2331/Citysoul: The Forgotten

Citysoul: The Forgotten
Date of Scene:	12 July 2020
Location:	Staten Island
Synopsis:	The third Genius Loci, Staten Island, is located!
Cast of Characters:	Stephen Strange, Amanda Sefton, Illyana Rasputina, Dane Whitman, Takako Kyozan
Tinyplot:	Citysoul

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Stephen Strange has posed:
Staten Island is sometimes called the Forgotten Borough. While the cultural zeitgeist can easily pull up images of Manhattan, the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Queens it is harder to envision Staten Island. It is the 'what's left', the 'also ran', the 'and the rest' or the City. But, so far away from the Wound at Bushwick, the unsettling tremors and thinning of the veil have not affected it as much. There are few reports of strange occurrences out Staten Island way. No ghosts of the past, only suburban life rolling on much as it always does in semi-isolation and odd tranquillity.

Doctor Strange's instructions call for those summoned to congregate at Historic Richmond Town. A settlement dating back as far as the 15th century, preserving the unique history of the place. At this time of night, it is closed, the stretch of parkland populated with old buildings in darkness save for a few lights that give aid to the security guards. The stretch of road, St. Patricks Place, serves as a border between the past and modern times. On one side is the fence of trees leading to the colonial township, and on the other is modern, sleepy suburbia.

In the distance, echoing through the astral like the distant beating of a titanic heart, there is the sound of a boom. The feel of something once stalwart and strong breaking and falling to pieces. The tranquillity of this place seems at once disturbed, as though that distant sound has awoken a deep sleeper from their slumber. On the roadway, an imperceptible wind gathers up some discarded Big Belly Burger wrappers and sends them twirling skyward in a twister. It moves at odd, unnatural angles up and down the roadway.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Stepping out of a shimmering portal within a shadowy cloak of trees, Daytripper takes a moment to get her barings. The ethreal pain of the city has been dogging her almost since she arrived. Certainly, it's made it hard for her to maintain any sort of attunement with the spirit of the urban environment she calls home.

Which, in turn, has made it difficult for her to mitigate the fluctuations of the Winding Way.

At least, on this night, the Way is stronger than it has been in recent days.

Moving out of the shadows, now, she looks around for the others she expects to see... only to notice the odd eddies in the wind on the road.

Ah. That's something to watch.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"The place the ferry goes to," that's Staten Island. The locale conjures little: where those bright orange sea-pumpkins trundle along, carrying traffic and people sometimes dyed the same weird tangerine shade facing Jersey. Nonetheless, the Doctor insists the furthest borough to be their next destination without delay. Leaving the honey-cream facade of St. Barbara's Church behind her, Illyana follows a pair of stepping stones over the East River and into greater New York Harbour. A startled Lithuanian sailor on a cargo ship and two people joyriding in a yacht both might later recall the instant when a girl dropped into the churning waves, speckles of freezing black ichor on her boots plunged into the great salt-bath where rivers meet the sea. Before she can plunge beneath the water, she vanishes through another portal.

So brings her straight into Richmond Town, glistening wet from the knees down, though this hardly makes a difference when her boots scale many inches higher. Her black-barbed crown rises over her blonde hair, giving the sorceress a disturbing profile stamped against the dull streetlights buzzing away directly across the street from Saint Patrick's Church, a curious red-brick building with an alarmingly tall steeple pointily accusing the trees across the street of sinful pride trying to grow so tall. The rounded double-door entry together with narrow Romanesque windows resemble nothing so much as a D= face in actual person.

From there, she has to orient a little to the thunderous thumping filling her arcane Sight. Following the tempo comes naturally to someone in a club, and she heads into the fragments of an old-time neighbourhood arranged around thin lanes to see who else turns up in response to the summons of the affliction. She doesn't bother to hide the fact sheathed at her back -- and that's the /nice/ one, good steel wrapped in a ribbon, not the soul-bound artifact hidden out of sight. An eddy to another portal is exactly the sort of thing to orient upon, and she raises her hand to her brow just in case.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane Whitman met a Sorcerer Supreme once. In point of fact he met Stephen Strange's own mentor in the Mystic Arts some centuries ago. He is, however, not aware of the connection, only that yes, The Sorcerer Supreme is a real person with a very important job, and when one sends you an invitation, it's probably a good idea to follow where it leads, for the sake of the world if not for yourself. And so he's on the other side of that fence of trees, plainclothes for the moment. He seems unconcerned about any security. He doesn't directly sense the ebb and flow of magic in the manner of those that manipulate it firsthand, but in spite of that, he still feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. More subtle, but certainly a certain degree of awareness.

