13412/Falling Through The Floor

Falling Through The Floor
Date of Scene:	22 November 2022
Location:	Sanctum Sanctorum
Synopsis:	Illyana warns Strange about Ebony Maw.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Stephen Strange

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The premise of an evening often takes shape from earlier events in the day. How a jaunty walk leads to a snapping extradimensional monster trying to eat a freighter, leaving the night for recuperation. Or a promising tome eventually proves to be worthless, excellent for thinks going into a funk.

Two ophidian marvels locked in a glass tank and certainly never to be let out might be the gauges tonight. Sharp tongues exceeding Statler and Waldorf's are currently engaged around a lopsided conversation, a tiny floating violin in front of them.

The moment Strange makes his appearance, one of them turns its scaled head in his direction, tongue tasting the air. "Yesssss." A purposeful nod follows. "The grouchy ssssorccccerer ssssaid ssshe plansss to be right back. Perhapssss ssssix--"

"No, that'sss not it," says the other. "Two hoursss ago."

"Two hourssss can be sssix in the Asssstral," complains the first.

Two hours in the Astral Realm would normally mean Illyana sits somewhere in the Sanctum Sanctorum, cross-legged, projecting herself out there. Not this time, since no room in the Sanctum houses her, and the most recent portal echo comes from her mutation rather than magic. It's not far from the snakes in the mezzanine, and the evidence of a hung casting turned over to Wong to tie the thing off suggests work interrupted.

All that would -probably- be a normal in its own right.

Until his soul in another layer of reality starts to sting from a distinct hardening of the Astral Realm's chaotic nature, bleeding out the malleable and amorphic quality of thought. Since that shard is presumably still buried inside one Illyana Rasputina-Strange, the sting is likely a mutual sensation. One enjoined about two minutes later with the borrowed roar of magic being funnelled past the thing, a stark white-blue kind of energy traced subtly by the static rot of a vampire.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Grouchy sorcerer...."

Isn't that a common trait for sorcerers? Grouchiness? Depending on the day, certainly.

The snakes earn a glance for their informative nature, while Stephen pauses to extend other senses. There are more than just the usual five assumed senses...and it is the mystical sense that Stephen now reaches out with. Two hours? Yes...that seems about right. And....a somewhat hasty departure? That seems to fit, especially when considering that it was not a magical departure. Stephen has been with the Queen of Limbo enough to differentiate mutation from magic, certainly. So, a direct route to the Astral, then. That's intriguing.

Oh....oh, that's a fun sensation. A wince is the physical manifestation of the mutually shared sensation. And...wait. What was that? Oh....the sudden rush of mystic might.

Oh, that is going to cause some questioning later.

Or, maybe sooner than later. But the first question is one that Stephen asks himself. Should he go out and join his better half?

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Magic boiling through the externalized piece of himself has an outward channel, a craft in a tempest-toss'd sea with the winds blowing strictly in a single direction. Burning within the flowing power, he's protected against that downward, vicious pressure coming from all directions trying to crush him in the still, ordered grey in a place where the collective weight of minds and dreams should move freely. An attempt to cage him in, wiping out the creative spark of magic, exerts great force. Terrible will pitted against hers, and through her, him.

<<Oshtur!>> A single coherent thought.

However much the demonic side restlessly prowls beneath the surface, it cannot overcome the balance checking the Darkchilde from her awakening or action. The painful balancing act holds in a standstill, force pushing no further, for minutes. Several, grinding out, until it breaks.

Does he act before then?

Stephen Strange has posed:
For most people, when faced with a choice that requires immediate action, usually respond in one of two ways. There is either a leap of faith...the split-second decision to take action. Or...to do nothing. Some might call the jump to action an instinct...an involuntary response to stimuli, while others might call the inaction merely a moment of analyzation. A moment of strategy. But, really, regardless of terminology, it comes down to two paths.

Do or do nothing.

Strange...chooses to act.

