374/Did We Just Become BFFs

Did We Just Become BFFs
Date of Scene:	09 March 2020
Location:	Shadowcrest Manor - Bristol Township
Synopsis:	Illyana and Zatanna bond over coffee and other things.
Cast of Characters:	Zatanna Zatara, Illyana Rasputina

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Zatanna Zatara has posed:
After meeting Illyana last night, finally Zatanna had figured out who those imps she came across in Coney Island belonged to. But she had totally forgotten to get Illyana's email. Or phone number. Or anything. But she wanted to reach out to her. So after a shower and change to get comfortable and get the thoughts of Genosha off of her mind, the umbra-haired magician made her way back to her summoning circle from earlier in the night.

She clears out the Daily Planet and the remains of the bottle of Cutty Sark she had used to bait Constantine. Instead, she tries to find and focus on that one part of the spell that brought the blonde sorceress to her. She closes her eyes, and starts to gesture as she lights each of the candles and speaks.

"Em maroc.
Soe mutnogergnoc,
Da te,
Mudnevlos te retitop,
Soe mudnagil da,
Murdneisnoc da."

She repeats the chant, and then continues in her backwards speech.

"Anaylli."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Good luck finding Illyana Rasputina listed anywhere. A social media profile? Nyet. Phone book? How quaint. Prodding Doctor Strange? Plausible. Those methods work well enough, though dragging a fingertip through the stews of time and space to locate that gilt-tressed Queen of Limbo comes a little less than easily done.

Or it would, if she actually occupied the Otherspace connecting those realms and dimensions spread out around the mainline Earth dimension like so many onionskin layers, slipping through and past another, a primum mobile sent spinning by the word of God and the hands of angels.

Another matter if she happens to be sitting in front of a screen, furiously destroying an arcane wall that just /happens/ to be in the way. Fingers fly across the controllers. In her existence, being a dab hand at combat counts as much in a digital world as a regular one. Candles flicker, somewhere, and one by one turn to a strange shade of blue tipped in gold. The same hue as a sword, in fact, that cleaved a good chunk off a Sentinel. Flickering, a spark, and there she is, dropping the wireless controller and the barrettes holding back her icy fair hair forking violently back as a defensive mechanism. Hey, it makes her look mildly more impressive when the summoning circle bends like water and there she is.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
She hadn't actually expected to bring Illyana to her. Zatanna would have dressed the part if that were the case. Instead, she's in a sleep shirt that reads 'when the Dungeon Master smiles, it's already too late' and a pair of shorts, her legs folded under him. "Whoa. Hi." she manages, Zatanna's tone is sheepish as she blushes. "I uh, was just trying to call you - not summon."

And then she notices the controller. "I hope you weren't live-streaming?" she asks in a bit of worry before she smiles more genuinely. "Well, since you're here... I mean, I can send you back if you want me to!"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
She's the demon queen. Demonic queenly titles aside, the fragmented parts of her soul sometimes resonate to the shimmering protests across distance. Either way, the teenager in her off-the-shoulder sweater and a pair of leather pants hardly manifests as the most fierce creature in existence. Neither is she entirely put out, though her bunched buns are already falling out. A good shake of her head sends them falling free, crashing over her shoulders, giving a look of at least something approaching normalcy. Strip the last coats of innocence away, it looks like that. "People call for emergencies," she explains without preamble. No sword there, nothing to indicate readiness to go arse-over-tea kettle into trouble. "You have not reconvened the others."

This is a statement, far from accusing. Deadpan, but then Russian from the sorceress frequently is where coffee or the carousing with demons is not actually involved. She tips her head slightly to the question and then shakes it, giving Zatanna that direct look. Blunt like a hammer, this one, sometimes. "Everything is well?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"No emergency. More... a social call?" asks Zatanna, before the young woman pushes herself to her feet and dusts her backside off. "I was in Coney Island the other day, and it was attacked by some Imps. They share the same magical energies that you do. I was able to secure them in a chest, but I didn't want to disspell them if they were needed for something." she admits as she watches the blonde let her hair down and there's a warmer flush of her cheeks.

