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Of course Strange has tabs on the various mystics who come and go, especially in New York. And not long ago, an odd signature popped up. Hard to grasp, shadowy, subtle, indistinct - but persistent. Nor are there marks of deliberate concealment; whoever it is isn't attempting to hide himself from his fellow sorcerers.
The end of the trail turns out to be in an old house in one of the very old money parts of town. A beautifully maintained house, decades old. It's warded: not the kind that repels or attacks, not defensive…..but definitely sensitive. The sort meant to alert the resident.
*
In the same manner a tracking hound might smell a glove without seeing the wearer and still end up locating said wearer, the ability to glean wisps of aural energy from folk enables the Sorcerer Supreme to locate this…Lamont individual who aided the Archive in a time of duress. Some meditation, aligning of the mental compass-north, and indeed — the man himself nonchalantly walks along the sidewalk until his last step squares him before the house.
"Hmm." The furrow between his brows is mild, more curious than concerned, but the glow within Strange's irises betokens the Sight in action. Aha. Wards. Subtle things, gossamer and delicate, but there's a sense of fine tuning. Anything Mystical — anything at all, really — would send vibrations to the caster, warning of a presence.
He has no inclination to poke, prod, unravel, or generally disrupt the wards. A side-glance to the buzzer pad and he reaches out to press it. It does its job, emitting a tone here and presumably there, within the house beyond the gate. In his black blazer and dress pants, crimson scarf about his neck, the Sorcerer waits nonchalantly for a response.
*
This guy has staff - just as one might expect, with that address. "Yes?" comes the voice at the buzzer, with no real hint of curiosity. The landscaping visible beyond the gate is carefully maintained, rather old-fashioned in style. Just as one might exect. He can 'see' as it were, the barest scarlet ripple in the otherwise shadowy texture of the wards, the way morning sun renders gossamer momentarily visible.
*
"Doctor Strange. I'm a friend of Lindon. I'd like to speak to the man who helped him last."
The good Doctor's voice is polite, conveying no extra measure of excitement or concern. It'd be the same way he answers someone on the other end of the phone. He catches sight of the shifting in colors and sighs slowly. The scarred hands remain tucked away in pockets and between that and his current posture, he seems far more young than the silver temples bely…but no less confident. In fact, nearly bored. All a front, of course. He doesn't want to approach this Lamont in full Sorcerous fury. Doing that tends to ruin any chances of discussion.
*
"One moment please," returns the voice, and the gate buzzer's silent. Then it crackles to life again. "Please come in." Some remote command has the gates swinging inward. They don't creak - oiled smooth, it sounds like.
The door's opened slowly, and there's a butler there. Of course there is. The house….the bones are Victorian, one of the old mansions of the Upper Ten, but it was clearly updated somewhere in the forties. Strange is ushered into a library….and by the volumes on the walls, it wasn't the kind furnished with matching sets of classics just to look good. They're mostly occult in nature, the shelves crammed, with here and there strange little knicknacks. There's a desk in the corner, scattered with papers.
The house's owner stands before the empty fireplace - a tall man with medium brown wavy hair brushed back in a fashion that hasn't been stylish for decades. No silver there, and the lines in his face are more those of weathering than age. Middle forties, perhaps? It's hard to tell, he's got the kind of severe bone structure that doesn't sage with the passage of time. He's dressed in a white shirt, dark gray pants and a silk vest figured with some subtle pattern in deep green….and as he advances, offering Strange his hand, there's the gleam of a dark opal ring on his finger.
*
It's the library that piques the Sorcerer's interest. The butler, a mild surprise, even with the property's age and ambiance. But, those books… His gaze roves freely over them, half-lidded in an attempt to disguise keen interest. There should be little doubt as to what the good Doctor truly wishes to be doing and that is perusing the shelves simply to see if he owns copies of all of the tomes present. Any novel…novels will be noted, sought out in another location, and perhaps approached over conversation.
It's not quite a high noon stand-off, but Strange isn't the sort to be charming without good reason first. Only the edged of red scarring on wrists show from the pockets of his blazer and he offers instead a mild, friendly smile.
"I presume you're the one who aided Lindon then. Doctor Strange — and please, understand that if I shake your hand, you're going to experience a feedback burst when our auras meet. I won't force that upon you without warning."