Which means that he immediately hones in on the fragment of his being that exists within the descendant of Rasputin. In the Astral Realm? It is no issue at all to immediately mind from body to navigate the chaotic seas of thought to come to the aid of Illyana. The blue-white of his own spark shines like a beacon to him. It is child's play to lock onto that spark and fly towards it.

The speed of thought may be great, but there still is that nagging doubt. Is it fast enough to come to Magik's aid?

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Doing nothing is a choice. Not always a popular choice, but a choice all the same. Indecision or caution could be the root cause, but the end result doesn't particularly care what the genesis of the notion is.

By refusing to back away, Illyana makes a choice until the Astral Realm in her vicinity bucks and thrusts. The detente cannot hold.

By refusing to submit, the oppositional force on her pulls her and the borrowed source of vampiric magical energy and spills over into the tortured dimension.

Then something changes, a coming push of a greater predator into the sea. Forces ripple on the standoff, a nemesis popping like a soap bubble as Strange's path contends on his puissance of magical mastery. After all, what is the distance of a thought? From tip to end, decades or a second?

He arrives in time to witness the collapse of order, a small woman standing bright and tall with valkyrie-like wings and a tall engraved spear retreating into her body. The battered, armoured physical presence of Illyana Rasputina doesn't have that opportunity, and being actually here puts Strange's own soul at risk, at least that piece.

A retreating grey figure about the size of a man withdraws his consciousness, presence fading as existence reasserts itself violently. But that conscious has a horrifying solidity, an enormity to it that would suggest a very powerful psychic, a top-tier master of the mystic arts, or something else.

That something else, as Magik snarls and goes down to one knee, doesn't bear a familiar mystical signature. Not the likes of Charles Xavier or Baron Mordo or Victor von Doom around here.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Timing is everything. And, in this case, Stephen's timing is either impeccable or absolutely terrible. It really depends on the point of view.

If considering the fact that Stephen's presence might have driven off whatever mysterious figure it was that had threaten to overwhelm the Demon Queen, then Stephen's arrival was perfect timing. And, given Stephen's own impressive ego, he might even offer such a viewpoint to bolster his image. It would certainly fit the narrative to have the menacing figure be so afraid of Strange that the moment his astral presence was detected, the figure ran for the proverbial hills. A knight in mystical armor, flying in to rescue the Queen. A true fairy tail, that interpretation.

But, looking from a different angle? Worst timing ever. If it was just a moment sooner, Strange might have been able to confront the unfamiliar entity. He might have been able to do more than just watch it retreat to the chaos that is the Astral Realm. Stephen might have been able to do more. And that...that is the view that Stephen holds to just himself. In his mind, he was too late. If he was quicker, Illyana wouldn't have been brought to a knee. There wouldn't have been a need to exert herself so.

Still, there are things Strange can do. His astral form, as real as Illyana herself in this realm, kneels down besides her, ready to assist. Hands, hale and sound without any sign of injury, reach out to help her to her feet, should she accept. And Stephen speaks, though his voice is more felt than heard.

Only three words offered. "Are you okay?"

No announcing of his presence or any nonsense of that. Just three simple words that show not only why he came when he did...but why, as well. Concern for something other than his own well-being.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Perhaps the inbound presence rightly scared off a predator, one that casts a much bigger and wider net than even a hungry, proud monster wants to grapple with. Such beings cannot co-exist happily, even if the presence happens to be far more benign than a horror of the deep.

Strange's ego cannot be so easily discounted, can it? The signs would tell for his success, reality groaning and reshaped in the Astral dimension when two projected minds return to their bodies. Clear signs of stress afflict the astral walls, the muddied current that normally flows freely as a laughing brook proof of something exerting its will to silence all the chaotic, wild energy and creative elements. The thoughts themselves. They barely whisper, and the landscape such as it is takes time to reform from the psychotropic damage.

She has the Soulsword in her hands, the blade akin to a hand-and-a-half in length but not nearly so wide. Flames limn its edges, the fine variations that speak to its dual physical and spiritual nature shifting in auroral veins.

