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The Sanctum welcomes its master back with its usual esoteric delight. The warding spells meet him at the side doors, the vertical partition of the once-wall appearing as he pushes through them with fairly stiff arms. Cue the theme music…maybe. He wears the storm-blue battle-leathers of his mantle and the crimson Cloak at his shoulders. Glancing over at the cirrus wisps of silvery guardian spells with the faint light of Sight, he curls a fond half-smile.
"Nothing to report?" Strange asks in a low baritone, his throat actually a little sore for once. Kamar-Taj is at peace, though the litany of complaints, minor as they were, was extensive. Much of it was inter-sect friction, journeymen annoyed at one another for perceived slights; two masters stepping on one another's toes repeatedly warranted a stern discussion in turn about checking ego.
Pot, kettle, black there, in a way.
The wards report nothing out of the norm and he indulges in a soft groan of relief, his entire person relaxing down to the droop of squared shoulders bereft of command and the weight of responsiblity — for now. He makes his way to the living room and begins making up a cup of tea, a nearly-robotic habit.
Pietro was asleep on the couch. Maybe. The wards didn't move because Pietro didn't move. When Pietro didn't move absolutely nothing of interest was happening anywhere in the world. Ever. At all. Per Pietro. Really he was where he was left. Apparently when he did finally stop he crashed hard. A murmur followed when he asked, "How is it man like you become in responsibility of all of… this?" Was he awake? Was this rhitorical or even addressed to Stephen at all?
Uh oh. Does this make Pietro a normalcy? …wait until that realization sinks beyond the still-buzzing upper flow of thoughts in the Sorcerer's mind.
Strange flinches in surprise and sets out a slow, serpent-like sigh of irritation even as the wards swish over to investigate. Oh, the relative of the Witchy waifu is awake now — or moving. Regardless, they hover, interested as a guard dog might be, sniffing to ascertain threat-level. Dismissed by the Sorcerer even before he turns around to spot Pietro on the couch, they melt away into the woodwork of the Sanctum like so much fog in the morning sun.
"Equal parts skill and daring," he replies drily to the speedster. It's not entirely incorrect, though he doesn't expand further as he stirs in a spoonful of clover honey into his tea. Clink-clink-clink, the muted sounds of the utensil against fired clay is a familiar ambience here.
a quiet "mmnngh" came from the couch. The albino Roma boy was just sprawled like a pro and really was amazingly… no he still looked like a condesending ass when he was sleeping. Many people are the picture of innocence when they sleep. He was the picture of Pietro. It was what it was. His brow creased at the tink tink tink earning another grunt. Fingers rubbed at his eye that didn't open. "Sooooo you were cursed by someone fortunate enough to not have to do this anymore?" Such is the perspective on responsibility and being anchored to one place.
"Cursed, no. I was found to be worthy." He sips at his tea and nods, rolling his lips briefly. "Also, the first explanation still applies." Turning around, Strange remains near the hearth with scarred fingers wrapped about the steaming tea mug. "Can I assist you with anything?"
Oh yes, that question.
Pietro stretched and rest his arm across his eyes with the faintest of grins, "yes, tea would be lovely, thank you." Did Strange want to hit him with a fireball now and see how fast the man can dodge or just accept that he left himself open for that one. Still , and perhaps unexpectedly he followed with, "Va onorez pierderea." or sinply 'I honour your loss' if Strange was adept at the Romanian Pietro still personally favoured over the myriad languages he spoke growing up. It made for a difficult time when the twins spoke brekaing any one sentance into a parade of languages from their brief 20-some-odd years that some world language of their own erupted from that that was just Maximoffian in construct. Still, there were things he had legitimate respect for, startling as a concept as that alone was. "It was your father, mayhap? Tell me of this person."
Watch the Sorcerer's eyes narrow until they nearly obscure the flint-strike of Mystical energy within. Still…yes, it was an offering taken up and he rolls those lambent eyes as he turns back to prep a standard cup of tea. While his Romanian isn't fluent, there's the sweet and simple charm woven into the battle-leathers themselves, something akin to the All-Speech of Asgardian magics. Thus, the translation is clear enough.
