1964-10-17 - Rings Reunited
Summary: Quelle surprise! The rings were a matched pair - such excitement when they're in each other's presence once again. A taste of power is a heady thing.
Related: A Willow in the Wind, Borrowing a Second Ring
Theme Song: None
lamont strange 


So now he has it. It's also one of those uncomfortable not-quite-true relics. Dimly aware, pleased to be in Strange's possession. The prospect of use, of doing what some lost Imperial sorcerer intended it to do. One of the odder relics of the Great Game, left to languish in storage, and now awake again.

*

Indeed, he has it — held up between thumb and forefinger, in an eerie mirroring of its briefly-borrowed twin. Before the Window on the Worlds, Strange squints at the near-relic, turning it about.

It lacks the touch of shadow; rather, Shadow. There was a familiarity to the white-gold counterpart that the Sorcerer recognized as being the fingerprint of Lamont. The ring itself even seemed well-worn, though no less keen of a weapon in experienced hands — or mind.

Frowning, he slips the red-gold ring, with its fire-opal in ivory rather than smoke, over the middle finger of his left hand. The concern of sizing fades within realization that it fits. …rather well, actually, and that gives his innards reason to do a little squirm. Guilt? …thrill?

*

It's all welcome and delight - sizing itself to fit that long, scarred finger as if it'd been wrought for him. It does lack that tinge of smoky bitterness that colors Lamont - there's a burning clarity, instead. A boost to will, like some sort of stimulant, bright and keen. Untinged with the darkness of violence.

*

"Oh ho…" The quiet exclamation is breathed as soon as the flicker of brisk energy is noted. It does sit nicely, he has to admit, and angles the spread of his fingers to watch the light-play on its glossy surface. "So…what precisely do you do…?" He wonders. Oh, does he wonder.

As if the thing could actually reply; the Cloak itself contains more sentience. Speaking of that relic, it whisks over and seems to tilt collars to one side, querying in a way after the ring.

"I'm not sure yet." Yes, that's Strange speaking to his relic as he would a friend — or a pet.

*

The answer is vague, as befits something far from verbal. But somehow also clear - it lets the wearer command. Other minds, the fabric of reality, one's own internal demons. A weight to enforce will: over one's self, if one is wise. Perhaps that's how it was originally intended, the dark twin, a way for Kent to bolster himself against that own darkness, foreseen (if imprecisely) by some kinder witch or wizard in his youth.

There's a stretching of resonance, too - it seeks its twin, knowing it's closer than it has been since the Romanovs were slain at the roadside.

*

Perhaps that's why it fits so well. Those scarred fingers are a byproduct of sheer, obstinate, Midwestern-ly mulish willpower. Sometimes, the answers are right before one's nose, lost to familiarity and the blending of the very well-known to a serendipitous semblance of use.

A delicious swirl of bolstering, that Strange will readily admit to himself. He wiggles his digits, getting used to the slight weight of the ring, and then glances up. Like one of earth's creatures scenting the thunder on the wind, he finds a secondary flicker of interest resonating — a finger tap-tapping on his shoulder and then pointing in a direction to draw his attention.

"Hmm…" Wanda would give the man a wary side-glance for the basso hum, thoughtful as it is. Doth the Shadow approach…?

*

No sense of Lamont himself, that tangled knot of violence and warped karma that somehow manages not to fly apart. But there's a feeling of something like an internal compass needle. No force, but an orientation towards it. The set should be completed.

*

The next hum to no one but the relative emptiness of the Loft around him has a warning note to it, even as he looks back down at the ring on his hand. Oh no, you don't. The Sorcerer does what the Sorcerer will. Even the weakest cajoling is met with an iron wall of resistance on his part. Ah, but isn't the ring meant to heighten the very controlling nature? Does it loop upon itself in turn? Probably not — but the control-freaks are ever notably hypocritical at points.

Still…Cranston would be interested to know of the secondary ring. Mayhaps the man can already sense the lodestones of the opals aligning towards one another; at least, Strange suspects that's what the ring is projecting to him — a need to find the twin, the other half of the set.

The silver-templed Master of the Sanctum takes a few steps back and holds out his other hand, the right, palm outwards with spread fingers; the left is folded up behind his back, knuckles to his backbone in a lightly-closed fist. Centrally, upon the circular platform beneath the Window on the Worlds, he focuses his will and clears his throat.