A knight kneeling in vigil or to accept her due of failure. Even Illyana in her pride knows that much. She only rises when Stephen helps her, her eyes reflecting the frosted blue of Limbo pulled through her. "Someone probed Earth. It and its masters come to purge Earth of chaos, despair, all our so-called suffering." Ashen words, tight with rage. "To wipe this place and us out as a 'gift.' I don't know its name. It had the most punchable face."

Stephen Strange has posed:
No, perhaps the Sorcerer Supreme's ego cannot be dismissed so. After all, there is truth there. The fact that Strange easily can simply *do* and it will be done lends credibility to whatever boasts Stephen wishes to make. The reality of the situation, a peculiar turn of the phrase considering the malleable nature of the realm both Illyana and Stephen find themselves in, is that the figure did apparently flee when Strange appeared. And that the dimension itself seems thankful for it. That along would be proof enough that the sorcerer can back whatever claims he may choose to proclaim.

However, it is not boasts that Stephen proclaims. Nor some elaborate display of power to establish his dominion. No....it is merely hands extended, helping the keeper of the Soulsword to her feet. Stephen's first oath was as a physician and that is apparent as he takes the moment to examine the blonde he helps to her feet. Grey eyes search for signs of injury, physical and mystical, first....well before Stephen shifts to speak.

"This creature..." for what else could it be? "...wishes to purge the Earth, by destroying its inhabitants?" A straightforward question, but one that Stephen does not expect an answer to. Already, he is probing, searching for any lingering sign of who, or what, this entity is. "A bold undertaking."

A pause...then Stephen repeats the last phrase from Illyana. "The most punchable face? I do hope that you have practical experience in that observation." Another pause. "If not, then perhaps later you will have your chance."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Pet that ego, then. Watch it purr and swell like a puffer fish, eager to pop prickly and loud the moment things go pear-shaped. It's not as if the /Hell-Lord/ he's bound by choice to has modesty rather than overweening pride. They both reflect their sins on the world, though the Astral shudders under the abuses it suffered.

Her need to banish the Soulsword consumes Illyana for a moment, inhaling and pushing the fragment of her soul back into the broken slots that it occupies. A sign of the power of Limbo, true, but a piece of herself that melts into place. He probably feels it from the inside, some strange electric frisson that plunders reason; slotting home the way it belongs, rounding that little sense of psyche in a golden glow that harbours the best of her, while the rest struggles as an imperfect dam for the worst tendencies in mankind and monstrosity.

"It tried to cleanse this place by purging all the thoughts. It made everything empty and grey. Like it. A grey figure, no nose, head with... filaments or tentacles for hair. Not Medusa snakes, like Voldemort." Yes, they've seen that movie and Ralph Fiennes is a measure. "He -- it seems to be a he -- said he was going great things. A gift for an unworthy race that causes and suffers so much pain, misery, and cruelty. We are being selected out of many planets and places already cleansed. That's what it led me to believe. His will was awful. Became huge, filled up the whole sky to crush out the resistance of that woman. Vampire witch. Me. We had to push back hard enough to make him go, and I was not going to open Limbo for fear he might go through it."

She doesn't admit fear happily or readily. It's a point of frustration there, to be bested, but the girl trained by Scott Summers in tactics isn't stupid. "This is not good. Such strength in a mind... and those convictions? This is an evil deed, Stephen, a terrible thing. He is serving someone else. We - the plural. It is not just him. Someone stronger than him coming close? You should be afraid."

Her teeth grind. Because the obvious is already apparent. She is.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Those grey eyes flicker to the Soulsword....the physical manifestation of the fracture within, then back to Illyana. As the sword returns within, those eyes close, the only outward sign that he feels anything at all, before those eyes open again. Yes, Stephen does sense it. It is apparent that he does, yet he does not comment. He doesn't have to. They both know.

It is the reason they work so well together.

Stephen listens as Illyana describes the attempt of cleansing the entity tried to inflict. "He tried to purge this dimension of thought and inspiration? Deny it the very essence of its being?" That is no small matter to Stephen. He knows, as well as anyone, how the Astral Realm is composed. To cut out the chaos, to eliminate all thought, is to invite Death itself.

