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He doesn't come unannounced unless it's life, death or sanity urgent. This isn't one of those, for all that his questions feel urgent to him, so he's called ahead to see if Strange is at leisure. Monty's in his usual dark, severe suit - a bluish-gray so deep it's nearly black. The color of his coat as a cat. Surely, coincidence. He's holding, not wearing, a swath of the bright crimson silk he uses as a mask when invoking his alter ego, looped several times around the hand that bears the opal ring. He steps up just to the edge of the wards outside, announces himself and his wish to call upon the Sorcerer…not that things are likely to've changed in the half hour or so it took him to get here from uptown.
*
One of the two doors to the Sanctum opens and the master of the mansion steps into view, half-lit by sunlight. His smile is friendly if fleeting.
"Cranston, afternoon. Come inside then." A tilt of his head and the Shadow is welcomed into the comfortable lighting of the short entry hallway. Once the door shuts, the silvery wards swirl about, lifting any loose fabric or hair, and ascertain that this is indeed a guest, if…not one to keep half an eye upon.
The two adjourn to the living room, of course, central to talk and tea alike. "Tea, Cranston?" asks the Sorcerer, pouring himself a demi-tasse's worth. His steel-blues scan over the gentleman in the suit. He himself is in dress pants and a button-down in cobalt; the play of light from opened blinds draws out emerald and amethyst in the fine weave at the right angles.
*
"Please and thank you," he allows, after a moment. He bears the wards' inspection with aplomb. Not much of a threat, when all he comes armed with are the shadows he can muster and the pair of .45's hidden upon his person. HE must have a very skilled tailor indeed. The scarf he jams hastily into a pants pocket. What's he going to do, ask STrange to turn it into a baby Cloak? The light, as ever, only seems to render him more somber, though he never seems to affect true black in daily dress.
*
A second cup is poured, an English black with undernotes of citrus and malt. The Sorcerer's own cup is redolent of herbs and dark berries, asking the nose to imagine a thicket in summer, perhaps.
Once the cup is handed off, Strange settles into his high-backed chair and gestures to the one on the left, generally open to anyone wishing to discuss the troubles of the world with him. "Have a seat — unless you'd like cream or honey in your tea, in which case they're on the stand there." In his daily dress-wear, he looks every inch the lord of his manor and eyes Lamont through the swirl of steam rises from the cup held in scarred fingers. "Regale me, when you're comfortable, with what's on your mind." His voice is calm, quiet, brisk — one belonging to a doctor once exalted.
*
He is, when you get down to it, an Englishman, even if he hasn't touched his real identity in two decades. Kent Allard, twice an ace, supposedly dead in a training accident over the plains of Rhodesia. So tea's a comfort, properly prepared especially. Honey and cream, it's the kind that warrants it. He takes a sip, a long breath, "As you can guess, Lindon. The Archive." He glances up. "I think the mental work's helping him….and that's not what I'm here about. In all honesty, it's me. He's enough of a relic to bind to a sorcerer and I'm fairly sure his magus is me."
*
The exhale is as much of a purr as a Malk can manage, humming his thoughtful surprise through the wreathing of steam. It swirls and breaks and Strange indulges in a sip before popping his lips.
"I did wonder if it would come to that given his odd status as pseudo-relic…" When he catches Lamont's eyes again, therein glows the faint light of the Sight, shifting the irises towards frosted-violet. "Your aura can't tell a lie. You should consider muting it, if you can. Not that your actions were any less obvious…"
And both know fully well what the Sorcerer is referring to. It's a wonder that the Malk kitten hasn't shown up as is. Perhaps it's because the living room doors have been shut preemptively to avoid any repeat episodes of curious feline disaster.
Still, Strange's faint smile is benevolent, simply appreciating the revisiting of the memory. It's a gentle tease.
*
He looks chagrined at that - not blushing, not physically, though his lips have thinned out. "I can't," he says, a touch shamefacedly. "I…can barely see them, and that's with work. I've never managed to be able to manipulate it on my own." A nod of acknowledgement, trying to conceal that profound discomfort. Strange's surely cosmopolitan in the broadest possible sense, and thus not shockable…..but Cranston's instincts and training are Edwardian, mired in the days when that kind of affection landed you years of hard labor at best, execution at worst. "I also…..the kind of relic he is is going to draw hunters. I'll need to be better able to defend him."