"Kent Allard." The true Name rings out across the spectrums of reality, into the aether and beyond. "To Sanctum Sanctorum, I summon thee — post-haste, attend thine presence to me." A circle upon the wooden surface of the platform burns into view, faux-Gate in thin-lined gold, and…

*

….it opens on Lamont's bedroom. He is not, thankfully, any more deshabille than Strange has seen him before. Sitting on the bed in T-shirt and jeans, the kind of thing he uses for gardening, even worn sneakers. Strange has never seen it before, and it's all but spartan in its plainness. A king-size bed of cherry wood, with a blue-gray comforter. A matching dresser, a nightstand. The rest of the house may be Victorian in its dark panelled grandeur, but here he's abandoned the 19th century for the 20th. There's no shock or indignation at being found here. Just an odd kind of emptiness that leaves the gray eyes bright. Sorcerers learn to feel the moments when karma comes calling. He comes wordlessly to and through the gate.

*

Once the man steps entirely through and into the Sanctum, the faux-Gate collapses with the slow retraction of that outheld hand and leaves them standing before one another. Keen blues meet and hold those bright greys.

"Cranston." It's a polite greeting, complete with subtle incline of head, no more necessary than given by one of Strange's office in the Mystical world. "I wouldn't summon you unless I felt it were needful." A.K.A. - sorry for the abruptness, man, but I gotta let you know about something.

"I recently made a discovery and it may impact your very livelihood." He squints and tilts his head before his eyes drop to Lamont's hand, to the ring in white-gold. If that's not a subtle-enough cue…

*

He inclines his head in a not quite bow. "I'm entirely at your disposal, Doctor," he says, politely. It's true. He wasn't up to anything urgent on his own, and when the Sorcerer calls, wise magicians come running. He lifts his hand, obligingly, almost as if expecting Strange to take the ring from him.

*

"I appreciate this, Cranston." What does he appreciate exactly? Points if foreboding caution rears its head at the calm response, for there's a faint glint in those steel-blue eyes, no brighter than the distant Pleiades at night. The Witch knows to be mildly cautious at the gamboling of wicked eldest-child humor that dances in and out of his expression in a flicker.

Lamont lifts his hand and Strange brings his left hand forth, palm outwards, as if to abstain from something. Light glints from the bottom of the band in red-gold upon his middling finger there, nothing overtly interesting to be found there…at first. "I was doing research on your ring and uncovered something fascinating."

Smug bastard absolutely relishes the subtle stress on the word even as he adjusts the ring on his finger, shifting it in increments until finding some comfort point. Of course this flashes the ivory-and-fire gemstone inset. Strange glances up and lo and behold, the expectant twinkle brighter still to be found in his eyes.

*

He neither blanches nor gasps at the sight - British sangfroid extends thus far, even if he's left his mother island behind long, long ago. But the quality of that stillness is nonetheless eloquent of shock. Something in the way the lines of his mouth tighten, and his gaze darts from hand to Strange's face. The eyes….the eyes are unreadable in the oddest way, almost empty. "You've found it," he says, softly, and his voice matches. Neither strained nor fearful nor even angry, but bewildered. "The other. I thought it was lost in Russia long ago."

*

"It has been recovered." He takes a moment to consider the ring and acknowledge that it still cajoles him as Sorcerer Supreme and still emits that faint draw towards its twin with darkened stone not but a foot or two away. "While attempting to search out the proper encyclopedia on enchanted jewelry, my seeking went…awry?" Strange tilts his head and then shakes it even as he paces away a few steps, hands now folded behind the straight line of his back. "Not necessarily 'awry', I suppose. It found a line of Mystical sympathy to a curator's museum collection, indeed, somewhere in Russia. Imagine my surprise when, upon opening a safe, this caught my attention."

He turns to face Lamont, holding up a loosely-closed fist to accent the ring. "From your earlier words, it seems you were aware of this twin?"

*

"I knew it had a mate," he says, gaze fixed on the ring, the opal glittering there like snow at sunset. "Saw it once, long ago. I never sought it," he says, as if to absolve himself from its appearance here. The ring Strange wears emits a little glow of satisfaction to him, as if content to be in the same room with its long lost mate.

*

"Ah." One final rotation of the scarred hand brings the opal gemstone back to face Strange and his expression is contemplative before he seems to release the near-relic to its own whims by simply removing the weight of his gaze from it. Away it goes, a temptation to be explored in another moment, and his hands rest on the back of his multiple braided belts again.

"I'm curious. Why not attempt to find the second ring, Cranston?" A question worthy of being leveled by a mentor.

*

His gaze goes to Strange's, again. "This was a gift to me. Freely given. Not even as payment. And it's enough. More than enough, for me," He looks down at it, where it glows like a fading ember. "I had neither the need nor the desire, its fate was not mine."

*

The Sorcerer gains another half-inch in height for all that he draws himself up, chin slightly uptilted, in…pride. Good, his fauxpprentice is circumspect and well aware of the responsibilities of power.

"And I suspect that you sense the same as I do, the draw between the two rings." Indeed, the ivory-hued opal seems as content as a cat in the sunshine to be basking in the vicinity of the smoked-opal.