He's a local boy. He actually rode a bicycle here. There's a bit of a start when Illyana appears, though far less than your average Joe would likely show at the sight.

"I hope you're here by invitation, too." Says the guy that's basically in jeans and a T-shirt, looking a lot more like the sore thumb in a mystic gathering than the new arrival.

Stephen Strange has posed:
When one is called by the Sorcerer Supreme, it leaves an indelible marking upon the soul. A message to the unseen world beyond the veil that one has been chosen, initiated into the secrets. The ghosts, demons, and extradimensional entities that work behind the shroud where the mortals never see are forced to take notice, for good and for ill.

The small twister dancing about the roadway grows larger now. It seems to have gathered other things up in its invisible grasp. A pamphlet for the 1964 New York World's Fair that seems pristine despite the gulf of years. A shred of a 'Rosie the Riveter' poster proclaiming 'We Can Do It!' at the top. A red bandana with white polka dots which, despite everything, seems to rise to a human height and remain there. As though worn by something otherwise unseen.

Somewhere, from a point in space indefinable even with the most acute sense of hearing, a baby begins to cry.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
As the others slowly appear through various means, Daytripper moves towards them and, thus, perhaps towards the entity stirring up the refuse as well. "I am," she says in answer to Dane, for all that he was addressing the other woman here, rather than her. "Though I probably would have come anyway." She's been trying for days now to figure out how to stop the pain.

She points to the windborne poster. "Perhaps we should start there."

She doesn't know these people. But that's never stopped her before. She spends a moment evaluating what she sees floating in the wind. History. Lots of history.

Drawing in her concentration, she spreads her hands. An illusion of an earlier time flickers to life around them. Light big band jazz on the air. Something familiar. Something meant to soothe. Her goal is to capture the attention of the entity without threatening it... perhaps one of the others will thus be able to find the crying child.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A look over her shoulder in Dane's direction assures one, he has been heard, and two, the girl has no idea how to dress to encounter a threat. "Something like that. The herald, you could call it." It may be summer, but the pastiche of shorts and a cropped shirt with a sword is more Zack Snyder has a fever dream rather than practical. Nonetheless, the sword sits unattended for the moment.

An upnod signals the closest thing to welcome he's getting from a girl who curiously smells of the sea, a tint of diesel, and incongruously ice. "I assume you require a debrief?" Her accent conveys Russian origins, although muddied by lying several thousand kilometers and five timezones ahead of St. Petersburg and Moscow. "We were sent to find the spiritual embodiments of New York to seek their aid. It seems to have drawn unwanted attention. Spiritual entities are attacking the tethers tying the city together, possibly the very incarnations of the boroughs themselves."

A gesture indicates the ancient townsite behind them, the soothing, older airs. "What is unique to this place should call them. Irish, Italian, the dominant peoples. We need a fiddle." Or the incarnation of a fiddle, which is so beyond her musical talents. "Or a phone that can play it and we can widen the broadcast, filling it in."

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane looks to Amanda and nods, a touch of wry entering his expression as he ponders the convenience of teleportation. He listens intently to Illyana's brief debriefing, clearly paying attention, As Amanda points out that swirl of unnatural wind that is clearly now more than simply a strange weather phenomenon, he nods, "Looks like a likely starting point. So we're finding and protecting the genius loci so we can ask them for help?" He cants his head at the sound of the crying child that he's not sure if he's actually hearing so much as feeling. "Anything we know about these entities making the attacks?" He doesn't draw too close to the entity, letting one of the two sorceresses...sorceressi? take the lead on approaching. With the debriefing given, he suspects he's mostly here to be muscle if things go sideways and these combative spiritual entities come a-calling. Still, as he's watching he can't help but try to speculate what the end goal of such a spiritual untethering would be on the material plane.

