1965-05-17 - Galoshes Won't Cut It Here
Summary: Strange has some spectacular sparring practice in plan for Lamont. The weather takes an unpredictable turn in the Mirror Dimension.
Related: None
Theme Song: None
lamont strange 


"You know…and you likely do…" the Sorcerer begins even as he paces away across the practice mat. It gives beneath his boots with each rolling, unhurried step; he fusses with the wrappings about his wrists even as he continues talking, back facing towards his fauxpprentice at this moment. "…that this lesson comes from a suggestion given to me by the Archive. It was mentioned that you might benefit from some training in adverse weather conditions. Perhaps also some review on shielding spells," he adds, looking over his shoulder. The passing move contrasts his profile against the darker wood walls, the line of jaw and nose highlighted alongside a sly grin.

"I tell you this because honesty is imperative between mentor and student, not to 'tattle' upon Lindon. It was a good idea and I intend to seize upon it." Yes, probably like a great steppe eagle does an errant wild goat. Upon reaching his apportioned half of the mat, Strange turns around and settles into a loose stance, arms lightly crossed. "I intend the weather to be inclement, Cranston. Are your preparations completed?"

*

Monty's in his practice gear. No cheating by showing up in a sweater and wool pants - the usual loose pants, bare feet, and singlet. The explanation about the Archive has him looking dry, but not annoyed. "He warned me to that effect," he notes, with the faintest hint of a smile. A bow.

"He's correct. I need this training." There's a shifting web of shadow about him, only visible from the corner of the eye, like those floaters that show up in the aqueous humor. "He has a talent for passing on my weaknesses to you. I'm glad of it."

*

Strange's smile sharpens a degree. A sharp snap of his fingers sets off radiant sparks and the Mirror Dimension falls into place around them with a faint and achingly-pure harmonic chime. "He truly is correct, and I'd apologize for taking advantage of it, but we both know that would be a lie and counter to your training in general. I'm not sure what it is. I simply look at him and…words just begin…tumbling out."

Even as he says this, he begins gesturing with his hands before his torso. Around and around, as if mimicking the verbal landslide that he's treated to when he does give Lindon that pointed attention. The air in the room begins to gain a tension and a readiness, almost dry and cold, full of static. Strange blinks and when his lids rise again, his eyes have gone silver-violet. The panels of his tunic as well as length of belt begin to rise and undulate as his aura becomes visible in a starlight shimmer about his person. On and on, the hands keep at their paced churning, and the potential gathers more. Then, the motions comes to an abrupt halt —

— a beat of the heart, half an inhale —

— and the entire atmosphere of the room is suddenly blanketed in a pea-soup cloud, thick and white and chilled. It brushes along bared skin and leaves frigid kisses in its wake — snowflakes?!

*

He doesn't have shielding spells as such mastered. But there's that re-direction ability he seems to rely on, and the web of shadow is more obvious now. Starting to turn around him - the snowflakes dissolve on it, though it doesn't seem to warm him completely. For there are goosebumps visible on the pale skin, and he definitely shivers. There are monks in the high mountains who have so completely mastered their bodies that they can sit in apparent comfort on an open glacier…but clearly, Lamont is not a practitioner of that discipline.

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 20

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 19

*

The fog even comes with an eerie weight of near-silence. If one thinks their pulse resounds in their ears, it may not be a hallucination. The fall of flakes continue on, flecks of chill that melt where they land. There goes the sound of quick footsteps suddenly, off to the left, but they fade away into the heavy gloom.

Or do they? A sudden tweak of an ear on the right, followed by the harder kick to the back of one knee, meant to force a one-legged kneel, and then Strange disappears back into the soup. As a ghost, he might appear, flirting with visibility on par with the Shadow-threads that wend about Lamont.

*

It's a close run thing, that. Lamont's fighting conservatively, not reaching into his usual bag of tricks. He won't learn if he doesn't change, and he can't change if he doesn't try things new. He manages to mostly roll with the strike to the knee, not stumbling as badly as he might.

But then he's pausing again, trying to attend to his senses, parse where Strange might be…..or might be coming from.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 20

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 2

*

That grayhound like cock of his head looks absurd. His Master's Voice. But it works….he whirls on a heel, and all of a sudden, Strange has an armful of Lamont, trying to lock on for a grapple.