"And I thought maybe... I should apologize for what John was trying to do. He has a poor opinion of anything with demonic tendencies... it was one of the things we fought about before..." she shrugs her shoulders with a sigh. "He's just an ass sometimes." she finally admits. "And if I'd known he was that serious, I'd sent him away before I let him hurt you."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
A social call: this brings a look of general bemusement, head tilted slightly. Surely Illyana has heard of such a thing. She tucks her hands into her back pockets, surprising that such pants even have an extra layer of such, and rocks slightly onto the balls of her feet. What constitutes a somewhat casual gesture might be deemed less harmful, considering Zatanna /has/ seen her leaping between buildings with an ease that would be equivalent Superman blindfolded, drunk, hobbled, wrapped in a straitjacket, and bearing three nodules of kryptonite somewhere on his person. (Not so impressive.) "Imps," she replies, a certain smart edge teetering on the margins of a statement. A nod revolves with familiarity on the subject. "I can talk to them if they are contained." That much is easy to promise, anything further contingent on what she's dealing with.

Zatanna's apology earns the stygian-haired sorceress a lengthy look, nothing there entirely prying, but simply assessing. The smirk is slow to rise, but it does. "His loss. Invoking an Our Father on me does not work. I could take communion if I wanted."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Don't tell him that. I want to see the look on his face." Zatanna says with a sly little smile as the sorceress considers the platinum mutant. "But that proves part of my theory. You weren't born a demon, or of demon blood, were you?" she asks curiously. And while she's doing that, she moves to a corner of the room to grab a steamer trunk and drags it to the middle of the room. Inside are nasty little noises and promises of eating Zatanna's bones if they get free.

"I'm not sure if he was trying to protect me, or impress me, or what. But it was dumb." she sighs, shaking her head in mild frustration. "We've been broken up for months, yet he acts like that." There's no heat in her complaint, just frustration.

"So..." she decides to broach the subject from another angle. "...you usually hang out with other magic types?" she asks, a slight fidget of her hands. The usually confident mage shaken just a little. She didn't expect that non-Queen Illyana to be so... so... wholesome isn't the right word. But it's close.

"I came across a new Maker today. I'm going to hold a little party for her here. I thought maybe you'd like to come?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Born? Nyet." That much is given away for free, though Illyana runs her hand up and down her forearm, bringing some sense of warmth beneath the sweater hanging loose and light to her wrist. "Bad advertising after the fall of Imperial Russia, that is all." Jokes are hard for her to come by, feeling for the unfamiliar shapes of them, though she has a degree of deadpan, desert-dry appeal there for the unexpected. "He dislikes demons. It is reflex, then. Choose wrong and die, otherwise, da?"

The pepperings of Russian inflected among the words give a confounding balance between someone who speaks English with post-university grade eloquence and clearly has the advantages of her far eastern oblast applied. Nodding, she watches Zatanna without making sudden movements. Probably the best, that way, not to give the woman unease on home court. "Sometimes we do. I know the Doctor best. Others as they come." A shrug lands lightly, tugging on the slanting neckline of the sweater, skewing it definitely lower to the side. "Many want a low profile. They want normal lives. Others, less." A shroud of platinum-fair hair spills over her features, undercutting the prospects of youth to a point she truly might be a lost Christmas ornament, but for the lies behind the mask. Porcelain concealing horrors, nothing new there. Remaining cautious and slow moving, she glances to that mysterious trunk and cantilevers, bent in twain, listening intently and ultimately smirking.

"I can come. The last Maker I barely knew. You were acquainted? With more of the community too?" Small talk and Illyana get along like oil and solar plasma. Either way, the curses from the imps within keep rolling along without interruption yet. Maybe letting them tire themselves out like mouthy kindergartners is the way to go.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"Are you cold, I can warm things up!" Zatanna may not realize what a loaded statement that is, she just noticed the demoness fidgetting, and then the amusement at the thought of a demoness being cold makes her laugh, slapping a hand over her mouth to stop herself as she considers. "I didn't go to school, as it were. I grew up with magicians and mages. It's really been my whole life." she admits as she rubs at her own forearm in thought.

"But when most of the people you know in your circle have years on you, it makes it hard, you know. Friends, dating, what have you. The new Maker, she's closer to our age. And I thought it would be neat to host a little party. Nothing fancy. Just us girls, and others like us, getting together, learning about each other and setting up a support circle."

Because it was so uncool that John brought in Strange without asking her.

"Anyway, this is my home. I mean, it's my family home. But I'm the only member of my family currently. There's an awesome library, and repository... and if you ever want to use it, I'll be happy to have you over, or if you want to hang out."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Nyet, I am fine. Thank you." Even demons have manners. Illyana tiptoes her way to the edge of the fascinating case, giving Zatanna a wide berth. Not out of fear, so much, perhaps as a specific intent not to raise the stakes or discomfort any more than they already are. "Most mages seem to be like everyone else. I give them the benefit of that doubt." Her thumb circles her fingertip, scouring away a few rough lines there. Then a nod, short and quick, as is so often her nature. She rarely bothers with excess motions when the crisp and short ones will do.

