1964-06-07 - A Night to Remember
Summary: In which Agamotto pays a visit to Doctor Strange, since the Eye is grounded.
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
strange wanda 

Note: Agamotto played by Wanda.

It turns out that Devizes does not have the one tome he’s been attempting to hunt down as of late. The claim was something along the lines of “it’s a very popular read currently, but I’ll bump you to the top of the waiting list, Mr. Sorcerer Supreme, sir, so sorry, ack”. Of course, in a polite and unruffled manner, but the sentiment was there. Strange gives the proprietor a final professional smile before turning about and exiting out onto the street.

Almost immediately, the book shop’s doors vanish away into reality behind him. He seems to have stepped forth from…where, precisely? Any Mundane taking a second glance has a brushing sense of their world re-righted, deja-vu, perhaps — and the spell woven into the shop itself turns aside their attention to more important matters, such as “I wonder if the show will be on this evening” and the ever-important, “Did I leave the stove on?”

Strange zips up the blazer a little higher about his neck, making sure to not catch the silky weave of his scarf in its interlocking teeth. The piece of clothing sneakily shifts to rub against his neck and line of jaw before settling down again, the passing grace of an affectionate cat. His lips rise slightly as he gets to walking down the street. Devizes showed up delightfully near to the Village this time around, so it seems logical enough to simply walk home. Besides, it allows him to take the pulse of the neighborhood, erratic and bubbling with life as it is.

He makes it about a block into the thick of the buildings when…he draws to a slower meander…and eventually a solid stop. Stepping off to one side along a set of neatly-trimmed hedges that demarcate the end of a front lawn, the Sorcerer frowns. Something’s…thrumming to set his molars tingling; crawling along his nerves like tiny ants; making a bit of acid bubble up.

Something’s not right. It causes his eyes to literally flash as he scans his surroundings.


The usual hubbub around the Village after dark gives an electric, noisy threnody to the atmosphere. Bleecker Street gets no immunity despite the neighbouring businesses including a fabric store, grocer, and courier business. The old mansion tucked in among the row of brick-faced buildings hasn’t enough of a territorial stamp behind its wrought-iron fencing — at least they look like wrought-iron fences — to insulate the exterior from the sea washing at its fine stone shores.

Some rooftop venue features a jam session. Smoke bubbles out through the open windows of the stuffy concert hall in someone’s actual front hall, converted to get those artists. Musicians sing and artists dream.

The first splats of rain give the unmissable rise of petrichor and rubber dust from the road, knocked off the few patches of soil anywhere about. A flappy awning chooses then to bluster about. Space shudders and bends inwards, then teeters right back as the pinpoint proves too large to collapse around.

A yellowy sheen to the lights turns bright orange, though anyone unfortunate to be walking through Washington Square Park a few blocks up won’t recall the exact shade. Nor how their eyes were shocked into an after image dazzle.

They won’t remember the befuddled young man sitting up on the grass, arrogantly brushing off the leaves and bits of blasted foliage from his attire. And then staring down at himself with absolute disgust.

He pinches the cotton t-shirt with his two fingers and tugs, pulling away the outer wrapping from his chest. There is a certain stunned disdain in the gesture, and then he gets to his feet, sneakers slipping on the ground.

“What is this? You embarrass me with…” His voice crackles and chokes, the thickening lump in his throat swallowed down. Marching onto the pavement, he abandons the lawn to survey his surroundings. Trees surrender immediately to uniform blocks of two and three floor brick buildings, except for the huge tenements for New York University.

Getting his bearings takes no more than a moment. He knows where to go, immediately turning southwest. The crackling hiss of the sky pours out a measure of rain, and he sweeps his hand, two burning embers forming in the air. Drops veer around him in a respectable haze. The young man doesn’t even pull on the ambient energy around him to perform the spell.

“Only for a night. Only for a night.”


To Strange’s eyes, it’s like a transformer on a power line blowing out times…perhaps five. Who could blame him for wincing away from the sudden brightness, though he’d be hard-pressed to explain away such an intense reaction from passersby who simply see the streetlights shine all the brighter for a moment. Drugs. Man, and that guy seemed so well put-together.

“Gods below,” he grumbles, blinking as he tries to clear the stars that linger in his vision.

“Hey man, you okay?” A nearby college student finds enough courage to offer up a check-in.