*
"I am," he says, and while he doesn't smile, there's a lightening in his eyes. A good thing, he's got this aura of being dusty and old, rather funereal, despite the apparent lack of age. "Name's Lamont Cranston," It's an old New York accent. This guy's out of time, somehow. "And I understand. I appreciate the warning." But he turns his hand, as if that will help….and doesn't withdraw it. He's ready to play chicken with the Sorceror, it looks like.
It's not all copies of Unaussprechlichen Kulten, it seems. Plenty of fiction, mostly classics, albeit with a slant towards adventure. A complete set of Sabatini, a well-worn suite of Dumas in dark blue leather with the gilt nearly worn off. "I know you by repute," Cranston continues. "I apologize for not seeking you out to pay my respects, but I've not been back long…and I've been trying to find references that'll lead me towards more concrete help for Lindon."
*
A rather disbelieving arch of one eyebrow marks the beginning of the rise of gaze from the out-turned hand and up to Lamont's face. Very well then. Sorcerous chicken it is.
"No matter," comments Strange in regards to any respects paid. "I'm difficult to pin down at times. It comes with the title. You'll have to tell me of what you've come across thus far. I've some ideas myself."
But first, the handshake. With an audible sigh that serves to act as readying, one scarred hand emerges and firmly clasps its offered mirror, dark opal ring and all. The initial rush of sensation towards Lamont should feel as a riffling of the sky before a storm, the scent of petrichor and taste of lightning — a momentary flush of citrine static throughout a thunderous blue runneled through with fluid scarlet that blends to an ultraviolet and celestial amaranthine — potential, the Blade of Damocles ever-hanging within a maelstrom of expansive power that stretches beyond the horizon in all directions.
To Strange from Lamont, an entirely new signature to keep in memory!
He thought he was braced for it. But…while he manages not to stagger, that was clearly more of a charge than Mr. Tall and Stoic was ready for. The gray eyes go wide, and there's a shiver that goes through him, heels to crown, as if he'd inadvertently grabbed on to a line humming with high-power current. His breath hisses out in a way that isn't quite pained.
His own aura is dark and smoky, bittersweet as burnt myrrh, and on a much, much smaller scale. A little terrestrial power at best, though there are strange scents at the edges, the impression of other worlds, like foreign dust on the hem of a traveler's coat. The rusty hints of old violence - he may not be malevolent now, but it's left its mark, indeed, scarlet streaks among the shadows that refuse to unveil themselves entirely.
Of course he's the first to let go - though the opal seems to gleam for a moment, as if it'd caught a glint of fire. He doesn't shake his hand as if it'd been burned, but it clearly takes an effort. Then Lamont laughs, ruefully, and there is no hint of bitterness there, only genuine amusement. He did ask. "My initial thoughts were mundane memory techniques. The medieval house of memory, for one…."
*
"That's an excellent way to compartmentalize information." The Sorcerer's baritone is momentarily melodic for how he tilts his face away ever so slightly while never breaking eye contact, as if unconsciously attempting to regard Lamont in yet another capacity. He retracts his own hand, slowly curling the fingers inwards as if to capture whatever phantom sensations still dance through Mystically-vitalized nerves. The taste of burnt molasses lingers in the back of his throat along with the tease of metal and carbon. What light flickers through the opal ring reflects in his irises before muting away once more, no brighter than a taper muted by sheer silk.
"I considered suggesting hypnosis myself," he adds. "Conceptualizing that the…frankly staggering information available to his mind is not, in fact, as insurmountable as he originally thinks."
*
There's that impression of age, of life attenuated. Not the parasitical glow of a vampire, but….someone's older than he looks. Wearier and worn - there are old scars, and not all of them physical. Nor any attempt to block or deceive that scrutiny. He's got to have at least an idea of what Strange is doing….but either courtesy or an unwillingness to attempt to block or defy a power on such a greater scale is apparently preventing any attempt at deception. The innocent man has nothing to hide, right?
There's a pleased sigh at that. "Good. I was afraid I was going just for the too obvious means. But….knowledge is knowledge. I think it's the quantity and disorganization that overwhelms him, not the nature of it. I only got a glance or two, but….to me it looks like it's not corrupting him. It's sheer human strain - it'd be the same if he suddenly knew every name and number in the phone book, or the entirety of the Midrashim?" And then he cocks an uncertain eye at Strange. "Unless you've seen different?"
*
The Sorcerer has the manners to not attempt to peel away any layerings on the man. There would be no point and causing undue suffering in case of resistance would gain him nothing Karmically. Intelligence gained by metaphorical blood spilt is anathema to him. Thus, just a simple look upon Lamont with no judgment given save for that to one newly-met.
