11091/What Choices We Have...

What Choices We Have...
Date of Scene:	09 May 2022
Location:	Sanctum Sanctorum
Synopsis:	Funny mystical stones and the implications of their existence are discussed over calzones and...tea? Yes, indeed.
Cast of Characters:	Stephen Strange, Illyana Rasputina

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Stephen Strange has posed:
It may be almost noon in the City that Never Sleeps, but when one's own home can open to whatever time it wishes, knowing what the hour is tends to lose its power. Even now, in a study filled with books, is it daylight? Is it night? Does it matter? Not seemingly to a certain Stephen Strange, who sits down in a dark burgundy velvet smoking robe to perform a bit of research. The robe itself, with its quilted black satin collars and cuffs, seems to have escaped the attention of a certain wardrobe invader for the moment, as it sits quite comfortably upon the good Doctor's frame. Perfect for lounging, it would see. And...from the looks, brand new.

The book that sits before Strange, though, is decidedly anything but new. An ancient tome, with what appears to be a scattered collection of languages, sits on a table before him. Also, nearby, a cup of tea. Well, there are two cups, but one is empty...seemingly awaiting for it to be called into service. The tea service is silver, because of course it will be, and positioned appropriately. If it wasn't for the questionable choice in reading material, this could look like any other English home.

Despite Stephen being as American as apple pie.

Still, tea cup in hand, the sorcerer reads. Judging from what bits and pieces are given, it looks like research upon what has happened recently, in particular with a certain stone on a certain staff. Confirmation is needed, even if he was sure as to what the stone was...and advise on exactly what to do with it. Should it have been hidden like intended? Should it have been destroyed? Was it possible?

Inquiring minds want to know.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
An English home with English comforts and the lifestyles of an English country gentleman, about as idle and endowed by great wealth in land and illiquid assets. How ironic this is the middle of New York.

New York on a breezy, glorious spring day; or New York on a rainy, grim spring day. It makes no difference, it's not jolly England. That means Illyana has to contend with traffic, Greenwich Village tourists, and traffic. She noodles he rway through the streets rather than straight-up teleporting, holding a cardboard box of calzones still piping hot from the oven. The smell of molten tomato sauce and melted cheese. The other contents remain a mystery, as surely as the source of the money she used to pay for the midday (or midnight) snacks.

A bus liters on the corner and her gaze travels as a force of habit over the passengers in case any happen to have shark-heads, alligator smiles, or staves bubbling with a retributive strike. No imposters of her, riding the multiverse.

She cuts through the shuttling traffic on those old streets, a tangle in Manhattan like everything else. Spirits recoil around the Sanctum as another spellcaster peers through the veil to see them, incipient greed and hunger spirits alongside other s, promoting sickness and plant growth and recycling, fed by the respective minds that make them. Guppies ahead of a predator on the reef, which brings her to the doorway into the reef proper.

"So when you swim in the sea and an eel bites your knee, that's a moray." She is not John Constantine. She did not miss a career in symphonic goth rock.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The sensation of a certain Russian spellcaster passing through the veil of enchantments is a familiar one. Yes, Stephen knows fully well when his paramour (or is he her's?) enters the Sanctum proper. But...is that singing? And a pun-laden lyric, to boot? Just who is this person and what has she done with Illyana? The thought might have crossed his mind as Stephen actually chuckles. A fingertip swings lazily in the air reminiscent in a certain space fantasy and the door to the study opens. "No portals today, my dear?"

Did that door actually lead to the foyer before? Does it matter? Apparently, it does now.

With the door open, Strange shifts to stand, as the book upon the table before him closes on its own volition. "And....the smell of tomatoes and cheese. Pizza, perhaps? That helps to place a time. I did not realize it was so late."

Late? Did he stay up all night? Again, does it matter? It wouldn't be the first time the sorcerer did without sleep...

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Are they not one another's? Ownership is nine-tenths of the law when a tenth of the soul lives in another. So too is the blonde Russian obligated to share a fractured shard of hers.

The calzones in their box give a saturated, melting note to the Russian. Her usual scent of birch sap, smoldering embers, and cool, crisp winter air gives way as she walks through the door. A door that leads where it will. "It makes the crows jealous." Her smirk lifts slightly. The box has to go somewhere, and she puts it down. "Folded dough things with meat and cheese. One maybe with vegetables stewed in the blood of their enemies and allies."

Her gaze flicks from the book up to Strange, assessing him. "You look relaxed."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Nonsense. I look lazy. There is a difference." Though, there is a slight flickering. A tip of a wink towards the blonde as the corner of the lip curls into some facsimile of a smile. "Folded dough things. Ah...so, calzones. Essentially portable pizza. And you with the vegetable one, I presume?" That ghost of a smile materializes into reality...no mistaking it now. "Judging from the special preparations."