"A city without dreams." He murmurs, mostly to himself, but not particularly inaudible.

Takako Kyozan has posed:
Clack clack clack clack, can be heard in the distance. The sound slowly gets louder, the rhymic pace reminiscent of running. And it indeed it is someone running... in heels?! The blonde bobcut of Takako comes into view as the late arriving Japanese young woman dashes to catch up with the others who are already here. "Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry. I had to work late, the secretary general needed briefs on the latest diplomatic overtures to try and preserve the Iranian Nuclear accord and maintain UNODA inspections, and of course it had to be filed in triplicate for official record keeping, but the copy machine wasn't working again, you would think the UN could afford working copiers." she stops and bends over putting her hands on her knees for a moment trying to catch her breath.

"Did we find the Horcrux Loci yet?" She asks, while taking a moment to look around at the area. It's probably an honest mistake mixing up new English and Latin words with other words that she has heard.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The baby's cry echoes out across the street, reverberating against the suburban edifices and disappearing amidst the copse of trees that block the colonial town from easy view. Slowly it becomes more recognizable where the sound comes from, drawing attention towards the swirling vortex of memorabilia. The cry comes from within, though the source remains invisible. As the streetlights that line the street flicker, the cry becomes more urgent and perturbed.

As Amanda's spell casts an historic pall over the street, someone (or thing) becomes visible in the space the vortex had been. A woman in denim coveralls, a cigarette dangling from between painted lips, and her hair bound up beneath that same red and white spotted bandana. She cradles a baby in her arm, murmuring to it in a soothing tone. When she speaks, it is a bizarre mix of many languages that all seem to blend together.

"There there, het is oke. Hai fame? Bí ciúin anois."

The woman's eyes lift, and it becomes clear that this look into the past is looking back. She tilts her head to one side, watching the gathering curiously for a moment before she smiles around the cigarette. Her free hand gestures towards Illyana, rolling forward in a 'go on' motion.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Daytripper glances to the newly arrived woman in heels. "I think so," she says. And to Dane she adds, "I'd really rather we get it to talk than fight."

Thus, her attention remains on the illusion she casts. It brings the Loci into focus and, since it isn't speaking to aggression, the illusionist devoutly hopes it will be enough to allow them to talk to it, convince it, rather than fight it.

"I'll maintain this," she tells them. To Illyana, "You talk." Just her suggestion, mind. The thing's looking at the Russian, anyway. So why not go with it?

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A fact needs to be addressed, plucked from the howling winds. "How did you get here? Are you local? Do speak up with any suggestions about the place, I'm..." Not local, that much is obvious. Illyana draws a wet semicircle in front of her on the pavement with her toe.

Mention of a horcrux sails more or less right over her head, or she chooses to overlook it.Takako coming in a flurry of heels and officialdom adds another to the melange, and earns a greeting. "Welcome. Just in time." The vivid spells being swept up by Amanda lend a certain visual element, though she nods to the woman bringing up that swelling music laden by jazz and deeper memories. An infant doesn't take her aback, but the patois rolling off Rosie-the-Smoker's lips requires more effort to parse through. Unlike a good many Americans, she never grew up with some of those languages in play. Still, the ideas are there.

"I would say we found what we were looking for. Feel free to speak up and make your appeal." An aside to the trio beside her leaves a general confirmation of success. Phone pulled from nothing, a winking portal snaps shut to allow the device to fall into her hand. A back-up plan, in case they require the additional burst of anchoring. The workaday world of Staten Island might just be staring back at them, and she considers the spirit with a dust of her fingertips down her side. Those shorts do have pockets, though it's a small act of a miracle to fit any sort of device in them.

"We came looking for help because something grave hurts the people in the city, and the city itself. Brooklyn is bleeding, and this threat," she says, "would strike you too."

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane glances to Takako with a certain degree of bemusement, but there's a nod of greeting as he moves to simply...stand, hands in pockets, watching the interplay between wielders of magic and the entity borne from the accumulated astral residue of the borough. He's mostly making his best effort to be as non-threatening as possible. He's a newcomer to this quest, and gets the impression the blonde with the sword, at least, has been wrapped up in this a good bit longer. He does occasionally take a look around for signs of anything beyond the unusual that's already on display, though.