"Rooting new people will help. No hiding away, no feeling forgotten." Judging the idea, she offers that to her hostess, narrowing in on the familiar chatter from the angry imps within the box. They have no idea who stands outside, much less what is about to happen after the door opens. She puts her hand upon the lid, the outline fingers fanned wide. "A support circle? To answer questions or deal with..." Her toe kicks the trunk. The protests inside become particularly inventive about what her skin might be used for, and how they are going to unleash wrath and ruin for seven -- no, /eight/ generations on, and everyone will know the destruction of uppity ladies. You'd think they might recognize how foolish threats are, but imps may be creative. Smart? Not always. "Why would you open your doors to me?"

It's an honest question. When the ranting from the trunk devolves into reanimating bones to run a jousting tournament, she rolls her pale blue eyes.

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna doesn't seem to mind the closeness. Instead, she steps closer to join Illyana at the case. "For starters, when John and Strange were doing their thing last night, you stood beside me. And you never know when one of us might need help from the other. Like with what happened last night." she explains, clasping her hands in front of her at waist level. She listens to the treats from the imps within the box, and arches her brow.

"Are they always this fiesty?" she asks curiously as she watches the platinum Queen for a moment. "Is there a reason I should not open my doors to you?" she asks her curiously, deciding to get to the point. "It's not like I'm asking you to dinner or on a date."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Zatanna is the shadow for the arctic wraith, who carefully kneels. "Their thing. Ill-explained and poorly formed," Illyana opines. "They had their reasons. Reasons best explained and not guessed. My methods are not theirs, though." She runs a circle around the top of the trunk, feeling out for any enchantments with an almost literal tactile examination. Wood or metal or steel, they all receive the same thorough regard.

"Often," she murmurs. Then her teeth click together and a cacophonous tintinnabulation that shouldn't be possible for a human throat to form becomes a very real melody artfully plied with brilliant violence, scoured and flickering with an artful cruelty to the ear. <<You worthless cretins do not have right to speak in the presence of Sorcerer Queen of Limbo. Quell this unseemly display or be fed to the Lindwurm of the Devouring Darkness.>> The Demonic Vulgate in all its forms has a certain degree of linguistic drift, and it's certainly rather ugly. Still. The effect is probably there, either causing a miasma of silence or a great deal of disgust. Do as one will.

"I am sorry for their rudeness," she says without preamble, going back to English like nothing. A bit of massaging her throat becomes a necessity. "I am unused to being welcome. Or dated."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna understood every single word of it. She didn't need any translation. And neither did the imps as they shut up, the box shaking in fear as it rattles. The sorceress arches a brow, and wows. "You totally have the power there, I was just getting ready to throw them in the attic and forget about them." Her grin is playful at that before she moves to take a seat in one of the chairs near the fireplace.

"Come on. No boyfriend to speak of?" she asks, and then laughs. "It's for the best, really. So much trouble, they are." There's a breath as she folds one leg over the other and hugs her knee with her hands. "There's no more need to apologize for their rudeness than there was for me for Constantine's behavior." Yes, she realizes the duality of that statement as she worries on her lower lip in thought.

"The game you were playing, when I brought you over. Is it popular? I never was exposed to popular culture when I was younger, so I missed out on the whole video game thing. But I have a lot of board games..." Then she grins, a bubbly tone to her voice. "...and of course cards."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"My subjects behave better than this," speaks the teenager with the poise of someone thrice her age, and at least ten years better of practicing or exercising that authority she has no business having. Dark shadows linger at the edges of her being, splintering any prospects of being polite. Tapping the top of the trunk, she rises from that stooped position, straightened and stiff long enough to assure all the vertebrae of her back are aligned just so. Illyana's not going to kick the trunk just so, but sadly for the imps, she now has her metaphysical eye on them and chances of them escaping her notice are next to nil.

Boohoo. "You have trouble. He chainsmokes. Open wound of a man, that one." It's an odd sentiment to speak but she drops down to sit cross-legged on the floor next to the trunk. Comfy to lean against if she wants to, and it doesn't interfere with crossing a circle of candles in case there really is a silver-and-salt laced ward there. Zatanna might have ideas! It could be a ridiculous game of hide and seek. "Keeping them in the attic is an offense to them, though, and worth it." Imps or boyfriends? Let the magician suss that out herself as she bounces her heel.

