean is never very busy. There simply aren't enough magic users in the city, even one as big as New York. A suspicious breed might never gather together anyways. A young woman in a merlot coat sits at one of the tables rather than the big central space, slouching a little in a chair. She hasn't been served a nice glass of tawny port or wine. It's questionable if she can even drink. Instead she nurses a cup of tea. The pot sits on the table along with a pair of daggers in open sight, a map of the transit system, and a half-eaten apple. Her expression isn't exactly thunderous, more bored. Dangerously.
*
It wasn't so much that he'd earned any right to the place, but knowing enough sorts that do, Bernard made his way to the Empyrean to find out perhaps a tad more than his own information has provided thus far. He'd upgraded to slacks and a button up shirt at least, not wishing to exude a lower class vibe, but at least he eschewed full robes so as not to appear gauche. His heavy satchel briefcase remains in hand however, it's heavy presence a reassuring one to the young man.
The crackle of mystic energies in the air gains a relaxed sigh from Bernard as a smile crosses hips lips. A quick glance over his shoulder comes before he steps further into the room as he looks about, the sorta look one may have from a tourist, or at least an enthusiast. "So this is the place," he mutters to himself, the sound carrying further in the hushed room than he perhaps meant it.
*
Anyone expecting her to wear stodgy robes encrusted in mystical sigils will be sorely disappointed. She is purely modern, and even too modern, to some eyes. Leather pants are paired with leather boots, one leg slung insouciantly over the arm of the chair. Her leather coat is cut strangely narrow, modeled on a great coat but for someone much smaller. There's the belt slung over her hip which should contain one of the knives, if not both. Slouching and a comfortable position might not appeal to some traditionalists, but then so is a woman in here at all.
Wanda weaves her fingers through the steam rising off the cup of tea. She forms little mythical creatures, the sinuous lines of a dragon, a great snapping turtle holding up the world. Her foot bounces to the time of some unheard concert. Nothing really out of the ordinary here, as far as weird goes. Bernard does get a look when he enters, and her honey eyes stay focused when he speaks. "Welcome." Her accent is there, definitely European. Probably Eastern.
*
The words of welcome draw Bernard's eyes, and he blinks a moment taking in the leather and the way she sits in her chair, though the steam work brings his smile back to the forefront. "Thank you and well met." Glancing about the rest of the room, not particularly seeing anyone else giving greetings, he makes his way closer to her and the large table she's at. "I've heard many great things about the Empyrean, I can't say as I was expecting quite this though. Would it bother you if I joined your table? Or would you prefer the privacy for your… transportational studies?" His brow raises slightly at the map of the transit system.
*
Now would be a good time for Wanda to sit up. She stirs herself from the opiate of relaxing, pulling her feet beneath the chair. "Of course. We have not met." This statement, made with so much assurance, is not intended as unkind. Four chairs surround her table, same as the others marching up the wall, separated by potted ferns and maybe an Oriental screen here and there. Her shadow spills over the golden clouds and tiny painted images of a bustling city, suggesting antiquity. "I am Wanda." She closes the map up by folding it in half, and the bewildering tangle of bus and rail lines vanishes from Queens and the north half of Manhattan. "It is strange to drink alone. Company is good, yes. My English is not the best, so tell me when I am too hard to understand."
*
Offering his free right hand in greeting as he sets the heavy satchel on the table with a slight thud, he replies "A pleasure to meet you Wanda. I'm Bernard, and if you would prefer another language we may be able to arrange one? I can't say I necessarily recognize your accent quite, but I'm fluent with most of the more ancient tongues if that would help." His smile says he's trying to be helpful more than dickish at least. "Modern ones… not quite as much, I'm afraid unless German is one you're comfortable with." His smile fades slightly with that, perhaps an embarrassment or a fear it may not be acceptable.