"Not my father, no. He was entirely mundane, knew nothing of magic. None of us did. I only learned of it when I thought Western medicine had failed me and I turned to the Eastern healing arts." Pietro's mug of tea is set on the nearby side-table. He returns to his own mug and sips at it.
Pietro made the effort to swing his feet to teh floor and wasn't… antognizing Strange so much as simply taking advantage of the opportunities in front of him because… well they were there. A brief nod conveyed a thanks as he took the tea cup. Pietro snorted a faint echo of a laugh, though he didn't smile. The observation came though as he commented, "It is amusing, how very other you and I are in that. I had to be convinced about western medicine. I will say I am not entirely convinced of either at this point. How it is you become doctor then? Something they expect of you or something you are chosing for yourself?"
"I became interested in medicine when I was younger. I was raised on a farm — " Strange pauses and glances at Pietro with as he paces by, as if daring him to disagree; " — yes, a farm. My mother put me in charge of the animal care as soon as I had the dexterity. I was pretty handy at cleaning scuff-wounds on the cow and…" He smiles to himself, a twist of lips nearly bitter all the same. "Splinting a chicken's wing. Did that one time. Helped birth a litter of pups. Seemed only natural to continue on to more complicated medicine after…"
The doctor clears his throat and turns to pause on the warmed bricks of the hearth, extending one hand out. The fire grows noticeably in strength with the coaxing curl of his fingers and he continues more quietly, the words slowed in delivery due to deliberate chosing. "I bandaged up my sister's ankle. Skating accident in-town. Seems I had a knack for it. My parents saw the potential, I saw a way to get out of a small town and use what aptitude I had."
Pietro blinked and waited for the shoe to drop. Okay, a farm. So far this made good sense. The speedster listened for a while and nodded slowly which meant he was putting much precision into it. Now came the eternity of waiting for the tea to cool jsut enough. How many times had he burned his lips from impatience? One can imagine more than several. "We had farm for a while. I always find goats agreeable. My sister insists is because we are both stuborn. So your family? They are still in tiny town?" He paused and waved a hand withthe tea passivly intruding with genuine curiosity, "Or does this require you have to give up certain things? I have heard of this happening before. Happen to us."
With his back turned to Pietro, the Sorcerer seems to straighten up an extra half-inch as he inhales and settles throughout his entire frame as he exhales.
"No, my family is no longer in that tiny town. They are elsewhere." He remains standing before the fireplace. Firelight limns his frame and casts his silhouette against the thick cloth of the Cloak, only barely thin enough to allow some light to fall through. "My mantle as Sorcerer Supreme did not require giving them up. They are beyond its purview." Strange's voice has gotten no louder than necessary to be heard, if that.
Pietro nodded very slowly sipping his tea. "Your sister has a name?" Of courpse PIetro would start there as family to him is sister and also other people. Everyone starts with the constants. As least he didn't also follow that up with: Is she single? Bored? Have low expectations? Small mercies were what they were. Small..small mercies. An eyebrow arched and he followed Strange across the room and was… choice with his words which was not new, but he weighed the answer given withthe question to ask before squinting carefully, "Someone take them or are they perhaps in the newer Jersey?"
"They were taken." It's difficult to swallow the next mouthful of tea, but he succeeds. It's an effective personal barometer; after all, if the lump in his throat gets big enough, it'll be time to exit the conversation, even if it needs be abruptly. Another sharp clearing of throat and he turns abruptly to pace away. The length of the Cloak swirls about his legs as he travels briskly across the room, towards one of the tall windows of the living room and its distractions outside.
"Her name was Donna," he finally says, half-turning his face towards Pietro as if he wished to make eye contact, but simply can't.