*

It's probably the faintest chuckle that gives the Sorcerer away on his secondary approach. There's something about the sheer gamble that comes of fencing in such low-visibility conditions that sets his blood a-fire. Regardless, he appears from out of the cloud with hands upraised —

— and it's an audible, bodily thud of impact. Limbs begin to blur about; he slaps at grasping hands and bendable joints and grits his teeth as he nearly loses his own footing on the rapidly slickening floor, covered with the thin layer of fine snowfall as it is. The fog remains thick enough that it's difficult to see his fauxpprentice even at a distance of an arm's length. Then comes the slip! Boot grip fails and he falls to one hip, lashing out with a foot at an attempt to catch a shin off-handedly.

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 2

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 11

*

Old instincts die hard. With low visibility, if Strange gets out of reach, Kent may never land another blow. So he's up in Strange's face like an ape, scrambling to try and twine limbs around him.

*

And if there's one thing that the Sorcerer has learned, it's never to let anyone within his guard. It doesn't matter the manner of manipulation, be it magic or mundane weaponry: keep — space.

Strange cusses as he feels an arm snake around and immediately gets to attempting to roll away. A boot plants and skids again on the thin layer of ice building up.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 16

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 13

*

Too late. Lamont's a terror in quarters that close - he's not a big man, though he is tall. He can bring what mass he has to bear expertly, though, and he's locking an arm around Strange's throat. You can't cast a spell if you can't get air, or move arms or hands, can you?

*

A scarred palm sneaks between the the strong line of forearm and the musculature of throat before the worst can happen, but it's a close thing. Strange immediately begins to buck like a wild thing, trying to get his boots beneath himself again. The half-formed sounds of a spell can absolutely be heard, but not with clarity.

Still, that's one hand freed, and there's a sudden influx of air that begins to cyclone about them both. It sets the small flakes to fast speeds, enough to sting upon impact, and then comes the growing radiance in a gradient of terra-cotta.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 17

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 5

*

No. No concentrating. Which is when Strange gets teeth in his *ear*. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to jolt him with pain, trying to disrupt the focus he needs to cast. There's a strike of knuckles into a pressure point on the muscles by the spine, too. A leg forcing its way between his, trying to lock out the hip and knee.

*

"OUCH! Seven hells, Cran — " The sudden brilliant blossoming of pain radiates through his torso and the spell at his outstretched hand falters along with his words. This is a far less refined variation of fighting than he's ever been used to, nothing like the smooth redirections of long-practiced katas. With a grunt of expelled air wheezing on the end, he attempts to throw his heavier bulk to one side. Muscled thighs bunch and kick out, attempting more avoidance of the grappling lock.

The other hand remains stubbornly outstretched and the spell seems to have plateaued, keeping the wind whipping about them and shining its lurid radiance. He wouldn't be the Sorcerer Supreme without that staunch willpower, after all.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 11

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 19

*

He has no idea how ugly Lamont can be on that front - this is just a hint. Trying to keep Strange from further casting, even while he works on subduing him….control is slipping. He's not dislodged, but he's not able to keep Stephen from working magic….

*

One leg falls to the attempt at locking and Strange throws back his head in reaction to tendons strained from toe to hip along one side. Teeth flash in a grimace even as he slams the free hand down upon the floor of the Mirror Dimension itself. The spell explodes out and into the dimension with a desiccating wash of sudden dry heat. The place rings in a low hum and —

— the floor falls out entirely! It's an abrupt and shocking thing. The fall is an easy handful of seconds out of the clouds and down, down, down…before both hit a giving, angled surface. All around, it's blistering hot and — and — fine grit makes its way into every nook and cranny of available clothing as well as ears, hair, and mouth if unfortunately open. The wind kicks up just as suddenly with an eerie, ululating HOWL of rage, and as sudden as vision is available, it drops again — this time into a sandstorm.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 14

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 18

*

This one….this one's got him. He's somewhat used to ice and cold from his training in Shambhala. But this….no. It's got Lamont bewildered and blinded in instants. None of his attempts to locate Strange are working….and he's sticking to mundane senses, perhaps out of some stubborn sense of honor. Or just to do it the hard way on purpose.