*
Strange's smile deepens to flash teeth for all of a second before he schools himself to formality once again.
"I understand." The way it's said implies that it covers all the bases, from the telling swirl of bright-blue in smoke to the need to keep the Archive safe. "Cranston, truly, as Sorcerer Supreme, I've seen a good many things over the years and Lindon is charmed to have you, even as cantankerous as he is. The relic does choose its handler and it always chooses well."
Half-hidden in a natural fold of the chair's design, up rises a length of fringed scarf. With a swish of fabric gaining volume several times over, the crimson Cloak of Levitation becomes fully present. Lamont is given a greeting in the form of a haphazard tilt of the line of its shoulders and a wiggle of the collars. Strange sips his tea again and the goatee's carefully tended sides curve. "Very well." Another flippant, prideful twitch of the collars echoes his sentiments.
*
He can't help but smile at the Cloak's greeting, and inclines his head politely in return. "Well met," he says to it. Somewhat relieved by those assurances. "And good, I'm glad to hear you say it. I just….want to be worthy of the responsibility, in all respects."
*
The Cloak hangs in the air beyond the chair, undulating in an unseen wind at its hems. It seems to be listening…but does an inhuman relic listen?
"That you have this level of concern implies the worth, I assure you. If you didn't care, this would be means for concern." The Sorcerer sets aside the cup of tea to the side table next to his chair and then steeples his fingertips before his chest. "Speaking of concerns, however, you mentioned the need to protect him. I agree. What's the issue specifically in this instance?"
*
More tea, before he sets aside the cup and responds. "Defensive capability. I actually don't know how to fight with magic," he says, bluntly. "I'm a street fighter and a gunman who's happened upon a certain thread of magic….but it's magic that's mostly useful against mortal and unreinforced minds. Nothing I can currently do, for instance, would probably work on you. And that leaves me with the next alternative as a knife between your ribs or a .45 slug somewhere. And while I've used the latter to great effect on some magicians…..it's not reliable."
*
"Hmm." Strange's attention shifts to the Cloak, oddly enough. There's a moment of what appears to be silent conversation and the Cloak lifts the line of its shoulders in a very human shrug. Back to Lamont. "You can shoot a caster before they finish a spell, if it requires speech." No hesitation admitting this, even though it's a clear weakness that applies to him. "That's not a small thing to be able to do. I doubt you miss. No books in your library to read on the offensive spectrum of the Arts? Does your…thread not allow for it?"
*
"No books on the subject that are useful. I've got a lot of recipes for poisons, but not being in service to a Borgia….nothing's quick acting. Quite the reverse," he admits, without any apparent qualms. "And no, I don't miss." Not a hint of bragging there, mere statement of fact. "And not yet, no. IT's all ephemeral. I can blind an ordinary man, but any sorcerer powerful enough to come looking for the Archive would probably be able to dismiss it."
*
"That's unfortunate. I can't be lending out the titles in my library either. They're risky enough being removed from the shelf sometimes as is. Surprisingly touchy," he adds, arcing a brow briefly. "They tend to lash out unless it's my hands upon them. Still…never underestimate poison on a knife." There's a rueful note to his words, as if the Sorcerer has come across the issue before. His gaze, now quieted of the Sight, rests upon Lamont's face. "There are certain relics that offer offensive magical capabilities. Charms can be set upon objects to create them temporarily. Wards can be reinforced. Unless…you're asking for what…lessons?"
*
That is, by the look on his face, precisely what he was hoping for. "Yes," he says, simply. "Or…point me in the direction of someone who can. I imagine you don't have the time or energy. I wasn't looking specifically for that, when I was off Earth….not seeking a new master. And my old….well, he's dead. At least as far as this plane is concerned." Which explains the skull cup on his altar.
*
Strange nods — then a scoff of a laugh bounces the Sorcerer's frame. "Not the energy? Cranston, don't be ridiculous…and don't think to play off of my ego. It won't work." His smile is sly. "I can't be lazy and be Sorcerer Supreme." Calculations flit behind his half-lidded eyes, now vaguely predatory. Playing off the ego? Pricked, ever so slightly. The Cloak's fabric riffles once before settling.
