7057/Lofty Ambitions

Lofty Ambitions
Date of Scene:	24 July 2021
Location:	Sanctum Santorum
Synopsis:	No description
Cast of Characters:	Stephen Strange, Illyana Rasputina

---

Stephen Strange has posed:
When planning events, it helps to know one's audience.

For instance, despite how comfortable a certain Russian sorceress appears in the morning with a silken smoking jacket, mornings are not a good time for said Russian sorceress...at least not until after the appropriate amount of caffeine has been consumed. Which Stephen has yet to fully calculate, but can only attest that it may indeed border on the unhealthy. Not that he is going to tell Illyana that.

No...with age comes wisdom, and Stephen knows not to trend down that path. Besides, he isn't exactly known for his lack of caffeine consumption, either.

So, that means that mornings are out. No problem there.

Then that means that the evening is the time to be sociable. To be seen. And, honestly, to treat his paramour to something more thrilling than the ghosts of bad fashion haunting his closets. Where exactly did she find that particular silk jacket, he wonders, and why did it have to look so damn good upon her? It has been a couple of days since the visit with the precocious young witch with the idol problem and yet, try as he might, Stephen just cannot get the image of that look out of his head. A person might say that he was working too hard...that he was too tired to concentrate on his work and therefore letting his mind wander. Strange himself would probably concur with this.

He definitely could use some rest and relaxation. And, really, so could Illyana.

It is high time they went out on the town.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Illyana Rasputina is a tough act, though not an incomprehensible one. She did not grow up in the lap of luxury or within a thousand miles of anything remotely luxurious, unless Irkutsk's finest Brutalist hovel housing an officer's club and administrative offices counts as opulent somehow. Next to the starving Siberian serfs forcibly relocated to the Far East of the fallen Soviet Union, even the regularly stocked 7/11 looks pretty intense. The Demon Queen of Limbo's typical dates up until one Stephen Strange included the mouth-watering menus of Olive Garden and slaying demons with a smile.

He's another level altogether but, then, this is the Sorcerer Supreme. Strip the cloak back and he still counts as the finest American neurosurgeon of his age, cited and surely dialled up now and then for recommendations from aspiring students, former colleagues, and mentors out for his input to the trickiest business. Not bad for a farmboy from the Midwest.

So a strange bar to meet, though if any man is set to meet that, it's one named Strange.

Besides, on the matters of caffeine consumption, Illyana only drinks coffee in the morning. Tea of the Russian sort applies all the rest. Her ability to eat food isn't corrupted but she tends to graze as she can with no real pleasure for it, whereas coffee is a defiant little addition above the meagre rations on the Russian Oregonisk Trail. How much is /really/ unhealthy when her physiology is demonic?

The digitigrade legs might be a problem with the smoking jacket. Wearing thigh-high boots, also. Strappy sandals she found in some closet, possibly even her own, make it almost look like a purposeful ensemble, so there she is, hair teased up with a black band. "This is what you had in mind, da?" The clipped language used with Abcde as a default is missing. "Or am I to go fetch my favourite pair of jeans and call it a night wearing a proper uniform? I had it suggested perhaps I need an evening gown, but I don't know exactly what those are in your world."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"You need not worry yourself about an evening gown. I did not have that sort of night in mind." The tone is warm, pleasant. It certainly does not have that sense of grandeur that the young Miss Prescelta seemed to have picked up from Strange. And...there is good reason for that. Stephen doesn't have to live up to the title with Illyana. A small concession, certainly, but still rather important. It means that there are no need for lofty ambitions. Just a couple of people, going out. "I remember that you had asked me out to dance once...and I, like a fool, did not follow through with that." There was good intentions...honestly! But...then mystical maladies occurred...and Strange was not available for dancing. It is a long, sordid story.

But...not for telling tonight.

"Honestly, I thought we might go out to a bar. Something low-key. Very out of the way. In fact, one could say that it is a rather exclusive place." A shrug is given. "I promise you could wear whatever you wish and no one would bat an eye." That last line is reconsidered...as Stephen slowly chuckles. "Well..at least no one will say anything negative. They might wonder where you picked up the jacket and wonder if it is supposed to be 80's night. But, other than that, it will be a very open affair." A pause. "Unless, of course, you want to stay in tonight..."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"Good. I have nothing like that to wear. Maybe I could convince S'ym to whip something up, but he would whip it from a subject and try to poison me again." Nothing untoward there as far as the Queen of Limbo is involved, since a day without her subjects testing her power is apparently a day that doesn't end in a Y. Illyana looks down at her current attire and then up again. Strange has different standards than she does. Living up to those is purely because she decides to, and that is the end of it. Lofty those may not be, but one does not simply walk into Mordor or call the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth their better half without making a statement about it. "You were a fool. Your schedule is so full of books and monsters, house calls and business with trouble. SHIELD, Avengers, Justice League -- they do not like to book themselves up so much as you. Even Captain Rogers is supposed to dance," she agrees. "Good thing, fool can learn! You need to learn the story of Ivan the Fool. He does good things, da? He learns, and everyone likes him. We know blonde men who could be like him, I think."