*

"Of course I do," he says, as he turns his hand a little, letting the light play over the opal. His expression is grave, somewhat wondering. "They were the paired eyes of a statue of Kali in a kingdom in India called Gulkote. I understand that the rajah of Gulkote had them taken out and gave them to the Russians while attempting to buy Russian protection against English interference. Some say he unleashed a curse on his line thereby." His tone is casual. "Gulkote certainly didn't remain independent long, I fear. The English took it within a year and a half."

*

"That's unfortunate to hear. I doubt his lineage has managed to buck it, if that's the case — especially if the kingdom fell shortly thereafter." The Sorcerer thins his lips briefly in disapproval at the actions of another world power usurping another. The loss of life, much less knowledge, grinds on his soul by default. It's impossible to not feel a stab of sympathy for the curse of being conquered.

"It's fascinating, the way they seem to know one another." A pulse of friendly warmth glides up the tendons of his left hand from where the ring sits snugly. "I wonder if there would be a…feedback loop if both stones were employed at once, despite having separate invocations." Those shrewd eyes slide up to Lamont's face.

*

He's thoughtful at that, but not perturbed. "I wonder," he says. "If used by opposing forces, I imagine they'd negate one another. Used by the same, invoked by the same….I think you're right, they would. I've never known it to be, but….much of their history is dark to me," he allows.

*

Uh oh. Beware that sudden twinkle, the subtle inhale, and as well that small Cheshire Cat's smile. Ooh, a new trick on a new relic to discover. After all, the saying goes that all knowledge is worth having.

"Care to test it?" Strange asks the question with such milk-mild excitement that most people would never suspect him of the potential twists of humor. Unfortunately, the Shadow has been subject to it a few times now.

*

He hears that one coming, and there's a wry twist to his lips. "Indeed, let's," he says, in that lazy drawl. Best to sate curiosity sooner, rather than later, for both of their sake's.

*

The smile grows bigger, equal parts thrilled and challenging. Last time Strange threw that look in the Witch's direction, he got goosed.

"Very good, Cranston. I propose a duel, if you will. Our individual word that the willing will be harmless upon each other's person and no more embarrassing than, say…" He muses, drawing a fingertip down each side of his goatee. The opal flashes upon his finger with a scintillation of flame upon marble, already discerning that it may come into use shortly. "Being snapped by a towel in the locker room." Deliberate, the adage of ribbing. "After all, I am sworn by oath to do no harm and my…deific benefactors would not appreciate excessive jesting. Are we in agreement?" Dark brows flick high.

*

"Nor would mine. I am forbidden real cruelty these days…" ….'these days'? What was he up to before karma and its agents stepped in to guide him back to the narrow path of righteousness? "So I agree to your terms," he says, with a formal bow. There's a sense of him rallying, and the dark ring coming awake. How much has that relic been shaped by the personality that bore it? For he's had it many years, and wielded it in the darkest of places.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 7

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 20

*

"Then — by the onus of the Vishanti and my doctorate, you are in good hands, Cranston." Strange too shows a respectful formality in the statement and then, fencer to fencer, he drops his chin and takes a few strides backwards away from the Shadow. "Shall we begin?"

Apparently, a future film will feature this question in an equally foreboding manner.

The hand sporting the snow-fire ring raises before his chest a mudra, ahaya varada, the deliberate sculpting of fingers both beckoning and bestowing. "Cranston, if you would please raise your right hand, palm facing towards me." The request itself is very calm and yet —

— utterly inflexible, no more escapable than the heavy rush of an avalanche building around one's knees and quickly threatening to mound higher than the waist. The Sorcerer doesn't presume, in the least, that the action at his behest won't occur, and this provides that vibranium matrix within his compulsion. Silvery charm flits through it, the very weapon he uses socially turned to cajole via the opal's resonance.

*

The Sorcerer's will clamps down on him like a hawk's talon, and he can no more struggle than a mouse can. The dark ring….caught unawares, perhaps. Or lacking its mate's enthusiasm for impressing the current wielder. Lamont's had that ring for decades, it knows him. While Strange's, on the other hand…..

Lamont raises his hand as ordered, and Strange can feel his will struggling to resist and failing. His expression smoothes out into that calm nothingness, but the Sorcerer knows him well enough to feel the turmoil beneath.

*

Perhaps it's harrowing, the receding of emotion behind the Sorcerer's eyes as he switches from mentor to scientist as easily as a blink.

"Very good." He sounds…not precisely amused, more…introspective. "And now raise the other hand, please. Put the right hand down by your side." His own mudra remains held before his sternum. The wink of the ambient light within the ivory opal is sharp and bright, nearly blinding at that perfect angle of vision.

*

Of course he obeys. There's sweat on his brow. It shouldn't've been this easy for Strange. He raises it, palm out - to Strange, there's only the frosty gleam of the white gold band.