“Yes, yes, fine,” snaps the Sorcerer, causing the youngin’ to skedaddle for the amount of venom in his tone. He’s got the makings of a proper grumpy old person — don’t let Tommy see this. Truly, his teeth are now hurting in his skull, which also feels rather vice-gripped, and there’s even some heartburn. No more Squiggly-O’s for him, that cereal with the tentacles and Eight Dimension dusting of spices.

On top of that…home. Something’s calling him home — and it’s not the Witch. It’s the familiarity of an old friend, the scent lingering in a place long after the source has left that jars memories, the tickle in one’s ear that can’t be reached. Resolution. It feels like ‘unresolved’ took tangible form in this dimension.

The Sorcerer looks about through the pattering rain that begins to fall. The heavy droplets give more people cause to cover their heads with newspapers or for the few lucky carriers, open their umbrella against the weather. A whispered charm keeps the droplets from landing on him; rather they slide off of an invisible barrier held close to his person as to not startle a particularly-attentive Mundane too much. The Gate comes to be within the shadows of the nearest alley and it opens to the Loft. Walking into the space, collection point to the majority of the relics, gains him the attention of the wards. They frolic about him in greeting before swirling away.

The teetering edge of a Damocles blade hasn’t changed. Something has happened and it’s set a chain of events in motion that he can’t pin down…and does that ever annoy him. His footsteps stomp over and onto the circular platform beneath the Window to the Worlds. Nearly pressed to the glass, he looks out across the neighborhood.

The two squirrels sitting in a tree appear disturbingly unaffected, but living in New York, they’re probably immune to everything up to horrific beasts, the pink reality warping hippo-parrots, appearing from the Twelfth Dimension and thermonuclear detonations.

He glares at them and shakes his fist. Their branch rattles, and a faint residue of dust and dew appear under the chattering rodents. Other than a bit of swaying, neither red squirrel moves.

Gritting his teeth, he plows on. At least the landmark is obvious as day to him. Something he could find in his blind sleep, which is a helpful thing, because in the current state of things, he actually is. His steps are more a march than a trudge, head thrown back. Finding an absurdly long fall of blondish-brown hair is… upsetting, in a way.

A twitch of his left eye catches around the bright green orb. Somewhere else, an equally bright orb quivers. Metal blinks open and shut, no more than a centimeter.

The notion to knock on doors isn’t even registering in his mind as the youth turns to the Victorian mansion in question. He simply depresses the latch on the door handle and goes inside, the puffed candyfloss of the wards landing on him like an affliction and raising citrine and silver spots of a plague. “Oh, get off me.”

A hand waves and the spells go tumbling like autumn leaves back, their report utterly nonsensical.

// Man. Not man. Irritation. Pancake. Hat rack. Oblivion. 5 tbsp garlic cloves, ¼ cup chopped parsley, 6 cups broccoli florets. Die squirrels. Stupid squirrels. //


Okay. Okay, whoa. Whoa. Relics acting of their own accord is nothing new (looking at you, crimson Cloak!), but the Eye never acts up. About his neck, the diadem shifts without any sort of beckoning from its current master and Strange tucks his chin, frowning in concern. The scarf-nee-Cloak unwraps and unfurls into full volume behind him, its collars wiggling like antennae.

The Sorcerer glances back and then towards the foyer as the ward report reaches him.

Squirrels. Squirrels?! Cloves of …what in the seven hells.

This will not do! No small thing befuddles the ley line-bolstered warding spells of the Sanctum. Striding across the Loft and down the steps, the guest is treated to the cacophony of rapidly-descending footsteps around the curvature of the Grand Staircase. The wards, still confused, swirl around him in a broad, lazy, dizzied loop and report,

// Irritation. Stupid squirrels. Not man. //

Strange pauses in the dead center of the expansive foyer, taking in what has traipsed into his Sanctum. At first, completely-normal sight, he is equally annoyed. A cotton t-shirt. Sneakers. Some youth just walking into his Sanctum and…

Wait — the wards — this youth with enough power to stun the wards. Those eyes are…green, abnormally so, green like fresh blades of spring grass in the sunshine. Wary of utilizing the Sight just yet upon such a mystery, he instead folds his arms and offers up the usual greeting:

“I presume you need assistance. How can I help?”


“Get me some acceptable clothes. Not this…. This flim-flam,” snaps the youth, flipping his loose, brushed hair out of his face. The ends are a bit crackly with static electricity. He gestures sharply at his shirt and his jeans. ‘These are not acceptable garments.”

He reaches up behind the back of his head and badly scratches at his nape, the tickle an unexpected and rather unwelcome sensation. What is that? A tag; a humble clothing tag. Good luck ripping it away when he’s not facing it.

