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Strange has lent the Practice Room to the Shadow. And now that old barghest is in there, learning new tricks. Which, at the moment, consists of working on defensive forms - slowly, slowly. Perfection of form precedes speed. It was how he learned to be such a fearsome marksman….and how he's now learning to override the instincts that tell him to go for his gun. He's even wearing one at the back of his hip, one of those blued Colts, though he's otherwise garbed for practice in a white t-shirt and old loose black pants, the kind that kung fu students favor.
He hasn't achieved real grace with it yet, but nor does he falter. Rather than the glowing mandalas learned by the students at Kamar-Taj, it's like finger painting with ink - ragged, angular sigils that hover for a moment and then dissolve. Organic, almost - like tree limbs branching. Or veins, perhaps, for they seem to grow out of wrists and hands rather than be held like a weapon.
Old barghest, is it? The fae cat may have opinions about would be dogs roughing it up, slobbering on books, and flopping wherever they like. Aralune sits outside the door to the practice room. Her ears are pricked, swiveling grey radar dishes accumulating forbidden knowledge from feline frequencies. Claws are slightly bared, tail twitching at the very greymalkin tip. Her movements are especially stilled, precise. Right up until Little Fuzzy shows up.
Little Fuzzy means food. The fae cat mews, and Aralune bares the back of her mouth at the golden-skinned sorceress, indolently licking her fuzzy feline chops. Expectant eyes blink, one ear swiveled to the door still. Impressed by inkspells she is not. Wanda, however, looks pointedly at Aralune, then the room within, her senses senistive enough to announce Strange is not in residence. Food will have to wait, even as she inhales a breath and slides her hand against her hip. One of the glittering coins remains. She plucks one from her belt, and the frosty kiss burns her fingertips.
There's another mind now, not the feline one that's lying in wait as if Lamont were the world's biggest mouse. Nor is it Strange's aura. He doesn't stop abruptly but finishes the form with a last, precise glyph, before letting it apparently reabsorb. Satisfied he's not left a mess in any metaphysical sense nor done anything that'll trigger the wards when the door open, he settles into a rest position and says, quietly, "Hello."
The door opens. Aralune goes flashing through, ten kilos of grey fur and express movement. The explosive activity gives no chance for anyone to interpose themselves, though a swat on the leg might be earned for trying to squish her. Galumphing feline in the lead, Wanda follows, her arm raised slightly as the tense reverb of a spell empowers the charm, its brittle substance ready to be snapped in an iota. "Who" becomes an inquiry, brief, a nicety before unleashing the full effect. Air leached of heat forms a glittery cascade, threatening to crystallize in a box or a cage as need be. "Said so?"
|ROLL| Wanda +rolls lindon=10d6 for: #-1 INVALID ARGUMENT
|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d10 for: 2
And in a moment of startlement, he reverts to his usual. Albeit, the more inoffensive variants - merely trying to vanish from perception. It'd work if either of them were mere mortals. But….since neither are, it's rather like that moment when you turn on the kitchen light in the wee hours, and the roach in the middle of the floor freezes, *convinced* it's invisible. He does vanish from mere physical sight….but Wanda's eye for auras has him clear as an inkstain on a linen shirt, smoky dark and streaked with ember-glows of old violence. Auralune's bemusement is only momentary - she knows that scent of old, and if only she can home in on him and pin him, she can lick herself a bellyful of violent retribution, judgement, and personally crafted bad karma.
He's already backpedalling. "Madame, we've met," he says, voice calm in a way that movement contradicts. "I am a student of the Doctor's. He's given me permission to practice here."
The roach absolutely believes it sees, hears, and speaks no presence, so it cannot be. Right before the big shadow of a paw squashes it cosmically. Twitching tail and broadly brushed fur give a glimmer of motion, and then the cat pounces yon Lamont in hopes of a meal subpar to the one provided by Little Fuzzy, but superior to Big Fuzzy, and probably better than Old Stinkface.
Diminutive to a fault, the claret-enfolded sorceress presses back on her heel, the patter of words thrown to her already coming out steamy on the chilled atmosphere. Her eyes maintain the frost of a distant sun reflected through the interposing distance of space. Shoulders aligned, she need but shift her position and send a scoring bounce of ice flashing over them. If only. If such… "I see."
He's learned his lesson from his visit here as an actual cat - Lamont goes utterly limp on the mat, rolling with the pounce and offering no fight at all. IF he doesn't end up scratched, abraded, or bitten, maybe he can avoid the side effects. Not even shifting as the gun digs into his spine….it's as if the Malk were an enemy sniper who'll reward any movement with a deathwound.
Behold the sandpaper tongue and the devastatingly effective outcome; the sharpness dragged along the skin, abrading recklessly exposed surfaces with a fearless strength and precision. Teeth shall be found, and if the gun is bad luck, it gets polished clean too even if that means somehow wriggling around or sticking a paw down there. No inquiry receives appropriate answer there from the hungry little horror causing no amount of mayhem. While her work be done effectively, Wanda watches after Aralune through inscrutably matte eyes. "You need more of this practice."
No, oh, no. He shaved this morning…..and Aralune's saliva is doing its work. Lamont can feel the effects take hold, as he sits up to let her groom that Colt with care. He's killed so many with it, the traces of deaths are rich on it. "Yes, ma'am, I do," he agrees, a bit dizzily. This is embarassing. AT least Lindon isn't here for him to try and mark.