1964-06-04 - What Dreams May Come
Summary: Lindon reports to Strange the contents of his latest vision.
Related: http://www.marvel-1963.com/log:1964-05-31-mini-vision
Theme Song: None
strange lindon 

When the knock on the Sanctum's doors echoes in the foyer, light as it is, it brings the master of the manor out of the…kitchen, of all places. The portal opens and there's Strange with a glass of that obnoxious nutritional slurry that he drinks from time to time to replace lost calories.

Dressed in a sweatpants and a white well-fitted t-shirt (curse those broad shoulders!), bare of feet, it's a marked difference from his normal formality. He sips at his drink again and grimaces at it. Still, his guest gets the usual genial smile after a moment.

"Lindon. The wards never lie," he comments. "Come inside."


Lindon sizes Strange up with a surprised blink. Sweatpants? He's never seen the Sorcerer Supreme so dressed down. He is himself in his usual button shirt and tie, and he's one pair of glasses away from looking like a nerd in an age where nerds aren't cool by a long shot.

He's got a folder tucked under one arm, and he steps inside with a sense of tentative purpose. One would think by now he'd be comfortable coming over and relaxing with his good friend Stephen Strange. Lindon being comfortable, though? Relaxing? There are some things that might be too much to ask of reality.

"Hello," he says. "I had another vision. Just a small one. I brought a write-up if you're interested."


"Absolutely," Strange calls back over his shoulder as he strides into the living room. It's the usual meeting place and the tea pot is hot, as always. "Have some tea if you'd like. I was entertaining visitors from another realm briefly last night, so there's still a selection out." He absent-mindedly waves towards the tea stand by the fireplace as he walks by it. Indeed, little satchets with labels abound in a small wooden bowl. Lindon's welcome to take his pick should he want as such. The Sorcerer sits down in his chair with a bit of a flump and a mildly tired sigh.

"You seem well-recovered from this vision," he adds, looking the librarian up and down with a doctor's dispassionate care. "I assume Cranston was able to aid you…?" Setting down the half-finished glass of nutritional slurry makes a quiet 'tunk' of impact on the side table.


"Lamont said I was only out around an hour," Lindon replies. "I felt awful that day. I should've suspected something was coming." Often times, though, he has headaches just because. They're not a promise of a vision. He comes to sit in the chair he typically does. "Tea would be great, thank you."

He sets the folder on his lap, and he eyes the slurry but briefly. He has no firsthand knowledge of how it tastes, but from what he knows of it, ugh. "He was an immense help. I wrote down what I saw and he seemed somewhat familiar with it. I thought you might like a copy."


Another lazy wave of his hand towards the tea tray from his chair brings a stirring of air. Suddenly, the set itself gets to work. From the Sorcerer's vault-like memories comes the knowledge of what Lindon last drank when he visited here and this receives a dousing of hot water. The silver spoon stirs, taps on the edge of the cup, and with another controlled gesture, the demi-tasse plus saucer lands on the side table.


Smiling mildly (at his own actions, assuredly), Strange nods. "Always a good idea to respect the symptoms, especially with neurological reactions." He winces a little as he sits forwards, scooting to the edge of his chair. An outstretched hand is indicative of taking any offered notes.


Lindon watches the tea come to him, and the show-off is rewarded with a genuinely impressed Archive. "The tea you sent home with me was much appreciated," he says. "Lamont had made me some for the headache just before the vision hit. I think it softened the impact quite a bit."

He offers over the folder. Inside are arcane drawings of concentric circles with markings in between, ancient scripts and symbols. An interplanar model, showing realities stacked and interconnected. It's a two dimensional representation of a four dimensional process, but he manages to get the point across to those with eyes to see.

Between sips of tea, Lindon mentions, "We got a pair of kittens, two little Balinese. Your Malk made me want cats again." Casual small talk while his notes reveal the strange, massive life form put to sleep here a thousand years ago reawakening, trying to interact with the world in a dream state. The sketches of the creatures with their tendrils is rather familiar.


"I'm glad to hear it. The tea does wonders for the after-effects of over-casting as well. If Cranston can't find a means to procure it, I'm certain that I can send him in the right direction." Taking the folder means settling back into the high-backed chair again.