Pietro sat with both elbows resting on knees. He looked, well slightly tired still. The teacup was held between his fingertips carefully and for once, once, Pietro had a thoughtful, serious expression. "I think… I know… anyhitng happen to my sister you would have no world left to protect, Stephen." It was a quiet truth. He fell silent for a time before nodding, "That maybe makes you better man than I. Is there… unfinished business in this regard?" Vengeance second, last, always. Family was first.
"No," and Strange closes off his view of the room around him. His head slowly shakes, accenting his point in a gravely silent manner. "There was nothing I could do. Not for any of them. Now?" The tea cup quivers suddenly in shivering hands before he stills them again. The ramparts of his cheekbones stand tall as he rolls his lips. "Still nothing. There are some thing that cannot be helped, not even by me." Plus, picking a fight with Death herself over lost souls is something he tries not to do on even a semi-regular basis.
"Wanda…? Yes, Pietro, she is my world." Finally, he's able to look the speedster in the face again. "I do not have a family except through her. Without her, I am alone."
Pietro was not in front of Strange but refilling Strange's cup off the teapot provided it does not zap him or bite him…throw him across the room….swallow him whole… turn him into a scone… or any of the other usual fare. "Hmmmm no I do not think that is entirely true." Stranges cup was filled. His cup was filled. the teapot was over there and Pietro was across from him again. When this happened? Well… shit. There was a nod to Stephen. Wuietly the young speedster reasoned, "The only thing, perhaps we are knowing more than surviving is loss. But you tell me there is honour to return to themwe need to take from someone? You will find me with you." Because vengeance he could thrive on, truly. His jaw tightened and he sipped his tea. He didn't expound on what losses but it was, at least, honest and even ground.
Briefly, the skin of his hands reports that it is no longer wrapped about a clay tea mug. Strange blinks and glances over at the tea tray, by which Pietro stands. And then he's back, faster than the next blink, and there's the texture of the mug within the Sorcerer's hands once again. A short sigh and subtle quirk of brow as remonstration, but that's about it. He's not got the heart right now.
"There's no need to go about reclaiming honor, but I will remember this." Wisps of steam rise up in the space above his drink. "I know of your losses. Your sister has told me of them, bits and pieces here and there. I know of your suffering. Pietro, on my soul, I have sworn to keep her safe. You are included." He laughs, the sound more discomfited huff than anything else, but continues to add, "You are family, after all…I assume." Quick, be dignified.
|ROLL| Pietro +rolls 1d20 for: 6
Pietro answered, "You assume correct. We are men that …fix things in our own way. Too many times we are losing only people we have and are only one left standing." He paused and that square jaw tightened and he worked to keep his rage caged right now. Finally he simply nodded. "You are standing with us then you are never standing alone. And that… that is hard. It took me very long time to accept my birth father; to make a place for him. After we lose those that saved us. Raised us. Taught me what it was to hurt, to fight? To be loeft totally alone to survive. In time this for you too comes, yes?" And with that the one thing that was possible dangerous to do carelessly, he slapped Strange on the knee. It was a sign of solidarity but 5050 if the wards would see it as such.
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 18
The impact resonates through his leg and, unfortunately, there's the beginnings of a gnarly bruise right in that area. One can only do so many superhero landings without repercussion.
Strange immediately jerks and swears under his breath, hot tea spilling over his scarred fingers to elicit a much louder and vehement "OW!!!" Down goes the mug out of another painful flaring of nerves and tea spills across the carpeted flooring even as the slip-silvery wards swarm out of the dark woodwork of the Sanctum.
Faster than the poor speedster can react, they've got him topsy-turvy and hanging about a dozen feet in the air. It's not too unlike tripping up a lasso'd trap, leaving Pietro trussed in the air by the sturdy twining of magical webbing about both ankles. His arms are his to do with what he will.
