1964-02-20 - A Kiss of Hoar Frost
Summary: Some escapees from the dimension of Port Royal brings a bit of hoar frost and chill to the hearts of men.
Related: 12 Days: Three Sheets to the Wind
Theme Song: None
lorna billy tommy strange wanda 

Somebody left a door open. No pointing fingers, too late now — the shark has already proclaimed innocence and it leaves the usual cadre to deal with the results of said mishap. From another dimension and another time entirely, two very busty and very pleased spirit-sucking ladies-of-the-night (let's face it, they aren't ladies, they're…disturbing) are currently running about like coeds during a Victoria's Secret sale and snagging up every-soul within reach.

Pinging on the radar of Sorcerer Supreme and Consort alike, the troops are rallied and the man himself is last on the scene. Because the damn Cloak is pitching a hissy-fit about a potion spilled on its hem.

"I will scour you clean, but not right now because there are INNOCENT LIVES AT STAKE!!!" It's not a bellow, but definitely one of those baritone shouts that books no argument. Finally, the crimson garment reneges, grumpily, and settles on his shoulders. "Thank you," says Strange tersely before descending the steps leading to the second floor landing.

Unfortunately, fate has a more interesting twist up its sleeve. You see, the unfortunate thing about glass spell-grenades is that they sparkle. They twinkle; they're shiny and so very attractive to a certain Malk kitten. Enter Aralune, resident Fae cat and terror already reaching upwards of twenty pounds. As Strange pauses at the darkwood railing, he hears the quintessential chirrup of a very-entertained Malk kitten. A thump against his boots signals the impact of the enamored cat, who is batting about…


"ARALUNE, NO!" Whoever thinks that yelling at a cat, much less one of Faerie ilk, will accomplish something clearly hasn't owned a cat. The glass bauble, about the size of a baseball, is subjected to one last indolent swat and…it rolls between the slats of the railing towards the foyer floor — easily within shattering and consequent spell-wave reach of his family below. With a choked cry that attempts to forewarn them of its impact, Strange leaps the railing. The crimson Cloak will stop him from impacting the mosaic-patterned light and dark woods of the floor.

It won't stop the bauble's disintegration when gravity pulls it flush to the surface and wha-BWOOOSH! The spell-grenade's multi-hued cloud in auroral pinks and blues and greens probably looks beautiful from outside its immediate radius. Too late to stop himself, Strange too disappears into its depths.

Perhaps there are some cries of shock, a few muttered curses, and then…a voice with that same whipcrack of authority echoes around the foyer — at least a few octaves higher.

"I am SKINNING THAT CAT ALIVE!!!" …no, Strange isn't, but as the dust settles, another growl of frustration can be heard, again in that mezzo-soprano range.


Lorna has arrived.


Squiggly has nothing to do with the wenches in flounced skirts and tight leather vests showing off their assets. It may be mid-February; they still fit into the Greenwich Village scene, melting into the crowds of half-dressed artists and their muses attracted to Washington Square Park outdoor performances or dancing at any number of clubs. At least six gentlemen in last night's dress ended up discarded in alleyways, corner booths, or the kitchen after several playful interludes involving bottle service. Total proof that the world's oldest profession adapts to the times. Victims might stand a chance of survival found early, but going into that good night with a smile on their faces counts, right? The wenches' trail carves right through East Village and Stuvey-Town, headed for the cheaper sights of New York's older port: Brooklyn.

Wanda Maximoff knows this because of the silver bowl of pristine water never exposed to sunlight, stirred by her finger. Precious herbs collected from Mount Wundagore are adrift on the silver-washed surface, allowing her to scry a location in a backward era when people who need to contact one another don't have mobile phones and the carrier pigeon is as good as extinct. She lifts her head up at the telltale glassy rattle running across the floor, her sable brows gathered in consternation. She has very much owned a cat. Or rather been owned by a very old sorceress with a daimonic familiar capable of going toe-to-toe with Mephisto. Thanks to the bared table the bowl does not hit the floor. Instead, she does, covering her mouth and nose with her sleeve, arms wrapped around her head to defend herself from the gaseous explosion.

