449/Strange Dreams

Strange Dreams
Date of Scene:	12 March 2020
Location:	Sanctum Santorum
Synopsis:	Weird things are afoot at the Sanctum
Cast of Characters:	Michael Hannigan, Stephen Strange, Clea

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Michael Hannigan has posed:
As the evening hours set in and persons start to slumber away in the quiet night. There is a peace all around. The lights are dimmed at the Sanctum. Perhaps not in the effort to bring about restful sleep. But perhaps to put other things to rest.

There is no fire burning in the fireplace. The weather around now not providing the need for it. But there is a pot of tea and a place setting for two set upon the coffee table. But only one is currently poured. The other cup, remains empty, seemingly awaiting for a guest to arrive.

Stephen Strange has posed:
    Stephen steps into his dinnette and looks at the quaint scene set up before him. Wearing just his simple tunic without a belt and a pair of slacks with black socks on his feet, he shuffles into the kitchen area and looks to the table and chairs with tea half poured.

    "Presumptuous." The wizard remarks to the space before him and steps towards the chairs, refusing to take a seat, for now.

Clea has posed:
Slumber comes to the city that never sleeps. Greenwich Village tucks itself in as the party people throng to cellars converted to clubs or wedge themselves in the dorms around New York University. Dimmed lights offer more sophisticated escapes for those burning the candles at both ends. Their glow is pulled away unconsciously, gathered in the pale hair of a lone woman passing the sidewalk. She turns to the bank of shops, a drycleaner, and cafes holding court in front of a large singular building. Stopping there in the middle of the road is a great way to get flattened by a bus, if any of them turn directly in front of the grandiose mansion among so many brownstones and Revolutionary-inspired lanes gone higgledy-piggledy wherever they like. A smile forms as she takes in the window open to the sky.

The wards wrapped around the Sanctum Sanctorum might first detect the disturbance rather than the figure: eldritch fire, gobs of it, disturbing the aether. A major power source, seething and roiling. A familiar mark underneath once the glare clears, one of its own who comes near the doors.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
"It is a bit late for coffee, Doctor." A male voice replies, betraying a bit of an Irish accent from above. Well, above and a bit closer to the curtain rod.

Perched upon the edge, a rather large three foot tall, ebony corvid is hunkered down. Within reason, the size of the raven should be causing problems to the curtain rod with its weight, but nothing really seems bothered by its presence. It was allowed in, after all.

The bird looks to Strange, "Remind me please, how long has it been since you took over?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
    "Oh. It's one of you." Stephen says as he looks up to the onyx bird on his curtain, and this causes the wizard to quirk an eyebrow and not much more. "I assume this is to do with the meeting I had with your... what was he, your understudy?" Stephen asks as the wizard then holds up a finger towards Leo.

    Stephen leans over the table and presses his face to the glass to figure out what that was that caused the house itself to shiver... "Something's approaching. Mind yourself."

Clea has posed:
Those moments having the concrete under her feet gives Clea pause. She stops just short of the front steps and scuffs her boots. Once or twice, to feel the grating on the soles. Smiling wider, she might spend a little too long standing on tiptoe before the Sanctum's doors. Long enough for the impressions to return to the mansion's master that line up like a faded photograph to a more current digital snapshot. Some things are unmistakably the same, others distorted or shifted through an imperfect lens. The Faltine signature is like trying to cover a bonfire with a bucket, but the raging ethereal storm atop that prickling with raw, eldritch power. Like one of the great channelings very few perform. Just walking around New York City, like you do.

Still, she approaches to give a proper knock unless the doors open themselves. After the knock, her hands go back into her pockets. Anyone looking there would just see a rather tall, fair-haired woman in modern clothes.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
The bird chuckles, "Pote-" He quiets, looking over towards the sorceror. The beak closes, a flat line. No expression as he just stills, blending into the old decor by just seeming like the type of decoration some old kook WOULD use to add a bit of gothic flair.

Stephen Strange has posed:
    The house itself will welcome Clea back to their insides as they swing inwardly, almost avoiding her rasps out of fear or respect or some notion a house shouldn't be able to possess. The foyer is grand as ever, with an open plan going from the checkard floor to the grand vaulted roof, encased by a branching staircase around the outsides of the room. The presence of Stephen can be felt not far off to the south in the dinnette/kitchen area, next to one of the few windows in the Sanctum that acutally looks outside and yet.

    The wizard looks up to Leo, aware the man is a phantasm and likely decent from immigrants, but who isn't. Stephen motions for Leo to follow, "Not sure who let you in, but it seems my house is open to all manner of visitors this night." He notes to himself as he moves to look at the doorway, curious and cautious.