*

Rubbing at his back even as he staggers aright, Strange is squinting through the gale of fine granules. Oh yes, it stings in a far more delicate way than the flakes of snow and he's not immune to it — honor there, allowing himself the same relative difficulties in turn.

Ah, there's Lamont, the outline of his body barely visible through the storm, but moreso than the chilled fog of earlier. Fast as possible on rapid approach along the bowl between dunes, his fingers fly and snicker-snack: the molten surujin of Mystic whip comes into being. It sets the air around the Sorcerer alight as he flings it towards the Shadow, hoping to wrap him and trap arms about his ribs.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 7

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 10

*

It has him, wrapping him in a glowing bond he can't break. He can't even get an arm out to try and use it to yank Strange closer…..and he's yelling in pain, as if it'd struck a nerve, literally.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 17

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 9

*

The fine hairs on the back of Strange's neck rise and despite the risk of the blowing grains of sand, his lambent eyes flash their whites. It wasn't supposed to injure the man?! Quick as he can, he retracts the whip, though it may cause a significant rotation of the captive Shadow's body, and then he's darting in for a low sliding kick, almost as if he'd capture third base — by taking Lamont's ankles out from beneath him.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 15

*

|ROLL|Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 2

*

Fate knows better than that. For Strange will find that dark figure all but pouncing on him again. No sign of pain. Someone was playing killdeer and feigning injury to lure him in. The Shadow moves with that attack, and then he's rolling over on to Strange, trying to grind his master's face into the sand.

*

Fate probably knows that this particular Sorcerer Supreme learns the hard way as well. Maybe this time he’ll get lucky with the close-quarters approach?

Nope. With the wind knocked out of him, Strange has time to attempt to shove at the other man before his cheek makes solid, moderately-giving contact with the surface of the sand itself. He inhales all the harder and immediately begins to cough loudly, the sound all but lost to the wailing of the storm. His torso convulses upon itself with the force of his lungs revolting at granules of sand beyond his tongue, coated as it is with the small granules.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 4

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 12

*

It isn't anger that corrupts his focus. Something else that isn't quite the same. It's brute force now, the grownup version of trying to get a kid to cry uncle in a playground fight. No technique, just raw strength. Not his best ploy….especially against the Doctor.

*

Still, he has the Master practitioner voiceless for the moment, no mean feat in itself. One arm contracts beneath his chest and fishes around even as he fights for a proper lungful of air, cheekbone indenting the ruddy sands beneath him. Then, from beneath his body, a small vial appears. No larger than a perfume sampler at most, it contains a mere 0.05 fluid ounces at most of the most aggressively-roiling clear liquid possible to be encaptured without shattering —

— until he slams the thing palm-first upon the ground. An explosive force blows them both apart and the searing heat and sunlight dissolves away into a murky gloom of heavy overcast. Landing is upon nothing dry or solid; rather, a two-feet deep and endless expanse of water, nearing lukewarm and crystal-clear, fresh rather than salted. Breaking the surface means immediately feeling the slap of large droplets of rain, blown nearly sideways by sheer wind, and then comes the resounding rumble of thunder. It rattles the longbones and containment of chest even as another fork of lightning crackles across the sky above.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 17

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 7

*

That staggers Monty, literally and metaphysically. It takes him a relatively long time to get to his feet - that depth is enough to make it a slog to move. And the betraying slosh of feet through water is mostly covered by wind and thunder. He's blinded, disoriented…..but it's magic reaching out, now. Mind reaching to mind….and finding. Lamont orients on Strange, and he slops through the murk with increasing speed, trying to snag his master again.

*

Even as Strange himself appears from beneath the eternal expanse of low-lying water, he's still gagging for a proper breath. He kneels in the water, feeling it rapidly seep into his clothing and find all pockets of hidden sand. Yay, muddy socks. He feels the brush of kything and can't do much to block it, not with his body in near-panic.

He'll give away his position with the sudden bright glow of a sky-high blue healing spell, pressed to his own chest. A sudden explosive cough and doubling over, and he expels the sand in a dark glob that immediately melts away into the water before him. Only then does he run a sleeve across his mouth and get to his feet, turning to face the approach of his fauxpprentice with slitted neon-amaranthine eyes.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 13

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 1

*

Kent doesn't try a physical tackle. No more grapple or strike. It's will alone that lashes out, seeking weakness….and there's the weight of that terrible command behind it, as he hisses, "Kneel."

