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It's been one of those days. It really has. Arriving at the Sanctum and knocking on the door doesn't get an immediate response. In fact, opening the front door only brings the wards forth and they recognize intentions more quickly than faces, to their extreme advantage.
Where's the master of the mansion? He must be here if friends can simply wander in. Someone knowing of his habits will be able to suss him out quickly enough. By the time a visitor mounts that last step leading into the third floor Loft, they'll be able to hear it:
Soft singing, the words barely intelligible and rather velvety — higher-pitched instead of baritone. On one of the tufted two-arms settes tucked against one wall, beneath a traditional shield-and-crossed-sword display, Strange is splayed out. Legs are akimbo, and the slouch back into the gathering of pillows looks very comfortable. In one hand, a thin and yet venerable tome, and in the other?
A crystal glass of what appears to be whiskey, heavily twinkling with stargrist. On with the humming and the petite Sorceress flips a page using her thumb, but only after some effort and a glower at the trembling digit. She's too distracted — or inebriated? — to notice an approach until it's quite obvious. Ah, the joys and hardships of the smaller of two forms.
*
Lamont has a whole deck of pokerfaces, and some give more away than others. The one he has on now, hat in hand, in one of those charcoal and maroon suits, the muted tribute to his more dramatic alter ego…..this one is the thin skin over a well of utter bemusement. It feels like Strange. But …it isn't Strange. Gender shift? Child's play, really. But to *see* it….
He pauses in the doorway, brows heading for that hairline. "Strange?" he asks, a questioning lilt to his voice, head cocked like a bird's.
*
"SH — gods below," the brunette spits out, glancing down at her tunic to check if the whiskey splashed. Oh, no, thank the gods. "Come in, Cranston, you're fine." Her voice carries over easily at this volume, one attributed to the twinkle of celestial sprinklings in the alcohol. She places the tome aside on the settee with dramatically-careful motions and takes another large sip before placing the glass on a side-table.
She's in the storm-blue battle-leathers, but of course, they fit her perfectly…all of her, down to the boots and belts. Pinked in the cheeks, she gestures at Lamont. "I apologize for appearances, but unfortunately, it's a shift that has a life of its own. I was undercover." She blinks, blue eyes slightly glassy, and then frowns mildly. "You've seen this before, haven't you? Right, the unicorn. Well, no unicorn this time." She scratches at the base of her skull and winces. Silvered temples still show, but now as wings that tuck up into the cleanly-gathered bun of dark hair. "Godsdamned bobbypins, I don't know how she tolerates them." Not to a slur just yet, but finishing that glass will certainly tip the Sorceress Supreme over the edge.
*
That is a hundred percent not fair. He's still struggling with the crush on the male version of his teacher, and now this. Lamont blinks at her like an owl for a little. "No, no need for apologies." He does not add that she makes a cute girl. Already on thin ice, on that front. "And yes, I recall. But…you are sure this is not a bad time?"
*
Scarred hands make a dismissive gesture and then she's lurching to her feet. Hey, there's that balance! All but back again in full effect…save for the lax grace that comes with a nice drink.
"No, no, you're fine, Cranston." Strange looks up at him, considering he's at least two hands taller, and smiles mildly. "You're very tall like this, you know. Or — ah-hah, no, I'm the short one. Regardless. What did you need?" On her, the dimples are just as strong as her masculine self, but add in the liquor's light blush and she's a fair English Rose…grown on a Nebraskan farm.
*
Why can't he just be gay? Bisexuality just makes this twice as bad, doesn't it? "I'm the same height I've always been," he replies, oh so mildly. He steps forward, offers a hand to help her. "I don't need anything. More a social call." To prove that he can be around Strange without blushing like an utter schoolboy - if that's actually possible.
*
"Ah, social call. That requires tea, I believe?" Her bright eyes fall to his hand and then back to his face. Ah, there — the whiskey hasn't smoothed out all of her mental edges. The flickering of measurements and probabilities can be seen. "Thank you, but my concussion is entirely healed. Sometimes, magic can be useful rather than simply complicated."
Gesturing for the Shadow to follow, the petite Sorceress leads the way to the nearest tea stand, one over by the Window Upon the Worlds and the raised dias flanked by twinned feline statues in ancient metal. The Book of the Vishanti sits nearby, beneath its protective layerings of glass and spells alike, only to be accessed by the scarred hands that now flick through the tea satchets with practiced delicacy. "Dark tea, I assume? And cream and sugar? Both? None?" Strange asks, glancing over at Lamont without a hint of guile. …okay, so there's a little hint.
