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*
Central Park has become a ghost town thanks to its cordoned off quarantine. This means, of course, that anyone here is here by choice — purposive, even in the ways in which they've arrived. The police tape around the park and occasional monitors mean that either people have to act like they belong, sneak into the Park, or otherwise find themselves here by choice.
It also means, however, upon entering, the Park is eerily quiet. There's no picnickers, no buskers, and no illegal campers. And strangely, it feels like even the crickets got the memo.
The moonlight, however, somehow seems brighter in the Park, particularly along the stream that trickles beneath one of the nearby bridges. It glistens, reflecting light unto the otherwise dim Park.
A single police officer patrols the inside of the Park, quietly asking any stragglers to leave; it's been like this for the week. Getting people to believe in real danger has proven rather difficult when the danger seems so surreal.
*
Thanks to SHIELD's connections with the police and some older connections from Sara's father's days in NYPD years ago, Sara has little trouble getting to the park. Just why she's come to the park is less clear - as strange as recent events are, they don't seem to have anything to do with the HYDRA cell she's been chasing. The one that killed her partner, and would have killed her. Would have killed her, except for the odd bracelet she now can't actually take off.
It's the bracelet - or rather the quiet voice in the back of her head that she's reasonably sure belongs to the bracelet - that's sent her to the park tonight. Hands in her pockets, Sara walks along the path with purposeful steps, eyes narrowed as if she expects to find something odd around the next corner.
*
Night time is the best time for patrolling the park, in Tigra's opinion. She's especially suited to it, and is clearly at home as she moves through the trees. Well, it would be clear if she were easier to see, or to ear. She crouches in some bushes to watch the officer pass by, remembering her husband, and hoping this officer returns home after his shift.
*
One of the people who knows precisely how dangerous the Park could be is Remy Le Beau. Not long ago he witnessed some strange occurrences here including a pack of mangy mutts devouring some sort of poor animal and then there was the way that perception and time both seemed to change on him. If curiosity killed the cat then the cat had a peculiar smoky, spicy, and down home cajun taste tonight, because the Diable Blanc had to come and satisfy himself. By the way, no killing any cats. Remy loves cats.
He gets past the cops because, well hell, that's what Remy does. He avoids cops. Except for that cop with the bracelet that's not so far away. But he doesn't know she's a Fed, so it doesn't count. Besides, those are like international Feds, which are at least two steps away from cops that he hates.
*
Cordons matter little for a girl who can walk past most unseen. Hunting in tamed urban woodlands isn't much different from hunting through tangled streets or mined greenspaces. Wanda skims along the lesser trodden paths to the north side of Central Park, breaking down her prowling route into a grid pattern. Not a grid that anyone but her is likely to read, at any rate, but she measures the changes in local landmarks and searches for anything out of the ordinary. Mystic senses make an excellent tipoff, particularly given her familiarity to the leyline running beneath the bedrock.
Wide open to any sort of magical activity, she spends as much of her time perched on a branch or sitting on the shoulder of a statue, offending the would-be perching pigeons as she does under cover of sylvan darkness. Because no one suspects a girl sitting on a statue filing her nails to be up to anything questionable. Ever. Nope.
*
The wind whistles through the buildings. The sound is empty. Eerie. Ghostly.
And as it whistles, the moon, if anything, seemingly becomes increasingly alight. There's a moment, a second's pause, that begins to swirl around the Park.
The bedrock underneath the bridge that the creek laughs through has a glint for those paying attention. It shimmers as it catches the light. Its metal is unquestionable.
And the more it reflects light, the more light itself seems to grow.
And grow.
And grow!
In short order, the light reflected from whatever metal rests in the bedrock shines bright, blindingly cutting everything in the Park in constant whiteness.
*
As the light grows, Sara raises her right hand to shade her eyes. And as the suspicion about the strange occurrences grows, so does something else. The bracelet at her wrist shifts and shimmers in the light, tendrils of silvery metal extending up the back of her hand to twine around her fingers, wrapping tight around her wrist and down her forearm until there's a full-on gauntlet over her right arm. She'd be freaking out about that, except that whisper in the back of her mind is blaring a warning now, setting all of her senses on fire.
*
As easily as she navigates through the moonlit night, Tigra finds it easier and easier as the light spills from the river. Puzzled, she slips through the bushs towards the creek, stepping out into clear ground near it. "Quiet life. Work in a lab, have a family, that's all I wanted," she murmurs quietly as she crouches by the creek for a closer look.