Takako Kyozan has posed:
Takako listens, taking in all of the information as she catches her breath. She still doesn't seem terribly sure of what she is supposed to do here but the Sorcerer Supreme thought she should come to this place and help this group so here she is.

Straightening up a bit, she takes a moment to smooth out her black business skirt after her run. Though one is left to wonder why when she closes her eyes and her clothing is suffused with a whispy white glow before transforming in an instant into more comfortable jeans and a t-shirt. The heals are replaced with more comfortable athletic shoes as well. "Hello, I am Takako." she greets the others once that is done and turns to watch the two sorceresses engage with the baby carrying spirit lady.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Brooklyn, huh?" the woman with the baby asks, her accent bizarrely shifting from Irish, to Italian, to Dutch, to more stereotypical New York - like the frequency on an old radio, "Glad to see you care about Brooklyn. Wouldn't want precious Brooklyn to get hurt. Did she paint you a pretty picture, blondie?"

The woman takes a look around, moving through the illusory backdrop as though seeing it for the first time. The baby is cradled in one arm, still fussing as she gently jostles it up and down in the crook of her elbow.

"I remember this. Good old days. Nothing like the good old days, right? Is breá liom na seanlaethanta maithe. Adoro i bei vecchi tempi. Ik hou van de goede oude tijd."

She starts to sway her hips with the big band music, closing her eyes and humming along. She leans slightly to one side to peer at Dane, offering a languid wink and the upturned corner of her mouth in a smile.

It seems almost idyllic, were it not for the figure at the far end of the road. He walks in a stuttering half-step, wearing loose and worn linens that look more like antique hospital attire. He lifts his hand to his mouth to cough noisily, pausing to double over as the force of it wracks his body. As he passes under the flickering streetlight he can be seen more clearly - a man horribly burned down one side of his body, his clothing singed and hanging on by charred threads.

He lifts his head and, spying the group, moves towards them - coughing and sputtering all the while.

Strange. It may be stranger if it weren't for other figures in a similar state beginning to emerge from between the neat, suburban houses.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Oh, goodie. They're not late for the B-Movie horror to go with the big band soundtrack. Nothing creepier than than cool old happy-time music and shambling horrors... except maybe nursery songs and possessed children. That's always fun.

Daytripper doesn't speak Irish. She does speak Italian, which is enough to let her understand. "Good old days, yeah. Who doesn't love the good old days?" She maintains the illusion for the moment, but the moment those shamblers get close enough to strike, it's crashing down in favour of a bright purple shield.

For the moment, though, she holds it and tries continuing the negotiation... somehow. "Talk to us!" She calls to the Loci. "Not about Brooklyn. Tell me about you! You're hurting too, aren't you? Tell me where. Tell me how. Let me help..." If she can.

Gods, does she hope she can. Or that the others can.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"All of you are being hunted." Say what you will, Illyana doesn't mince words.

"We came next to you, Staaten Eylandt, sister Richmond, because you have the deepest anchors of memory and practical wisdom. Everyone who lives here remembers where they are from. What they are, what they are not." Illyana inclines her head shoreward, where over a tumbled grove and stretch of farmhouses, restored businesses snug together, lies a jagged skyline of dreamy steel towers and temples to Mammon, the vibrant hue of industry and commerce locked in an lascivious embrace. A pull and a call answered at rush hour, but never quite part of the greater five, the greater whole.

The rallying cry of the forgotten. "New Yorkers but not New York, proudly, defiantly working class Staten Islanders, and don't you damn well forget it." A risk is coming, a rising storm.

The falling feel make a tempo that beats and stirs in the way, a lifting song of trouble on the rise. "It thrashes and cuts you all from New Jersey to Yonkers to the bloody lines carved between Queens and Nassau. Ask your son." The Demon Queen tilts her head to Dane, gesturing, stepping back in a forfeit to lead him plead his case and by turns defend the spirit as needs must. This is not her island; her island thrums with the chaotic melodies of a disparate patchwork from the projects to the Upper East Side, it rages around a funny little Village called home. "The Wound strikes you and we lose the conscience and the wisdom."