Uh oh. That old urge to dominate, always a weakness.

*

He can see it, the trembling that overtakes Strange's entire body. Even through the nearly gale-force winds that whip around them, picking up and tossing any loose section of wetted cloth, the good Doctor fights the compulsion. To his ears, it seems the storm itself takes on the echoing of the sussurance. He fights — he fights it hard, but physicality takes its toll.

One knee sends up a splash as it seems to nail down beneath the water's surface. The air around the Sorcerer takes on a sheer opalescence, his aura gone hypercharged, until the rain entering the near vicinity of his person evaporates in pufts of white steam.

Kneel, yes, but not place his hands elsewhere or remain silent. Eyes smoking at their corners with silvery wisps lock gazes with the Shadow even as the scarred palms slowly rise from beneath the water, scintillating with a refractive lightshow of collected comets in miniature.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 17

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 7

*

It's like having a pit bull's teeth sunk in your arm and the pit himself hanging off it, all muscle and cheerful ferocity. For his will is as ophidian a grip as his physical grapple, twining like a vine.

"Be still," that voice orders, Lamont's ordinarily languid drawl turned to a vicious hiss. There's the Shadow in earnest, webbed in shifting darkness, in contrast to his teacher's light.

*

The hands outstretched at angles before him, slowly on the rise, begin to showcase the trembling of willpower battling viciously against the compulsion. They halt but remain visibly agitated. His dark hair is slicked back on his head and the falling rain still sizzles where it lands upon his body. Strange's eyes narrow to mere slits, until only the lambence seems to peek forth from behind dark lashes wetted to spear-points.

"Think…very hard…about your next action, apprentice." His baritone has gone rough; it may be more likely that his lips are read due to the surrounding storm and rolls of thunder.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 8

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 9

*

"Sleep," It's straining him - it really is like wrestling a leviathan, trying to keep a conscious, resisting Strange under the curb of his will. It slips, if barely…..not able to keep that hold. So he's racing towards Strange, even as he does. Stephen has all the advantages at distance, so it's time to close up that space before Kent loses that grip on his will.

*

NO. It flies back across the connection between them.

Like a mongoose, the Sorcerer begins to wriggle free of the damning mental grip. He can see the rapid, splashing approach of the other man and fights more. Willpower burns against the tendrils of compulsion that thread through his psyche. As if they were rusted, his knees work to straighten…and slowly, they begin to do so. Leviathan — an apt description. Rising up from the water, streaming and sizzling, the Sorcerer's hands begins to rotate palm-up. The frenetic captured starlight jumps up in electrical intensity and becomes brighter still, at risk of blinding if it continues. Never, not once, does he ever break eye contact with the Shadow.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 14

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 6

*

For some reason, this is the combat that's roused that darker side of his nature. For what comes back along the link isn't defiance or another attempt at command. It's pain, pure and simple, a lance of blue-white light behind the eyes. Stephen may be the doctor, but Lamont has some knowledge of how nerves work, how energy flows between them. If he can't physically keep Strange from the spell humming in his master's hands, he can shatter the concentration it needs.

*

At the speed of nerve conduction itself, it arrives and blitzes his senses. "AUGH!" The sudden icepick of a tension headache tripled over, it's agony and consequently sets his focus nearly to splintering. Threads of self-discipline keep Strange from outright collapsing into the shallow waters around him.

It's the spell to be worried about now. Its effects, whatever they may be, begin leaking out around the Sorcerer's immediate person. His aura takes on those frenzied sparkler-notes of cosmic light as the spell crawls backwards up his arms. Nearby, a blinding bolt of lightning hits the surface of the water itself and sends up a detonation of hyper-vaporized liquid. No one is electrocuted, like as not according to the silver-templed man's whims.

Blanked eyes, gone entirely plasmal-purple, open to slit at Lamont. "…how's your shielding?" No voice, all lip movements, almost a rictus grin there at the end.

Well, he did say he intended to test that too.

*

|ROLL| Lamont +rolls 1d20 for: 6

*

|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 12

*

The expression on Lamont's face is comical - a theatre mask of dismay, for an instant. How can he shield if he's linked? He can't, not easily. There's the sense of magic withdrawn in a hurry, winding up the connection as fast he can.