*
"Unless you're offering me some of that whiskey, too?" he asks, tone arch. "Far be it from me to angle, but…." Because what this needs is both of them drunk. Surely that'll go beautifully, won't it?
*
"By all means, Cranston, the decanter is over there. Bring my glass too, will you?" She points towards the side-table, where the half-finished drink along with crystalline decanter sit. "You can even have some in your tea, if you're so inclined…unless that's not a British thing," the Sorceress adds lightly, the smile slowly growing on her rosebud lips as she continues rifling through the satchet. The endearing crookedness remains as a hold-over.
"…damn, out of blackberry. Blackcurrent it is then," she murmurs as she plucks a satchet out, this one with shorthand scribbling on its pale-purple tag. This goes into a clay mug and steaming water is poured overtop, the curls pale in the wane light of late February. Clearly she intends to put whiskey in her tea, at least.
*
"Tea with whiskey is very much a British thing," he affirms, deadpan. That hint of an accent. "And whatever flavor you deem appropriate. Take it as a compliment that I sometimes forget you're actually an American. You are, aren't you?" Watching her with bright eyes, as he goes to fetch the decanter and the glasses.
*
"Ah think if you consider me British, then you have yo' head spun on sideways," Strange replies in that same dry tone, buttered heavily with the accent of her home state. It doesn't crop up often, usually in the same manner as with Lamont — high emotions — since medical students don't sound like they're from the backwoods. Usually quashed away, it's of amusement to wield it as such.
"Blackcurrent for you as well then, 'pprentice? Easily 'nough done." The second satchet goes into a second mug before she laughs, the sound warm and easy. "Oh gods below, it's been a while since I've heard that." It's still there, faintly, a swirl of color through the educated nuances of high class American.
*
"Consider it an honor," his voice is drier than ever. Then content to seat himself, while the tea steeps. "I've never seen you drunk at home," he notes, voice gone musing. "It's charming to see you let your hair down."
*
"Ehn…" Strange shrugs her shoulders as she tugs at one of the satchet's strings to indulge the need to fidget. This need appears to increase when the alcohol hits her system in sincerity; give it a few minutes. "Sometimes, when I can sense that the world isn't about to burst into metaphysical flames, it's an escape. Besides, who can resist a nice glass of good whiskey?" The addition is a deliberate evasion to the morose moment beforehand and she grins crookedly at Lamont again.
"To boot, I'm being honored with the bestowment of British appreciation. This is a cause to celebrate." The rest of the whiskey in her glass? Down it goes, the smoothness of motion indicative of practice. A delicate cough and she clears her throat. "Mmm, forgot about the kick." A healthy splash in her tea — at least two shots, and then the same amount for the Shadow. His mug is delivered and she settles down in another nearby chair, slouching slightly. It grants her that same somnolent air Lamont saw not too long ago, albeit with the touch of the feminine. "And my hair is still up, but you have a point." A healthy sip of her tea, mug set aside, and then out come the bobbypins. All of them. Damn bobbypins. The hair is still inky-dark, but now the loose curls have free reign, hanging down over her shoulders. "Much better," she purrs, scratching idly again at a sore spot on her scalp.
*
Hoist on his own petard. Yet another pokerface from the deck. This one the 'think about baseball scores, Kent' face. "Better indeed," he agrees. Margo was blonde, but clearly, he has a thing for the brunettes. Then he pours himself a few fingers, and knocks them back. "Indeed, no one can. No one with any sense," he qualifies. Oh, the look in his eyes.
*
"I do appreciate abandoning good sense from time to time," Strange replies thoughtfully as she reaches for the mug and clasps it jealously in her hands again. Mmm, heated in those sore bones; gotta get the pins warmed up again. "I've been told that I'm far too tightly-wound. Pfft." A slight shake of head and she glances to him. "I've got a responsibility. There's a difference between being responsible and being a zealot about your task."
She blows air at a lock of hair embarking into her view and wrinkles her nose as she tucks away. "Gods below, that's annoying. I don't know how they tolerate their hair moving about when it's down. And these." Oh yes, she just gestured at her chest. "In the way. All of the time." The alcohol is definitely kicking in. What mental filter?