Dane Whitman has posed:
"Wait, were you talking to me? I guess I'm local. Or at least I've lived on the island for the last few months." On a plot of land that is in it's own way a reflection of perhaps-brighter days. He blinks as Illyana effectively offers him up, but if he's the closest thing they've got...well. "Almost" is sometimes a fraught concept when it comes to magic...and other times it's perfectly acceptable, because magic is anything but routine, except when it is.

So instead of following his first instinct to armor up and charge into the fray against these definitely-not-savory looking entities that seem to be lining up for a Thriller flash mob, he steps forward, offering an arm to the "Lady." Italian he too, understands most of, even if his own working knowledge is of a more antiquated form. But for now he keeps it to English.

"Hi. Name's Dane Whitman. I bought the old McAllister Estate a few months back, so I'm pretty new in town, but I do live there...it's not just a vacation home...not anymore, anyway." He occasionally casts a glance towards the shades that creep in at the fringes, "And for whatever it's worth, I'd like to keep you, and the people here, safe, but I think I need your help to do it. And if I can't fix whatever it is that's got you hurting maybe my friends here can."

Another wary glance around before he looks back to the Loci and adds, "Yeah, maybe people tend to forget about you and this place, but who cares? This is Staten Island. Folks here know how to make the best of what they've got."

Takako Kyozan has posed:
As the encroaching hoards of coughing sick twisted individuals approach, Takako's attention is drawn towards them. Her clothes do that white whispy glow thing again this time taking on the appearance of a relatively form fitting bodysuit and combat boots.

"I think we need to get her out of here." she informs the others, "Whatever you're doing, do it quickly. The last time this started happening Dr. Strange opened a portal and we used it to get the spirit to safety." Her feet slide shoulder width apart and her hands come up as she assumes a ready fighting stance. She might be a neophyte at the mystic arts in terms of actual magic, but punching supernatural threats is something she is quite experienced in. "I will buy you all the time I can." That wispy white glow of mystic energy envelops not just her clothes now but her entire body.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"I know it," the woman says when Dane mentions his new home, "Very nice. Expansive. You like visitors, honey? I get off shift at seven, maybe I can swing by."

The baby's cry grows more urgent as the burnt, coughing figures lurch closer. For the first time the woman's features grow more concerned, her brow knitting beneath the red bandana as she peers down at the infant. She jostles him a little, clicking her tongue against her teeth and lifting her eyes back to Illyana.

"I suppose," she begins, maintaining her solidified form even as the illusion around them is replaced by the warding spell, "I suppose I can take a little time off. I've got some vacation days lined up. And you look like nice people. Aardige mensen. Gente piacevole. Daoine deas."

Her free arm reaches out to snake around Dane's elbow, clutching herself alongside him. This close, the scent of cigarette smoke mixed with beer, grease, oil, pitch, and sweat is easy to detect - the aroma of hard work and hard living. The baby in her arm coos, pudgy little arms reaching out to flail through the air at Takako as she is enveloped in mystical energy.

The shambling figures are close now. From this distance they are easy to make out. Horribly burned as though caught in some inferno and wracked with coughs and sweats like some awful plague. They brush up against Amanda's shield, throwing themselves against it and calling out with wheezing breaths.

"Máthair," they hiss, reaching for the woman and her baby, "tá muid tinn! Tar linn, a mháthair!"

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Okay. This is not good. Amanda shuts up. Fact is, she's a newcomer to the US, never mind NYC. And, yeah. She's based in Manhattan, too.

BUT! She did spend several days after she first arrived trying to make spiritual contact with the city and attune her magic and her astral presence to its being -- all the facets of its being, including the outer boroughs.

Which means she cares pretty darn strongly for the whole of the city she's chosen to call home.

Thus, as the spirit seems to relent, she expells a tight breath -- not fully relieved, but sensing a glimmer of hope.

Nevertheless, as the shamblers get close, she lets the illusion she was holding fade to a faint echo of what it was, swapping it out for her protective shield. It wavers slightly because of the impacts of their bodies, but holds. For now.

She glances at the Japanese woman, who promises to buy the time... and speaks of portals.