"Yes, his mind can't process the volume of it." Giving himself leave to wander, his dress shoes lead him over to the nearest bookshelf — of course. Strange notes the titles, mixed as they are, before half-turning to face Lamont again. "I suspect it'll collapse under the weight, eventually. I haven't looked into his mind yet; the last we spoke, he seemed to be centered and in control of his thoughts. I suspect that the information is edging out his memories. Rewriting them entirely per the natural inclination of the spell itself." He closes his eyes for a long second before shaking his head and then looking back to the other practitioner before the fireplace. "It's a hellacious cycle."
*
"Forgive me, I've entirely forgotten my manners. Would you care for a drink?" Lamont asks. He's already wandering towards the decanters on a sideboard. "And….I agree. He's going to need magical bulwarking, I'm fairly sure. But if he can at least begin to plan the mental architecture, he'll have more time…both for us and for him." …..and who just assumed Strange will be helping him?
*
With one last rather lingering glance towards the shelvings of books, with their gilded spines and myriad stories, Strange meanders back towards the fireplace. He pauses before it, appreciating the ambient light and warmth, before shaking his head.
"Thank you, but tea would be better, if you keep some about. A clear system is more capable of casting." His spread palms towards the flames collect the heat and sore joints relax in a refreshing moment.
It's an assumption well-grounded in the deliberate hear-tell the Sorcerer attempts to cultivate. He might be often away from the Sanctum, tending towards grumpy when interrupted, but as the years have passed, it's been easier to accept the unspoken expectation of granting wisdom and aid when needed.
"Lindon needs to believe in his ability to contain it. He lacks…the will." Those dark brows furrow and he looks beyond the flames, posture slackened and hands seemingly forgotten in the space they occupy near his hips. "The belief. What mental bulwarks he attempts will be built on quicksand unless he has the willpower. I'd rather not meddle in the mind magics until he cements this within his mind. I won't have my spells causing damage as they collapse." A shadow of weariness brushes over his own features. It's terrible having cosmic power and having to thread a needle with it.
*
"I'll ring for some," And he does - a maid appears, after a moment, to receive that order. Nor does he resort to the tantalus himself. A nod at that. Then there's a grin quirked, a funny, crooked expression. "I agree," he says, after a beat. "That's exactly it. He has to believe, first. No harder door to kick in than a closed mind. I…." And here he hesitates for longer, that hint of a smile fading, "I have some ability to shape minds. But…..as you say, it wouldn't work long term."
*
"Hmm." A noncommittal response at first. Strange draws up a bit taller still and returns his hands to the pockets of his black blazer, having sufficiently warmed them. About his neck, the crimson scarf visibly moves of its own accord, loosening from the loop about his neck to hang rather lazily instead in a near-cowl, the two ends running parallel to the buttons of his coat.
"I hesitate to recommend any sort of manipulation of the mind via magic. Lindon dislikes magic. Rather…" And here, he laughs quietly, glancing to Lamont. "He dislikes the visions. Excuse me. He might be adverse to magic, especially if it holds his own beliefs solid. Still…" The smile fades to concern. "The challenge is convincing him that he's going to survive it. The man has a dire take on things currently."
*
Scarf finds itself eyed acquisitively. I saw what you did there….artifact. And then he's forcing himself to look Strange in the face again, in that 'oh, yes, your eyes are up THERE' sort of way, before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, with good reason, if this is his first experience. If your first encounter with the ocean is it sweeping away your comfortable home, a beach vacation isn't going to sound like much fun, is it?" Lamont's voice has taken on a certain sardonic tinge. "But you're right. If he can't admit there's a possibility of a solution….I encountered a lot of resistance from him, when I proposed help."
*
"As did I." Strange tucks his chin to level a questioning, if ever mildly unamused look at the fringed tassels on the scarf's ends. They wave about, like little cilia, before settling to lack of animation once again. "Hmph. I didn't press too hard, however. He was fragile despite utilizing meditation to quell his fears. You know of the blend of tea that mitigates the migraines brought on by overuse of the Arts?" His canny steel-blues shift to Lamont again. "He took me up on this thus far. I suspect his past interactions with others within the Mystical fold color his decisions in the matter of accepting any aid we offer. I don't blame him." A shrug and grimace. "If someone slapped a burlap bag over my head in a kidnapping attempt, I'd be less inclined to take anyone's offers of help seriously."
