7343/1000 Faces: The Sound of His Wings - Op. 3

1000 Faces: The Sound of His Wings - Op. 3
Date of Scene:	12 August 2021
Location:	Paris, France
Synopsis:	Stephen Strange comes to Paris, not for baguettes, but to awaken the comatose population and put an end to the strife between two death gods.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Hela, Stephen Strange
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

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Hela has posed:
A sorcerer floats over the wrecked catacombs of Paris where the restless dead do not lie in their well-earned sleep.

He casts a long shadow behind a shining shield of light across the mortal Parisians in their dreamless slumber.

Bled to feed a dark ritual, they never stood a chance. The Left Bank arrondissements of Paris are laid open and vulnerable to deific influences beyond their comprehension. Living energy forms thin filaments stretching through the misty streets, plunging into the subterranean demesnes of the Empire of Death. C'est ici -- here -- that six million souls left their mortal remains for centuries. It would be a potent place of death without any involvement of the pantheons struggling over it.

Ironic, then, that Stephen Strange is left to chase his quarry to the north, near the Pantheon, away from the only public entrance to the catacombs. Rumour has it there are hundreds, mapped out by spelunkers or engineers. Some are lost to time, others bricked up. Now they are being carved open like the butcher attacks meat, or a surgeon lays open the body.

The Pantheon is one of those great landmarks of the dying regal age, a testament to the luminaries born to La Republique. Doctors, Nobel prize winners, statesmen, and soldiers all rest under the great neo-classical dome designed after the Roman original. A place that, by night, is a ghostly white and the cream lights shining faintly silver-grey instead. A cross planted on the breast of Paris, a temple to the nation and a church to St. Genevieve, the lady who held up her prayers to send the Huns away from her city.

Not an idle threat tonight.

Stephen Strange has posed:
'Know your patient'. Those words echoed in his head as Strange regards the situation he has found himself in. The initial plan was too much....not enough thought. The words of another also chime in Stephen's head....the text itself not as powerful as the tone given. Disappointment. It is something that Strange does not wish to endure again, at least without proper preparation.

So, the plan changed.

Wielding his now personal shield, Strange reaches out, seeking with his mind's eye, to examine one of the gossamer threads of living energy. These threads tie back to a singular point...and it would be so much easier...more manageable...to deal with the singular point, rather than all threads at once. And so....Strange plays the role of detective.

Simply put, he follows the clues. In this case, the strand of life becomes a path, leading the sorcerer on. to the Pantheon. Towards what should invariably be at least one, if not the main cause of the spiritual turmoil.

Someone is getting greedy. The good Doctor seeks to provide a reminder of the proper order of things.

Hela has posed:
"Heal thyself" is an excellent invocation and very rarely useful, or immediate, even in the hands of the greatest doctors of the Mystic Arts. Though one of those is very much prone not to heal so much as create robotic replicas of himself far and wide.

Stephen's own conscience giving a good prick may be blamed, as much as overweening pride brought a few notches lower by reflection.

The city spreads out before him in a patchwork shrouded by mist, the thick curls obscuring individual details in the street unless he stays low to the ground. Tall buildings emerge like angular islands with dormer windows and tiny balconies. Where curtains spill back, he can spy the occasional body sprawled out on a parquetry floor or flopped forward onto a table, facedown in their plate or bowl. Open windows murmur with broadcasts, music no longer played, the broadcasts crackling with alarm about closed streets and the mass casualty event in the Latin Quarter.

Blue and red lights spark in alarmingly few puddles. Law enforcement cannot move on a dime and they try to chip through the barricades forged of fog and silence. Few follow the Boulevard Saint-Michel, veering around the Luxembourg Gardens for denser points of population. Paris, with all her landmarks, has become hollowed out where the many live in pockets and the ultra-wealthy spreading their hands around the famous sites. Strange then is on his own.

The Place du Pantheon forms a point, facing the colonnaded front of the building. Scholars and statesmen and soldiers crowd around a personification of France herself next to Liberty, and their marble faces on the pediment turn away from the courtyard. Two of the city's army of groundskeepers and garbagemen lie off to the side. Nearer, a homeless teen hugs his dog on the bottom step.