A joke? Maybe. It is certain that Stephen isn't telling. What he is telling, though, is perhaps the reason why he looks so lazy, as he put it. "I was just doing some light reading. You know, creation of the universe, threats to existence. A little young-adult fiction." A shrug is given. "Never know if the latest teenage-angsty dystopian novel has the key to salvation."

Okay....now *that* was a joke.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Lazy? I have seen lazy. Dirty place, pile of garbage, no one cleaning up. They lounge in filth, in their bedclothes." Pyjamas. "I am not impressed by it."

She puts the box down with a flourish. The top opens, the lid peeled back to reveal huge half-moons that could put divots in space time. "Where I come from, could feed a family of four or five on this. It is most generous. Do we have room somewhere for it?"

Mundane questions, they are strange enough. "I eat meat. Vegetables in Limbo were... not common." Her eyes narrow fractionally, and she flexes her shoulders back. The stretch follows, arms rolled and lifted over her head. "What threat is there? Why would you read about stupid, lovesick teenagers who do not know they are supermodel ninja hackers?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
A shake of the head is given as Stephen actually laughs. Audibly. "You really think I would read that?" With a wave of the hand, the book retreats itself to the bookshelf, while the table actually widens itself. The finely turned wooden legs start to walk apart from each other, causing the table dimensions itself to grow to accommodate the massive amount of dough, cheese, and other artery clogging ingredients. "Really now. I am much more a fan of half-muggle wizards in a love triangle with their best friends while having to fend off the big bad that no one else believes is around."

And....again, Stephen teases. But he does settle down to business shortly. "After our little sorcerer friend decided to create his own section of reality, I felt it was prudent to see what else could be out there. Or, really, what could be done with that little stone. Proper way of handling it and whatnot. Unfortunately, there is not a lot in regards to that." A shrug is given. "I was just about to take a break from it, actually. So your timing is impeccable. As always."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"You might. You have good memory, da? Maybe you want to self-flagellate." Illyana doesn't put anything past Strange's reading habits. Her smile is faint, fading back into resting scary face. "Maybe you need more than that. Story of fierce girl who takes over dystopian steampunk cities that move around by themselves." It's a terrible book series and an even worse movie. Don't do it to yourself, Stephen. Just don't.

She picks up the tea waiting for her, not even worried about its temperature. She sips the beverage, tossed back. Tongue hot, but so it goes. "His own reality. Da, I am worried about this. Such arrogance. Who was he, why? I do not like it. My staff keeps it from being problematic, but..." A shrug follows. "What can we do? Use it is a folly. Destroy it is not a problem. Hide it, not so much."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"And that is the quandary of the hour, my dear. Just what can we do?" Stephen gestures towards the book, resting quietly in its preferred place upon the shelf. "That is short on answers. Long on speculation, though. A power that concentrated...seemingly useful to anyone with merely the intention, if not the skill, to attempt? Yes, it is certainly something that we do not wish to fall into the wrong hands." With a sigh, the robed Strange takes a sip of his own tea, though it had some time to properly cool before consuming. "I mean, we could shunt it into the deepest, darkest corner of existence and hope that no one finds it, but really that sort of plan never works. Besides as such, that is more of a political solution. I want practical solutions."

Practical solutions. That is the key, it would seem. And perhaps why Stephen has not slept recently. For since when have things been practical lately?

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
What can they do? A question turned over in her head. "Find boring realm where people have no imagination. They will only imagine more of the same." She shakes her head and drinks more of the tea. A soothing, simmering flavour offering no answers either, but at least it tastes good. She breathes to center herself, as though it's at all needed. Strange doesn't, but he is a rare bird out there. "It must have been important. Whatever sent it here, whatever caused them to drag it out. I'm not pleased -- or trusting this."

Stephen Strange has posed:
A grimace of mild displeasure crosses over the former surgeon's mein. "Oh, how dreadful. Effective, but utterly dreary. A reality with no imagination is hardly a reality worth living." Well, that is an opinion. And, probably a good one. After all, what is magic but imagination anyways? "As far as importance goes, I do have reason to believe that it is certainly high. It reasonably the same sort of power level as the Eye has. The one harboring the green gem within." There is no further clarification given, but, knowing Illyana, she is certainly capable of knowing what Stephen means.

Still..."Yes. You and I are of one mind with this. I am certainly on guard and far from trusting, when it comes to the sort of primordial forces at play here."