*
Now there's a little smile curling the corner of his lip, like a dried leaf. That gleam coming into his eyes. "I've never been female. I wouldn't know," he says, voice dulcet. Then, hastily, "That wasn't an invitation to change me." Perturbed at the idea….then curious. How would Lindon react? "Hair can be cut, but….the Amazons did not, no matter what legend say," Settling back down, now with tea and whiskey. Nursing his - being sober while Stephen/Stephanie is tipsy is a show in and of itself.
*
A snort from the Sorceress.
"I wasn't about to go changing you, have no fear. Still, yes…a thought, cutting the hair, but I haven't tried it. What would be the point if every time I shift, it returns to this length? In a parallel universe, this would be its current length. Oh." Her dark brows flick high. "I wonder…I wonder if this occurs in that parallel universe, if I look the same as I do here as I usually do?" She sips at her tea and idly twirls a length of dark hair about a finger. Her eyes go distant, somewhere beyond Lamont's cheekbone, as she considers things. "A thought exercise for another time," Strange ends up murmuring, her focus coming back sharply to the Shadow. "It's different being female, I assure you. Very different. Yesssss…very different." Is that an…actual defacto blush now? Uh oh.
*
Pokerface #387: Utter blandness. "I've never had mine long," he says thoughtfully. "At least since Shambhala. I didn't cut it while I was there, though I did manage to shave." Now there's an image. "And I imagine so."
*
Indeed, an image. Strange's eyes flicker around his face, trying to superimpose some imagined length onto the dapper man's current state, and mostly failing, to be honest. The whiskey is beginning to make things a bit muzzy.
"I can't imagine not being able to shave." Fingertips draw along the line of her jaw and she smirks. "Still, this is different. No hair here. Or here," she adds, touching at a dimple. "Odd. At least there's less maintenance to be found in that aspect."
Putting her elbow on one arm of the chair, Stephanie then rests her jaw on her palm, eyeing Lamont. "…what do you think of this disguise, Cranston? Would it truly fool an enemy?"
*
He considers this, tilts his head a little. "I don't know. You're still so obviously you," And he shouldn't be having thoughts like this, either. "And I wish I didn't have to shave," he adds, ruefully. "I don't like having a beard, but shaving can be such an annoyance."
*
Wrinkling her pert nose only makes the Sorceress look more adorably piqued.
"Well, yes, it's an annoyance, but so is myself being so obviously me." Another large sip of the whiskey'd tea and then she's standing upright in one graceful (mostly) move. Hands outstretched at her sides, she continues. "I can't be caught in this form. It's more delicate, though I can fully access all of the magic. Truly, what gives me away, Cranston? What, do I need to slouch more?" She's truly perturbed in the way that only the buzzed can accomplish.
*
Kent shakes his head, still grave, despite the pink in his cheeks. "It's not acting. It's not gender. It's power. You're too used to it - it's clear on you, in you." Then he rises, takes a pace forward. "But…..maybe you could conceal it." The one form of magic in which he's possibly more adept than the Sorcerer. "Like this." It fades from him, that aura marking him out as a magic user, the smoky tendrils subsiding into him, until he's no more than any mortal man.
*
"Oh." The surprise is blatant on her face, the subtle drop of jaw accenting the rounding of lips. Ah, the pitfall of acclimating to the mantle — it's not too unlike wearing the same old shirt time and time again until it becomes a second skin, as predictable as breathing. Strange chews on the inside of her cheek before squinting at Lamont. "…yes, I suppose I see what you mean. A glamour. No, an illusion to hide my own aura. Like this."
What the Sorceress does is layer magic upon natural energy; like the magician's knowledge of mirror reflections, her aura too fades away…all but the subtle, low-key frisson of power. Hide the powerline's hum, but one can't hide the sheer wattage. "I'm not going to slouch about like Claudia Cardinale too, if you were thinking it," she adds, arching one dark brow.
*
Kent taps his lip with a finger, thoughtfully. "No, not that. And….no, that's not working. I wonder if you could hide the bulk of it in the mirror dimension or some other pocket of concealment. You're doing a good job, but it can be sensed…"
*
The sharp sigh accompanies the downfall of the illusion spell and her aura appears again, the frothing of energy in celestine and amaranthine brightly present to anyone with half an iota's worth of Mystical sense. Her arms get folded again, the usual Sorcerously-stubborn stance present, save for those arms must go beneath her chest and the off-kilter tilt of hips is utterly unconscious, drawn from feminine lines of intuition.