*
Welp, shit be gettin' weird again. Remy has that feeling in between wishing he hadn't come and knowing that something like this was surely to happen. His arm, covered in the drab brown sleeve of his trenchcoat shields his eyes. But rather than walk away from it, like he probably should, he goes in for a closer look. But, he's not completely crazy. He searches out some of the stones nearby for at least some sort of attempt at cover.
*
Sunglasses by night would simply scream pretention, so the golden-skinned girl presently sitting atop a statue braces against the blinding glimmer by shading her eyes with her palm. The sleeve of her burgundy leather jacket offers the necessary opacity to avoid a magnesium flare temporarily blinding her, and she stares into the corona of the shimmer. A swing of her feet and Wanda drops down off the bronze, skidding from the plinth and landing in a crouch less graceful than she might have liked. Similar to the actual catwoman in the area, she meant to do that.
*
The light dims, and daylight seems to take over. Sunshine descends on the world below. And when eyes adjust to the now-normal light, the world is wholly different. The Park has become a cleared out open-air market. Dust lines the ground, and rows of stands sell various wares.
Where the glint had been in the river, a single sword, embedded in a rock, has taken its space. The hilt of the sword sticks out of the stone, and presumably the metallic 'pointy' end, is unseeable deep within the stone's depths.
The market itself is a bustling place. People try to sell scarves, dates, and the like.
Even the clothes of those from the Park have transformed into medieval wear — whether or not their wills should enjoy whatever garb they find themselves in.
The buildings of the city scape have disappeared — been replaced with multiple green hills, and a castle in the distance. Smaller buildings line the outside of the marketplace; more stores, homes, and places to visit should people choose.
Adjacent to the market is a large open dusty arena of sorts.
*
"What in the actual f-" Sara turns in a circle as the park transforms, lowering her hand from her eyes with the disappearance of the glare, staring around herself. Which is when she feels herself kicking skirts. "Oh hell no," she starts to object, grimacing. Luckily for her, the Witchblade seems to be in agreement. Whatever is happening, it doesn't trust it one bit, and in just a breath, the dress is hidden as the 'blade transforms into a full suit of armor. With it, Sara gets a glimpse of another time, a red-haired woman with a blade and a spear, and then it's gone, leaving her staring not just at her surroundings, but her sudden suit of armor.
"I must be losing my damned mind," she mutters, turning her hands over on front of herself.
*
As the light fades to something more normal, Tigra sees herself in a new setting, and just stares for a long moment. "What…the…" she turns about, looking around the market, and then realizes that her bikini has turned into a slightly more modest green tunic of sorts, belted about the waist, with her amulet worn on a leather thong. And then she sees the sword. In a stone. "That can't be…" Well, she has to find out, doesn't she? Curiosity and all that, so tries to get a closer look.
*
Well, at least it's consistent. Remy holds his hands in front of his face to see his trench coat has become a wine colored, flowery number, with big, white ruffles coming out from the cuffs and at the throat. The long coat tails away at the waist. "Mon dieu," he says sarcastically. Still, the sword in the lake is of interest, as things that glitter tend to be for the Cajun. He walks towards it, even closer now, with some trepidation.
*
And who gets to be the wench today? Note, do not tempt the fates by wearing a corset as part of regular attire, for that grows sharply tighter and other modifications prove substantially less problematic. Wanda buries her heels against the dirt and stretches out her hand to steady herself, getting no doubt a questioning look from the latest merchant who inquires if she means to purchase a dram of horsetail and meadowsweet or not. A shake of her head sends dark hair brushing from under her wimple — she is never, ever going to live this down — and she stalks away, patting her boots to see whether or not she possesses any knives. That would be a nice thing, a hopeful one. Traveling through bustling marketplaces is familiar enough, and she brushes past. But a wine-coloured coat like her wine-coloured cloak will draw her eye, and she might just catch up with the Cajun in case. Though it's not the man she is looking for. "Pardon…?"
*
The sword in the stone, solidly within the rock, is rather impressive. Its hilt shines a lovely silver hue, and the sword has a nearly rapier quality with a centre handle and a splay of silver that could protect someone's hand should they use it as a real weapon. Gems reflect in the handle — different colours and an array of shininess that may catch more than one eye.