Agamotto refuses to start circling around like a hound chasing its tail. Instead, he throws himself to the floor, dropping to a seated position with his bent legs ahead of him, hands to the sides.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Must I dismiss you?” Protocols are hard, especially given the situation. He flexes his fingers, grimacing at their limitations and the tightness of his skin. Another limit, so many limits.

Squirrel squirrel bad squirrel naughty

He glances up. “Go away.” He could in fact hiss at the wards, if it would do anything.


Right. This snot sitting on the floor of the Sanctum just presumed that he can be dismissed, like some — some — some butler.

Strange’s facial expression shifts to a rather stony formality now. Mulish pride pricked and shown disrespect to boot. And the kid has the gall to snap at the wards again, poor befuddled things that they are.

“Ooooookay. Let’s start over. Hi, Stephen Strange,” he begins, the grin all teeth and none of the smile reaching his eyes. “Sorcerer Supreme. This — ” and he circles a finger upwards from where his hand rests on just above his elbow in disapproving arm-crossing; “ — is my Sanctum. I assume you have a name?”

And it isn’t pretentious little asshole.

…at least, this is what he assumes.


“Yes, I know very well whom you are.” Being himself, Agamotto applies the right degree of biting precision to every word. Heavy enunciation gives every consonant daggers, every vowel planes as sharp as an obsidian spearhead.

He tries to figure out how to kick off the laced shoes, since they’re about as comfortable to him as a haybale to a fully blooded princess. Scuffing them on the floor leaves squeaky trails in his midst. “And exactly where I am, though thank you. You greet everyone with your precise coordinates? As you read it, forty point seven three three six degrees north, and seventy-four point zero zero two seven degrees west.”

Socks under the shoes are just as perilous, and for some reason, they’re jade green and woven with a tiger curling around the foot and ankle. He glares at the offensive appearance and redoubles decoupling himself from the unwanted footwear. A good yank, and the heel pulls away.

“You would,” he mutters, and clenches his fists. Nothing explodes, nothing gets terribly unsettled or bright orange. And still, the man is standing there. “This isn’t hard, Stephen. Use the deductive reasoning that made me choose you in the first place. And what does it take to get proper clothing?

Emphasis on yanking off that sock. It will not come off. No matter what amount of force he uses. Because, let’s face it, Hoggoth is a bastard with a capital B. Agamotto grits his teeth, devoid of all of his divine composure. For there is something a twenty-four year old man rarely has, and that’s dignity.

His hair falls in his face and adding insult to injury, looks stylishly tousled. “Technically, it’s mine, but that’s neither here or there. As long as I am here.”


Those steel-blue eyes narrow. Kid’s a total smart-ass to boot, listing coordinates found on any properly-compiled map. Not only that, but the nutter is very much dead-set on disrobing himself entirely in the foyer of the Sanctum.

Maybe he thinks that nudity will get him somewhere with the master of the mansion? Said man is giving the youth a scrutinizing glare at this point. Choose him? Nobody chose…

Wait. Waaaaitwaitwaitwait. Strange’s arms slowly unfold even as his mouth hangs open enough to show a shadowing of lips. Technically his Sanctum?! That shade of green in those eyes.

Oh no. Oh noooo — no — no. Nononono.

“Bullshit,” the Sorcerer whispers, left with cursing simply because logic has momentarily vacated the driver’s seat for pure, disbelieving surprise — for all of a second. Back in gear and he steps closer, squinting at the young man sprawled on the floor with sneakers discarded and socks still clinging like leeches to his feet.

“«Light of Truth?»” He asks, most carefully, in Tibetan, giving the lanky-haired kid a title that belongs to a certain some-deity who should not be cavorting around in human guise.

“You know, my mother wouldn’t like to hear you using that tone of voice or that kind of language.” Inducing a stomach churning drop of gravity with a glare is still well within the youngest of the Vishanti’s powers, even if nearly nothing else is.

He hurls a shoe behind him, the other going after it for the wards to pick up. Casual disgrace of manners proves something other than that, given he just offered them a distraction from puzzling out broccoli, snide remarks, 4 ounces of chicken, better manners on the old one.

Fingers are tapped, and finally, he wraps his arms around himself. “If you figured that much out you can fetch me a proper robe. I look… I look naked like this. Utterly reprehensible. No sense of decorum whatsoever. I had to be seen outside.”