"I can do portals!" she calls to the others, "But not while holding back the extras from The Walking Dead. Anyone else got that trick up their sleeve?" If not, she'll consider dropping her shield, but not unless she's sure they won't be overrun. Because, right now, she's chosen her job... and it's to keep the negotiations a no-zombie zone.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
The child's sob cuts like a knife to the quick, echoing an urgency beating at the primordial depths of the shattered soul. Hasten on, hurry up, for time is no friend to the spirit or the guardians arrayed around her.

Life and blood, as everything. Nodding to Takako as the leaking radiance turns a clear, cutting white, Illyana murmurs, "We need your defenses during the transition. This is bound to be jarring."

A nigh-apologetic smirk hovers on her lips while she surveys the sickness blazed among the bodies. "Something has poisoned them. It must be an infection emanating from the Wound, though we did not see anything like this anywhere else. Take a good look while you can," she warns.

One large portal might be an inconvenience when she can sprout several in rapid order, like puddles spreading around fallen raindrops on the ground.

Silver flames trend to a darker indigo, nebulous and steady as they rim the entrance. Largest of all for Dane, baby, and Staten Island. Another for Amanda and Takako. The last is for herself, glittering true, but they all hold the same destination after striking down on a granite slope leading towards a wine-dark sea that holds the stars under the water rather than strictly in a twilit sky. Sharp peaks cast away into a valley, a rampart of twelve mountains separating the still water and its stony shore.

Limbo.

Past Limbo, the second safest of spaces.

The doors of the Sanctum Sanctorum, Bleecker Street, home to Mr. Doctor.

It's just a step through. Mind the fall.

Dane Whitman has posed:
Dane reaches over and pats The Lady's arm he-hopes reassuringly, though he can't help but grin a bit wryly, "You can stop by anytime. And yeah, it'll be good to get away for a little while. Looks like there's a rotten pack of weekenders coming into town anyway. Who wants to deal with that mess?" He knows the Ebony Blade would likely be useful against these spooks, but right now it seems like things are moving in the right direction, despite the creatures, and the Ebony Blade is a variable. Powerfully magical, and yet anti-magic at the same time. Things tend to react to its' presence, and as hectic as things are becoming, /more/ hectic doesn't seem like the right choice.

"How about we step over here to the straight-talking blonde with the sword's portal and get started with your all expenses paid trip?" He adds, "Watch your step, sometimes these kinds of things things can be a bit of a wild ride..."

Should the Lady step through, Dane goes right along with her.

Takako Kyozan has posed:
Appearances can be deceiving, very deceiving in Takako's case. Now that she has gotten serious and she is standing between people and immenent harm, the bubbly seemingly scatterbrained and a bit clumsy at times person has been replaced with a look of determination and the eyes of a trained fighter.

The first of the shamblers to get close enough is met with a straight punch that sends it -flying- back into some of its fellows knowing them all down.

The next is greeted with a crescent kick that catches it in the jaw causing its head to spin until it is facing the wrong direction, not that this slows the creature down much until a follow up strike drives it back as well.

A third reaching for her has its arm gripped and pulled into an over the shoulder throw which sends it careening into the shamblers clawing at Amanda's shield bowling them over into a heap.

This girl is apparently strong, really strong, and a skilled martial artist but it is still questionable how long she can keep this up before getting overwhelmed by sheer numbers as they just keep coming.

The opening of Illyana's portals comes as a relief though Takako continues fighting, holding the line until everyone else has passed through them before joining them.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The woman lets out a pleasantly surprised shout when the portals open up around them. She squeezes Dane's arm between her bicep and torso, still grinning dreamily at him as he speaks. The baby continues to watch Takako, flailing its pudgy little hands and cooing delightedly as the shambling hordes are dispatched with superhuman ability. When Dane guides them both towards the portal, the woman gladly steps through and pauses before the door to the Sanctum.

"They're here, hmm? Well, I suppose nowhere's perfect, sweetie."

Meanwhile, the shamblers continue. They move towards the portals, though the shields keep them from getting within range. They grow more frantic when the woman steps through and vanishes, seeming to grow both stronger and quicker. They hammer their fists against the shield, calling out in a dozen different tongues - all pleading for her to return to them. Calling her 'mother'.