Being at the centre of one too many revolutions involving tear gas teaches you a thing or two. Immediately she starts to crawl away, relying on blind memory of a constantly changing layout, probably headed for the safety of another room where she'll dare to look around. Good for the family to know Mom will abandon you for a safer place to regather her wits, or potentially blow shit up.


"Look." begins Billy a little bit defensively, even if no one is pointing fingers, "I don't know how exactly the uh, … evil prostitutes." He isn't quite sure how to filter them through his don't-cuss filter, because 'whore' and 'prostitute' all seem sorta bad, so his scrunches up his nose. "…got here, but it wasn't through one of my wormholes! Okay I completely own the fact that I'm having some trouble getting them closed but they close on their own but more importantly I don't know how to go to other dimensions! It wasn't — " And then he blinks, there's shouting at the cat, and he flings up his hands defensively because spell foop suddenly is enveloping him. "What the hecking heck is that — " The voice is totally wrong. Very high pitched. A bit on the squeaky side. "What!" he does squeak, and then something horrible happens.

Billy grabs his chest to try to brush away magic foop, and in doing so, grabs his boobs on accident. Billy HAS boobs. "WHAT THE FUCKING HELL I HAVE BOOBS." If 'she' could sing she would absolutely be a high soprano. Apparently the no-cuss-filter doesn't fit in Wilhelmina's model.


Because you know Pietro would say it if he could, there's a discerningly rough inquiry: "One of your whoreholes, don't you mean?"


Tommy's been waiting. He's been bored. The constant taptaptapping of his foot is probably a good sign of this fact. Arms are crossed, eyes are wandering. Various artifacts are eyed; he wonders what /that/ one does, with the bright red label. Clearly, red means 'touch until I do something', right?

"You know, bro, telling /me/ not to rat you out for not closing your wormholes doesn't help when you do it anyways…" Tommy asides.

Of course, that's about the time that the commotion starts to come into play and Tommy's eyes go up to follow Strange's voice, then down to follow along to their target… and then sploof! The grenade explodes, the cloud expands… yes, he /could/ have run away like he normally would. He might've even caught the darn thing. But there's one thing that should be pretty obvious about Thomas Shepherd.

Tommy is chaos and trouble incarnate. /Not/ stopping the thing from falling would be against every law in his book. Besides. This way, he gets to see what it does and doesn't get in trouble for it! Win-win.

Of course, it's the Doc and Billy that draw the Shepherd kid's attention first. First comes a smile. Then a grin. then both hands covering a mouth. Then she giggles.

"Oh my God, like, you're /totally/ chicks." Giggle. Pause. "Wait." In a blur, she's off to a mirror. Stare. Stare. "Well, /damn./ I knew I'd be the hottest girl I knew if I was a girl." A pause, a glance over the shoulder towards the others. "Hey, hey, I've got to change. Uh. Less change than /this./ But you know." Running with these things has already proven… less than comfortable. "I'll be /right/ back."

And away she goes! Innocent lives are at stake? Innocent lives be damned, she needs /support/ if she's going to run.


After the rather solid fiasco of a rescue attempt the other day, Lorna was uncharacteristically grumpy. She trailed along side her nephews, scowling mostly, nose in a book about magnetic fields and some manner of wormhole theory. It was most definitely over her head, deep into theory that her studies hadn't even scratched previously. Yet still, her brow was furrowed as she struggled to piece together the two concepts, wondering if perhaps her own powers might some how grant her the ability to rip open portals and allow her to rescue her friend. And maybe utterly destroy those responsible.

To say the least, Lorna had gotten increasingly short tempered as of late.

So when Tommy starts pestering his brother she barely granted it any measure of thought. The sudden gas and cries however, earned a sharp closing of the book. As she tried to wave away whatever it was that filled the air around her, blinking repeatedly in confusion, the book ended up dropped on the floor without preamble.

What stood behind was something that was utterly comically. A young man that looked remarkable like her father at her age, brown floppy hair and green eyes… but in a knee length purple skirt and pink blouse that suddenly did not fit right.

"W-what?" Her voice was decidedly deeper than she'd ever heard it and then followed a scream of shock as Lorna patted down her figure. Her cheeks promptly turning red.