A beat. "Mind you, they'd also be enjoying a vacation in the Thirteenth Dimension with the inability to swallow liquids if they tried." The wrinkle in his nose turns the faint smile towards sly and even faintly threatening.
*
"I have some, yes," he says, standing by the fire. Warming not just literally, but figuratively. Still reserved, but there's less of that sense of steely defensiveness…and definitely even some approval. "Do you want that? I've also got aspirin and acetaminophen on the mundane front." He won't offer the good Doctor the stronger stuff. "And is that what happened? I warned him, when I offered my help, to be aware that there are those who would not ask his consent, when they realized what he might be."
*
A shake of his head in the negative. "No, I have an extensive stash of the blend, but thank you. It's no skin off my back to continue to make it available to Lindon as need becomes apparent. I haven't offered him any of the Mundane painkillers due to the chemical interactions of the herbs within the blend. I'm concerned that it might thin the blood too much. One mustn't destroy one's liver over a headache."
Strange shifts his weight to his other foot and then nods in unconscious accompaniment to his thoughts on burlap-sack toting ne're-do-wells. "Yes, before I found him. I believe he said 'colossal assholes' did it to him. He wasn't able to give me names, which is a shame. I would have enjoyed putting them in their places." Firelight glints off a sliver of ivory teeth shown in a subtle snarl.
*
Strange'll recognize the posture Lamont assumes unthinkingly, at that - a subtle mudra designed to corral and then diffuse dark energies. The Tulku may've tamed the beast within him, and given him the skills to keep it chained since…..but that doesn't mean it doesn't snarl aloud, from time to time. His expression's assumed that sphinxish impassivity again, but the gray eyes gleam. "I ….feel I should make something of a confession, though it may be unnecessary," he says, as he unlocks the interlaced fingers, lets his hands fall to his side. "Considering how well you see. I have….quite the karmic balance to work off and a slant towards violence….which I have tried to channel in such a way as to…reduce the amount of red in my ledger, as it were." He glances down and to the side, almost demure. "But….if it would be necessary and useful….well, one steps aside from a path, but never entirely away from it. I will do what's needed, if we find them. Or must keep Lindon's freedom from being compromised." Poor Lindon, if that's what he gets as a protector.
*
The very feather-lightest disturbance of air about the Sorcerer Supreme is the only indicator of his temper sluicing through his veins in a quicksilver-flash of molten metal. His aura settles once again about him like an invisible silken drift. His eyes shift from mudra to its maker the very second the word 'confession' escapes the man's lips.
Suspicions confirmed. Now the heart-notes of the over-glazed sugar and tongue-tacking iron make perfect sense. Strange's eyes narrow further. "I find tipping the karmic scales against their favor is a simple-enough punishment in lieu of bloodshed. Karma has enough creativity to keep me up late at night. A charm instead, one that triggers a defensive spell — or any spell fiendish enough to make them think twice about approaching him again." He folds his arms now, though a fingertip draws a thoughtful line down one side of his goatee.
*
Lamont inclines his head, in polite assent. "When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail," he admits, easily. No shame in it, but no defiance, either. "My skills are relatively limited."
*
"With the Arts, the possibilities are endless. Limited? By what, your own imagination?" His tone doesn't convey malice, but color the good Doctor curious as to such a statement regarding limitations, especially coming from a fellow mage. "Practitioners such as ourselves tend to be graced with such imagination. You've already shared a few critically-imperative suggestions. Lindon would hear them gratefully, I'd think, though it may take some repetition to get through the miasma about his psyche."
*
There's something that might be….sadness, in his face? Hard to tell, with that stillness. The maid brings in tea, on a tray, sets it down on a little table before the fire, and departs. He doesn't reply until she's gone. "A tool is only as good as the material you can make it from," he says, finally. "And in this life, I'm too flawed. I've seen what madness takes those who yield wholly to the blandishments of the Art, without sufficient balance. I know my limits."
*
He watches the tea be set down near to them and then the departure of the maid. Next the Sorcerer looks upon Lamont, it's with an inkling of empathy that shifts the formality toward a vague noble weariness that shows in the crow's feet about Strange's eyes and thinned line of his mouth.