"I do not know how popular. I play Elder Scrolls because my friends do." A shrug of her shoulder. "How else can I decimate them fairly without practice? We did cards and board games growing up. Easier to make." Make?

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Make? Zatanna catches on that. She also caught on that Illyana has friends. And here she is, monopolizing her time. Then she realizes something. "Oh my god, this is so not a binding circle!" she's quick to point out as she moves to snuff out a candle. Just to make sure Illyana knows she's welcome here. She doesn't open her doors to many. But she's earned her trust.

"I'd really like to hang out with you more often. I don't get out of the house much. And with my public life..." she laughs. "I don't have many people I can call personal friends." comes the quiet admission. "And like I said... most people in our circle are way older than us. I was so excited to meet people closer to my age." There's a light smile as she moves to sit down next to Illyana, if she allows.

"Elder Scrolls? That sounds interesting. I may have to try it. Though internet in this house is well... I get more of a magic net."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"I am not normal company," says Illyana, understating the obvious. She shrugs her shoulders and rubs at her knee, then rests her hand there. Fidgeting is absent; the excessive motions about her other than nodding or breathing and blinking originate from the simple difficulties of being mortal. Shifting weight, now and then. See, totally human. "Russia where I lived was different. We did not have so much." A long pause settles in there, free for inserting any kind of descriptor. So much money. Games. People. Fancy houses, streets, magic, anything. It's no secret what the fall of the USSR did.

She taps her fingertip to her leather-bound knee, hardly immune to Zatanna's volume or the other tells. "The circle is old. Knowledge is power, so they hoard it. Fearing the questions, never answering." Her teeth show for a moment, a brief glimmer in that smile that is no smile. A sweet hunter's smile, a predator's look then. "What do you do? When not here doing magic things?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna considers the question. "Well, I'd say do average things. I like to shop. Coffee shops... I have a weakness for mochas frappucinos." she admits with a laugh. "My whole life has been inudated in magic." she admits. "This house, travelling with my father before he vanished." she lets out a breath at that and shakes her head. The raven-haired sorceress considers. "Most of the time, I'm here studying or reading or trying to be better."

"I guess I'm kind of a shut-in when I'm not performing." she finally admits, the real Zatanna showing through as she presses her knees to her chest and hugs herself. "A friend of mine asked me to help her recently, so that got me out of the house. But if it wasn't for that, I'd probably hide in here all the time, Illyana. This whole idea for a party for Marly? It's not something I'd normally ever do."

She glances up, sapphire eyes turned to Illyana. "I just don't want to be alone, I guess."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Zatanna hits the big red button and Illyana's pale gaze illuminates. "Yes," she agrees. "Coffee." Coffee, the great common ground, a leveller. "I drink too much of it." The roll of her slender shoulder indicates something akin to trouble, an amusement there buried beneath the glacial-high reserve usually guarding her against everyone. "I am sorry for your loss." This is spoken formally, though it holds a definite quantity of earnestness. Not likely to be wise to speak to a sorceress whose command of word magic likely extends far into the empathic reach, tone and timbre giving away far, far too much.

"Magic is loneliness." She holds up her hand, fingers splayed. A few motes take form, swirling around in a lazy circle, orbitting according to purposes unclear to most. "See the invisible. Fear the unknown. They walk beyond the veil ignorant, and those within must measure everyone. Friend, foe? Rival? Servant? Too many of us are taught this way."

Of course, too many people being taught the Mystic Arts learn a perfectly suitable way of practicing that doesn't involve the loss of her soul, the cracking open of self and psyche to every flaying torment there is. But that's water under a bloody bridge. "You perform. Hiding in plain sight. You have the public on your own terms, da?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
Zatanna grins. "If it will get you over here more often, I'll open a Starbucks in the basement." her laugh is light and warm as she considers her words and frowns. "In our line of work, we are taught not to trust others, that our secrets are our alone."

Taking up a candle, she holds it up, concentrating on it. She takes a couple of moments, and then speaks.

"Eldnac nrut otni puc fo eeffoc."

And the candle becomes a cup of coffee, that she offers to Illyana. "Fresher that any man on a donkey can bring you." she says with a wink. "We're taught to protect our magic. It's why I became so cross with John last night when I thought he had used my own mnemonics against me." she admits as she considers her thoughts.