The spell-grenade's effects spread far and wide, though that dastardly Fae kitten is spared in the face of her fleeing upstairs into the Sanctum's Loft, beyond reach of the opalescent cloud.

Within it, Strange coughs and wafts the glittering smoke away from his — her face. "Okay, everyone calm down!!! Hold on!" A few muttered Words and from within the technicolor smog comes a bright flash of silvery light. The combination of a whirlwind and general null-magic spell blows the foyer clear of the stuff and thus, the results are revealed for all to see, whomever is present.

For the good Doctor's part, she's…rather adorable. Two inches over six feet has become five inches over five feet — his mother's half of the family didn't carry the height genes — and those storm-blue battle-leathers sag left and right on a feminine frame clearly not made for wearing them. The crimson Cloak fits at the perfect length, untouched by the magic of the spell-grenade. Still dark-haired at a shorter length, still silver-templed, she grips the belts around her hourglass waist in order to keep pants from falling to her ankles and hmphs again.

"Whose idea was it to weaponize that spell anyways?" With a click of her tongue, she takes in Billy's new guise, Tommy if he's around, and even Lorna, apparently touched by the spell's reversal effects. "Right. I know it's odd, but we still have those demonic whores to catch, so — let's go." The Sorceress is suspiciously non-plussed, given that she's still drowning in those boots. No matter; before they head out, it'll be a simple realigning gesture and spell and the battle-leathers are right as rain, tucked and shortened in the perfect spots.


"IamnotagirlIamNOTagirlIAMNOTAGIRL." Billy chants out firmly, decisively, with absolute conviction, taking a firm hold of Reality and tearing open its settings file to flip the toggle labeled Gender back to male. Only… nothing happens. Reality replies: permission denied. "I SAID I AM NOT A GIRL." she declares while trying desperately to get the squeaking quality of her voice under control. She fails. Suddenly her eyes widen and she Trumps herself, "OH MY GOD I DO NOT HAVE A PENIS!" Like all men who ever lived, he had a very rewarding relationship with that and its lack is… deeply disturbing to him. Her. For her part, Wilhelmina is barely fitting into the t-shirt she was wearing before so she definitely inherited the boobs, and her hair is long and lusciously black. She's wasn't very tall to begin with, so is the same height really. Still. She eyes the… Sorceress Supreme… and says in a dangerous tone, "You better fix this when we get back because I can't seem to and I AM NOT going to stay a girl! Girls are gross, oh my god my boobs hurt." He pulls on the shirt to try to get more room in the super-smushed chest area. "But fine lets save the world from the evil whores." Glower.


Fuzzy fae feline beats feet to freedom, grey tail swishing, while a certain sassy ophidian lurks in its warded Victorian greenhouse environment hissing in fork-tongued laughter at the humans flopping about. Up until the other eldritch bush viper lolling on a branch drops low and, Kaa-like, says, "You make a fine woman." Black eyes narrow, scales pulsating through a rainbow shade. All laughter ceases.

Swirls of gas fade, trailing into luminescent mist through doorways. There a series of rapid hand motions conjure objects from within set places in the sanctum, disturbing the silvery wards chasing after a particular burgundy shirt excitedly. Scrapes on the floorboards and a few subtle thumps follow before a shadow cuts across the ground, coalescing into a Byronic romantic antihero, dark hair falling in a curtain past his shoulders. Anyone want proof fate favours certain people, look no further at someone a shade around six feet tall. He needs a name like Damien Ravenholme to match his brooding, stormy countenance as he buttons the cuff of a dress shirt. Lofting a brow, he gives the petite Sorceress Supreme a look. "Clean our auras later. Innocent lives are at stake." The Transian reverb wends through that smoky tenor is probably incredibly disturbing. It's doubtlessly uncanny to hear Erik or Pietro coming from it. "You are the bait for them, Lorna. Call me Vano. They won't say my gadje name right."

Sympathy reads entirely wrong on the warlock's expression when Billy is flailing around. Clearly someone didn't take a basic biology class. "Who will open the portal?" There is no reason for the Apollonian Maximoff twin to be this chill. Why is Wanda this chill? The world will never know.