*

Strange nods. "Very good." His voice takes on a soothing note, promises of safety within it. Perhaps the Shadow catches it, the way he tilts his head every so slightly and there's a flash of wonderment. It's not precisely unkind, just the cat's curiosity tiptoeing along the fenceline of his earlier promise. What precisely does 'good hands' imply? It's not visible beyond the softening at the corners of his lightly-glowing eyes, the way he wrenches that wicked trickster's streak back into its place in the far back corner of his mind. After all, this is someone else's will he holds so delicately within that symbol-shaped hand.

The Sorcerer levels the next sentence in serene inquiry: "Do you trust me right now, Cranston?"

*

"Yes," he says, shortly. And there's no doubt in it. Gods only know what kind of panic he'd be in if he suspected Strange of any ill will. He's trying to keep the tension out of his body - trying for calm and ease. But to be rolled that easily….

*

Indeed, tumbled topsy-turvy to one's back and belly-up. It's not necessarily cold, the way the Sorcerer's desires weave about Lamont. No, more like the steam rising from a hot cup of tea, light and warm and yet no more possible to grasp and throw in escape than the ephemeral swirl of thicker heat.

"I respect that, Cranston, thank you," Strange replies quietly. "You may put your other hand down at your side now." He's silent for a bit. The shifting of his jaw and malleable lips is the tell that he's sifting through options. What to do, what to do…

"Have you ever tried licking your elbow, Cranston?"

*

"No," he says, flatly. There's a grudging humor in his face at that. It's absurd, but neither painful nor humiliating. "I have never. Not my own elbow, anyway."

*

Give the Sorcerer a raise for his straight-faced delivery.

"Do me a favor and attempt it. Not for long, only about a minute. I will let you know when your time is up. You may pick either of your own elbows. Please try to avoid injuring yourself. On my word — " and Strange glances to a nearby grandfather clock, tucked half away into the shadows of the Loft. "Go."

*

Long years of training and esoteric practice have left him supple. But of course he can't manage it. His arms just won't work that way. Lamont's attempting both, however. It's a minute of him all but writhing in his tries to get mouth to at least one of the joints….and does eventually succeed. It looks ridiculous, but there it is.

*

"And — " Oh sweet heavens, he can barely get the words out because the laughter bubbling up from his chest is threatening to throttle all sense of properly-baritoned responsibility from his voice. "Stop."

Even as Strange commands a cessation in the attempt, there — Lamont's done it. The mild drop of his mouth to a wider degree accompanies a delighted rise of brows and he can't help the laugh. About the Shadow, the blanket of compulsion slowly melts away, its weight and silvery charm dissipating like frost under the sun. "Gods above, you did it! I won't even inquire as to how you manage that flexibility. Yoga?" The immediate contradiction is due heavily in part to — you guessed it, curiosity. Man, that's a fault line in the Sorcerer.

*

Lamont brushes himself off, that gesture of composure grooming. Cats aren't the only ones who do it. "Of course," he says, with a calm he surely doesn't feel. "Decades of it. It's the only way I can keep up with my training."

*

"Decades, hmm?" The amusement he found in the clever contortions of Lamont's actions drains away and returns him to his mentorly composure. "It keeps both the mind and the body limber. I should indulge in more of it myself." When I find the time, is the unspoken addition to that thought. Strange nods to himself even as he reaches to his left middle finger. The red-gold ring slips off with relative ease and he palms it gently inside a closed fist. There — safety on, weapon disarmed. He's relatively defenseless now in turn.

"Be aware that I regard your trust in me with great respect, Kent." A gentle strumming of the true Name, accompanied by the susurrus of a spring morning's wind along the soul. "I never intend to subject you to that again willingly."

*

"You should," he says, bluntly. "It'll help. I've found my physical abilities save me far more often than magic does. Magical attackers expect magic in return." And how many mystics ended up with smoking holes from those Colts somewhere on their person? "Thank you," he says, with a sigh. It touches a nerve, to have that name in so many hands now - Strange, Lindon, John. But on the other hand, that's more to call him back from madness or bloodlust, should they descend.

*

"I won't deny that they tend to expect a counter-casting. However, they tend to underestimate the sheer wattage in my case." There's a proud little smirk. Wanda would goose him — again. "Still…yes, yoga. I'll have to speak with a friend of mine, Scarlett. She's…quite the guru at it."

The ring in his closed hand emits a little pulse of warmth, as if vying for his attention, and it's quickly stifled down, though with no more force than draping a blanket over a lightbulb.

"In regards to the rings, however, I noted no feedback loop. Perhaps because they were turned against one another, as you said?"