His eyes briefly flick back to Lindon and he curls a smile even as he opens the papers across his lap. "Kittens. We're both brave and slightly insane people, I think. I enjoy them after they're beyond the sack-one's-ankle stage…though you have it easier, I think. Your pets won't cause hallucinations or make one want to groom oneself when stressed." It's when he gives the notes his full attention that his humor fades. The gravity of his mantle drapes about him, granting his expression quiet concern. By the intensity of his focus, Strange seems to be well aware that he's seen the beings before — dealt with them as well.

"Cranston would be aware of these creatures, yes. I recently locked them out of this dimension not a few months back. He was there when they broke through initially." His murmur is low, somewhat thoughtful.


"They're troublemakers," Lindon says fondly, "but just normal cats. That's more my speed anyway." Truth be told, even two normal cats are running him ragged, since they're kittens. He drinks more tea as he quiets so that Strange can read the notes he's brought.

In a dimension that touches this one through a dreamstate, there is a being that was put to sleep a thousand years ago by the people living here at the time. Lindon has scrawled the recipe of the ritual that was used to do it, including a note that one of the ingredients, a plant extract, has since become extinct and only one vial remains hidden deep below Greenwich Village. The shaman of the time saw the tendrils of this dream-creature as spirits visible only to those lost in a waking dream. They wreaked havoc, tearing people apart, destroying villages, seeking a way into the waking, real world. Things got bad before the thing was finally put to sleep again.

Lindon says, after a moment, "He said he was familiar with them."


"…and who woke you…?" muses the Sorcerer to himself, lifting up a sheet of paper to better read the handwriting in the ambient light. His frown is still contemplative, not incredibly worried. "Cranston, yes — he should be familiar, I mentioned that he was there."

Beware the sudden keen look bestowed upon his guest. "Unless…you're implying another familarity entirely, Lindon?" It's a simple enough question.


Lindon shakes his head without hesitation, though neither does he seem put off by the question. "No, just that one encounter as far as I know." And he'd know, all things considered. There's noting in the notes about what awoke it this time, but the shaman, in Lindon's written recreation of the oral history, blames Mahtantu, an evil spirit in opposition to the creature god of that lore. In the guise of a plague of stinging insects, Mahtantu pierced the barrier between worlds, leaving just a tiny hole through which the creature could see.

Then again, these things, they're open to interpretation. Lindon watches Strange, bright-eyed and maybe a little pensive, like a student watching a teacher read his report.


Gathering up Lindon's notes in an organized stack, he taps the pages once on the side-table to align them before offering them back across the distance.

"Very good. I recognize the basis for the deity and the actions listed that allow these creatures to access this reality. Having dealt with them directly, I'm not only aware of how to remove them, but also as to their particular Mystical signature. I doubt they'll try, but if they do…" His smile is cool, even anticipatory. "I'm certain that I'll have something to say about it. Cranston too, I'm sure," Strange adds.


Lindon shakes his head, holding up a hand. "That's your copy. Lamont has his own for our library." He may try to take care about presuming too much, but that library is theirs, damn it. Shared ownership.

Between sips of tea, Lindon adds, "They'll try," he says. "It. It will try. They're just its fingers wiggling through cracks. I can't not try. That glimpse has driven it mad, and all this time, under its magical sleep, all it's dreamt about is what it must feel like to have the sun on its… whatever passes for a face. It's ripped off enough trying to figure it out."


"Ah," and Strange brings back the folder to set it on his side-desk. He takes a huge mouthful of the nutritional slurry and gulps it down with disgust clearly written on his face. "Cardboard. Chalky cardboard," he grumbles. Another hard swallow forces the lump farther down still, beyond gag reflex and he makes a face.

"How certain are you that it's still actively attempting to reach through? Did your vision give you a current status on the being?"


Lindon grimaces with sympathy. One couldn't tell from the gangly appearance of the thin man, but he does rather enjoy fine food. A life without it would be… difficult. He shakes his head and says, "Unfortunately, I don't remember too well how urgent the situation is. I think it's still groggy." He smiles weakly. "So there's that. Just stretching, figuring out what it wants to wear today, maybe thinking of making some coffee or tea, or whatever interdimensional horror-beings drink."