Clea has posed:
Clea isn't quite aware of someone pretending to be part of the decor, partly because the decor is changed and not. She lifts her hand to offer a Queen Elizabeth-esque wave at the open air. "Thank you." A look over her shoulder determines whether the doors will shut by themselves or anyone wander out like Jeeves. When the echoing quiet of the foyer closes around her, she runs her hand along her upper arm and chafes it. "If that is how it will be then. If the mountain will not come to Muhammad?"

She is headed for them, a roaming dot of magical energy along the corridor. Its layout may be familiar or not, but she walks down the corridor, trying not to pause every so often to look into rooms or take in the latest acquisition on a table, under glass, behind spellbound imprisonment. Are there snakes laughing at her in some kind of peculiar ophidian tongue, a joke she doesn't share? Focus! The willowy platinum blonde keeps on her merry way towards the dining room, more or less. There aren't footfalls anymore to signal where she heads.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
The bird hops off of the curtain rod, form shifting to more human preportions. A reddish-blonde man takes the place of the raven, dressed in old jeans, a gray shirt, and a brown long coat. There's still a bit of oddness to him as he doesn't make any sounds either as he follows Strange to see who the newcomer is.

Stephen Strange has posed:
    "Who goes there?!" Stephen calls out loudly to the person approaching the kitchenette and Stephen even goes so far as to push out a signular spell to push out a spell to the doorway that has no door. It's a barrier that is pure concentrated magi-will, holding up as long as Stephen can maintain his focus. Just something to keep the possible intruder out and him, the sorcerer supreme safe. And Leo too.

Clea has posed:
The will of the Sorcerer Supreme pitted against just about any other mystic is assured to be well beyond their means to overcome. When she hears the challenge, Clea's frost-white eyebrows lift. A softening roundness shapes her mouth, no sound quite forming into recognizable words, hesitating as the spell gathers form and force before her eyes. Momentum drains into a pure reversal, flitting backwards a few feet at speeds defying just taking one long step. Leo and Stephen might well be harder to see than she is.

A faint nimbus of light rolls down her body, the dying lamplight and ambient illumination borrowed from outside suffusing the margins of her figure. It makes her loose, wavy hair seem pearl white, netting that soft glow without benefit of standing directly in front of an electric bulb or the set sun. With a little curl of her fingers in the universal sign of another way, she finally speaks up in a warm, bright tone. "I seek the hospitality for the night at the sanctum of Novum Eboracum, as a humble student of the complex at Kamar-Taj in transit between places." Sketching a roll of her wrist, she bares both palms to show they are empty. "The disciple Clea."

Michael Hannigan has posed:
The Irish-man looks over to the electro-light parade entrance, unamused before looking back towards Strange curiously, "I could have sworn I entered into the waking realm. Did I accidentally go into your dream instead?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
    Stephen lifts an eyebrow towards Leo and notes, "You might have." Stephen then lowers the barrier between him and Clea asking as he steps forwards, "Clea? The Clea?" Stephen asks looking cautious but a lot more disarmed than he was mere moments ago in regards to his and Leo's safety.

Clea has posed:
The Irishman's question brings out a soft laugh. "Oh no. He must be wide awake, I hope. Or somehow we all wandered into the same dream-space and have not noticed?" Clea drops her hands in front of her, clasping them instead. It's a peace gesture as much as a way to defuse any possibility someone could mistake her as intimidating or hostile. Not that she has much skill with that.

"Are there other Cleas there now?" she asks in kind, looking over Stephen and then back to Leo with a friendly little dip. "Pardon me, where is my head? I see I have interrupted you both in the middle of business. As it is not the best time, I can return later." The faint glow fades back, retreating into the lightest sheen if someone knows where to look. With it goes her smile, once more reserved and contrite. A step away from the dining room is the first on the path back outside.

Michael Hannigan has posed:
"Hmm. Well, either way, I don't believe this scenario is going where I need to be watching. You two kids make safe choices." Leo turns, pausing to glance back to Strange, "I do not know when I will be back so, thank you for helping him. The spells are- not normal. And- Good luck."

Not offering more clarity than that, he steps back, popping out of view.

Stephen Strange has posed:
    And just like that, Stephen is left standing with a cup of tea he can't drink, cooling on a table in a dark dinnette and the sorcerer supreme is suddenly very much alone. With a sigh to himself followed by a sharp shrug of his shoulders. "Magic." He grumbles to no one and turns to leave the room as it was.

Clea has posed:
"Good night, Stephen," calls Clea as she takes her leave.