The dog cries.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Strange is on his own.

Not true, as the previous events leading up to his approach of the Pantheon would indicate.

Follow the clues, Sherlock. The golden strand that Fate laid before the good Doctor leads to a mausoleum. Of course it would. The Catacombs are certainly a target-rich environment. Still, if one would try to stage a coup upon Death itself, one could not have chosen a more perfect spot than the resting place of Voltaire himself.

Strange ascends the steps, each one slow and methodical. The dog is noted, as well as the teen, as senses beyond the normal scan for any affliction. Considering the state of most people, being suspended in endless sleep, seeing the youth has Strange yearning to cross-check...to see if he is tied into the flow that works its way towards the temple before him. This...involves another foray into the Astral plan. Crazy as that may be, it is the sorcerer's best research tool.

Hela has posed:
But is a man ever truly alone at the pinnacle of achievement? Is there higher to reach, and hands along the way?

There in the grand confines of celebrated death, nearly 2,500 years of continuous occupation culminate in the Tricolour hanging limp in the perpetual damp. The unremarkable hill standing only thirty meters above the Seine barely stirs when the doctor lands, but the dog weakly wags its tail and turns large brown eyes on the approaching man. His posture varies between agitation and hope, another denizen of the street maltreated by humanity flowing past. It whines again, refusing to leave the teenager in his scruffy clothes and smelling strongly of brackish water.

The boy is alive. That much can be measured from his breathing, though he has the lulled manner of someone deeply asleep. His body doesn't twitch, resting leaden in that uncomfortable position. Peering through at his aura reveals badly washed out colours, most of the spark stripped away as a black hole devours the solar atmosphere of its partner star until it collapses. He's not quite there, but close enough the seasoned surgeon's eye can distinguish that true death walks close where sleep does not.

Closed to guests, the great door to the Pantheon stands shut. Side entrances on the cruciform cross-aisles might permit

Hela has posed:
In the Astral Realm, the golden thread that Strange follows dives into the subterranean chambers in the great hill occupied since Gallic times. Rents scratched into the Corinthian columns bleed energy, and the soaring net of entangled energy here crystallizes into something multidimensional. It looks part jungle-gym climbing structure, part mad ball of string hauling on power reaped from living to sustain the dead. It tastes of the very best and familiar of Paris: baguettes, good red wine, acrid autumn air, ashes from Notre Dame, springtime rain.

The sound ringing loudly there is a chant from the dead, Hugo to nameless burghers entombed below and around and beyond. Over and over, French and Latin, German and Gallic, English and cracked Provencal rises in a languid lament:

"I hear the sons of the city, my daughters' calls,
Two worlds and in-between,
Be no more divided from me, tear down the walls,
Mine is the empire, mine is the key."

If that were it, that would be something. But it is not, for ghosts in their multitudes swarm through the square. A vision of a massive hunting cat as hasn't been seen since European kings hunted them out perches on the dome, and great umbral hounds circle around, tearing into the Lampades nymphs and shades on black wings with their great teeth. Trees stand in a tight copse, the doors and building completely wreathed in dark vines and foliage that feels more evergreen.

This is war. This is a focal point where he is not the first to come, but certainly may be among the greatest potentates to challenge the Lord of the Dead.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Within the Astral Realm, the ghostly forms of shadow canines betray the players in this particular battle royale. "Arawn." The singular word is spoken, not physically...but only in the Astral, should there be anyone to hear. It makes sense, or at least is starting to, at any rate. This is a struggle, certainly. And...the tapping of the necrotic energies of millions of deceased is logical if a deity of death is involved.

Now...what of the nymphs? That speaks to the Greek pantheon. But...which one? Thanatos? That would be the logical choice, if dealing with death directly. Though, if it is souls, then perhaps Hades. But...this unnatural sleep. That...is not Hades' method. At least, not in the mythologies that Strange has read. So...Hypnos? That is a possibility. Hypnos is the twin of Thanatos...and it is so very easy to slip from sleep to beyond. Could he be assisting his brother in dominion over the realm of the dead?

So many thoughts swirl within Strange's mind as he works to piece together what he is seeing. There is so much more. So much that is beyond him. And...if this truly is a battleground rife with literal gods, then Strange on his own may not be enough.