A haggard woman ambles along the market, hunched beneath a large hooded robe with the aid of her cain in front of her.
A fellow in full armour treads to the sword in the stone and reaches down to draw it from the rock. His fingers curl around the hilt and he tugs hard, but the sword does not yield. The man grunts and groans as he makes a second attempt to no avail. He frowns and his chin drops to his chest.
*
Strange arrives from RP Nexus.
*
Strange has arrived.
*
Sara would pinch herself, but the damned armor is doing its job. And pushing her to investigate, as well, even more than her own natural curiosity. "All right!" she says, just a bit louder than strictly necessary, likely drawing a few looks from the crowd. "Fine," she mutters more quietly. "Fine. Just play along. Pretend you're undercover. Roll with it. You know how to do this, Sara."
Taking a deep breath, she straightens up and takes a few, careful steps, not quite sure how this armor works. Surprisingly, it works well - she moves as easily as if she wasn't wearing any, striding toward the sword in the stone.
*
The haggard woman doesn't attract Tigra's attention, but the apparent knight attempting to pull the sword free does. She watches, tail swishing, and then gives a slight nod when it fails to emerge. She takes a step towards the stone, curious impelling her, but pauses at the sound of a woman's voice from a suit of armor. Seeing said woman walking towards the Stone, Tigra falls in with her. "Sounds like I'm not the only one from the mythical land of the Big Apple."
*
"De pardon dat be needed be all mine," Remy says to Wanda, apparently either misunderstanding her on accident or on purpose. Being the thief he is, Remy can see that both Tigra and Sara are making their way towards his very destination. He must act quickly! He nudges the man who has had his turn and tries to think up something valiant to say, but settles on, "Move on o'er pardner and let d'old Cajun be havin' a try, non?" He gives it a tug.
*
Armoured men trying to extract begemmed swords and a haggard, cloaked crone do fall within the reach of Wanda's sight, Remy blocking the better part of a direct view of said blade. "My error, I thought you to be another." A common enough proclamation of cutpurses, and brushing past him to find an opening relatively sheltered in the marketplace in sight of the square could leave an impression a damn Roma just robbed him. Her amaranth cloak pulled the tighter around her, she murmurs under her breath in a language long unknown in that land, "«Trishul, where are you?»" Whomever happens to be responsible for that lean-to is far too much engrossed in the sights before him, and she makes a show of being so too, even if she isn't, her pupils glittering with a faint light.
*
The weave of reality shifts and tugs a web. Vibrations spread, sending unease in their wake, and by the light of that overly-bright moon, the Guardian of Reality readies himself. Cloak, check. Battle-leathers, check. Eye, check. Even as he's opening the Gate leading into the Park proper, another voice reaches him and his heartbeat ratches up another few clicks in pacing.
"«Not moments from you, Rakshasi.»" comes the reply in that same foreign language, flitting across time and space and dimensions to reach her.
A bit of a different place he steps in, however, where night becomes day and the years retreat at a blink's speed to become…different. In a doublet and jerkin in a hue just shy of perse-blue, wool trousers and undershirt, and sheperd-hood in scarlet-cloth, a rather Bardic Strange sets forth into the marketplace. His eyes glow subtly about the pupils and the sunlight provides ample in the cover of 'a trick of the light', should anyone notice. He's tracking a certain aura and inevitably, it leads him to the woman in amaranth cloak.
Giving her a relieved smile, he sighs and steps in close, practically glued to her side even as he scans the spread of the marketplace before them from the shadowed niche.
"This is unusual." Understatement of the day.
*
The sword in the stone almost seems to give underneath Remy's influence, but then, it remains. Stuck. But the man that had been just before him, stares daggers at Remy, "It was about to give!" His throat clears loudly. "Give me another turn!" he urges as he pushes towards Remy, aiming to shove the Cajun off to the side.
The market itself, however, seems to still as the fellow in the armour is remotely gruff with Remy. Evidently this merits some measure of challenge. "You have called attention — "
"Sir Percival! Surely you shan't scold a commoner among the vestiges of fair Chamelot!" a commandeering voice calls across the market.
The knight that had been busy reprimanding Remy straightens and turns his face towards the voice. But he does nothing more.