"Augh," Strange breathes, glaring up at the brother of his fiance despite himself. "Gods below, you have some nerve. Aim. Whatever that was."
|ROLL| Pietro +rolls 1d20 for: 11
Pietro was not expecting that. It'd been a long time since he was suspended upside down. This… was new. New was good right? He looked.. god, he looked faintly green but thankfully nothing came of it. Witty retort on pause, he was floating. His arms dangled above his head toward the floor and he event reached out to try to 'swim'. yeah no. That wasn't happening. "How old you are that your knees are shot already, Stevie?" Probably not the best to ask when suspended like a punching bag. "What you did?" Oh he was still having mad eyebrow game from here. He reached out, stretching to reach the bookshelf to… poke at it and give himself a push?
Unfortunately, the wards are smart little spells and there's nothing within arm reach for the poor speedster all trussed up like a game bird, ready for the plucking. No wonder that's their first reaction; Strange would normally be the one pulling the feathers.
"I landed at odds with the gravitational pull of a sidereal dimension," he says by way of explanation, shaking tea from his hands with all the disdain of an offended cat. "I'm not even forty." The adjoining comment contains more affront still and talk about mad eyebrow game. This look definitely sent Tommy scuttling at one time. "The silvering is early." His attention shifts to the guardian spells. "Set him down — gently," the Sorcerer stresses as the wards start with a short and abrupt drop of two feet before stopping. Instead, crisis averted. They flow beneath Pietro's torso and limbs, supporting him until his feet touch the floor.
And then they dissipate, whether or not his own knees have caught up with the abrupt turn of events.
Pietro scoffed and said, "The silvering?? Eeeh is a start. You find all good Maximoff men are having absoltly zero colour," Oof. Yeha landing. Right. Soooo that was fun! "in our hair. I teach you. In fact, I help you so every time you say you get little grey hair I hear, 'Pietro, thank you for being so thoughtful to catch me up' Yeah? Yes." He dropped down into the sofa cushion that he was bonding with for the last 9 hours and stretched. "Should put ice on that knwee. I thought you said you was doctor. You know better. Elevate that or it'll get very uncomfortable. Is good thing you have me around."
Strange snorts. The tea towel hanging from the cart, normally used to wipe drips, lends its cleansing absorbancy to moderately-scalded hands. They shake as he dries them, his expression thunderous in need to keep from doing more beyond wincing and muttering expletives.
Once cleaned, he sets aside the small white towel on the tray and then murmurs something softly. A pale-blue light, the distilled color captured at the heights of a spring sky, dances around his hands, pulling away the pinking of thermal burn at a noticeable speed. Once the healing spell fades away, he flexes them again with visible gritted teeth before sighing.
"I don't need any more silvering, much less through your antics," the Sorcerer grumbles.
Pietro sighed and looked sympathetic to this. "Is okay. In that regard I think, perhaps you and I are much alike in that regard. We spend so long doing for ourselves it is disgrace oto accept help, but what I am hearing is, "Pietro, yes. Please help me' and because I like you, Stevie? Do not worry. I will do absolutely everything I can to be helping you fit right in. Papa will love it. You will impress him much." Oh that was very not true but anyhting said like an absolute authority was as suspect as it was perhaps gospel.
The fine tremors remain, as do the steel pins inset to bone and the mapping of scars as proof of multiple attempts to regain the finesse needed for neurosurgery. Strange knows better than to tempt Fate by trying elsewise.
"Your father isn't going to be impressed with greyed temples." The good Doctor grouses and glares. Ooh, multitasking. "Do not help me with that. And stop calling me Stevie." That demand is accented with a point of a finger. "It's Doctor…or Stephen if you must." On that, he relents as a point of social nicety. Not even Wanda has dared to bastardize his first name.
Pietro arched one eyebrow and told him, sincerely, honestly, and from the depth of his very marred soul, "You do need to relax. A bit." He held up his thumba nd forefinger. "And you are right. Also," He just boggled at Strange, "Are you seriously complaining about a few grey hairs to me? To me?!" He leveled that look to Strange and said, "I am going to go take shower. Let you think on that. I promise you, I am here to help you." He won't like it perhaps, but he was getting help.