It takes some time for the newly christened Tabby Shepherd to return. There were things to do, clothes to get, changes to make, laughter to be had, and who knows what else? But once she leaves the apartment down the way, the trip back happens in less than the bat of an eye, but as she bursts back through the doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum? The girl at least knows how to make an entrance.

As suggested, she's changed. Leather jacket, t-shirt and jeans have been traded out for a midriff-(and brastraps)-exposing halter top, fingerless leather gloves and booty shorts. Behold the power of the five finger discount, and having shopped for a girl in the past. There are things that you really never, ever know when they'll come in handy… but they /do,/ and it becomes glorious. A large pink bubble is popped, and goggles are pushed down her eyes.

"So, if Billy's done feelin' herself up and proving that /I/ knew better all along," Cue the smug grin offered towards Wilhemina, "I think we've got a party to crash." Pause. "Who're the dudes? The… uh… still-dude-dudes. Now-dude-dudes? Whatever."


The screaming didn't cut off for a long time. And then, it was Lorna, or Lorne rather? Jumping from foot to foot and trying to wiggle the skirt lower on his hips that suddenly did not fill out the skirt properly. It was too tight in some places and sagging in others. The button up shirt was straining in the shoulders, and rips threatened.

"I am NOT going out in this! I-I have-have a-a—-" Cheeks turned redder even as the newly discovered boy looked down in growing horror at his crotch.

"Oh my god I felt it wiggle. That's not okay! Why does it move like that?" Lorne was then pulling down underwear that most decidedly did not grow or remain whole from the transformation. Little purple floral patterned underwear fell between yellow socks and black mary-jane shoes that the now male Lorna kicked off with a painful wince.

Wanda, or 'Vano' earned a glare between.. brothers?

"I am not going anywhere like this!" His voice bellowed, and it was a righteously deep and indignant tone of voice that would've cowed anyone that didn't see such a comical sight before them to match.

At least now Lorna wouldn't have to imagine what her father looked like as a young man. The Lensherr blood that had been inherited had given Lorna her father's powers, and apparently, as a young man, most of his features too.


Strange will not admit that the question is answered within the confines of that squirrel mind: oh yeah…it was his — her idea to weaponize that spell. Ahem. Nooooobody knows this, it's all good…wait, Wanda — Vano does.

One hand held up that collection of belts and too-big pants while the other dragged down her face, cheekbones and all, and finally those narrowed steel-blue eyes emerge within a moue of irritation.

To Billy: "You have three hours to wait, you'll be fine. It will wear off. Unless you successfully warp it," adds the Sorceress with a pointed finger to accent her reminder. Her attention shifts to Wanda and there's the smirky-smirk expression and headshake to boot. "That shirt again. I'm glad I had the buttons — " Tommy returns, interrupting the thought and the headshake continues in silent judgment. If Tommy actually were Tabitha, she wouldn't leave the house looking like that, young lady, what are you thinking?!

Turning on the spot to eye Lorna, now looking most definitely kin to her father, Erik, the distress is noted. Focus shifts back to Wanda, resplendant in that one shirt, and a quick gesture makes for the refitting of the battle-leathers on the Sorceress's petite frame. Yes, there was some post-charm shifting about of the chest and settling and Strange grimaces once before sighing. "No one has to be bait if they don't want to. Lorna, stay here if you want. Anyone else, come with me." Fluid feminine hands transcribe a circle in the air off to the side.

Zippty-zap, a parallel thread from the spilt scrying bowl of water, and the lightning-chained Gate opens up to reveal precisely where they need to be. "Wanda — excuse me, Vano," cue that curling smirk on rosy lips, "can be bait. And anyone who calls me Stephanie is stuck for another month." That pert announcement is thrown over her shoulder as Strange steps through the portal.


