16685/Stephen Strange's Christmas Vacation

Stephen Strange's Christmas Vacation
Date of Scene:	27 December 2023
Location:	Sanctum Sanctorum
Synopsis:	As it says.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Stephen Strange

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Christmas brings its own set of problems, like where to put enchanted trees and ornaments with a will of their own. Mystics from a number of different traditions deliver presents ranging from cards to howlers to howling monsters in boxes at the doorstep of the festively decorated Sanctum Sanctorum. It's almost enough for Illyana to stand perpetual watch by the door holding her Soulsword, prodding at everything coming back. A blessing of using her own personal weapon for poke-duty: it doesn't destroy the awesome or terrible wrapping jobs and who else will be the wiser?

Of course, being nominally Russian means her Christmas is still coming and not in the past.

AShe wears a headband of blinking lights, surreptitiously shoving about eighteen rolls of wrapping paper and 150 flattened cardboard shirt boxes of festive designs into a portal.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Christmas.

It does indeed have its own set of protocols when it comes to the Sanctum. The usual obfuscation ward that prevents idle eyes from noticing too much is actually increased for the holiday season. For a two-fold reason. It does well to hide the packages that do arrive from the public. And, perhaps more importantly, it hides the public from the contents within those packages. As the Queen of Limbo knows, now more than ever, there are certain things that really shouldn't be seen by the public. Though, allowing a porch pirate to take home a mythical creature in a festive package? Might serve them right. Certainly would be more effective than glitter bombs. Though...more messy, one could imagine.

No, no. Best to ensure that those gifts come inside. With or without an exploratory stabbing from the Soulsword.

Stephen himself steps into view, just as the last of cardboard shirt boxes is shoved into a portal. "Well...I do suppose that is one way to recycle." Illyana gets a wink....which shifts into a raised eyebrow as Strange catches sight of the blinking headband. "Feeling festive, are we?" Yes, it was a silly question to start a conversation, but it *is* a conversation starter. "And here I am without my antlers"

Does Strange actually have an headband with antlers? Of course not. But, he knows they exist, and that's enough.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The Queen of Limbo ought not to be throwing portals all over in the darkest time of the year, as they come with their own dangers and disruptions. But standing on the other end with an overglorified Swiss Army knife of murder and despair could prevent unexpected visitations.

Like Nastir'h, who is wisely nowhere to be seen among the parade of small purple demons and shaggy demonic cows with a certain similarity to the Highland variety milling around. It's probably the cows who rule the roo-oooo-ost given their pointy horns and spirited appreciation of rolls of paper piled up on infernal backs. One balefully peers through the portal, tail swishing, all cuteness in the direction of murder.

"Is best when I go shopping. They think me deranged for the season, da?" Her explanation given, Illyana glances over her shoulder as she shoves yet another bag emblazoned by a large red bullseye through to willing four-fingered hands. "They had extra Christmas dinosaurs. I was obligated to oblige. Better than llama years and unicorn years." Which amount to all she really remembers for the season, since wrapping presents hasn't been the greatest priority prior to that. Limbo is not the festive plane. "I made terrible cookies and burnt pie. The filling may be saved."

Then she reassesses Stephen. "You celebrate too late with antlers. Five days ago, at the solstice? This would be when you lie with sovereignty to stake your claim over the whole..." She waves her hand. "Here."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Stake my claim, hmm?" That prompts a soft chuckle. "I don't need antlers to stake my claim. Nor do I need to actually need to make a show." A hand extends to indicate it all. The Sanctum, the gifts...all of it. "No one in their right mind would want all of this, if they know the responsibility involved." A beat...a moment of silence. Then...a sly grin. "And yes, that includes me. You ought to know by now that I am just a little mad, at times."

Self deprecation aside, Stephen takes a few short steps, leaning down to give a kiss to Illy's forehead. "I see you are becoming acquainted with the usual gifts. Don't worry...it will all be handled. And without the need for dimensional hidey holes to put it all." A step back. "Burnt pie and terrible cookies, hmm? Well...are we to use them for warfare or give them to our enemies?" It is clearly a joke, meant to be taken lightly.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Then you do not follow the horned god tradition?" Illyana manages to look mildly surprised, brows lifted a smidge. Lights blink purple, blue, and red across her pale blonde hair in a way adding to the festivities. No one knocks at the sanctum door and nothing shoved through the mail slot threatens to break the peace for a moment, albeit that can all change when the Wizard Post shows up. Of course, there's no real rhyme or reason for deliveries, so...