"Lindon seems safe enough. How soon do you wish to endure these lessons? Immediately?" Those scarred fingers dance tip-to-tip up the alignment of touch, one-two-three-four, and the air around the room is momentarily disturbed as if by a whisper of a vesper.
*
"That doesn't mean that all your energy isn't taken up with being Sorcerer Supreme," he retorts, unhesitatingly. "Let's face it, me asking you for lessons in sorcery is like a newly converted Catholic demanding to be catechized by the Pope himself." He takes another deliberate sip of the tea. "Soon's I can."
*
Another laugh, quieter now, and the smile curls sharper. "As soon as you can. Hmm." The sound of scritch-scritch interrupts him and Strange glances over to the hallway door, tightly shut. It's the sound of an adolescent Malk wanting in, pretty please — followed by a plaintive mrowling. A paw slips into view from beneath the door and out of sight again, next showing by curling up and grabbing at the flat of the wood as if to pull it back towards her…and open it should it have not been set in the latch. Clever girl.
"Not right now, Aralune," the Sorcerer calls out gently. A soft one-two clucking of his tongue elicits a 'prrrp' from the creature and the sounds halt. She can be patient for the Big Fuzzy. His attention, scalpel-keen, returns to Lamont. "Shall I let Aralune in and we'll see what you know in defense thus far?"
He must be joking…or is he? The twinkle in his eyes seems equal parts amusement and devilry.
*
Lamont eyes him a long moment, askance. "Very well," he deadpans, after that beat of pause. "We'll see if what I know works on someone who isn't human." He doesn't sound terribly sanguine on that front, does the Shadow. His eye goes to that door. Let's see what Little Miss Malk does when her opponent isn't half her size.
*
Both dark eyebrows rise a moderate amount. "I can't guarantee that Aralune will do anything to aid either of us, Cranston. She's Fae, after all. She acts as the whim strikes her."
Still, he's not going to let this learning opportunity go by without taking advantage of it. Rising from his chair, he strides to the door and opens it. In steps Little Miss Malk herself, all soft jade-green eyes and loud purrs for the Big Fuzzy. She wends about his shins sinuously, back curved high and tail twitching, marking him well and good with a little drool to boot. Nothing like Malk drool on dress pants. Do note that the highest arc of her spine reaches to the Sorcerer's knees. 'Little' might be operative here. Coming about the back of his calves, Aralune catches sight of Lamont and freezes. That little nose twitches and her whiskers fluff even as her ear perk. "Ah, yes, I wondered if she'd recognize you," Strange murmurs, glancing to the practitioner and back. "You must have a certain type of bad luck hanging about you. I wonder if there's distinct flavorings to her. She hasn't found her voice just yet," he informs Lamont, even as Aralune steps daintily across Strange's dress shoes, pausing there and still considering the man in the chair. "But we've been working on a trick. I wonder if she'll do it for you. Aralune — " The juvenile Malk looks up to Strange. He says a single word in another language, Tibetan, and the creature jauntily circles around behind him again.
When she appears again, she's become the size of an adult american cougar, a momentary trick indeed! Rubbing up on Strange's mid-thigh, her purr is truly engine-like. "It took us some time. Go on, go say hello." Those deep-green eyes settle on Lamont again and the oversized Malk begins to step towards him, shoulders rolling. Strange walks alongside her, one hand hovering over the creature's back. "Convince her to stop, Cranston, with your magic."
*
|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 4
*
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 19
*
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 12
*
|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 15
*
For all his downplaying what he is, what he can do…..he's a little more than just a streetfighter. For he reaches down into that dark pool, touches the depths of what power he does have…..and wrenches it up, like a man hauling something up from the ocean floor.
What comes….is terror, settling around him like the dark cloak he wears. In a heartbeat, he's no longer a thin, middle-aged man but a figure out of nightmare, burning-eyed and horrific, the shadows gathered around him like loyal attendants. His voice is a metallic echo of its self, and he bids the Malk, "Stop!" The problem is….it's an area effect, of sorts. And enough of a threat to trip the Sorcerer's adrenaline, and thus the wards.
*
Aralune gets within one easy, uncoiling pounce-length from the practitioner before he enacts his powers. The Malk's eyes go wide and then pinpoint as the visual effects of whatever she considers to be a mortal fear hits her psyche. The sound emitted from her suddenly-bared knife-box of teeth is very akin to a human female's scream, something raw and more primal to it still, and she wails even as she turns tail. Out into the hallway goes the cougar-sized Malk, attempting to dive into a closet corner that she has no hope of fitting into.