*

He gets a look from the Shadow, but no admonishment. "I'd be happy to instruct in the basics, if you wish." Then Lamont nods. "Yes. At least we've determined that they can be used in opposition." Then he's drawing off his ring, and proffering it on his palm. "Do you want to try both?" Of course he does.

*

"Both."

The echo of the offer clamors in his mind long after the audible repetition dies away on his lips. Strange's eyes fall to the white-gold ring, sitting there on the creased skin of Lamont's hand. With circumspect speed, he slowly uncurls his own closed fist to reveal the twin in warmest coppery hues.

"There's a fine line between trust and naivety, Cranston. I have already infringed once upon your will for the sake of curiosity. Even with your permission, it is still…" What, precisely? Clearly a point of thin ice that the Sorcerer treads upon. "I wonder that you don't have a mild streak of masochism." His wary half-smile attempts to smooth out any insult.

*

"It's not mild, and it's not a streak, Strange. It's dyed in the wool," He delivers that line as smooth as silk, and only that perfect reserve keeps it from being something that'll have Wanda looking for a knife. "And you knew it."

*

The frown is thunderous for all of a passing second — absolutely, the drive-home of a subconsciously-accepted truth is like a bolt of lightning. The tables turn for all of a brief second upon the Sorcerer before he schools his expression towards a near-perfect neutrality.

"You're right. In a way, I knew," he admits in a relatively equable manner. "Still, I would be the worst hypocrite to assume to run over your will without considering myself in your place."

The Shadow still gets to watch as Strange slowly slides that red-gold ring back into place and then, with a grave delicacy, extends his hand out. "I will honor your offer, Cranston, as long as you're fully aware that even I do not know how much additional amplification will come of wearing both rings at once."

*

An inclination of his head, and then Lamont settles the white gold ring on Strange's finger. With this ring- …..no. No. "Nor do I," he admits, casually. "To my knowledge, they haven't been in each other's presence for more than fifty years."

*

It's more than a little odd to consider the far more burnished weight of the white-gold ring mirrored on his right hand's middling finger. He never put it on, not before, not even when he first considered it in the sparring room located down the stairs from the Loft and a few doors further into the Sanctum.

Shooing aside the other lingering bemusement over having had the ring put on his finger, Strange looks down at the back of both scarred hands before himself. One gemstone in untarnished hues of winter sunset, another gemstone in inky swirls of molten earth. Even as he's focusing his attention on the duality of the two jewels — for the spark of rich potential from one seems to counter the more grounding darkly-metallic pragmatism of the other — they seem to braid into balance within his mind and —

Watch the Sorcerer's pupils bloom wide even as he inhales sharply, feeling the smooth interlocking of the combined rings’ powers into his conscious thought process. It's not painful at all. It's very unnerving and thrilling, like finding that perfect fit of clothing and knowing one wears it well.

"Oh gods," he breathes as all the fine hair on his body stand on end to some invisible current. "It's…" Indescribable? Another quiver and he finally looks up at Lamont, his irises fully aglow in frosted-violet.

*

There's that elevator-drop jolt of genuine fear. Strange is no monster to be unleashed….but purity of motive is no guarantee of lack of destruction. Just ask Michael about it. Michael carries no anger, bears no bitterness, even towards errant Lucian. But even that terrible compassion hasn't kept him from laying waste to worlds, darkening entire arms of galaxies, on the Presence's orders.

Lamont is still, face mask-like, observing. "It's as I thought," he says, and his voice is dry. "They were meant to be paired."

*

A good thing to be very still. In a way, it allows for that portentous gaze in celestial violaceous hues to slide away and to the Window. Strange has felt this before, on a much grander scale and with the hamstringing of inevitable amnesia afterwards, when he borrows the power of the threefold gods and is borrowed in turn. Conduit indeed, a channel for transmission in the end for all he prides himself on strength of will.

"Yes." A quick roll of his lips and the Sorcerer exhales slowly again, the very end of the sigh vibrating. "They should be kept separated. This is a dangerous amount of power. I am well-aware of what I am able to do while wearing both rings and it unnerves me to consider someone else stumbling upon it." He goes back to considering the Shadow again and before he can stop it, the myriad whispers suddenly erupt about the shell of each of Lamont's ears.

"Consider the means to — "
"No, he cannot withstand — "
"Oathbound, until the end of time — "
"Dyed so thickly as to drip —"
"Greyer than the start of dawn, that mess, don't — "

A blink and Strange seems to realize that he's impressing his subconscious thought stream upon his fauxpprentice. The voices are silenced by the clean cut of scalpel'd intent.

*

He doesn't flinch…..but when the voices are abruptly cut off, a kind of tension leaves him. Lamont even glances down, as if in embarrassment. "I understand," he says, quietly. But he does not, yet, hold out his hand to request his own ring's return.