"Unfortunately, I cannot remove the mantle from myself — not without the intervention of the gods themselves and they're quite fond of me." She looks less than amused by that concept momentarily, but the emotion smoothes out as she glances over at the Book of Vishanti. "I'll have to do some research… Actually." Those steel-blue eyes find him again and then curls the trickster's smile. "Cranston. Do me a favor…? Disappear as you did before, when you went completely beyond my senses. I couldn't find you with the Sight and I need to remedy this. I can't be unprepared for such a thing in an enemy."
*
|ROLL| Felix +rolls 1d20 for: 15
*
He should preserve one trick, at least, that she doesn't have. But ….that's his teacher. He owes Strange so much. So, without hesitation, he bows….and then vanishes again. Erased. Blanked. Not even a trace of magic swirling in the air to betray him. Amazing, isn't it?
*
Her head jerks back and Stephanie can't help but purse her lips. The slow shake of her head follows, equal parts appreciation and amusement in the motion.
"I'll be damned." A slow and deliberate blink brings those irises up to a megawattage in iris-blue, their centers remaining a silvery frosted-violet. Her longer lashes flutter as she takes a step forwards and squints, one hand hesitantly outstretched with fingertips poised to make potential contact. "You are very much invisible to my Sight." Another tentative step ensures her approach continues. Imagine if she were suddenly startled.
*
The touch comes from the back, a fingertip trailing over the nape of her neck. That bastard. Of course he can't resist. But still not palpable, visible, to be sensed. A shadow, yet.
*
Watch her suddenly stand straight-spined, shoulders up about her ears.
"SHIT!" Like a scalded cat, the Sorceress flies up in place, immediately swinging out with a hand to grab at — something, anything! Barring contact, she lands again, precisely facing towards Lamont, and laughs. A wobble in place betrays the effects of the alcohol and she pushes hair back out of her face.
"Alright, very funny, Cranston. That's how you want to play?" This is the Sorceress Supreme asking, after all.
*
No. He's teasing, trying to see how long he can hold it before she sees through, or he drops it in error. His mental voice is directionless, close as a whisper in the ear. "This is the game I'm good at."
*
This time, Strange holds her ground. The slight tuck of her chin and sideways slide of her glowing eyes betray her even as her lips curl into a pleased smile.
"I do love a challenge," she murmurs, bringing one hand out before herself. The air above it begins to shiver, as if a desert mirage is encapsulated within her control, and then comes the slow inundation of seafoam-green magic, like the slow swirl of a watercolor's brush into cleansing water. It begins to curl within the confines of her palm, both beautiful and tremulous, and she closes her eyes. The incantation isn't going to be a long one, only three sentences at most, in Tibetan of all things…and his true Name spoken softly at its beginning assigns the target. Still, a spell isn't a thing of being if interrupted.
*
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 8
*
|ROLL| Felix +rolls 1d20 for: 17
*
That'd be cheating. So he doesn't. But somehow, even with that knowledge of his name, sympathy via previous links….it doesn't land. Dispatched to find, it hovers over Strange's palm, turning innocently. As if it had no possible idea that any such person existed.
*
"I — " The Sorceress stares at the failed seeking spell with mouth hanging open again. "Well." She swallows and tilts her head, glancing back over her shoulder and then scanning the entire Loft again. There's not a shadow out of place, not even a hint of misshapen darkness that could indicate a being there.
"Well-played, Cranston. If you can hide beyond a tracking spell like that, I cannot think of a manner in metaphysical to bring you forth. Unless…" The little laugh is delighted; here is the Mystical scientist at work.
Closing her fingers around the stymied spell snuffs it gently out, like putting a cap over a candleflame, and then she extends her other hand, the dominant one. "Kent Allard." The Name resonates in her mezzo-soprano, warmed over and again by some influence; it sounds much more alluring in this register. A come-hither gesture, slow curling of digits, accompanies the continuation: "Come forth, please." The other hand rests on her hip, again with the counter-tilt of degrees. Someone's been taking notes from the Witch…
*
Now that….that hooks in like a hawk's talons on a rabbit's spine. The concealment drops, and he's right there, only a pace or two from her. "I am here," he says, gently. No closer, hands at his sides, the ring gleaming on his finger.
*
The outstretched hand remains as such as Strange considers him. Her gaze draws slowly down his taller form and then back up to his face.