In the rain. Despite not being wet at all. His eyebrows vee down terribly sharply. “Where is Merlin? I imagine he has a proper hat. And a cloak if you cannot find a robe, though surely we have those here?”


Even as Strange is fighting down his stomach — hoo boy, that acid reflux is not helped by a deity glaring daggers at you — he watches each shoe go flying across foyer.

Oh, the other two gods are laughing at him now. They must be. The youngest of the Vishanti throwing a near-tantrum because of what is considered to be perfectly normal human clothing for proper society. The youngest of the three shoved into a perfectly normal human body. In his Sanctum.

With eyebrows flicking high and his mouth moving silently for a moment, he then gathers up a response.

“Your…Veracity,” he decides upon, “you are wearing acceptable clothing for this realm and its current state of fashion. If you go outside wearing a robe and a…pointed hat, my society will see you as going against codes of conduct. Merlin is…away.” It’s not a lie, but likely lacks the amount of information that said deity of intelligence would prefer. “With his hat on his person. I can conjure you up a robe, however, if that is what you wish.”

He’s not about to drop eye contact with the scowling youth, even if his tone is no longer acerbic and back to its prior formality.


“I may forego the hat for a pair of shears, but I will not dress in this… this… revealing ensemble. It is beneath my dignity, even under these most unfortunate circumstances,” Agamotto contends that saying these words with crystal-cut edges rather than spitting them counts as a success. He sits up the straighter, foregoing a slouch.

Such divine dignity may be outside most teenagers and twenty-somethings. Pulling the shreds of it around him even without his godlike mantle does come instinctively, almost easily.

He brusquely chafes his arms, the unwelcome prickling of shivering reason to constitute a gimlet look at the wall. Oh, this won’t do, not at all.

Not even a swish of his hand or an incantation is necessary for that spell, a seamless transition that drops a curtain of warmth upon his skin. Oh, skin, an unwelcome limitation, flesh composed of meat and blood and tissues in layers. It does not bear thinking about.

On the other hand, Strange might need to consider this God made Man could perform a self-dissection just to see what the hell intestines and the gall bladder really do.

“Well, don’t very well stand there. You ought to have something accommodating this… body… in a manner and coverage suitable for a person of status.” Don’t stand around Strange, do something! The tone practically hinges on impractical degrees of impatience.

Imagine, too, how it feels for a deity for whom time truly is nothing suddenly subjected to its flow, its needs, its basic requirements. Has he even thought about biological requirements?

Agamotto brights his teeth, grinding his molars in a most lively sensation. That at least feels good.

He goes on to say, “Your Veracity does have a fine ring to it, I grant you. However, that will… not… really satisfy for casual conversation, Doc. Just Agamotto for the moment. You’ll be the first to know if I change my mind.”

Those too green eyes, an unearthly hue that sees with shocking intensity even now, fix him to the wall like a bug. A particularly pretty blue butterfly, but still. None of the marvel that an Elder God’s child is may be denied there. He dusts his hands together and proceeds to walk over to a vase-mounted table, gesturing with one hand. Furniture lifts up, hovering off the floor.

He dashes his fingers in a sweeping motion, and a complex arrangement of order-oriented sigil burn into the being of reality, biting harshly around webby corruption. “I see I’ll need to do some cleaning while I am here. That ghastly insect interfered and while it wasn’t exactly kosher for me to do anything about it at the time, it sure is now.”

The Sorcerer Supreme of Reality, cleaning. Oshtur’s pride must be inconceivable at the moment.

“And no green!” Spinning on his heel, he waves his hand. “I don’t want to wear green. Find me what suits but another colour.”

Divine pride doesn’t have any limits, and the Baron von Mordo may just be about to learn that.


Revealing. Hmm. Little Aggy’s got a little to learn about the current societal standards of ‘revealing’.

Under scrutiny, the chosen Conduit in buttondown shirt of sapphire doesn’t flinch. He merely lifts his chin a little more and centers his weight about a straight spine. Silent for some time as he watches the god-in-human-form interact with the surroundings of the Sanctum, Strange is rapidly weighing options and calculating possible results.

And what the hell would satisfy the concept of a robe that could possibly be worn passably outside if the impulsive and irritated Agamotto stomps out the front doors again.

Not green, of course.

“Sir. Agamotto,” he amends, mouth hanging open for a fleeting moment at the sheer insanity that is saying that name aloud to a living, breathing being rather than to some incomprehensible sense of power expanding beyond and between the stars. “If you’ll pause for a moment.”