*
The first touch of any mystic to another tends to be a telling one. Auras and impressions collide such, and it's not with a little hesitation that some choose to touch. Her fingerless gloves give Wanda some protection, and her fingers are very warm from the steam. She gives a perfunctory shake, anyways. "Do you speak Transian, or possibly German? I can get by better in both than English, and German will do." Pulling her knives towards her, she slips one back into its sheath and looks around. "«The servers don't like weapons very much. They gave me a fairly harsh look when I came in.»" Explanation given, she doesn't even smile, but waves her hand. Like the matter isn't terribly important.
*
Bernard's aura is… complex, one touched by many extra planar forces, as if he were a doorway or spent a great deal of time standing at gateways to the other planes, and there is power, but it feels raw as if it's still not quite shaped. He does smile as she shakes and he takes a seat now that introductions are given. «I'm afraid I've never had a chance to experience Transian as a language, but my parents, well, German is their mother tongue.» The explanation of the knives gains a nod, and he glances to his own satchel. «The only weapons I have are my books and implements, though I guess in these circles, they are far more deadly than most simple blades.» He shrugs slightly at that and lets the matter pass, after all she didn't consider it important. «I feel as though I should know your name better though. The other members of the occult community do like to gossip so, but well, some names stand out further than others.»
*
Hers comes to life as a wash of incarnadine power poured in a nebula around her, twisting in fathomless patterns down to the earth and rising to the stars. She stands at the middle of it, a channel of sorts. The faint notes of an impossibly elaborate performance play behind her, the music of the celestial spheres, evocative and aching. The scent of rose and resin follows, an exotic spice that was washes over her.
"Transian is not very common over here," she says. German suits her, and she almost leaps at being properly understood instead of stuck with imperfect English. "Knives and words are equally dangerous. One of them can cut the skin and the other cuts the mind, isn't that the truth." Reaching for her tea, she gives him a quirked eyebrow and then goes about drinking some. "You haven't missed anything. Reputations or names? Mine isn't that important yet. One day maybe it will be." One day, she might shake the world. Or unmake it.
*
"I cannot say mine is particularly spoken of far and wide," Bernard says with a slight smirks at that. "After all, we cannot all be the sorcerer supreme." He shrugs slightly, no particular bitterness or unhappiness with that statement, more a statement of fact. Watching her tea a moment he hrms. "Is there any protocols in placing an order? I would rather not make an ill name for myself so early in a place I've only just managed to make my way into. I somehow think a shadowed hood and an alias would not fool them particularly much."
*
"I hope not. That would complicate life quite a bit. Power struggles at the top don't benefit anyone down below most of the time." That is equally statement of fact, whatever emotions or passion Wanda feels about it buried under the need to be polite. She sips her tea. "Protocols here? The rules are very easy. Act respectfully and behave. This is a place for us to gather, not fight. The Sorcerer Supreme in general probably wishes we wouldn't be at one another's throats around here. Or anywhere in the city." Her thoughts slide off down a tangent, leaving her quiet. "You know parts of the city are dangerous right now, especially magically?"
*
Smiling, Bernard offers his reply somewhat playfully "Indeed, also they'd have to come up with other descriptors than supreme if there were more than one." Nodding as the protocols are imparted, he does try to wave over a server to put in a request for tea of his own, nothing particularly fancy at least. "Its been brought to my attention that there are dangerous parts, though disparate sorts wish me to go to or avoid them as their own proclivities prefer. Unfortunately neither set is willing to really tell me much why." He shakes his head at that part. "I mean, I've read the papers even describing the problems in Hell's Kitchen. Rather problematic when even news papers are writing of it."