"We talk too much about rivals, or servants, or foes. I think we could do more together. I don't like that what happened in Genosha is being hidden from us. Strange said you were there. But you were only able to help the souls... not find out what caused the whole thing?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"One day I will buy a coffee press. And then I will drink the blackness of the soul and rejoice," admits the petite blonde sorceress. Her long legs cross again, stretched out in front of her. "Secrecy is a fool's game. It slays more than it saves." Her shoulder lifts in a shrug again, that brief, elegant description of movement abbreviated to the utmost necessity, and entirely as arrogant as a young woman can possibly be.

Artful poetry it isn't. Magic flaring to Zatanna's bidding goes without too much shock to her, though there is something to be said for adjusting lightly to this newness, testing out the boundaries of what is normal. A flick of her wrist and the portal opens to a place saturated in the shadows, the lilting chords of a guitar drowsily spilling through the glimmering gateway awash in white-blue light that deepens to gold. Don't stare too close to the edges or else the reflections of undulating reality are bent awry, displaying horrors that should not be submerged into shadowy forms. Exorciating the norms is just part of what she is. Beyond, though, a beaten granite countertop is laden with a few white cups and she picks up a mug, hauling it through while the drowsy atmosphere constricts her efforts. This is open thievery, in fairness, but she manages to pull a few American bills from her pocket and slip them into place.

One cuppa coffee, fresh as it gets, handed over in exchange for Zatanna's largesse. "Cubano," she says. "It's potent." A warning possibly unnecessarily given, perhaps, and then it brings out that faint golden smile that's crooked more than anything. "Genosha. We went. We fought against the barrier holding back the dead. All of them. It nearly took him, and I have no desire to let anyone through that gate again."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"So we may not need to open a coffee bar." Zatanna says with a light laugh, mirth in her tone as she wraps her hands around the mug to warm it. "I'm not a fan of hiding things. My father wasn't either. My mom passed away soon after I was born, so it was always me and him." she admits. "And his philosophy was to hide in plain sight. After all, if David Copperfield can convince people he made the Statue of Liberty disappear and that Criss Angle can really float... hacks." she says with a grin. "But I don't regret spending three years in Vegas with my own stage show. Someone had to show the world that girls can do it too."

"I admit, though, I never used Magic in my show." The capital M is implied. "Sleight of hand, legerdemain, parlor tricks, I did all of those. But I never summoned for my own power. It didn't feel fair. I wanted people to think that while what I did seem impossible, it was something they could do."

"I even let Penn and Teller figure out one of my tricks." she admits with a sly smile. "Only because I like them. Teller is so cute with that mute act he does. I couldn't be quiet like he is all the time. Of course, that makes sense... my whole thing is based on me being able to speak." She sips from the coffee, closing her eyes and then they open wide and she woos. "...well, if you're planning to keep me up all night, you better have plans." comes the teasing lit.

"Strange seemed sure that us figuring out where those Sentinels came from would have affected that gate, somehow. Does that mean that the Sentinels were somehow magically summoned?" she asks finally. "Strange avoided that question when I asked."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Coffee to be claimed, coffee from a candle with no waxy aftertaste. Illyana possesses her brew with a particular focus, hands curving to the cup, and pulling it close. No one is getting that, not a chance. Come too close and she might bare fangs and snap, as if that were a risk to be faced. The scent indulges one sense, the others settling in the heat glow and the prospects of the flavour rolling around on her tongue. "Did you like Vegas?" she asks.

Hello coffee, time to romance you right here and now. Her lips press to the rim of the cup and the first brush might burn. So? Scalding it goes down, swallowed with gratitude, eyes slivering to almost close with a radiant darkness that blooms in the self. "Convincing them of truth is harder than making it happen, da?" Zatanna's lost her completely on who Penn and Teller are, though, which is fairly evident since her head tilts a fraction at their name. "Silencing someone calls for other interesting outcomes." She smirks again, spectacularly certain in her state of affairs.

Genosha, though, warrants a highly degree of consideration. She shakes her head. "They were there. I saw them in the attack. It was too late."

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"I enjoyed Vegas. It was nice to be close to the fans. But at the same time? I had my butt grabbed more times than I care to count." Zatanna shakes her head at that as she enjoys her own cup, another draw from the dark liquid that flutters her eyes and causes her to finally stretch out, a flower spreading it's petals to come into bloom again.