*

The Sorcerer continues to consider the man before him. His thoughts are brought to a specific level of stillness found on the surface of a glassy pond. His aura reflects that same level of mirror-like lassitude, save for minute ripples where dragonfly musings and koi-fish thoughts disturb it. One can't stop thinking entirely — that's called being dead and Lady Death put a specific twist on immortality in his case.

The question is spoken with deliberate care and near to zero emotional inflection for the steel-spined control upon himself. "Before I give you your ring back, is there anything you wish?"

*

"No," Lamont's voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. That sounds like the mother of all loaded questions, doesn't it?

*

"So be it." The reverie of dominion to give the Masters of Kamar-Taj heart palpitations is broken when Strange slides the white-gold ring from his finger. He looks plainly upon his fauxpprentice and what conjectures must fly through that quicksilver mind of his for the mild-mannered negative response — at least no one's hearing that streamlined mesh of musings.

Held up as in the past, between thumb and forefinger, he offers back the jewelry with smoky opal to the Shadow. On his other hand, the red-gold band seems to tighten with phantasmal pressure, as if tugging on its wearer's sleeve to listen and no-no-no, don't do that, come on!

"Your ring, Cranston." How diplomatic he sounds, as if his mental filter hadn't suddenly dropped and revealed such personal thoughts to the very subject of them.

*

"Thank you," Lamont replies, as he takes it carefully, slips it onto his finger - the usual spot it rides in has that pale mark usually reserved for a wedding band. He's got his best pokerface on, grave as a hanging judge. Aware he's avoided one of the traps of Fate, and unwilling to provoke it further. Like a man with a sword to his throat refusing to swallow.

*

The tingling pleading of the ring on his finger lessens with distance and even as Strange turns to pace away from his fauxpprentice, curling hands behind his back, his eyes rest upon the man until the last possible second of risking neck-torque.

"You're welcome." He's speaking to the far wall of the Loft while including Cranston by the conversational tone. "I can't think of anything else to test in regards to the rings and their reactions to one another. Does anything else come to your mind?" By the bannister to the stairs leading down, the Sorcerer pauses and turns, leveling yet another considering look upon Lamont. No putting on the safety for the ring this time; it remains on his finger, a pleasant weight still winsomely twining about the ankles of his powers' pride.

*

"Not at the moment, no," He's standing with his usual loose-jointed ease, calm as ever…..though he's still shaken. Being rolled that easily strikes at both pride and fear. A salutary reminder of what kind of power he deals with personified in Strange.

*

The quieter tone of voice comes after a minute crinkling of the eyes. Strange is beginning to recognize that statuesque face, the one worn when the Shadow is concerned or attempting to keep hilarity tightly bottled away. It's certainly not the latter…or shouldn't be unless someone's now got a screw knocked loose in their head.

"I expected your ring to fight back."

*

He looks into Strange's eyes, the pale gray gone quizzical. "Doctor," he says, simply, "It did. I did."

*

Would that they lived in a cartoon. The "?!" would flash brightly above the Sorcerer's head. The give-away in this case is the opposite of closure; not quite the whites of his eyes showing, but those brows — how they dance high.

"I didn't — " feel it at all, he means to say, but the words burn to ash in his mouth. Oh gods above and below and sidereal. The sheer increase in magnitude of his willpower…to override the twin ring as well as one of the strongest acolytes of mesmerism he's ever met. He curls his left hand tightly against his spine, feeling the bite of the metal and relishing it, a form of reminder that he's just as mortal as they come and with all the mortal flaws. Check yourself, Doctor.

"Was it anything like…being borrowed?" What a way to put it, but being the Vishanti's vessel oftentimes makes the most sense worded as such.

*

That shock makes his lips thin out in that grim line. He's got a face for it, those long bones and hooded eyes. "No, you didn't," he agrees, on a sigh. "I thought it might be like that. It magnifies immensely, and you're one of the great temporal powers already. Being possessed? Yes. Remember, the temporary holder of this ring rolled and bound me for a long while, and he was nothing like you in terms of strength." Sometimes, rarely, it gets to him. When he's not grateful for not being asked to bear more power than an already tattered soul could handle.

*

Backhandedly slapped by his own ability to take the world's Mystical defenses upon his shoulders, Strange stiffens when reminded of the time they've discussed before — when his fauxpprentice's will was not his own.

"I do remember, yes," he replies, " — and I admit, I…perhaps assumed that I would not be so overwhelming. I was banking upon your twin ring's ability to defend against its own. It seems that it is instead weakened against its own." A pause, a little hesitance in the lungful of air to form the next thought. "I presume the correlation would hold true in the opposing direction."

*

"I've never encountered that one in use before," An inclination of his head to the rose gold ring. "I'd no idea how it'd work in the same room as mine. Maybe they cancelled each other out?" he suggests.