"It's good to know one's limits, even if one can cross them of their own volition. That takes a certain kind of strength not commonly found in this world. Thank you for the tea," he adds as he reaches to prep himself a cup. By the scent of it, it's a Lapsang Souchong. How singular. Lamont rises in the good Doctor's estimations for having this particular leaf available. A spoonful of honey swirled through the brew completes his inclinations on the state of the brew and he sets the utensil aside to sip. "Mmm." A slip of tongue to catch any errant taste. "A very distinct and well-balanced blend." He lifts the cup in a little salute, offering up a mostly one-sided smile on the side.
*
"I spent a good deal of time in England," he says. "The tastes've rubbed off. I'm glad you like it." Then he's picking up his own cup, only adding a fraction of sugar. He cradles the saucer. It is, funnily enough….not fine porcelain, but workaday china, in a glossy dark blue, and worn with use. There's a slow easing of tension from his shoulders, the line of his throat. ….as some part of him that was braced for either wizardly annihilation or a belated and high interest accounting of certain occult sins relaxes.
*
It might not make Lamont feel any better knowing that the Sorcerer Supreme has the patience of a large hunting cat. One way or another, eventually…if he's to know of some dark past happenstance…it tends to reach his ears. A lack of immediate attention on Strange's part doesn't negate the well-hidden interest often sparkling with insulting sterility from emotions. Such is the pursuit of all knowledge worth having.
"England? Hmm, I wouldn't have pegged you for it. You don't seem to have picked up the accent." A ghosting of humor causes him to enunciate the last word with an extra touch of nasally Midwestern, normally kept tamped down with fervor.
*
Be sure your sins will find you out, as the Bible says. And if Strange exerts himself and rummages even half-heartedly in the city's occult history….it'll become clear who Lamont was…and still is. His other hand holds the cup, and not by the handle, as if he were accustomed to drinking from the kind used in China and Japan. "I'm from here," he says, matter of factly. "And while I consider myself an Anglophile, not of the kind that wanted to assume airs I don't warrant."
*
Strange nods. "They do put on airs, don't they." Wanda might agree. A certain Elf might not…and then renege with a brilliant grin. He sips at his tea again, glancing to the bookshelves and back. "You mentioned having recently returned. Where were you at then, when away from New York?"
It's idle chitchat…mostly. Subtle inferences can be made given certain answers and the manner of their presentation.
*
He's too tired, or too relieved, or just too apathetic to mince words. "Wandering, mostly. Some in the Dreamlands. Some in Carcosa." Which is apparently not as lost as Chambers would have one believe. "But a mortal soul sickens for Earth," he allows, with a half-shrug. "It was time to come back, or give up in earnest."
*
Carcosa, interesting. The dimples grow deeper for the understanding smile conveyed. "No place like home." The look cast about the room unconsciously reaches beyond the walls, ceiling, and any structural integrity blocking out the view of the world around them. "I'll be frank. You have some very rare tomes in your collection. I presume you have other relics as well?"
The crimson scarf about his neck shifts again, even being so bold as to lift up a quarter of its length like a snake disturbed from sunning. With a somewhat-feigned long-suffering sigh, Strange smooths down the Cloak-gone-undercover flat against his jacket with his free hand. "Speak of the devil," he mutters with a quick downwards glare at the relic in question.
*
The Shadow suppresses a smile. It looks funny on those harsh features. "Of course," he says, not bothering to demur. "You can feel them." There are some of minor power in the room….others of greater, deeper and lower in the house. Surely he's got a sanctum in what used to be the wine cellar. Though not least among them is the opal ring - it's a little ember of power, the kind that would flare if breathed upon, of course.
*
"Indeed, I can," the Sorcerer admits with no reservations. The dimples fade with the knowing glance and he then closes his eyes. One slow inhale…followed by one exhale. The house's protective wards might feel the brush of his aura expanding out along the internal structures of walls. Time slows, at least for him, as he flits from room to room, upwards, downwards, gleaning bits of information as he goes.
The lowermost room contains the wards enspelled to deflect inquisitive minds, though more of the Mundane ilk and not of those with fire-honed willpower and years of practice in the Arts — both practitioners before the fireplace fit this bill. Ah, the special relics rest there, those of stronger power and potentially negative inclination. Another inhale after what seems like an eternity of existing in such a spread and he returns to himself. He looks to Lamont, quirking the corners of his lips minutely.
"Your wards are clever. I approve of the diversion rather than brute force. Good idea to keep the ring on your person. Tell me of it…?"