*
"Boys." Sara reaches up to run a gauntleted hand through her hair, giving the sword in the stone a long, curious look as she steps around the stone. Her mind is still fuzzy, memories from the blade overlapping her own thoughts, twisting her perceptions. Whatever this thing she's inherited is, it's going to take some getting used to. "If this is actually the sword in the stone, do you really think you get to pull it by being an ass? Because I'm pretty sure there was a whole lot of other chivalric bullshit that went along with being worthy to pull the sword."
*
And if the unarmored man who just tried to pull the sword is a local, then Tigra will eat her shirt. Tunic. Garment. Thing. She glances towards the commanding voice, and then to the native knight. Not -the- Percival is it? Well, maybe. No reason to assume this is anything like the "real" Camelot. She takes a step back from Remy and Percival and then crouches down to look at the stone. "Actually all that mattered was being the heir to the throne, I think. Just happened that said heir happened to be a pretty decent gentleman." Her tail's still in motion as she itches to give the sword a try, because who wouldn't?
*
Remy gives the knight a little shove right back, "Ain't seen no name on de ting, pardner." He felt it give a little bit, but that thing was snug in there tight. If this knight can't get it loose with all those muscles of his, Remy's not going to be able to. But rather than admit defeat and simply walk away, he stays close, considering an attempt at pilfering the thing if any of these yankers get lucky.
*
A lovely view, men flexing their muscles and unwashed bodies as they grip a deceptively slim blade, grunting and straining with the force of a stuck hog to relieve the stone's grip. Why, all the women in the marketplace and not a few youths ought to be swooning in abject wonder right about now.
Far be it for her to appear disconcerted by the sight. The sorceress in dark leathers and a mulberry wool cloak pays half a mind to the activities there whilst anticipating a disturbance, though she form it takes warrants lofted eyebrows. A hood to match her scarlet wimple, albeit one that doesn't clasp under her chin. "Look for Old Woman Pepper," she murmurs. "She buys dried fruit."
*
ROLL: Tigra +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 91
*
ROLL: Gambit +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 1 Million
*
ROLL: Gambit +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 53
*
A thoughtful frown to the Witch and then out across the marketplace. Of course, the lambent glow remains about irises, suggesting that he Sees quite a bit more than the mundane folk going about their daily chores and errands.
The haggard woman in her oversized robe, its voluminous hood attempting anonymity, is indeed at or nearing a fruit stand. A cane in her hands, really… Strange locates her, even as the kerfuffle about the sword remains something of interest to check in upon — in a minute. A blink and a harder stare, with an increase in intensity of expression and illumination alike. What he Sees is likely something ele entirely.
*
Percival casts Sara a sidelong glance — puzzled and altogether unconvinced of the woman's words. "Fair maiden," he pauses and studies her armour. "Rather, good Sir knight, surely you know the sword in the stone as you see it. Of course it's the sword in the stone. Only the most worthy can draw it." Clearly.
When Tigra steps up to the sword, however, the man does actually take a step back, giving her ample room. "Milady, surely you know that the sword will only yield to the strongest man in the kingdom." Because strength matters substantially, apparently. Tigra's tug, much like Remy's bears a small movement of the weapon. But it gives little more. Not immediately, anyways.
When Strange uses the Sight on the old crone, he sees something entirely different beneath the disguise. But, perhaps, more surprisingly, the sword, and Tigra's interactions with it, draw her attention. She treads to where the others watch the effort. She raises her cane.
And suddenly the sword gives way, allowing Tigra to draw it out in its entirety.
Sir Percival stares at Tigra in shock. That wasn't supposed to happen.
*
Strange sees the woman is wholly familiar to him. Her creamy white skin, with its youthful glow, seems whiter against her bright green eyes. Long flowing hair rests beneath the hood in lovely curls pinned underneath the hood.
*
"Never trust the magic swords," Sara grimaces sympathetically to Tigra when she pulls the sword free of the stone. "Pretty sure the fairy tales have left a whole lot of the important details out." Glancing down at herself, she takes another look at her strange armor, still trying to figure it all out for herself.
A few years of work with SHIELD, though, tell her that if someone's just managed to pick up something valuable, there's about to be a fight. She starts to move herself between Tigra and the crowd, and just as she starts to think it would be useful to have a sword of her own? There's one in her hand, provided by the Witchblade. "All hail the queen?"