"Oh my god how do you put up with these." complains Billany, still trying to adjust his shirt to fit the new stuff in it. He likes tight shirts, you know? Better to catch someone's attention. If you're not all made of muscle (like Teddy) then you need tight shirts to show off what you do have. Shirts tight for boys are not at all ideal for women of significant boobage. At all. "Call me Wilhelmina. Mina." she says absently, "Why are they so big and why in god's name would anyone want them to be big and what do you DO with them?!" He glares daggers at Tommy, and tilts his head, "Oh, right." He waves at Steffani and Vona, "One of you do the wormhole I gotta fix this or I won't be shit in a fight." And so he concentrates: "Tommy's fashion doesn't blow, tommy's fashion doesn't blow, tommy's fashion doesn't blow!" This time reality tightens around him and accepts the command, and in a blur, he's got an outfit that exactly matches Tommy's. Tabby's. Whoever's. At least his boobs are now supported and not crushed. He looks visibly relieved. "I swear to god if this doesn't get fixed before Teddy sees me I'm going to take drastic steps. I don't know what they are but they will be dire and serious and something something something. Me being a girl and dating a guy might be all like less dangerous but it doesn't do any good if the guy you like is interested in you at least partly for your dick. Three hours? It better not be three hours and one minute or I don't even know! Oh my god will I get a period?! What if I have to piss? I don't know how to piss like this! HOW DO YOU AIM?" The cuss-filter *absolutely* does not fit into the Wilhelmina model. "I'll be bait, I have di— hey do I still have dimples?" He smiles, testingly.


The warlock's answer to Mina's endless questions is simple: "Feed babies." Self-explanatory there, let's just bury the idea in Billy's warped brain about all sorts of activities he is simply not wired to want. He moves with a lot more ease than Lorne does, suspiciously so, though the pinch of boots are a little more uncomfortable than usual. Someone needs to break those in. "Language. You sit down like everyone else. You can get your uncle to buy something for Teddy. You and Teddy. The store will not let you in as you are a good young lady. Tommy, you can do what you like." Chew on that, Wilhelmina. Tommy probably ought not to trip over getting arrested for public indecency.

The long stride keeps up effortlessly with the Sorceress Supreme, almost overtaking her, and a faint sigh escapes at that. Except it sounds a fair bit lower. "He has an air of innocence. I do not." This might be true, considering at any given time, Wanda — or Vano — has probably half a dozen knives secreted away. He likewise inherits all the burning intensity of his Transian people, and possibly the Roma to boot. Still, he steps through the portal.

Another few blocks away, a redhead looks into the upended pile of laundry and shouts, "Tommy, hiding my bras is not an excuse to get me to buy more. Or go commando! Dad is going to kill us!"


"What do you /do/ with them? Billi, I can give you a /list/ of things. Maybe even write you a book with techniques. That might take a minute, though, you know?"

Oh, Tabby would love to laugh at Billy's plight; she really would. But that would almost certainly cause horrible things to happen to her in return. It's just the way things work between br—sisters? Yes, yes it is.

So rather than worry about teasing a sister or an uncle, or /worse/ messing with the various parental units in so many possible ways (which would backfire at /least/ ten times worse, she's sure), the platinum-haired speedster just goes with the process of running right through he created portal.


Through the portal….

Two pretty young women are the chief instigators of mayhem, the perpetrators of jaws dropped and throats besmirched. Working-class and immigrant neighbourhoods in Brooklyn work just fine for their particular wares, as they negotiate the bars clustered close to the south side of Long Island. Unfussy watering holes in aptly named Gravesend and Brighton Beach plain don't know what hit them, and they sashay along Brighton Beach Avenue. Huge land yachts driven by cool young things, gents with slick hair and more style than sense, rattle along narrow streets. Whole gangs of twenty-something immigrants feed a café culture, eyeing up anyone crossing their turf. In short, it's a happy hunting ground.

Trains rattle over the network of rails overhead and disgorge the party people into masses, more than a few attracted by short skirts and va-va-voom cleavage that would make Dolly jealous. A few purring murmurs and inviting looks are the sort of thing to turn impressionable men, as much as repulse the more upstanding who wouldn't respond to pleasures of the flesh advertised from a dark alley. One dark-haired fellow in a fancy-ish suit goes after one of the girls, a trail of snowflakes dancing around in his wake.

Short-shorts weather this is not. It's cold, and causing drivers to curse and people wearing winter coats to huddle closer.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License