*

"Inasmuch as my pride would like me to agree with you, it isn't as such, Cranston. I rarely dabble in the field of will-bending." He won't say aloud that his own willpower is apparently flexible enough to become malleable in the Shadow's hand wearing that smoked-opal ring. That's just too much for aforementioned dignity to handle.

"I have, however, been meditating on my mental wardings and would appreciate a test of them. Turnabout's fair play…and all that," and he makes a dismissive gesture with his right hand off to one side, as if shooing away a fly, as he glances towards the platform beneath the Window to the Worlds. "If I can withstand your proficiency and the inherent weakness that may be written into each ring as a handicap, I will count myself content." An inquiring look is turned upon Lamont now. It's the Sorcerer's turn to be the devil upon a shoulder.

*

He doesn't like the idea. Lamont knows where his temptations lie, precisely which sins lure him that much closer to the edge of the abyss. But then his brow clears. This is Strange. The chances of him winning that kind of contest ….after the chances Strange's had to work on those defenses, and with the white ring in hand….surely small. "All right," he says, squaring his shoulders, drawing himself up to his full height again. "If you like, I will try. Ready?"

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d40 for: 1

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d35 for: 12

*

Strange holds up a hand and makes his way back towards Lamont. Within a few strides, they're at equal distance as before, back to that odd semblance of a fencing salon. Here, though, the weaponry is invisible and yet steely enough to prick the skein of the soul when driven home.

"Ready," he finally says, lifting his chin in unconscious readying for the blow. The red-gold ring makes an appearance again before his sternum as he forms the mudra of centering and protection with scarred fingers. Those steely-blue eyes narrow towards the Shadow a micosecond after the gesture is set.

*

He doesn't raise his hand. Doesn't even move, really. But there's that sense of him collecting his will…..and then something goes wrong. Badly wrong.

Strange can feel it, a break as complete as a bone snapping. The gathering will ebbs away like blood from a bad wound. Lamont doesn't sway or stumble or fall. No, he simply kneels, and the gaze he fixes on Strange is utterly empty. It'd be disturbingly reminiscent of Bucky in the grip of Winter, save that Winter has at least some initiative of his own - even if it's only anger or fear or vicious aggression.

*

Sometimes, a bullet ricochets just right and the results are as to be expected. Damage.

Strange feels the impress against his mental barriers, thrown up with the practiced timing and fluidity of a kata in self-defense, and the deflection is leveled with equally-insistent precision. It's a bit like hitting a baseball just off the wrong angle of the bat and KERSMASH — there goes the window. He did that once, as a child, and that same level of shocked horror radiates through his guts in a wave of gelling ice.

"Cranston!" The mudra mangles as fingers clench together; his willpower stamps down upon the fire-opal's feed and the sound of the sudden cessation is accompanied by a writhing screech of discomfort that echoes in his skull. Within his scarred palms, he grabs up Lamont's face and holds it firmly enough to imprint the skin. The tiniest shake feigns attempting to realign the mental circuitry by force alone. "Cranston!" Looking between those blank eyes, he rolls his lips and then dredges up that inflexible cajoling into his voice. It's that same tone he used as a world-class neurosurgeon, attentive to his power and yet fully aware of the status he possesses: "Kent Allard, return to yourself."

*

The utter passivity in the Sorcerer's hand ….it's like that of someone comatose. The pale eyes focus on him when he uses that pseudonym, but it's still in that blank obedience.

So it was wise of him to hand off his true name to Strange. For it's that that has him coming back to himself, gasping like a swimmer half-drowned breaching the surface. Awareness floods back in to his stare, and he peers at Strange, bewildered.

*

Lessening the pressure of his hands doesn't let Lamont escape the steadying grip. Strange can feel a light sweat at his fauxpprentice's temples even as the other man can probably feel the mapping of old surgical wounds with faint friction present upon his palms.

"There you are," he breathes, looking profoundly relieved. "Tell me your name, where we are, where you were born, and your favorite dessert." He lists off the checklist briskly, cheekbones high for the grit when finished speaking.

*

He can feel the thread of Lamont's pulse in his temples, but the Shadow makes no attempt to pull away. He looks into Strange's face, gaze unwavering. "I'm Kent Allard," he says, after a beat. "We're in your sanctum. I was born in Brighton. I don't have a favorite dessert."

*

That last bit of information gains Lamont the first expression outside of intense scrutiny or shellshocked alarm. Incredulity at its Sorcerous finest, complete with wrinkle of nose.

"You don't have a favorite dessert?" Never mind that he continues to hold Cranston in place, as if absolutely reassuring himself that the fauxpprentice is there, in full cognitive capacity. "What in the seven hells? Who raised you?"

*

He lets his eyes all but close, heightening that sphinxish impression. "I do not. I enjoy most things made with chocolate or with lemon, but no one clear favorite." Then he's looking up at Strange drily. "Englishmen, Strange. Englishmen. We believe vivid flavor is a sin against natural order."