No. He will definitely not be enough. Not for all of them at once.

A plan is needed. Isolation. Diplomacy, perhaps. But....ultimately, the cause of the strife must be discovered, somehow.

Hela has posed:
One thread leads straight to the Pantheon, the anchorage that he sought so clearly through the southern neighbourhoods clustered along the Seine. That river flows, mournful and slow, sweeping ever to the sea and carrying a nation's dreams and hopes in its brown waters.

The anchor doesn't move much in relation to his gaze, though the divided energies through the path he took heaved back and forth between the two contesting deities. The Grey Lord of the Underworld and the dread son of Nyx continue their battles, leaving scars freshly upon the Astral and the very streets themselves. But neither has yet landed here, though presumably they very well might in time. Instead, their violence trends further west-northwest, closer to the Eiffel Tower.

Nymphs hurl their green fire at the shadowy beasts in the astral, though they also fight and stalk through the narrow alleyways around the Pantheon. Fewer in number, but fierce, are the shades rendered in bare human resemblance. Modern parlance might call them wraiths; face barely present, clothes in tatters, clinging to the remnants of their identity. They lash out with swords or dark hands, pulling down the bone-dance monsters hauled up from the catacombs with the keening cries of mourners from millennia ago.

He has plentiful targets if he wishes to engage them.

A name he invokes brings the cat's black-as-night eyes swiveling. Then being the only walking human in the area could also do that. Its lips curl back. Claws dig into the domed roof. It hisses, swishing its tail. The poor dog is ignorant of this, and noses at the fallen teen whose life bleeds out in a pale green thread.

And Paris dies by measures. The living to sustain the ritual of the dead.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Two against one isn't a fair fight."

An observation, given to himself. What basis does he have? It is an assumption...a guess made mostly on the symbolism within the Astral that the sorcerer is witness to. Still, he has his guesses. How to combat the threat? Time is of the essence. The ritual of the dead must be broken. The aetheric energies of the living must be returned. Would it pay to combat the nymphs, or the hounds, or the cat who now takes notice of him? There is a right answer here. It must be stopped. What only remains now is the question of how.

Is it possible? Being a student of mythology, Strange is only too aware that, as powerful as Thanatos is...he can be outwitted. Though, it only happened twice. Would Stephen be able to make it a third time? Could he consider himself as clever as Sisyphus? Strength was already tried, with the Norse equivalent of Heracles attempting. Perhaps....just perhaps, out-thinking the personification of Death is the answer.

Agamotto would certainly be pleased.

Hela has posed:
When has a fight ever been fair? Strange must hold far more noble intentions than his typical opponent to believe that every conflict must have balance between opposing entities.

The balance here scarcely exists, for the conflict wraps up the ancient Gaulish god lashing out against the forces of the Olympian deity. Nymphs cornered fight every bit as viciously as hoplites trapped by Persians in a blind canyon, their savagery discovered when they swivel and swirl around an unfortunate deer trying to gore them with its proud antlers. One thrusts the burning torch at its face, forcing it to to rear up and lash out with sharp black hooves capable of slashing the bronze lion in repose.

She screams. It wails a low, haunted rattle that could terrorize a mere human if the spectral entity did not already. The other Lampades nymph leaps and rips through the arching neck, teeth and nails and stabbing torch used to rip open the throat.

Another of the hounds leaps across the plaza, a missile launched to strike at the screaming nymphs and leaving no quarter. Blood never touches the ground. These wardens serve a different purpose, and their very energies stream back into the focal point buried under the great secular burial site for French luminaries. No signs of active souls there would imply Marie Curie or her gentlemanly companions hover anywhere nearby, but the thinning strands of lives spent as expensive coin saturate the very paving stones, the columns, and presumably swirl through the dome.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Listen.

He could practically hear Agamotto...but no. It is just Strange's own thoughts. Telling him to do the one thing that all good negotiators and diplomats should do when attempting to resolve a crisis.

Listen.

And...the song...the ritual. The ebbing of Paris' living away. It...it isn't due to the Greek diety. It's Arawn. He is trying everything he can to try to keep his claim of the Catacombs, of the Parisian dead buried within. And, for not the first time tonight, Strange forces himself to reconsider. To think things out.