Not fast enough. It's like trying to run away from someone while you're holding their hand….and theirs is gripping yours. This won't end well.

*

At the very end, when that serpentine aspect of Shadowy connection tries its best to slip away, sharp white teeth slam shut on the tail. The mulish willpower of the Sorcerer digs in and simply won't — let — go.

In the mind's eye, the man surrounded by crackling werelights suddenly disappears, counter-silhouetted against radiance on par with one of the myriad bolts of wild electricity that arc through the clouds above and dare to crash down on the water around them. The wind shrieks and then rises up to a harrowing pitch to make dogs keen for mercy. Down the line comes a spectacular punch of pure Sorcerous sizzle: the equivalence of a Mystical tasering. Once it hits its target, the dimension around rips up and away. It's like standing in the center of a waterspout, all blurred and darkened save for the eerie muted flashes of lightning beyond whirling walls. Strange himself remains blindingly a-glow where he stands and —

SNAP.

It cuts through the deafening storm chaos as cleanly as a scalpel through rice paper and the warm and friendly lighting of the practice room pops into place as rudely and clearly as if the entire thing were a hallucination.

*

He's transformed into a grotesque silhouette for a moment, limned in that white-violet energy. Lamont's spine bows with it, as it only does in that transport of pleasure or pain. He's held in that pose for the instants of shift from one dimension to the other.

Then, as they're snapped back to the practice room, he's collapsing on to the mat like a sack of bricks dropped on a concrete floor. Conscious, but no more capable of movement than a child's discarded toy.

*

The practice room itself rings with the stillness so opposite to the primal fury of the various elemental manifestations. Strange staggers in place as his hearing returns before making his way over to the sprawled form of his fauxpprentice. Both drip water, proof of the harrowing reality of the situations previously experienced, and the mush of muddied sand grits against the inner heel of each step.

He kneels again, but this time to look down at Lamont. "Hold still for a second," he rasps, almost noiselessly; it might seem a trite command given the current situation, but it’s not implied as such. Two trembling fingers press down between the other man's brows and even as he closes off view of the glimmering irises, he whispers, "Changa." A flush of chill, almost like peppermint to the nose and pre-dawn dew to the skin, rushes through and rapidly removes all influence of the Mystical tasering.

*

There's a woof of breath from him at that, and Lamont rolls on to his side. Content to lie there and drip for a moment. Strange may have undone the tasering, but he hasn't wiped the adrenaline….and the dismaying fact that his dark side got the better of him, if only for a moment.

Dark hair straggles around his face - he's let it grow a little long, and he blinks up at his teacher. "Thank you," he says. For what, he does not specify.

*

With a quiet grunt, the good Doctor settles down onto his other knee and then sits on his boots. Scarred palms rest on his thighs, long fingers spread wide and no longer betraying the fine quiver of damaged nerves and weariness due to rested state upon a surface. He hides the mild agony of over-excited nerves well enough through long practice. Strange too exhales, though this as a sigh, before replying in that same whispering baritone,

"You're welcome." One dark eyebrow rises as his gaze watches Lamont’s face. "What did you learn?" An open-ended question from the mentor, deliberately so, for the answer may be telling in its own way.

*

He smiles at that….and the dark edge is there. So there's a hesitation before he replies, trying to assemble the proper attitude. Not least of which is curling in on himself, just a bit. Not all of his reactions bear close examination by his teacher. "Not to get so close. It goes both ways….and it leaves me too weak to certain attacks. I'm never going to be able to out brute-force you."

*

The other eyebrow slowly rises to join its mate while his lids drop to a somnolent half-mast. The glow of the Arts is leaving his eyes now, granting Strange a modicum of the mundane, what little may linger about him with his mantle.

"Yes. Distance is safety, in terms of the Arts. You need time to compose your thoughts, to focus upon the spell you wish. Wrestling can be effective, yes," This he grants with a rueful little shake of his head, " — but I know few practitioners who attempt close-combat sorcery without garnering their advantages through distance first." Then shows the reveal of white teeth as he allows himself a smug and toothy smile. "And yes, Cranston. You will never be able to 'out brute-force' me, as you put it."

*

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