Scarred hands rise and the space before him becomes occupied by the weavings of a creation spell. It draws from anything and everything the good Doctor can construe as ‘comfortable’, since a cranky god is…trouble. The end result isn’t too far from the Ancient One would have worn. A Bhutanese robe in brilliant citrine, the color pleasing to the eye rather than garish as one might have expected. Sleeves with loose cuffs allow one to hide away hands and the forgiving amount of fabric that drops to skin the floor in bare feet fit to be left flowing or belted up about the waist, given one’s predilections. Lined in gossamer silk with inspiration drawn from other dimensional niceties, the Sorcerer finishes his graceful gestures and then plucks the robe from the air. Across his forearms, it lies now, offered up for grabs.

Agamotto continues to banish several of those blighted spots that no amount of scrubbing or fixing with minor spells manages. A certain spider-god will have no bearing here, since clearly the Sorcerer deity has no trouble finding the right combination to pick and spring those locks.

He occasionally glares at the t-shirt clinging to his flat stomach and failing to offer the appropriate swish to every action. Where is the drama, or the authority? Something inconceivable.

Just as much as Strange may find as he ransacks his creativity looking for an idea of a suitable garment for his patron, taken on shape and age equal to his own future progeny, of a kind. Now imagine what the cosmic entity fit inside that size could possibly do, if he got along with Tommy or Billy.

Just think. Strange has no sooner conjured up a proper robe on the fold of his arm than Agamotto turns. “Ah, that’s it then? Better. No proper garment has less than four yards of fabric, preferably more.”

He doesn’t do grabby hands, but rather extends a bare arm to take it. The very thought of showing off his corded forearm and the smooth skin over it, dappled by a light fuzz of hair, is repulsive no doubt. Hence, the scowl.

And as soon as the garment is in his possession, he holds it up by the shoulders and peers at the thing. Wearing something by physically getting inside is… going to take some time. “I will use a room.”

He proceeds to walk into the understairs closet and shut the door behind him.


With robe slung across the offered arm, Strange retreats a step simply to watch what the god will do with it.

Because deep, deep down inside…he’s amused on a level nearing incomprehension. For all this is absolutely, without a doubt, Agamotto in human frame, the god has no idea how to be human.

“Yes, no less than four yards,” he agrees in his diplomatic tone, the one used to placate Asgardians and Inhumans alike. It assigns no outwards judgment.

Oh then — but then the god opens the nearest door, the closet utilized for coats, umbrellas, and various sundry outerwear items and — oh, it’s useless. Clapping a hand tightly over his mouth, the Sorcerer dissolves into silent laughter that serves to bring tears to his eyes. His aura twinkles around him, like reflected sunlight from rippling water’s surface, and he has to bend at the waist to contain the mirth.

Finally, after enough time has passed that he can inhale without the sound breaking on a chuckle, he strides to the closet door. A little rap-rap of knuckles and he asks, in the politest not-laughing cadance possible,

“Do you need assistance, sir?”


“No.“ That answer will come perilously long afterwards. Why? Because what the hell is a sleeve when you need to wrap something this way, and where is the closure there, and why is this extra flappy bit around? It's worse than a hyperintelligent toddler or octopus being encouraged to put on a robe.

But there are differences, when he emerges, a faint scent of candle wax and parchment ruffling the air behind him. Agamotto has added a rather wide belt in thicker cloth about his waist, anchored in six or seven places by metal symbols too complicated to easily identify at a glance. The Book of the Vishanti has a chapter dedicated to them in its spell work, and individually they represent whole concepts of magic forged into forms that limit energy draws to incarnate them.

He is barefoot, and the slap of his soles rudely on the floor is not entirely unpleasant. The layered sleeves are not folded back, and the wrappings going up from wrists to elbows, or higher, not part of the costume. One of those forgotten coats in the back probably sacrificed itself to suit his needs. “There, now I am not offended by my own existence upon others.”

There is no helping his hair, but he has managed to convince it to lie in a knot behind his head, secured by a twisted length of cord. Don’t try turning on the light in there. It won’t work.

Agamotto flaps his arms as he crosses them over his chest. “You, I can hear.”


Strange has a sneaking suspicion that he recognizes the material from whence the arm wrapping originate and there’s a wisp of a sigh to slip past his lips after he steps back, allowing the young man his personal space.

And he liked that coat too. But hey, he isn’t going to argue with a god over a coat. Only the truly foolhardy argue with deities.