To listen.

In Paris, who is the intruder? Arawn is a Gaulish deity. This...is quite literally his home. And, when one becomes desperate to defend one's home, one tends to go to extremes. This makes sense. But...this cannot be. No, Stephen cannot allow the living to be used in such a matter. But, he also cannot allow the invasion to go unwarranted.

A plan formulates.

Within the Astral, the web of greenish threads, pulsating with stolen life, congregate, then dip downward...underground, towards the center of the former crypt. Into the Catacombs itself. What if Stephen offers a trade? Himself in place of most of Paris? Certainly, it is a possibility. Not that Stephen is going to take no for an answer.

After all, he is a stubborn one.

He descends, following the glowing path...to find that key point. That key component that powers the ritual...the single point of failure, should it be removed. And...Stephen intends to remove it. That shield of his remains before him, a mystical emblem of power sported in an almost quaint buckler shape. The wards and seals are in place on it. It would be easy to envelope the crux of power within...to keep it safe, but also to disrupt the flow.

Strange won't need it once his plan is in place. Hopefully, the home team recognizes his intent once the Sorcerer Supreme takes a side. Only to defend what is the status quo. To repel the attacker..

Hela has posed:
The catacombs reel with entropic energy held in perpetual stasis, contested by the blasted spell of Lady Death within a kilometer of the entrance to the underground tunnels. Far more destruction outwardly manifests as the conflict between Thanatos, come to reap his own share, and Arawn, who would stake his kingship from the fuel and entombed Parisians that nearly equal the number of the living in the metro area.

Another building at a distance topples forward as the disruptions seething through the subterranean world destabilise the foundations too much. Water sprays as pipes snap in matchstick cracks. Slate tiles crack and stucco rains down on parked cars. Dust smothers the street, a gap in the surrounding Latin Quarter flats made ragged by collapsed floors and open walls. It looks like someone ripped the front off the building, a vengeful little girl the size of a Titan peering into a life-sized dollhouse. Electricity sparks in the mist coiling through the wet neighbourhood.

Thanatos answers Arawn blow by blow. If here he cannot have a foothold, then he will rip back the power to himself elsewhere. Listen, and the distant crack of cobblestones is as much a serenade as the sound of his wings, the feathered rustle.

Strange's attempts to breach the Pantheon takes on an increasing slowness that pushes back against his forward momentum. Death is stillness and endless. It is the state where the cycle ends, the eternity stretches on. Where life, as it were, truly begins is when it stops breathing. Inertia pushes against him, cleaving his momentum, the mist itself an abrasive concrete dragging against his flesh and outfit. Rents and tears may be a reality for unenchanted things, or the shield he wears spitting sparks as it is ground against something massive and unforgiving.

But realistically he has to enter the building, and that means unlocking the side door or the great bronze door admitting entry through the front.

The great Sorcerer Supreme... a common thief.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Strange may very well be a thief, but he is hardly common.

Shoving against the mists of death is not the way to go. If the sluggish progress wasn't enough of a clue, the ethereal buckler throwing off a light show would be hint enough. No...going through with Strange's usual savvy is not going to work.

But, a side door? Perfectly fine to use.

The lock should be a quick issue to resolve, be it with spell or with boot. The first thing is to get in. That...should be the easy part.

Should being the operative word.

Once in, it remains to be seen just where, or how, Strange needs to move forward to in order to find the keystone to have the ritual topple. For, it needs to stop, before all of Paris falls into the abyss.

Hela has posed:
The side doors boast rather modern locks in a heavy, ornate door. Manipulating them takes more than a skeleton key or a bit of jiggling. Grinding within the gears answers the command Stephen inflicts upon the door, and hauling it open takes considerably more effort than he should face.

The Greek cross design of the Pantheon recalls its existence as a church, albeit something of a gutted one. Grand marble floors seem somehow diminished by great oil paintings behind austere grey Corinthian columns, the shapes therein commemorating acts of French history.

Painted eyes narrow. Mouths chant with the voices of the dead. Over and over, the same refrain, the same song that he has heard all along.

