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|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d7 for: 4
Choice is at the heart of a sorceress' path. The freedom to choose a wise route or a dangerous one, to turn your back upon the needy for selfish aims or succumb to altruistic purposes for the sole aim of doing good. Balance in the middle can be hard to find. Presented with so many a gift could be spoiling Wanda, though she likewise needs to determine which route to take next. Ponderous thoughts imply ponderous intention, then. How not to go for the paled blue wrappings for the Arctic season, so akin to her love's own heart? He is a child of sky come down to touch the waters. "I remember Buyan," she comments idly in that terse, laconic fashion, layering hundreds upon thousands of meanings into such a simple phrase. Invoke a mythical place, whatever you want it to mean will be meant.
Cobalt paper stands no chance. She holds it up like a waitress at a pink diner full of pink girls in white aprons, balanced on the steeple of her fingers. And so.
"How could one forget it…?" He sounds properly musing, lounging as he is on the picnic blanket in their private pocket dimension. A little shiver kisses up the back of his neck and the subtle lift of his shoulder in reaction could be mostly masked by bringing his tea up for another sip.
Parting the paper reveals a darkwood box, lustrous and reflective. Opening this in turn by flicking up the small golden latch reveals a bar of stone sitting upon black velvet — a bench stone, to be exact. The closest thing upon Earth might be the quartz sandstone known as novaculite out of the Midwest. This, however, carries a noticeable higher grade of quality to it, though none of that finest sheen is lost to it. More silver than Payne's grey, it also has the essence of a charm about it.
The Sorcerer explains quietly, "It is imbued with the ability to sharpen your daggers with one pass for each side. No more lingering if you're in a hurry. I tested it upon an old scalpel of mine, one with a severely blunted edge. It works." He pops his lips and then laughs. One might wonder exactly how he tested the edge afterwards, but clearly, no lasting harm came of it.
"A long time," she replies, carefully bisecting the paper with her thumbnail along a seam. The tape won't hold up to such treatment, her best effort in order to acknowledge the effort made wrapping the gift. But Wanda is a pragmatist; sometimes she wants to tear into something, hurl the wrappings over her shoulder, and admire what is inside. Let him not blush too hard, the Sorcerer the same shade as his cape. "The Zoryas are kindly, in our stories."
The box deconstructed as a vessel for holding something else requires careful consideration. Her eyebrows rise slightly upon seeing the edged cuts, the bezel that holds a particular shimmer to its presence. At first the conflicted look tries to decipher its potential purpose, but 'whetstone' combined with weight affirms the purpose he verbally implies. "Ah! With rock one is not always sure." A bit of her nail raced against it produces a rather ragged, gritted finish. Yes, that will need a better file than this one. "Very thoughtful. I have much to think on how often my dagger is used."
Not the same shade as the Cloak disguised as scarf, but maybe approaching it at the tips of his ears. Strange clears his throat and watches her test the surface of the whetstone; it seems of satisfactory sort and he, in turn, is pleased for it.
"I…certainly appreciate their kindness," he allows, measuring the words carefully and keeping his voice as neutral as possible. As if he could fool her, however. "In regards to the stone, I figured it was a pragmatic thing to keep around. Would that you didn't have to use your daggers as often as you do, but I can rest easy knowing that their edges won't fail you." His gaze slides to the dwindling pile of presents and back to her. "Which next?"
|ROLL| Wanda +rolls 1d7 for: 1
Poor ears, they deserve not to burn at the memories of falling through water and the Witch Road. Ah well, even the witches have their win. A nod settles there, as she sets aside the whetstone. It's stone, that means heavy, and her stamina is not exhaustive, much to her sorrow. Alas!
She nods to the suggestion thus. "With the other weapons. It is useful for yours too?" The halting strains of English used in general conversation are far less evident than they were a year ago, partly adopted to keep others underestimating her. "Which?" The next prompt has her flat-footed for a moment and she gestures to the credit card that isn't. The idea of giving her such things is probably beyond her.