When they are struck, their bodies leak not blood but a black ichor that is icy cold to the touch. From across the water, spilling out from Brooklyn, a great wave of darkness rushes towards the tranquil island like a wildfire.

Amanda Sefton has posed:
Amanda's eye track the blackness coming by how it blots out the skies. "C'mon," she tells the Japanese warrior. "Let's go!"

Her shield shimmers and ripples with each strike, especially as the shamblers grow more desperate. But, she backs toward the portal and, when she's close enough to step in, reverses the polarity -- so to speak -- on her shield, turning it into a magical wave of concussive, repulsive force that explodes outward like a shockwave.

Trusting that to buy at least a little time, she dives through the portal on an eldritch wind on her way to join the others in the Sanctum.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
That little sidestep for the portal involves a dimensional freefall not without its startling reversals of self and place. The subject may move out of one realm and into another dimension, but unfolding the psyche from its temporal anchors gives a swandive backwards while the feet might seem to fly up in contrary angles to the rest of the accelerating body going through a sudden plummet into the light fantastic.

Mystics and their damn LSD trips, even when sheltered by the Demon Queen of Limbo from the worst ravages. It's not quite so bad as it could be, but moving at brilliant speeds does tend to be... jarring.

The landing into Earth itself is a bit easier, but for those who have never taken a proper spiritual or bodily journey, they might be forgiven. Next time, she might just use one of those firefly-spark portals so beloved of practitioners of the Mystic Arts.

"Knock, knock," is a bit after the fact. Illyana will, in fact, knock. Regrettably so. Gathering the spirits... one has to hope they were right about this.

Dane Whitman has posed:
It might be unclear if it's the Lady holding onto Dane or Dane holding onto The Lady, as he's a little wobbly for the transit through Limbo. He's had some rough trips but that was pretty near the top of the list, at least as first experiences go.

"Whoof." He oh-so-eloquently exhales, studying the place before them with a wry tilt of a brow towards the Lady, "I'm sure it's nicer on the inside. Or at least interesting."

Takako Kyozan has posed:
Once all of the others have passed through the portals, Takako will join them but not before taking one final parting shot at the oncoming wave of darkness from Brooklyn.

Taking advantage of the moment's respite bought by Amanda's concussive shield blast, Takako begins to focus her Tama, gathering the life/soul energy of the natural world, the spiritual force that empowers the Shinto 'Gods' which dwells within her. Bringing her hands into a sphere shape in front of her, the gathered energy is suspended in the center and condensed, forced into as tiny and compact a point as she can possibly manage. Once it seems that it cannot possibly contain any more and begins to reach critical mass, she releases it, thrusting it outward.

The effect is instanteous as the gathered Tama energy explodes outward in a violent beam of spiritual light slicing through the shambling hoard and continuing outward towards the oncoming wave of encroaching darkness.

She doesn't wait around though, if that didn't stop it, nothing she has will and even if it did there's still too many shamblers. With one last scan of her surroundings to make sure everyone is through, she too steps through the portal.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The front door to the Sanctum Sanctorum opens, and there stands Doctor Strange. He's bloodied, a deep cut above one eye and the vestments of his office charred and torn in places. He winces slightly, favoring one leg as he moves to step out of the way and allow the new arrivals entry.

Behind Strange, in the Victorian parlor of the Sanctum Sanctorum, a group has gathered. A young, pale woman wearing woodgrain headphones and a Walkman lays on a fainting couch with what look like eldritch-inscribed bandages bound about her naked midriff. Near to her stands the man in the pinstripe suit, the Spirit of Manhattan, that Illyana and Takako had already met in an abandoned subway station. He chatters on his phone, staring idly up towards the ceiling.

"The others should be here soon," says the Doctor, gesturing for them to come inside, "Mister Whitman, my old mentor spoke very highly of you. Ms. Sefton, you've done a wonderful job - one might think you'd manifested genii locorum before. Kyozan-san, we have much to discuss when other matters aren't so dire."

As Illyana passes him, however, Strange lifts a hand to place it on her shoulder. His eyes are both apologetic and determined as he catches her eye.

"Illyana ... there may be more for you to do."