    "I hear the sons of the city, my daughters' calls,
    Two worlds and in-between,
    Be no more divided from me, tear down the walls,
    Mine is the empire, mine is the key."

No one is present but the statues frozen in their splendour or mourning. This is, by its inception, a place of faith and death. Potent resonance swirls thick as the sea flowing around him. The meanest apprentice might taste it on their lips, grey rain and turned earth, a hint of evergreen instead of the incense and wine that accompanies most ecclesiastic rituals.

The maelstrom under the dome is unmistakeable.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Through a little dumb luck and a whole lot of brute force, the side door manages to open. Should there be any damage, the sorcerer would see to it to make it right. Not that many are going to notice with the ground opening to swallow all. Stephen might be just a bit winded when the door finally does give way, allowing him passage.

But...once inside, it may very well be the sights within the Pantheon itself that threaten to take his breath away.

Once inside, it is quite apparent that this...this is the nexus of the storm. The solitary point that the initial excursion quite failed to penetrate. And..the song...the intent can be divined. The ritual is doing exactly what it was intended. To tear down the walls between not only the underground and the word above, but also between life and death. And....the key. The key is Arawn's. Of course.

See, it does pay to listen.

But...now, Strange means to truly be the uncommon thief. He means to steal the key, to restore the walls. But, he does not intend on allowing Arawn to lose.

There is a way to cheat death. Or, in this case, to send Thanatos packing for home. But...how?

Such questions can wait. Access has been granted in. Now, it is time to take the key and lock the power away. It is the only way that Strange will offer his help, should the god wish for it.

Hela has posed:
Painted generals on horseback and statesmen gathered in halls repeat the song. The marble statue of Liberty takes up the refrain. Saint Genevieve on high, patroness of Paris, might well repose in the murmurs in her native Gaulish or Latin. Mighty and lowborn convey their message.

The great cross-shaped church has multiple signs to helpfully distinguish the luminaries presented in art, fewer for directions. Plaques for the heavily visited site indicate the location of entries, exits, fire exits, and the mausoleum below or the domed roofs above.

Strange more wades through the stygian light that swarms around him, dragged through the floor without any problem whatsoever. The spiral of radiating lines points to the centre of the maelstrom centered on a tile sun. But that isn't the only place life energy goes. Streams pool and dive down the stairs. Stalking black dogs emerging from behind pillars and peeking through the high arches watch him with their glowing grey eyes.

Lips curl. One howls, and another joins, and then the multitude offer a throaty rejoinder to him. Why, why, why?

Stephen Strange has posed:
Howls are answered in kind. Words are given, calm and precise, to the shadows...to the avatars of the Gaulish god. "I cannot allow innocents to be pulled into this. I...am willing to help you, but not like this." Simple words given. The voice does convincingly hide the uncertainty that Strange is feeling. Is this the right course of action? Is he just stumbling along, against the wishes of the Three?

Which way do you want to go, Stephen? Up or down?

The decision seems to take longer than it should. In actuality, it is merely a blink of an eye...but for Strange? Agony of nearly an eternity.

However...in the end, Strange heads in a single direction. To stop one place and, if necessary, to prepare to dive into another.

With that...he trudges towards the tiled sun. All the while remaining cautious and alert. If this is the wrong selection, then he will know soon enough.

Agamotto will be thorough in his reprimand.

Hela has posed:
The black hounds stalk through the periphery. Their numbers hardly matter considering the dim conditions would convince the mind that they leap out from every dark patch cast by a tall column or residing in a deep niche.

Ears perk. One with its snout to the air continues to trill that unearthly sound, part wail and part resonant sound deeper than any human ear can tell. Organs rattle under its influence, indeterminate if malignant or not. Outside the Pantheon, the war rages further, and the heaving sea of grey energy lifts and falls. The inconclusive fight between the arrondissements continues unabated. For every second a price.

The sun lies in the dead center of the pantheon where the four arms converge. Greenish swells turn grey, pooling like a temperate sea swum by seals among great kelp forests. The moody shores of Brittany, the lonely coasts peopled no more in the Hebrides and Man, bear that eerie half-light hue.