*
And, of course, the caster feels it. Which, bizarrely….tickles. He restrains his reaction, beyond a raised brow. None of them are intended to do more than alert, deflect, or misdirect a mortal's attention, with one notable exception. In that downstairs…and it was partially a wine cellar…there's an intricately constructed cage of energy, a shadowy web binding something that's very nearly sentient. Old and powerful and terribly fierce, if not evil. Even that little brush of occult energy is enough to make it rouse and turns its attention upwards. For all the world as if Strange's step had inadvertently woken up a guard dog. It can be felt 'listening' to the wards, and when there's no answering urgency from Lamont, standing down again.
He turns away the compliment with a gesture. "Like I said," he drawls, "When all you have is a hammer…." Then he contemplates the ring. "A gift from an old master," he says, simply. "It's an aid to certain efforts of will, but also a reminder of the guidance of its giver."
*
The dark opal ring is observed even as it's explained. Strange nods again, smiling faintly to himself. He knows well enough of the burdens of 'gifts' from masters. "Always a catch, isn't there," he muses before sipping at his tea.
"If you ever feel the need to bolster your wards, don't hesitate to reach out to me. Your cellar is fortified enough, I noted that." Oh yes, it was noted. "Or is it that you'd prefer to chamber the round in the shotgun as loudly as metaphysically possible before pulling the trigger? I readily admit that the wards around the Sanctum are meant to deflect with a bite." Electrical fencing charged by the dragon ley line running beneath the mansion. It's got a kick!
*
"Then you felt it's more to keep something in, rather than everything else out. And …..yes. A warning's generally sufficient. And if they're either too foolish, too arrogant, or too genuinely powerful to be warned off, well, then, at least *I'm* alerted," He's very much a pragmatist, this one. Only the set of dark threads to weave with, but those he's mastered, it seems. "And….I thank you, but no, thank you."
*
"The offer remains standing, in case of need." A additional inclination of his head to boot. "The weaving of the wards about the cellar is stable, so I'm not concerned there, though…you are keeping something in, yes. It has the feel of an seal as well as guardian spell. Inclined to share as to what you've stashed away downstairs?"
The Sorcerer looks at Lamont over the edge of his teacup, inverted as it is to imbibe a mouthful.
*
HE doesn't *like* the idea, that's clear….but again, pragmatism. Another mouthful of tea, to give him time to search for the right phrases. "Another gift from an old master," he says, finally. "A…..ah, weapon of last resort. In both cases."
*
"Last resort." The good Doctor seems to roll the words about, tasting the veracity like a sommelier over a glass of newly-tapped red. His gaze shifts to the floor, not far off from where they stand, and perhaps Lamont can catch the ultraviolet hues suffusing his irises once again through lashes lowered in focus.
A beat. And another. Enough time for one's heart to start tappity-tapping away behind ribs in some absurd dance. Enough time for a sussurus of his aura to slink down and ascertain, for a final time, precisely what Mystical guard dog lies prone.
"Here's hoping that you never find the reason for said resort," Strange finally comments with a decisiveness in tone.
*
Lamont is silent, primly so, letting Strange work. Surely the Doctor can concentrate past any such mild distraction, but….courtesy, courtesy. It's a weapon of some sort. A knife, perhaps? A blade, definitely. It knows what it's for - the shedding of blood. It regards Strange with that patient ferocity, but again, no threat, no response, beyond that silent poise. But it's also bound to Lamont in some subtle way….and a thread of its attention is always on him. As if it were some very lethal and magical answer to Jiminy Cricket. Perhaps Lamont's restraint is….not entirely imposed from within.
*
Blinking away the sense of distance, though the Sorcerer didn't travel far from his current point in reality, he gives Lamont a searching look now. The silence stretches and he's the one to break it.
"Lindon might need protection. You can infer my feelings on the matter as to how. However, your Fate is your own." He finishes the cup of tea and salutes the other man again with a lift of the empty demi-tasse before setting it down. "I appreciate your hospitality, Lamont, and the time you took to share ideas. Lindon is in good hands when I'm not around, should he come seeking you. By all means, speak to him again. Tell him that we spoke and that I support a solid mental footing before any sort of spellwork. Maybe he'll listen and consider utilizing magic to contain magic. Fire to fight fire…" Strange fades out thoughtfully before giving a little shrug. "I'll see myself out. You know where to find me." The Sanctum, of course, and with a long-legged stride, he does indeed make his way to the front door and beyond the edges of the property before Gating back to his own humble abode.
*