*
After looking the stone over, Tigra stands once more and when able to take the opportunity, steps forward to have a go at the sword. No, not because she expects it to come free, or even because she wants it to, but because she has to try it, just to know that she once tried to pull what may be the Sword out of the Stone. At the mention of strongest man, she flashes Percival a quick, toothy grin. "Oh I'm plenty strong," she assures him, but when she pulls on the sword, she doesn't use her superhuman strength. She just pulls it firmly. She mrrps softly when it shifts a bit, and then fully draws the sword, eyes wide, and only by some miracle no dropping it.
"Oops," she says softly to Sara.
*
Remy sighs, shrugs his shoulders and winces as he leans his head towards Tigra. There's an outstretched arm that flicks the back of his hand at Tigra. "I loosened it for her!"
*
"'Tis a lovely piece of work. Toledo or damascene?" Trust the outlander of sun-kissed complexion so unlike the bulk of people to know such things, no? Wanda's accent betrays her as something further afield than French, possibly a child of the distant Roman Empire — the new one, not the western side — or further afield yet. "Not of your realm, sirrah." The flick of those remorseless amaranth-stained eyes, almost matching the shade of her cloak, moves towards Strange and she reaches out to mindfully adjust the fall of his hood ever so slightly. It's a gesture one might not dare without familiarity with the master bard. "La, avaunt! Would those fine folk celebrate alone? Is there ale anywhere?"
*
With the flush of blood into his cheeks and iciness at his fingers, now clenched into fists, the Sorcerer full-out glares. Wanda's comments are nearly lost; as luck would have it, her gentle adjustment of the scarlet-cloth enables him to break the knifing glare aimed at the Crone.
"«Beloved», the artifact can wait for another time. Research. I need to do research. I know it's from another Realm entirely." He swallows hard, reflexively holding back one hell of an offensive spell. "You…I saw you throw the iron shavings, «Beloved»." If the continued stare at the old crone isn't enough to make Wanda take a good, hard look at the hunch-backed figure, that statement might.
He Sees someone else entirely and his brain does gymnastics trying to figure just how in the seven hells THAT woman still lives! He's seen that form before, what stands beneath the robes and deep hood. The creamy skin remains youthful, untouched by metallic death, and lovely curls frame a lovely face with the eerie vivid-green eyes of a viper.
"Oh gods…" he breathes again, hissing as he weighs options at lightspeed.
*
Sir Percival draws his sword. "That will not stand! No foreigner will be worthy of Camelot and all she has to offer!" Others in the market do the same. A total of ten knights have drawn weapons. One actively slides towards Tigra, bearing his own sword. "On guard!" he says loudly. Evidently there is a fight a-coming. Meanwhile, the old crone steps behind one of the booths.
The knights, each bearing weapons of their own, draw the swords and aim to take back Excalibur from Tigra, and EACH of her strange friends that don't wholly seem to belong. Oddly, even Remy becomes a target thanks to his 'loosening' of the sword. This may not have been the ideal time to take credit.
*
"I don't think you guys want to do this," Sara starts to warn the knights. "Really. I don't think you'd want to do this if I didn't have my own magic sword, but honestly, I don't think the magic sword likes you very-" Before she can finish warning the knights, one of them decides there's been enough talk, lunging toward the strange armored woman.
If anyone is looking closely at Sara, they can probably see the brief moment of 'oh shit' in her eyes as her conscious mind registers the fact that she does not know how to use a sword. But what happens next doesn't match that look.
Sara side-steps smoothly, sweeping the knight's blade away with a motion as natural as breathing - only far more surprising to the SHIELD agent. "Fine." Whiskey-gold eyes take on an almost fiery hue as the Witchblade breathes life into her motions, and Sara moves through a trio of knights like a dancer, blade biting out wickedly.
*
Whoa, whoa, whoa! Totally not what Tigra had in mind. Granted, it's a little late for that. "That's what I get for tugging strange swords," she mutters. "Where's Robert Taylor when you need him?" She doesn't know how to use a sword either, but she's inhumanly fast and strong. As Sara side steps, Tigra steps past her, swinging out with the flat of Excalibur, catching a knight on the side of his chestplate, and knocking him sprawling, a couple dozen feet away. She pivots on a foot and kicks out with the other, crumping another knight's helmet about his face.
*
"Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!" The Ragin' Cajun invokes his inner Stooge as he hoots and hollers in order to create a diversion. Worse, he's flashing fingers in Percival's face during his non-sensical act. Oh, and then he throws a punch straight towards the face of his opponent!
*
While the brawl breaks out in the middle of the marketplace, with the clangs and thuds and cries of impact from the mooks-of-the-round-table getting knocked to their armored behinds, a decision is made.
