6112/1000 Faces: The Herald

1000 Faces: The Herald
Date of Scene:	03 May 2021
Location:	Sanctum Santorum
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Stephen Strange
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

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Jane Foster has posed:
The night of April 30 sliding into May 1 used to garner celebrations throughout northern Europe as far as the Mediterreanean in ancient times. Once people lit fires to bespeak the arrival of the spring once more. Agrarian societies worshipped the heat and light as a god, rjeoicing in the defeat of the winter's cold once more. A Christian saint claims the old time when witches were vanquished and night thrown down, Beltane or Hexennacht banished from collective memory. Cleansed, as it should be.

But who ever forgets?

In modern times, the labour movement claims more significant victories in the public consciousness. Again in Europe, commonly people march in honour of workers rights. Not so much in the United States, which doesn't even give a public holiday. So May 1st ought to be just another night, guarded by a shrinking gibbous moon that shines through the murky skies overhead.

Greenwich Village might have the odd labour movement party, a union trying to eke out a bit of cool and acceptance by prodding at the younger set. Otherwise, the only disruptions surrounding the Sanctum Sanctorum originate from a late shipment of goods to a nearby restaurant and people dancing on a patio.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Contrary to popular belief, the master of the Sanctum Sanctorum does occasionally leaves the confines of the building...from time to time.

This time, the night finds Stephen actually outside, on the doorstep of the Sanctum itself. In the city that never sleeps, it is certainly possible to find a purveyor of fine delicacies open at any given time....and in Strange's hand is a slice of the finest New York pizza that the city can offer. At least, according to the location that Stephen, on a whim, decided to walk to, rather than using the modern convenience of food delivery apps or the other means of delivery the good doctor has at his disposal. The walk did him good. It allowed some fresh air...and an opportunity to mingle with others...as much as the doctor mingles, at least.

There is a pause as Strange looks on over to the people on the patio dancing. A slight smile graces his features as he watches for a moment longer, before deigning to step inside with his ill-gotten gains of dough and cheese and pepperoni...

Jane Foster has posed:
The city that never sleeps boasts a huge gig economy of people barely able to afford their rent working two, three, five jobs delivering stuff to nosh on. No one is spared cyclists, scooters or cars popping open for a quick delivery. Pad thai? Done. Afghan spiced meats? Say no more. Ethiopian tea? Done! Pizza, however, will never go out of style and piping hot, it delivers as much satisfaction to the belly as anything else.

The local pizzeria is probably open more than it's ever closed, still shining red and orange. That sidewalk littered by cigarette butts, greyed patches of gum, and hopeful weeds -- even they thrive in the Big Apple -- all the way back to the heart of the Village. Music plays through open windows. Conversations snake down from walk-ups and brownstones in many languages.

And in the hush of the moment, the overlapping protective screens radiating out from the Sanctum and its subsidiaries in the Old World come alive. A vibrating explosive wave detonates somewhere to the east and distinctly north, outside of the New York warding zone. Tremors spike in a selection of explosions overlapping one another, like fireworks cascading sickly green over a gaping crowd.

LIghts burn in the fabric of protection guarding the world.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The hand upon the doorknob. The door just barely opening. And...the clarion alarm sounds off. And yet, the music playing from open windows is undisturbed. Conversations continue unbidden. For the alarm is only for one person, in particular. One that, with a sense of urgency that was previously lacking, steps into the Sanctum proper, the pizza slice disappearing from his hand into nothingness.

He was so looking forward to that bite, too.

Nevertheless, there is work to be done. Shades of Strange's medical career float into the back corners of his mind. It is quite like being on call for surgery...only the shift never ends. Ever vigilant. Even at the cost of the best pizza in the five boroughs.

The Cloak comes to him unbidden. It knows there is trouble afoot. While the Orb of Agamotto isn't quite as helpful as the Cloak of Levitation, it matters not within the Sanctum itself. Strange simply steps forth, two turns to the right...another to the left, and through a door into the Chamber of Shadows. Sitting in the center, on a three legged pedestal under glass case, sits the perfectly spherical jewel. With a nod, Strange's voice breaks the silence...speaking to no one, with the exception of possibly his cloak, the orb itself, or to the Trinity.

"Let us see what all the commotion is about."

The words are not arcane. The gestures from weathered hands certainly are. The glass case lifts up. The jewel levitates. It is time to see what is truly happening.

Jane Foster has posed:
The world goes on uninterrupted. It did when Chernobyl blew and when Hiroshima evaporated into shadows. Nothing stopped it spinning through countless wars, empires lifted and thrown into rubble. Unaware mankind keeps up the tempo: eating, grooving, moseying down the street at a good clip. Stephen alone is subject to the terrible interruption of his hella good pie.

It can be reheated in an oven. Surely the Sorcerer Supreme can manage that. Some kind of rewarming spell?

Dangers etch themselves on his awareness, fed through the litany of wards laid over the building and linked to others situated in different cities. London is the closest, though the Windows over the World proffer excellent opportunity to flip through terrains in search of another view. Pregnant anticipation chases after him, heavy and thick, ponderously rolls towards conclusion. Crystallized focus reveals a web of vast shining orange lines -- that fiery, friendly hue of the Mystic Arts.

A quarter of the way around the world, a verdant stamp ringed in black blotches disrupts the protective barriers.

Stephen Strange has posed:
There, in the chamber, a frown forms for no one to see. A darkening of the countenance, as eyes regard the disturbances to the barriers. No trifle event would warrant such alarm. Not for the barriers that encircle the globe. No...this means that there needs to be a closer look of what exactly is happening. There is only so much that can be picked up remotely. Pizza or otherwise.

First...a finger reaches out, tapping at the air, the empty space between Strange and his scrying device. Two...no three anomalies. Hmm...not entirely a pleasant thought. Multiple incursions isn't exactly how one wanted to spend a Friday night.

But, then again, this comes with the job.

First, the signatures detected....what are they? Strange ponders, then closes his eyes, stretching out his mystical senses while remaining in the safety of the Sanctum. To journey on the Astral would be easy enough...but one must be careful. There...a rather corrupt force. Another, a distinct sensation of Asgardian. The third, foreboding, visceral...bloody. But...which one to investigate first? Which one holds the threat to this realm? Or, perhaps all three are working in tandem? It doesn't not seem that way....but something has certainly pressed against this dimension's wards.

And now its chosen guardian seeks out what threatens...

Jane Foster has posed:
Signatures carry a shared quality - death. The dark, destructive end of creative being. Life snipped off at the root is left to wither in the cool night gathering on the Scandinavian peninsula. Small points burn so tightly together they look like a raspberry inflicted on the arcane map. Small sparks that hold very little distance between them span a space no more than a square kilometer at best. Certainly not so impressive compared to many other threats in life.

Black sludge sparks and quivers. The green flames burn hot enough to barely wink, an acidic shade filling in pips on the berry blotch. Weakest of them all hold a greyish impression, shallowly rooted and blighted, while the other two actively sparkle and bubble.

None of them appear to fight against one another, hinting at harmony or at least willing coexistence. Excitable sparks grow along the sequestered area, and stabilize, death drawing strength from its very ilk.

But from where? One answer offered. The other spots are like pylons between death's realms to the earth.