His eyebrows lift when addressed by Agamotto. Well…yes…he spoke aloud. He should have been heard.

“Hear me? I don’t follow.” Again, the completely diplomatic tone comes into play.

“Laughing, Doc. I could censure you for it, though that would prove aggravating.” Agamotto strolls through the foyer, and he flexes his arms, testing his range of motion. Yes, this will do just fine. It may not be as exceptional as he could wish, but nothing in the human domain is bound to equal spellweave on divine flesh.

Human flesh is icky. Wait until the problems of heat and moisture affect this greatest of beings, the trapped smell under his arms and the odors of the body in general.

A look is given and then he turns to the staircase, clearly considering its slope. “I shall go examine the disposition of the relics and assure all is in working order. While you… what do you do at this given moment? Surely it is not meditation or contemplating the Book. It has not been.”

Head turned, he scowls at the wall. For no apparent purpose except one may presume he cannot walk through it without learning the limits of corporeality.


And Agamotto receives a scowl right back. Still, Strange holds his tongue. One must pick their battles wisely and over the years, he’s learned the hard way once or twice about goading the gods. They simply don’t have the same beliefs and morals as mankind. There’s no point in attempting to make the god understand.

“Lately, it has been research into laying to rest the unnatural rifts in Central Park,” and the Sorcerer tilts his head in the direction of the distant swath of greenery currently home to pockets of undead and reality-eating black holes alike. “I was recently able to cure another being from the curse of undeath that spreads via the bites and blood of the living corpses. A small success, but I intend to utilize the Book before the end.”

He lifts a hand towards the Grand Staircase. “You’ll find the collection intact and secure.”

Agamotto takes the first step carefully. The distance and depth perception is wholly alien in this body, and the railing is a smart choice for a hand much too small and soft for his predilection. No strength there but the grip on the rail will be sufficient to keep him from falling if his bare foot should catch.

Truly there is something remarkable about warm wood floorboards undersole. It’s not the first time he has taken flesh but the memory lingering through his vibrating atoms and untrustworthy nervous system fascinates all the same.

Continuing to walk, he reaches the top of the stairs surprisingly fast and then orients on the sanctum’s collection of various magic items. This lovely axe, that questionable vase made of arid water, a glass case for every treasure. His reflection is made in all.

Burning sigils appear here and there, the testing of the defenses when he flicks a complex mudra carelessly. “Hmm. More of those demented webs. Undeath came stinking out of the park.”

He rakes a finger down wood, digging out the unwanted speckles of sticky material left in the wake of another power. “Disabuse them of the notion this is welcome or wise.”


Behind follows Strange, warring with curiosity and concern alike, and he watches the god in human guise navigate the way up to the Loft. It’s fascinating, like watching a puppy stumble about a new room, and he can’t shake the smile that lingers in the subtle quirk at the corners of his lips. For all that the god is pricklier than his Conduit, they share similar notions about the care of the Sanctum and the reality about them.

“I intend to remind them of how unwise it is with painful clarity,” he replies, wandering towards the other half of the relic collection, even as Agamotto removes yet another stubborn tarnish from the Loft’s furnishings. As keeper of the relics, the Sorcerer finds pride in how well they’ve been monitored and sequestered safely from prying eyes and hands. The wards, no longer stunned, swish up about their master’s shoulders and linger like an enchanted stole in starlight-woven fog. Reaching up feels like brushing warm, mildly-polarized mist, and his aura shines briefly about his fingers in a refraction of spring-sky blues.

He soothes them with a thought and glances back to Agamotto, simply to see what the god is up to now.

Agamotto has no rush about where he goes, moving among the displayed objects and some of the hidden ones. A tap of his finger on the glass does not produce a pavonine explosion like a firework, nor leave shatter marks spreading like hoar frost before the whole pane comes down at his feet.

“Why keep this one of all things? You might exchange it for the Book of the White Ring,” he murmurs when passing in front of a mask, scowling down his nose at it. The mask stares with sightless eye holes, and the grim angles attest to rescue likely from a crypt or tumulus somewhere in the middle part of Eurasia.

His bare feet slap an easy cadence while he peruses things at his own speed, though he stops for a moment. Shuffling retreats. Then he kneels down to stare at something mounted to the wall, or rather, below it.

“Don’t recall this being here before.” His finger brushes the outline of the rectangle, crossing the divots within. “Did you have this added? Whatever purpose has it served?”

The conduit might want to hurry, as Agamotto grabs the first fine, thin object he can find down to poke around.

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