The idea of Stephen going to a bar might get a double-take. Except... "You do not mean basements in the Village. Too dark and dirty, not hygienic. When did you last dance on a sticky floor? You talk about this place like it is Bushwick or by the university." Or Gotham, does anyone care about weird attire in Gotham? Gotham is secondary to this though. "You see, this is a question made by the fool. He offers to take the girl out. He will have fun. He offers then something as good, to keep her in. He will also have fun. The question is, do you want to get tired with people around or not?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
A laugh escapes from Stephen. "No...I do not mean basements in the Village. And, to be quite frank, the last time I danced at all, much less on a sticky floor, might have been college. And, if you believe that, then there may be more than one fool here." A wink, with just a hint of a mischievous grin. Yes...Stephen going out during college? Hardly likely. But...still. There may have been a time...

The next bit of information might be a little confusing...for anyone but Illyana. "Well, this place could very well be Bushwick, or by the university. Any university. It, like the Sanctum, can have a mind of its own at times. But yes, it could even be a basement in the Village. Not that it will actually stay there, mind you."

The question poised to him is a curious one. "Well, why not both? The fool offers to take the girl out, so that the two can be seen...and so that the two might be able to enjoy more than what his current environs may offer. Then, once the two grow weary of others, they can then retire and come in, to entertain each other. The possibilities are still present. Just...a later time." The former surgeon takes a moment to flash his better half a smile. "After all, why choose one or the other when both is a perfectly viable option?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"No Village basements then. Ah, they will have to get by on other students, not a higher class of guest." That higher class being the alumni or the professors, who have their own watering holes. Maybe a heap of tourists drawn in by the Village's legendary reputation for music, though it's long since waned from the heyday of the 60s and 70s. Some sticky, dart corner with a rock great in the making still herald a reason to go out at night. But not this night.

This night, they fight traffic and standards. "You need invitation to get in? Do I need to put myself under a lampshade, so they think me just normal girl and not crazy hellwitch?" Not that infernally aligned witches tend to lack invitations, but some places are picky about that. "Suppressing is not so bad for a night. A week, dodgy." Her clipped accent comes back, a habit adopted to leave others underestimating her, rather than aware she knows all the English language. Charles' vocabulary is her vocabulary, after all, though he doesn't have the same foul mouth when dealing with demons.

When Strange makes his second amended offer, she breaks into a smirk. "He learns quick. You see? Ivan is not such a fool. You have both when you have the right circumstances. So let's make the night happen."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Well, I was always a quick study."

The commentary slips out rather easily, almost as easily as Stephen shifts to answer the initial questions of entry and invitation. "No need for invitations. It is a word of mouth kind of place, and really, crazy hellwitches are welcomed. You would be rather hard-pressed to find what normal society would find 'normal' at this particular place. Though...the last time I was there, it was via a fire escape. So, I do hope you are not above a little climbing." A shake of the head, and then a laugh. "I was kidding on the climbing." Was he kidding on the fire escape? He isn't about to mention that....so it is a fairly good chance that no, he is not.

With a spin of his fingers, sparks of eldritch power flicker into existence, spinning to form a portal....seemingly out to a rather boring street. With fire escapes in view. Stephen hesitates, only for a second, turning back to Illyana before offering to allow her to step through. "You do not have anything against tiki motifs, do you? Because, I must warn you. This place is going to lean rather heavily in the theme. You....well, you will see what I mean when we get there."

And then, the fingers resume spinning, as Strange offers Illy initial passage. "Ladies first, my dear..."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Surprise, Stephen being the little boy in the school room who took to everything like a fish to water. The same arrogant student stomping through college, felling records and pushing the bell curve. "Sometimes I wonder what you see in me. You have all the academic skill to rule the world from the shadows, have long arguments with very sharp minds. Like Doom or Richards in the same room." Illyana isn't selling herself short here, merely choosing to address the obvious point with a flat candor that goes hand in hand both with her Russian culture and being a Rasputin. //The// Rasputin, after all, is grandpa. "All the company you can choose to spend life with, you pick me. Not complaining, so you do not think I send the wrong signal. It merely shows when that Prescelta witch came. Other times when you outfox even disco bandits and dimensional horrors, da?"