*

"You poor, starch-stiff bastard." The Sorcerer shakes his head and there, there's the indent of one dimple, an attempt to suppress a fuller grin and possibly a grateful laugh. Dry humor is a sign of sanity, clearly. "You need to speak with Wanda. She'll rectify this lack of experience if you ask her. She knows the best of the best when it comes to after-dinner sweets."

Still, a scuttling of concern shadows his face again and that quarter-smile near melts away again. "I think we've delved into all that we should today." He levels this opinion with enough gravitas to make it more a command than thoughts on matters. Mind, he still hasn't removed his hold upon the man's head and he's still looking between his eyes, as if reminding himself that Kent Allard really is all there in the end — not some frightening puppet devoid of self.

*

He's frightening enough when he *is* himself, isn't he? It's not much of an exertion to see the tatters of bad karma he trails around after himself at the best of times. "Indeed," he says, quietly. "No, I like sweets well enough, Lin can vouch. Just no one that I love best of all." There's a little smile, though his eyes are still heavy-lidded. Even that moment out of his control - it's a reminder of that subjugation. His pulse is only just beginning to slow, little by little, the muscles of jaw and brow loosening, calm coming into the gray eyes.

*

"Well…that'll make a good enough test of self," Strange comments, finally removing his hands from his fauxpprentice's temples. The air of the Sanctum is cooler upon his palms, warmed by skin and wetted by that light layer of sweat. Guilt snarls up his innards, but he's made of staunch stuff, this Sorcerer, and so he merely steps back to grant more space to Lamont's person and keeps his expression cautiously open.

"If you ever reply 'cupcakes' or 'lady fingers', I'll know you're possessed or out of your mind."

*

That makes the reserve crack, and Lamont laughs unashamedly, if softly. "There you go," he says, the lines around his eyes deepening with the grin. "My favorite book as a child was 'Treasure Island'. I went to Eton for school, and I had a pet cat named Botheration." A little bow. "Just in case you need ever be sure I'm myself."

*

Into the vault of memory, these facts go, sure to be treasured as carefully as the next gemstone. After all, he's not about to let the Shadow traipse into his mansion or into his presence shouldering a presence from beyond the pale as driver at the wheel. Any failure to answer correctly will result in immediate smash of willpower upon said possession.

That Lamont can laugh is another few pounds of guilt-weight from the Sorcerer's shoulders. He, in turn, lightens throughout his entire person, losing the depth of crow's feet about his eyes and there's that half-smile again. "A cat named Botheration. That's much more creative than my Dusty. Then again, Dusty was a barncat and a mouser, not some creature content to lounge about indoors. He tolerated us."

*

"I didn't name him. My father named him, because that's what he was. He was a tuxedo cat, and he enjoyed stealing and playing with small things - cufflinks, watch chains, chess pieces. In fact, if I left a board for too long, or even thought over a move too much, he'd come creeping up and take a piece right off the board. I had to forfeit many a game because of him," Lamont's memories of his family aren't all terrible food, it seems. "But he was my pet." Then there's a creeping wistfulness. "He's buried in the family graveyard, even has a little stone of his own." And Kent….Kent has a cenotaph, and a plaque on the wall of a bar in what's now South Africa. "Dusty's a good name."

*

"He sounds like a charmer, this cat," replies Strange even as he turns and walks to the nearby tea stand. "Dusty was named, most aptly, because he was never clean, no matter how hard he tried. He preferred my br…" The Sorcerer peters off, even slowing in tipping the perpetually-heated teapot to pour steaming water into a cup. "He left pawprints all over everything."

The spoon slowly stirs a dollop of honey into the green tea laced with citrus. "You're welcome to tea, Cranston, if you'd like some." The retreat back into formality is safest for now.

*

Oops, too late. Usually Cranston's willing to dance that dance. Not tonight. A little punch-drunk, perhaps. "You have brothers, eh? So do I. My youngest is still alive, the crotchety head of the family now."

*

A quiet huff might be a laugh.

"I can imagine he'd be as such. You're far older than you appear, Cranston," Strange muses, glancing over at his fauxpprentice. "You make me feel young sometimes." Zing. The clinkity-clink of the silver utensil continues, the pattern of the sounds insinuating that he's not trying to let it occur. "Would that I still had mine," he murmurs, mostly to himself, before closing off his eyes. Oof, there's a wound there, an old one that aches on rainy days and when pressed upon too hard. Still, he brought it up himself, slip of the tongue — no need to leave Cranston embroiled in his own curiosity.

*

"When I was born, Victoria was on the throne," Lamont admits, without even a beat of hesitation. "And I understand. I'm sorry to have brought it up."

*

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