"I could tell them it was magic. I could have done the same thing I just did with you, and they'd look for the gimmick. How'd I pull it off. Where the candle went. Where the cup came from. All the mechanics of it. They don't grasp that I can just say a few words backwards... and things happen." she shrugs her shoulders, the voluptous brunette willing to accept that idea.

"So somehow they were summoned." she says finally, her lips pulling into a thin line. "No purpose. No rhyme or reason we figured out yet. Just there." She sighs and leans back, her shoulder lightly touched to Illyana's own as they share the trunk's face. "It doesn't make any sense. But... I don't want to think too much on it anymore. I'm sorry for bringing it up. I'd rather just enjoy the time with you."

Then she grins and gives a light nudge. "You said you didn't have time for dating. Is it because of lack of interest?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Sympathetic wince from the Devil? Yes, well, there it is. Though she isn't /the/ Devil, simply one of them, and the curve of her lips indicates a particular opinion about butt-grabbing in Vegas. This would be sharp enough to harm the unfortunates, of course. But they aren't anywhere she can reach, so Illyana can simply will bad thoughts their way after a moment or two.

Caffeine has no mellowing quality here. Then again, Russian. Considering what would be needed to flatten her, the possibilities are severely limited. "They come for entertainment. Something more than the boredom of their lives. You provide it. Then it is satisfying, da?" Simple queations, but rarely are things so simple. Night and day, the pair of them, spinning around a common center. She brings the cup to her lips, more indulgent in the utter-most burn upon the skin than anything entirely originating from the flavour.

"I am missing a piece. Why they are in Genosha. Who brought them. Who murdered /so many/," subtle stress there but it vibrates with a quiet rage. "When that is found, then the spear moves to their heart. Questions must be answered and atonement for the death they caused. Justice does not exist in the world. But sometimes, things can be leveled." Soft, flat fact lies before them, and nothing in there is unreasonable. Her gaze lifts to Zatanna's, and she goes terribly still indeed against the trunk.

"I rule a kind of hell. That is not exactly welcoming, da?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"That is what John would say. You rule a kind of hell. That would turn a lot of people off. I've spent the last couple of hours here with you, and I've discovered something different. There's more to you than horns and a tail. That beneath that cool and beautiful Russian ice, is a passion of your own. Russians are known for that too, you know." Zatanna points out to Illyana as she winces slightly at the lip burn.

"That is what I wanted to know. That's why I was going there. Just to get cock-blocked." She says it before she realizes she said and she blushes suddenly and giggles. "You have to admit, in his robes, Strange does kinda look like a rooster, right?" she asks the pale blonde with a smirk. Then she sobers and turns her attention back to the conversation. "...if Miss Lane had not been there, I may have pushed it. But I did not want to cause her harm." she admits. "But I want to find them as well. I know I am no mutant. But that does not mean I am not horrified by what happened. And that justice must be mettled for it."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Burning won't bother her, not exactly. Illyana curls her fingers around the mug tighter, content to let the heat pouring through the points of contact to seep into her skin. Coffee really is worth the effort. One might easily imagine she has been long deprived of it or something. The vibration of delight creeping down her spine settles into a black puddle of possibilities, curling and coalescing with unnatural purpose.

"I do not think they mean poorly. Perhaps they do not know." She shrugs her shoulders slightly to Zatanna, the mention of a rooster causing a spluttering laugh. Sharp as ice, jagged glacial fragments of it crashing into a sea, but there they are. "The cloak," she says. "It may help? But they wanted Wanda. A wise idea, but the longer we wait, the fewer answers we have. I do not like sitting still without good reason."

The glittering edges are in those pale blue eyes, too, frostfire in the suspended form. "This is why. What are we waiting for? Do /you/ know?"

Zatanna Zatara has posed:
"I'm going to find Wanda. I know they said that Lorna is the new Queen... but Wanda is of us. And we can use as much support there as we can get. Which means I will probably ask John to honor his words on the beach to help us." Zatanna admits. In the foyer, a clock chimes the turn of the day, and she blinks. "Oh goodness, I've kept you here all night..." She sets aside her mug to push herself up. "I should let you get back home to deal with this." She nudges the trunk with a bare foot.

"...but I'd like to keep in touch with you. I enjoyed this. I haven't... ever had a chance to do this. Thank you. And I know you probably are not a hugger, but I'd like to be your friend, and well, if you'd allow me to hug you before you head off? It'd make my night." she teases. "And come back on Friday. We'll make a party of it."