"How do you do that? Completely disappear as such? Is it something unique to Shangri-La?" The gleam of the ring captures her attention and with some effort, she focuses back on Lamont's face again. Oh dear. No ring on her hand. The winterfire opal in its rosegold setting must be safely stored away at the moment.
*
"No, not entirely. I know of other schools that can teach it. Mostly in Japan and China. It's convincing the world as a whole that it doesn't notice me. Everything has its consciousness, even if not a true mind," he says, softly. "If I tell it strongly enough I'm not there, it believes me. And so your senses believe it."
*
"Huh. So you're manipulating the entire sentience of the world around you into thinking that you're simply not present. That is a trick," and Stephanie points at him before shifting back into her stance, arms lightly folded beneath her chest. "I'll absolutely have to research this. Perhaps Master Hamir has knowledge of it. Hmm…yes, a wisp will do." She means of sending, this wisp.
Again, the wink of the darker opal attracts her peripheral vision and she finally looks fully at it. "…you're not doing anything with your ring, are you? I…suspect that I haven't the same defenses against it in this form. The shifting may have canceled it out."
*
"No. It's a native ability. It's easier to use the ring to directly affect one human mind," he explains. "Or several. Not so much the environment," Lamont lifts his hand, as if to display it.
*
|ROLL| Strange +rolls 1d20 for: 8
*
The Sorceress nods, idly tucking back loose hair once more.
"Maybe…maybe it's the alcohol then," she says softly, eyes resting on the fire-blackened opal. "I admit, I haven't had this much whiskey in some time. The tea is…likely causing vasodilation," and Strange waves a hand as if brushing aside the inability to explain why the gemstone keeps dragging back her attention. "I appear to be much more affected in this smaller body." By what, precisely…? Liquor or the lullaby of interest in the jewel?
*
"I imagine they work together," Lamont says, whimsically. The idea of small lady Strange tipsy is apparently charming. "The tea and the liquor. A stimulant and its opposite, the one accelerating the other." He tucks his hands behind himself, demure.
*
As soon as the ring disappears beyond immediate vision, a measure of the distraction disappears from her demeanor. Stephanie blinks a few times before rubbing a hand down her face.
"Gods below, that's…damn." She weaves a little in place before clearing her throat. "I didn't think of the caffeine in the tea itself. That'll surely…accelerate things alonnng — whoop!" A sideways lurch and she's splayed across the chair she sat in not minutes back. The soft 'bump' of her hindquarters hitting the carpeted flooring doesn't sound particularly painful, but she jostles a hiccup out of herself before a roll of high-pitched laughter escapes her. "That didn' work." There goes the first lost consonant.
*
It's very shiny, and it's very aware that the Sorceress is there. The Sorceress that owns its mate, so to speak. Lamont can't help but grin. Strange abandoning his dignity is like watching T'Challa roll around on the carpet, high on catnip. He comes forward a pace or two, to offer his unringed hand.
*
Lamont will recognize the considering look given to him, even as the chuckling peters off into silence. She even squints and raises her brows, dramatically enhancing the quality of aforementioned mental musings. Einstein would be proud.
"Alright, fine," she mumbles, taking the unringed hand in a masculine grip despite her smaller frame, her shivering fingers closing around his wrist. Presuming she's aided to her feet, momentum gets the better of her rather quickly. Whiskey does such things to the limbs after all. "Ooof!" A bit of air knocked from her by the sudden slosh of her inner ear and her body following, smack into the Shadow.
*
He catches her deftly enough, braced for it. Not fast enough to keep her from getting a faceful of clean cotton shirt, with wisps of the scent of incense and smoke and clean skin. He's a finicky bastard, but doesn't seem to go for any sort of scent, at least. Then he's turning her, all the better to deposit her back in her chair. The gray eyes are all but dancing with amusement, despite his attempts at his usual sphinxish dignity.
*
With a little grunt of sound, Stephanie flops back into the chair in question, this time far more reasonably ensconced than before. There's no awkward sliding off and no quiet thumps, other than her hand falling to the arm of the chair.
"Thanks, Crans'on. Seems the liquor has caught up t'me well 'n good now." More wriggling about, as if muscles don't appreciate the odd counter-reactivity of the dark brew and golden liquor, and then she settles again, one knee pulled up and boot rested on the edge of the seat. "So. Clearly, we need to practice me being able to avoid tha' ring." She points a finger at the jewelry in question. "Prolly sooner than later, because I reeeeally dun wanna deal with some'n like tha' later on."
*