20272/Laying Plans

Laying Plans
Date of Scene:	18 March 2025
Location:	Bar With No Doors
Synopsis:	Laying groundwork.
Cast of Characters:	Illyana Rasputina, Stephen Strange

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Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"I am dressed up fancy. Let's go out." Fancy means a pleated black skirt and iridescent shirt, split sleeves draping of Illyana's forearms from the elbow to the wrist in a stiff, folded ripple. Chokers -- three, in fact -- wrap around her neck, and her uncommonly sparkly silver-violet shadow is applied heavily enough to be glam clubbing makeup. But glam club their destination for the night isn't. The Bar with No Name would be a push to call that cool.

No doubt the locals aren't very impressed by two Sorcerers Supreme, since they live and breathe magic. It's about as exciting as a bureaucrat noticing that, whoa, hey, there's the Secretary of Defense or Minister of Foreign Affairs, my boss! Maybe they hunch down and keep their tones a bit softer.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Well...who am I to say no?"

Really...it is not often that Stephen says no to Illyana. Not that it is hard. It is just that it is very unlikely that the Sorceress Supreme would actually take 'no' for an answer. That...and Stephen really doesn't feel like denying requests. So, going out it is.

The Bar with No Name may not be the most ideal place to show off. But, it is outside of the Sanctum...and no one will care that the two are within its walls. It allows a chance to dress up and yet not draw attention. An interesting situation, to say the least.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Illyana's answer to that may be pointedly amused. "Just some guy."

Who happens to carry a splinter of light into the darkest of places, and bears silent testimony to the turmoil in his wife's soul at all moments and hours. The concern may not press so heavily upon him as his other duties beneath the grand vault of Vishanti demands, but present all the same. Needling his legendary pride could be dangerous, but when has she ever lived normally?

He could say no. He could point out all the reasonable things they need to do, all the significant matters relying on his availability. Or that he's more interested in puzzling through a Lego ritual than being dragged to the regular watering hole for their set. Still--appearances count and who might show up? Mordo?

Probably not Mordo. Or Doom. But you never know. Yana smirks when they step through a door and into a space that wasn't there before, adjacent to an ATM and a vacant shop that probably sold hair products. The difference is a bit jarring but there it is, falling in to the tiki hell.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Illyana's answer elicits a short laugh. The words are echoed, only with Strange's distinct baritone. "Just some guy."

He does not mention the vigil that he took upon himself. He does not speak of the shard of his very essence that he gave freely to his wife, nor of the small fragment of her that he holds within. It is not because he has to, but because he chose to. Against what some may consider common sense. Perhaps it is because the two are so like-minded that it works.

After all, 'normal' has not defined Stephen for quite some time.

So, he does not say no. If anything, the descendant of the Mad Monk adds a bit of personal thrill to an otherwise tedious existence.

However...now? There is about as much thrill from the the few regular patrons within the bar as one could expect from those that frequent such establishments. Which is to say, a nod and maybe a grunt in greeting. Not much else.

"Anything in particular strikes your fancy, my dear? Or are we here merely to show off?" Which, really, they are not. Strange knows that full well, but it is fun to poke the Russian bear, at times. But...not too much. He still values his fingers.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Da."

To the wrong ears, Illyana's suggestion could go brutally, embarrassingly sideways and render all sorts of questions, dirty looks, and glowing swords held to someone's throat. No one needs a day ending in blowing up the wards there. Even if they would be troubled that way.

Normal behaviour among sorcerers and magical people can stop the crazy elsewhere, really.

Saboteurs of a good evening can lurk elsewhere as she sloshes through a bit of a puddle left by those leaving the tiki pool to seek a booth. No stools there, too open to anyone to yank her off of it. She smirks up at a grimacing mask that glows and watches them pass through slitted eyes. "My fancy? Oh, yes. War."

Stephen Strange has posed:
Where one gets wet (but not really) via a puddle of water from the pool, another seems to hover just above the wetness. It would seem that a certain charmed item of apparel is not too fond of damp corners, even if the water is enchanted. There might be just a bit of a glance from Stephen to the cloak upon his person, with a soft chuckle. He knows all too well the preferences of his cloak.

Seek thee a booth and one shall be provided. It doesn't matter if there wasn't one open in the corner before Illyana's intent became known to her. There is now...and it is perfectly expected to have been there the entire time. The two walk towards the open booth, with Strange completely disregarding any wayward glances. Especially from cheeky tiki masks.

"War." The word is repeated...weighed and measured. "I would imagine that you would like that to go. Since this is neutral ground. Granted, not quite as grandiose as a centuries-old cathedral, but perhaps even more sacred." A tip of a wink. Just a flutter, if anything. "Unless it is a cocktail. Then we might be able to accommodate that."

Full of jokes. How unlike Stephen. Though, there is a moment of seriousness. "I would imagine that you may yet get your wish yet. War is forever just beyond the horizon...and I fear it may be closer now than in recent memory."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Hovering would be easy but Illyana has tall boots, lug soles, and an affinity for fire. She fears no water in a land flat, hateful, and frozen or on fire much of the year. Call it a blessing of her countrymen even here in the second or third gasp of spring to start, a sputtering seasonal lawnmower dragged out from the garage.

She hasn't ordered anything yet and may hold off until Stephen makes his wishes known, since his choice can often exceed her own. Vodka everything is not a good breadth of drinks. With that, she shrugs lightly to forfeit asking the floating head for attention. Crunchy palm leaves brush her back as she squishes into the banquette, pretending it's not entirely real and therefore not entirely trying to tickle her maliciously. Clearly not. "Cathedrals do not quite match my style, da? Glowing sword, black spiked armour. Much to love about sacred ground, but I would not fit in quite right." Except sword, armour, knight. Her smirk cuts deep as she leans forward, elbows on the table, demolishing all expectations. "War. How much longer do I let the unaddressed ills go, mm? The market sells souls of humans, the transient comings and goings of devils snatching up foolish people here. We know fear like that Eater," she doesn't say his name fully, "convince people to make bad choices. To reach for what they shouldn't. Always has its consequences. I feel like it's time to clean house and remind those who prey on my kind, your people, it's not a good idea. Spring cleaning, and find the usual rebels stirring up things. Show them how to behave, and maybe break that amulet that's been filling up slowly once and for all."