A fact that Stephen knows full well when he shakes his head in disgust. "to do such a thing threatens the fabric of reality." He turns away from Illyana for just a moment, contemplating her words. "No nose, thinning hair. Like Voldemort." Yes, indeed...they have seen the movies. Stephen is more than willing to name the nameless terror. "But it was not Voldemort. It would not have been the first time a literary character decided to invade reality." A story for another day. "But, even then, that character would need the Astral to bring its being to life. And....this had enough power to silence the Astral? Certainly...a force like that..."

The sorcerer's comments trail off into silence, as he catches the last bit. "Wait. We? It does not act alone? This...is not good." Yes, Stephen is master of the obvious as well as the mystic arts. "We need to prepare. Let us get you back home." Translation? Stephen is not going to say that he is afraid. But, seeing Illyana as such and knowing how she is?

Yes, Stephen is afraid, too. Of what? He needs to find out.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Like hair. The head bits seemed fleshier. He dressed in tattered grey robes, all about him was excessively grey except the eyes. He could decide to look like something else here, and he was not prepared for resistance." Magical terms can sit by the wayside as she recounts the reality in a place that isn't real at all, holding firm to the spiritual form of the Sorcerer Supreme. Peculiar as that may be, a comfort all the same, when faced by a juggernaut stronger than he has any right to be.

Her frosty eyes still seethe with the light of her mutation, threatening to call up the Portal to come safely home. His own journey is different, and not one to be made that instant. "I can draw a bad picture. The other woman might remember." She's not an expert like her big brother Piotr is, unfortunately. Her nod to their surroundings. "See? Still wounded. He did all that by thinking. I did not know anyone could... anyone not /Jean/ could."

Magik has an appreciation and a healthy fear of that redhead too. She glances back to Stephen, lacing her fingers together around his and giving him a steady, almost unnaturally intent look. "He said 'we'. Not royal we. I would hear that, it would sound different. He says /we/ do these things to other planets. /We/ are coming. We are giving this gift they pretend is good and it is desolation. Would not be deterred or tripped up when I asked who, da?"

It is time to go, back to somewhere more sure. She does not do so easily, pressing her lips to his cheek. "You go first." Because the naked soul or the body, which is more at risk? "I will be there soon as you get back. Give me a sign and..." She snaps her fingers.

Because when his eyes open, she'll fall through the portal on the ceiling into an exhausted heap.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Banal. Got it." The lack of creativity seemed fitting with Pseudo-Voldemort's MO. All grey. No imagination. A hearty dislike of actual thought. The very definition of banality. And enough mental power to frighten Illyana. That is no small feat. He acknowledges the damage to the environs. "Yes. Do not worry about a picture. Your description alone is enough."

Just look for a grey individual with stringy hair, a face without a nose, and an air of superiority vast enough to have one instantly want to punch it...no, him, in the face. Right where the nose should be. Should be easy to find.

But....first things first. "Yes....I will see you there soon enough." Astral fingers press against warm flesh. The kiss upon the cheek returned by way of the forehead...lightly, almost fleetingly. "See you soon."

The astral form dissipates...a moment later, a slight tug felt within. Strange tapping through his essence within Illyana. He is home.

And...when the portal opens, Stephen will be there, with arms extended, to catch her.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Pseudo-Voldemort is a thing, not one which should ever be praised or pursued. The very thought is a distinctly unpleasant one.

Stringy head tentacles and long multi jointed fingers are just the start of the trouble.

Illyana carries the dings and dents of her time in a way that the typical Astral traveller doesn't. She might have done as poorly up against the githyanki, were she inclined to fight such imaginary creatures. Her hand rubs firmly at her hip, her knees scraped and the welts of her armour rising where the segmented pauldron and metal no longer guard her. "Lucky Piotr has it easier. He eats a big sandwich and ah, all the bruises gone." Her shoulders lift and drop in a muted shrug, stingy as she stumbles into Strange's arms and remains there. "I do not like relying on others for this trouble, but we are going to have to rely on them. Unfortunate truth, isn't it?"