"They drink the blood of the innocent."

The delivery of this lacks the deadpan Saharan dryness known perhaps to the Witch who graces the Sanctum. Nope — dead-serious, his words. "Let your imagination do the rest, you're likely right." Strange sighs and massages at one temple with two fingers. "Still…would that I'd tweaked its nose hard enough that it thinks twice about entering my Realm again." Oh yes, his metaphysical Realm. "Wanda should know of this…"

His eyes travel towards the Loft, through the ceiling, and his irises flush visibly bright-violet for a second. If he seems as if he's distracted by an unheard conversation, well…it's not a lie.


Lindon rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, I was afraid it was something like that," he says. "Look, for what it's worth, speaking of innocence, this thing doesn't have any real concept of malice as we feel it. In the old story, Mahtantu poked the hole that let in the light that woke it up from its slumber in the first place, and then he retreated and let childlike curiosity do the rest."

And this seems to trouble the Archive. "It isn't evil." Evil can be despised, easily countered, and it's a moral obligation to stand up to it. But a big interdimensional toddler who only knows it sees something it wants? "I don't envy those whose job it is to contain it."


A slow sigh from the Sorcerer and his gaze slowly moves to Lindon again. An equally-languid blink and those steely-blues are back to normalcy.

"It needs to be contained for everyone's safety. A young child's curiosity leads easily enough to disaster. You don't allow a wobbling toddler into the chicken coop to play with the chicks. More often than not, they end up crippled if not dead." From Strange's drawn expression, there's personal experience with such a thing — or rather, attempting to divert it. "There's no malice in the child's actions, but death…?" He slowly shakes his head. "I cannot allow it, curious or not."


Lindon nods and drops his gaze to his tea. "I understand," he says. "I think, for what it's worth, that the, uh, the spell that put it to sleep is just wearing off. At least I didn't write down anything about a perpetrator, and I don't remember any sense of there being a 'bad guy.'" Bad guys leave one less sad thinking about stopping them.

"Is there anything else you need from me? I feel like I should be taking a stance here. It likes powerful minds, and if I do say so…"


"Lindon, that has the decided insinuation of acting as bait." But there's a wending ribbon of low-grade amusement through his serious tone. "I'm not one to ask others to risk their lives for my cause. I have power enough to deal with the creature." Still, Strange pauses and considers the thin librarian, more brain than brawn.

"Nothing more than being ready to send a message across the Astral Plane in the case of another breech that you can sense. Or have Cranston do such a thing. I suspect…" He looks aside and frowns. "Reality is unsettled. On the off-chance that I find myself distracted, a forewarning would be greatly appreciated."


Lindon's eyes widen. "What?" He sits up straighter. "Gosh, no. No, I meant I'm invested in stopping the thing because I don't want to be a target." He shakes his head firmly. "I'm not a hero, Doctor. In fact I might start avoiding certain areas of Greenwich Village for awhile. The piercing of the barrier isn't very far from here."

He shakes his head again, exhaling sharply. No, not going to be bait. Nope. "Running messages I can do," he says. "I can keep you updated on whatever I uncover. The vision aside, people have spoken and written about this, and that means the knowledge is out there. Whatever I can drudge up, it's yours. You and Lamont."


Strange nods cordially. Let the man do what he will. "Again, I appreciate whatever information you can relay to me about these dream-creatures — or anything else for that matter. If it pertains to the metaphysical and the Mystical, I am interested. I have many books, but not all of them…and knowledge is a powerful thing…"

The Sorcerer's lips rise coyly at the corners. He manages an odd sense of presence despite the unusual casualness of the the t-shirt and sweatpants. "…don't you think?"


Lindon finishes his tea, and he sets the cup precisely in its place. "Whatever I can do to help. I'm a big fan of this reality. It's where I keep all my stuff."

On that note, he gets to his feet, and he says, "People say knowledge is a powerful thing, but most of the time I feel like a mite in the presence of giants. It's not a complaint. Knowing you and Lamont have my back means a lot to me."

Then, with his usual aplomb, he merely says, "I should go. Good-bye." And he turns to go.

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