Strange's heart ratchets up into his throat as he's caught with a passing swat of the spell and something out of an abyss he looked into looks back at him for a second. Instinctive mudras crackle Mystical energy into aborted life about his hands, quasars of power reined in with the long-practice of control — but the wards. Those slip-silver guardian spells bull-rush Lamont with a howl that could put the Wild Hunt to shame.
"CEASE!" The stentorian shout of the Sorcerer Supreme stops the attack before it comes to complete fruition, one hand out-held in a gesture akin to a beneficent saint. "Cease…and desist," he finishes with solemn steel in his tone. The wards slick down to sylphs in starlight, down from their nebula of equally-terrifying nightmarish creatures in candle-smoke and celestial glow, and flick back over to linger behind Strange's shoulders. "Seven hells…" Strange shakes his head slowly. "I'm not sure that you need any offensive magic with that particular set of tricks, Cranston."
Oh, but don't forget the Cloak. It flits over to the practitioner and hem-flicks him across the knuckles, not too unlike a rap of a ruler. Tsk. Strange gives it a flat glare as it swishes back to behind his high-backed chair. "Thank you." It's not really gratitude, more of a corrective sarcasm. The Cloak wiggles its collars in snarky response.
*
He just got his knuckles rapped by a relic. Lamont looks bemused. HE's already released the ability….too crude to truly be a spell, and is back to his usual unassuming self…..braced for the onslaught of the wards, inasmuch as he can be. Lamont lets out a slow breath, almost a sigh. "I can't afford to be a one trick pony anymore," he adds, picking up his teacup. For a wonder, his hands are not shaking. ….much.
*
It wasn't the locker-room Hem Snap of Doom either, thank the gods. Lamont would have a welt — but that's not how the Sorcerer Supreme teaches. It's a simple-enough recipe. A + B = C. Choices have results. Make the choice, suffer the results. But no one without good reason will ever come to harm in the Sanctum.
"You're concerned that they'll see through your bluff and continue to attack," Strange hazards, pacing over to the fireplace. After all, there's excess adrenaline and an active heartbeat to settle.
*
Lamont gestures with a hand. "Exactly. On the street, the strategy is to make them flee. Easier to pick 'em off if killing's intended….scatters mooks. Sometimes I don't even have to shoot them. I've had some kill themselves to get away from it." He sounds….almost nonchalant. But then, he's left a lot of deaths in his wake. "But a fellow magicians…..yes."
*
A curious wonderment settled in the Shadow's calm admission to having killed. Lamont doesn't precisely fall a notch in Strange's rating of esteem, but does earn a question mark next to the mental tally of his character. The Sorcerer has one arm folded across his body now while a fingertip draws along one side of his facial hair in passing.
"It's a legitimate concern, especially if anyone attempting anything has experience with summoning nightmares or utilizing the Darker Arts." His thoughtful meandering brings him past the tea stand and beyond a few more strides before he turns back to head the other direction. This is, apparently, a well-worn path. "I don't see why you couldn't visit once a week, borrow the practice room. We'll have to uncover your precise alignment of talents and then focus on what comes most naturally to you, but I have my suspicions. Keep in mind that Reality is currently unsettled, however, so it may be sporadic. My availability is in question regularly given my mantle." It is what it is. The gods use their chosen harshly.
*
There's that sangfroid in his face, neither shame nor contrition. Black magic isn't the only means of ingress for the alchemy that darkens a heart in that manner. Sometimes sheer old fashioned human violence is more than enough….and he's both seen and committed more than his share. "Of course," he says, smoothly, rising. He's finished the cup of tea entirely. "That sounds like…precisely what I was hoping for, truth be told."
*
"Then as long as you understand that I may disappear without warning." Strange seems resigned to this truth, crow's feet about his eyes deepening only for a moment before easing away. "Send word again when you're ready to start. Decide the alignment of the offensive capabilities and bring this information with you. We can look at the books and go from there."
With that, Lamont is politely escorted to the door, seeming to wish to leave as he does. A good thing. The wards are titchy and there's a cougar-sized Malk that needs placating. Just another day in the Sanctum.
*