Perhaps his ears burn because that particular kindness is one he never expected or figured that he deserved or would receive. It's couched in a fond trepidation, in the end. Her question catches him off guard and leaves him mildly surprised.
"I hadn't considered its use beyond your own…but yes," and he nods, his smile a gentle and pleased one. "I have a few weapons about the Sanctum that could benefit from a whetting."
The smallest and thinnest of all of the presents is within a paper sleeve bearing no insignia and no larger than a credit card. …oh dear. Opening the flap allows one to pull out what appears to be a small proof of store credit purchased to the Macy's here in the city. $500 worth of store credit. Strange watches her face closely for this one and…is that a small divot of concern between his brows? "I thought you might…like the opportunity to expand your wardrobe," he explains, taking a moment to roll his lips before continuing. "It has no expiration date, according to the clerk, so you don't have to utilize it soon — or at all, if you don't want to. I didn't wish to assume and choose anything there without your input when I last visited, so…" He draws the vowel out and lifts a hand briefly and, dare it be, almost helplessly, as if silently apologizing for a possible overstep. "It seemed like the best solution…at the time."
A rare kind of consideration lies there between them. Her legs crossed, Wanda waits for the next gift to be lavished upon her. Something awkward in all of this as she struggles to merge the haves and the have nots. Her life of deprivation is very much a guiding principle for her right now, and the luxury, the opulence, still leaves her dumbfounded somehow.
Dark amber eyes flicker across that small page. She doesn't know exactly what to make of it, especially what with a store receipt. It means nothing to her at a moment, since she stares at it uncertainly. "Do you need me to buy you pants?"
Because the blue uniform is not enough. He needs pinstriped cocoa trousers with a bright orange line. Her gaze flashes. Because that is his wardrobe, and hers. Right? Assumption brings out a blank look. "What is wrong to buy things needed? I bring you things. You are not rude to do the same. I am not thinking I am a doll, but I am not out to insult your house and name. Your wife should look like it. Respected name, and not a…shame?"
He puts aside the tea cup to sit completely upright with legs crisscrossed, spine straight and an air of quiet concern drawn about him not too unlike the Cloak.
"Wanda Maximoff. «Beloved». You are not and will never be a shame. Ever." He tempers his steel-structured tone with affection. The implacable earnesty nearly radiates from every iota of his being. "I intended for you to buy things for yourself. If you've ever walked by a store window and thought, "Oh, this - this skirt is pretty" or "I like how that coat looks", I want you to be able to know that these things are available to you." He looks aside, the tip of his tongue resting momentarily upon his lower as he searches for words. "I wanted to make sure that you knew that nothing keeps you from buying things for yourself. I'll even come with you if you want my input on things." Blue eyes meet and hold hers. "«You will always be beautiful to me, no matter what you wear, be it silk, rags, or nothing at all.»" Tibetan is an easy thing to fall back upon.
"We make do." The sorceress does not push on the topic at hand; not really. She doesn't have to worry overly much about making a bad impression. He knows her humble beginnings; she makes no secret. "I am happy not to take when I can buy." Theft, on the other hand, isn't really a moral quandary in the same fashion. Needs based testing and methods are entirely the process of her thoughts; they do not drive her further than they have already reached. "I still point to this thing, this need. You have a title. A place in the world. How I am responsible for that," she waves her hand. "I know sight is message. Even beautiful to you. It helps to put fear into the enemies."
Or distract them with shiny gems. Shiny!
"If I may be honest, some of the fashions offered out to you and other women put fear in me," he replies, his half-smile indicative of an attempt to put some humor into the conversation at hand. "Use it if you wish. Remember that you don't have to."
Down to four presents, almost past the halfway point in number. Strange glances to the dwindling pile and hums almost imperceptibly to himself. "Which next, my Darkling?"