Nudging the Soulsword to lean against the wall for a moment, she shakes out her arms and offers a still slightly rusty embrace to the taller sorcerer. This is yet a new thing when not enveloping someone a whole lot shorter, but resting her chin on Stephen's shoulder comes effortlessly. "You will put them away or redirect them all to Latveria?" Can't blame a girl for asking. "The heat in the oven was too high after the pie. I lowered the temperature but cookies came out too hard. My fault. I learn next time. We can feed them to the unsuspecting. Or the children staying over at the Institute." If there are any.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The first question is not answered, initially. Oh, there might have been an answer forthcoming, but the blinking crown of lights effectively derail any serious attempt to answer.

The embrace is taken. Yes, it is a little awkward, but not terribly so, as Stephen shifts just enough to make it easier. The chin on the shoulder means that Stephen gets a full view of the lighted headband, which doesn't seem to mind him at all. "A little of both, actually." The answer is given pretty flatly. Yet, there is that slight twinge of snark that only the most alert would catch. Which, of course, means that Illyana would have caught that. "We keep the best. We can send the pie and cookies to Latveria, too."

"The oven was too high?" It takes a moment for Stephen to catch the fact that it was heat retained by the oven that caused the cookies to come out hard. Obviously, he is not a baker. "Oh...I see. All the more reason we can send it to Latveria. We can provide the next batch to the Institute." The next batch? Perhaps Stephen will help. "Unless there are some over there that you are not particularly fond of. I don't usually visit the Institute."

A pause, then a shrug. "I don't usually visit many groups. They tend to expect the worst when I make an appearance. Unlike Santa Claus, I am not known to bring cheer. Much less toys that don't try to harm their users."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The blinking lights belong to a happy parade, a festive Christmas activity. Maybe they all need some blinking illumination to enhance the overall wellbeing of the world. It could be a replacement for her devastating crown, as Illyana can definitely use a wardrobe upgrade.

"You need a good present for the season. Not tossing all the work on Wong or Kamar-Taj." Solemnly she injects that tone, leaning back slightly rather than whacking Stephen in the jaw with a pointed C9 bulb in all its fascinating glitter. "Pie to Latveria? I will ensure it's still crispy and flaming when delivered. He will know the portals. Do you have a preference?" Leave it up to him how to pick through the various protections. It's an exercise to keep them both on their toes, other than turning circles on a dance floor. His perplexed state of affairs over baking, besides, explains that ignorance. "Da. How do you think I make food? I do not have a stove that I sleep atop one. I am not Yemelya!" Obscure folk traditions of a Russian who literally drives around a stove, top down, she breaks into a smirk again. "You plan on staying in? Then we must discuss gifts, da?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Gifts. Yes...we should probably discuss gifts." A slight dodge with the head, coupled with Illy's thoughtful leaning back, helps Stephen to avoid taking a light bulb on the chin...literally. "As far as the pie. I believe it would be best for the world that we do not poke at that bear for the holiday season. As much as it would be fitting to deliver a fireball seasoned with pumpkin spice, it wouldn't really be the right thing to do, given the holiday spirit. Though, after the holidays? Certainly...a carbon disk in the general shape of a pie can be hurled at Doom from any direction. Maybe drop it from a great height to avoid the portal detection and let him worry if it is a foreign object to waste his defensive reserve on. But, for now, we play nice."

Then...back to presents. "Don't let Wong fool you. He likes selecting the perfect gift. Still, you are right. It is more meaningful if it comes from us, rather than another. And...the obscure reference aside, Strange defers. "I know how one cooks. I just do not, you know, bake. It took me a bit to register what happened."

"But yes. I plan on staying in. Or, at least staying with you. So, if it is gifts to be discussed, then we shall discuss them." A quick glance about the room is given. "Shall we sit down? Or would something a bit more lounging be of order?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Do not offend wizards by jabbing them with pointy lights or pointy anythings. A lesson first learned in the nascent days of study by Illyana, she is mindful even now of such dangers. Her expression turns thoughtful as Stephen's expounding starts the wheels turning. Pumpkin spice fireballs... "A peppermint tornado would hurt eyes sufficiently well." Pardon that dangerous smirk.

Her shoulders tilt, her fuzzy sweater pulled sidelong by a fraction. Still, after long enough together, they certainly know one another's ins and outs. Right?

Or there's mass panic at producing something at the drop of a hat for a man who has nearly everything.

"Why stand when we can be the envy of everyone with legs, and float?" Legitimate question.