Is she that dimensional horror? No, hopefully not. A little adjustment is made, a twist of her fingers altering the timbre of her attire to pair the silk robe with her thigh-high boots, or presumably a pair of pants that basically meld into boots. "No hooves, no need for a fashion statement."

She pauses as the portal opens. "Getting sticky things out is the very worst. Do not think foot-soaking baths help." No, she's pretty much in need of a demon farrier at that point. No one ever explains that to mortal. "Tiki is fine. Polynesian gods have never done anything to me. Their spirits are jovial or warlike." Which means they get along just fine, since Russian spirits tend to be those along with 'downright ****ing grumpy' as the third default.

Her arm ghosts over his as she steps through the portal. Wise move. If shit hits fan, having the teleporter there to redouble the portal or hurl it back isn't a bad idea.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Would you believe that I often wonder the same thing?" Even as the two walk through the portal out of the Sanctum and onto a street somewhere in SoHo, Stephen offers that little bit of truth. Continuing onwards, he takes notice of his surroundings, lifting his finger to count the number of fire escapes, even as he continues to speak. "Though, I can give you at least an honest answer as to why I enjoy spending time with you." Once he reaches a certain number, the finger shakes, indicating a particularly nondescript fire escape about 10 feet away and to the left of the pair. "Though I believe we discussed this before."

"It's the fact that you don't care about titles." A quick glance in both directions and Strange walks with the Rasputin towards the direction of the indicated fire escape. "Part of the grand show is having to live up to the title given. I do not need to do that with you." Is that commentary on the fact that Illy is a Sorcerer Supreme, as well? Or merely the fact that Illyana doesn't take stock in such window dressing as a title? It doesn't matter, as Strange keeps on speaking. "Doom only does what he wishes...which is usually for his own well-being, or for Latveria. Which...is still mostly for his own well-being. And Richards. Well, not even I am in the same league as him, academically speaking."

Before Stephen reaches up for the fire escape ladder, his full attention turns towards his counterpart. "You make it sound that there is some sort of illuminati in the darkness, running the world as it sees fit. I assure you, if there is such a beast, I have no part in it. If you thought I had no time now..." A soft chuckle escapes as he wills the ladder down to the two of them. "Besides, the meetings would be so dull. Really, if you think about it..."

Is Stephen teasing? There might be just a little bit of that in his words. Of course, that incessant smirk that just barely curls the corners of his lips could be a clue as well. "I have enough on my plate just trying to keep this dimension safe from incursions from nigh-unkillable gods. I wouldn't want to try to rule over it, as well."

A beat. "It will cut into my dancing time."

A weathered hand reaches out, taking one of Illyana's own within it. It lifts her hand up, placing it on the second rung from the bottom of the ladder, right in the light of sight. Stephen then shifts to take hold of the same rung. "Which we should certainly do once we enter."

Enter? How? With a quick wink, Stephen just...twists the rung of the latter and steps forward, taking Illyana with him.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
"We made clear many things, da." Yes, she heard them and the fact a shard of his soul rides around in place of her own absent pieces that belong to an immortal mage's flashy jewelry speaks volumes. Whatever would a practitioner of sufficient weight think of the substitution, or possibly how risky that behaviour is, they shall soon enough learn.

The fire escape in that mash of old buildings and new isn't on the ground. Fire escapes in New York rarely are. Thus, climbing a good eight feet before reaching the rusty metal painted invariably black, probably ungreased, definitely exposed to the elements. When facing the hazard at hand, the Demon Queen shows herself to be particularly inhuman. Because while Stephen might aim to reach for it, to haul the ladder low, but she's already crouched to leap the distance with at least a whisper of her big brother's inherent strength even in his mortal form. That goes both ways. Hers, however, is owed to the darkness bled through her veins. Getting her footing on a rung and hands clamped to the sides keeps her from toppling over onto him, which might be a bit dodgy considering he just made climbing that much easier.

"Richards has smart mind, maybe not so much the other kind of smarts. The practical one that says you keep your hand out of the fire or remember to be home for your wife and not sneaking down to the lab," she murmurs. What! It's true. Going back to the lab post spousely bedtime is bad, mmkay? "I know who are smart people, da? Good to listen. Sometimes they are too smart for their own good, sometimes they create change that makes waves come to my shore."

"You see? Incursions are very heavy and serious. Good to know people who do not do that." She keeps climbing, and right to the point she disappears.

A dash of amusement would be called for, here. Instead, he gets the scowling tiki-carved pillar holding up the roof and several shields painted in bright colours, their faces snarling or grinning. In each of those shields, a guardian spirit. More than likely the Bar with No Doors also possesses protective golems bound into the palmwood holding up the ceiling.