*
"A sorcerous council. Just imagine. I wouldn't feel very comfortable perching upon a chair surrounded by such fellows." Wanda shakes her head slightly. "Think of the mayhem if disagreements broke out." More tea from the pot fills her cup. It will be sipped away rather than drank in gulps, given temperature and company. "Has it? Who wants you to go in, I wonder?" The corner of her mouth dimples, proof of her chewing on her inner cheek. "Hell's Kitchen is not somewhere to linger. It's in a bad state. There are undead roaming around and depriving people of their blood and liberty. I mean that in the truest sense, kidnapping them, robbing them of their senses. I warn you to avoid it unless you have considerable protections against the mental charms and contagion even lesser undead spread. I know these kinds of monsters. Where I am from, we don't treat them only as horror stories to frighten children or make movies with."
*
"I can imagine it, it seems like something from fictions, and those tend to tend out poorly for those involved," Bernard says with a nod of agreement. "Ah…my gifts tend towards dealing with beings that do not belong on this particular plane for the most part, and they are both noisy and quarrelsome. I listen, but they do not hold too much sway over what it is that I do." Nodding his head towards the door way, he smiles at that. "The wards of this place at least keep them away. An appreciative thing that." He hrms listening to her words, frowning as she describes those particular problems. "I cannot say I've had much opportunity to see the strength of my abjurations concerning what one would consider undead. I would imagine it wiser that I not have to test them unless I've no other choice."
*
"Then you'll be in good company." Wanda's smile does not reach her eyes. "I hunt things from outside this plane and send them back where they belong. Most of them do not have good intention towards us, or have no business running about." Her fingertips click on the cup. "The wards here are good but not perfect. It's safe to assume something bigger and worse is always out there. You are probably safe if you come here, if one pursued you. They've been haunting the area around Central Park, beings from the infernal dimensions and planes."
*
"I cannot complain about the good company then," Bernard replies, inclining his head as tea arrives for him as well. "I cannot say I'm quite as adept at the banishing side, but hopefully that is a matter of education that will not elude me, despite my lack in helpful instruction on the subject." Hrming again, he prepares himself a cup as he nods to her words on Central Park. "Interesting. Ah… perchance is there anything to concern myself with in the junk yard? It is another place that the more belligerent of the ones I hear wish me to go. If it is like the Hells Kitchen and Central Park, I will add it on my places to avoid."
*
"The belligerent people want you to go to the junkyard? Or the spirits?" This Wanda underlines with some hint of emphasis, finding the distinction plainly important. Her heels roll upon the floor. "I don't know about the junkyard, but one look should tell me a little. Do you worry about going there alone? It might be good to check it out." The offer is made in a roundabout way where Bernard can ignore it or decline without feeling unhealthily obligated. Her shoulders drop back a little, and she raises the cup, her chair creaking while she moves. "Hell's Kitchen is simply dangerous right now, whereas Central Park is an incident. They report on both but fail to tell the truth we know. There is an overflow of a conflict which catches humanity in the middle. They have no business here. We must make them leave. There's going to be talk on it. Leave some kind of contact here and the Sorcerer Supreme will reach out, I'm sure, when the time is ready."
*
"Spirits. Though, perhaps their specific classification would be closer to more accurately calling them demons," Bernard replies. Sighing he takes a sup from his tea, "My talent is in Summoning, and they know it. But so do most of the other entities with different classifications though similarly extra-planar." He shakes his head, but he smiles at her roundabout offer. "I would appreciate any help offered, especially one who's talents would shore up where I lack in skill." He nods again, and as she mentions leaving contact for the sorcerer supreme, he opens his satchel and pulls out a notebook, ripping an unlined page out of the back and scrawls his number, address, and name upon it. "I would gladly hear any talk to be made on the subject."
*
"I am not so long here they really listen to me, but he will get the message." She takes the paper if he offers it. "I don't have any number of my own yet. You can leave me word here, I check regularly. It won't ever be longer than a day. And no doubt you can send some demon to find me." The self-professed demon hunter gives a very small smile then, showing a little too much tooth. "I promise I'll notice." They will too. Wanda Maximoff is a name known to certain foul choirs. Her tea is finished and she looks into her cup, and then smiles. "We can check out the junkyard. I will see if my brother's around; he makes a good diversion."