Never without a collection of random objects on his person, Strange hurriedly sifts through the knapsack at his hip to find a crystal. Perfectly spherical, crystal clear centrally and eventually ghosting into supple darkness in the outer gradient, he clutches it even as he glances at Wanda.
"Stay close, we'll attempt to catch her off-guard."
With the crowd mostly focused on the main event, it's easy to dart through them and towards the booth last visited by the green-eyed woman under an illusory guise. He thought he saw the swish of robe's hems around the back of the booth. In order to cut her off, he slips around the other side. With hands gloved in Mystical power, he takes a deep breath before stepping into the shadows.
"Mo — " Empty space greets him instead. The blistering curses that slip from his lips are no Words, but they heat the air around him visibly in a startling show of slipped temper.
*
Sara's swordplay spreads the knights and gives them pause. Even when two trained men manage to parry her efforts, it's clear she has far superior skills to even the medieval knights in this strange place. Three of them cut through the air, lunging towards the woman with the witchblade, but they are easily bested.
Tigra's strength does her well, definitely causing interruption to two of the knights' efforts to retrieve Excalibur.
Remy's hoots and hollers draw the attention of Percival. The knight seems indignant at the display of distraction, yet in short order, the nonsense seems to catch the better of him and he staggers backwards, hard at the punch that is delivered to his face.
And as the situation gets resolved, a veil of darkness seems to descend over them. A single flame burns above, almost as a face in the edge of the night's sky. And, for those, paying rapt attention, the low cackle of another — a mirthless laugh, maniacal in its scope, calls attention, low, angry, and bellowing with the energy of worlds.
The emptiness of the laugh is the last vestige of Camelot-that-was.
For when the darkness slowly seems to lift, everything seems to return to Central Park.
Including Excalibur in Tigra's grasp.
*
Wanda, whatever her form, is not the sort of person who enjoys cackling. "Mad," she replies in a disdainful term, and the shunt outwards from whatever realm they occupied leaves her exactly where she was standing: adjacent to Strange in her habitual attire, staring into blinded shadows gathered near a statue.
She can at least walk three steps and breathe simultaneously, so that's something to be appreciated
*
.
*
Excalibur isn't the only magic sword that's still standing when the group returns from their trip into medieval times. As they stand once more in Central Park, Sara is still armed and armored, eyes blazing as she tries to catch her breath - and her control over the 'blade and its hunger. It knows this isn't over.
*
Swinging Excalibur is really pretty neat, Tigra has to admit, as she squares up to face another knight. As darkness falls on them, she braces herself, listening for unseen attackers, for the sound of armor jingling. Instead, she hears a terrifying sort of laughter, and then they're back in Central Park. And she still has the sword. "Oops," she says again. "I don't think that's how the story's supposed to go," she says quietly. Way to go, Tigra.
*
Remy turns, eager to run, but his hands come up right onto the chest armor of the next knight. For a moment, it looks like ole Remy LeBeau is le Done For, but, noticing that the Cajun is grinning, the knight looks down to see his chest area sparkling purple with energy. He looks up, just as Remy mouths a kiss in his direction.
But then nothing. Son of a bitch.
Le Beau reaches into his pockets for a pack of a smoke and flips open the clinky top to his lighter. He slams it shut and takes a deep drag. "Somebuddeh gun splain dat shit?"
*
The rush of adrenaline in his veins at being thwarted is enough to still have Strange on edge once the fall of the medieval world around them finishes. Like a watercolor left to the rain, the marketplace and crowd and sunlight all bleeds away into shadows. The laughter sets his teeth to gritting visibly and then…it's back to the Park.
"Absolutely," he replies tightly at Wanda's comment. He doesn't know any of the folk around him other than perhaps the young man with the Cajun accent by off-handed vague memory. To the Witch, he murmurs, "We have research to do." His scared hands remain fisted at his sides, trembling ever so slightly.
*
Wanda buttons up her coat, tugging on a zipper to keep the cold at bay. She answers Remy in a spitfire caress of a language so warped between Slavic and Romantic origins that it might be a fourth cousin to French, once removed, and part of that embarrassing thing that happened with the Lombards and Holy Roman Empire that no one wants to talk about. She gives a pained look and says, "This place is bad."
It counts for something? She looks to Strange, then, and offers him her arm.