Stepping into a whirlpool basically hurts, like being chewed up by the sea and clashing rocks. The Greeks had Charybdis, after all. Thanatos might spare a thought, were he not busily tearing his share out of living Parisians and caring little for destruction wrought. Standing there initially does nothing, except subject his shields and protective spells to horrendous forces. He drowns for there is no air, there is only the streaming voices by the thousands in prayers, sleepy murmurs, dreams for life and family or work, the nonsensical stories or the relived acts of a day. Banal, all of it.

The floor collapses under him and he crashes down into the mausoleum below, with the entombed greats of the Gallic republic. It is a place far less celebrated or ornate from above.

A dark-skinned girl with hollow eyes scrambles back from the wreckage.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Well...Strange did wanted to go down below....

It just appears he found the more painful, but also more expedient route to there.

The maelstrom is certainly painful. Of that much, it is certain. Pressure, pounding wave after wave upon him. The weight of the air itself settles upon him, forcing all the breath from him. He might have been breathless before, but only as a euphemism. Truly, he is out of breath now. And, as he wades into the center, with the last vestiges of oxygen leaving his lungs, once more does the good doctor contemplate his choices.

Then...the floor gives way, and Strange falls.

There is a benefit to this. The pressure releases...and a gasp of air rattles through him. Much the same as the head breaking the surface of the water, Strange breaks through to the chamber below. Despite the staleness of the air found within, it is just as sweet and fresh as the salty breeze of the ocean. The Cloak, knowing its part, immediately billows out, controlling the fall to be more of a majestic descent.

Too bad no one is around to see it.

But wait, there is. A girl. Why is there a girl in the Catacombs underneath the Pantheon? As the wreakage falls, Strange falls slower. His feet touch down upon the top of the rubble, then, thinking better of it, he drifts down to more stable earth, if such a thing can be found.

It is only when the feet are solid to the ground does Strange turn to regard the girl.

Well...the sun was not the key. Perhaps this little waif may be? A quick scan about the ruins, for converging life lines...

Hela has posed:
Falling hurts. A true fact no matter one's skill set, for the jarring landing amidst a pile of precious 19th century marble rubble would leave even Spider-Man very uncomfortable. Dodge rocks, people die.

The mausoleum to the Pantheon is where the less than one hundred lucky Francophiles dwell in their eternal repose, at least as intended by the government. Five women, far more men. For those with the misfortune of facing Revolutionary mobs, some tombs are nothing more than empty shells. But most are occupied. Here the plaques are more common, the statues and the crypts less ornate by far. It was not intended in the day for tourists to come sailing through as above, painting-laced murals replaced by austere floors and deep niches.

Certainly unlikely there were vines, nor evergreen trees, yet here they are fully visible. None of those trees intrude upon the statuary or the dead. There is respect for those who perished. Columns supporting the floor above are now the mighty giants of the primeval European forest. Vines encircle statue plinths and loop around the Romanesque arches guarding entrances of the mausoleum in its cruciform shape. The air is thick and pregnant with the smell of resins, mist, and still water.

The ritual is absolutely eyewatering in its potency, churning in thick waves that crash back and forth. Strange wades. It may be walking but the resistance push up against his body, the bounding, weird stride of getting into waist-high water at least.

No one is around to see the Cloak swirling and shivering against the invisible force. A beautiful crimson shock in a world of dim, dark richness.

The girl could be from somewhere in the Francophonie, her hoodie and jeans not very impressive. She gets away with him while dark owls stare from the column-branches. Ruffled shadows tilt and thicken in the niches in her retreat. Dust and marble debris settle in sand.

Angry, dark eyes glare at him, accusing under her dark hair falling from braids. The converging lifelines come to her.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Should there be a groan as Strange lands? Oh, certainly.

Upon noticing he has an audience, does Strange do so? No. A magician is always about presentation....even those that use actual magic. However, that does not mean that Stephen looks absolutely perfect. On the contrary, he dusts himself off as those grey eyes look up to focus upon the other living being in the tomb. Certainly living...his trained medical eye sees that as easily as any mystic. And...all the life force threads? Center on her.

Oh....now that is interesting.

A few more swipes with the hand, then Stephen turns towards the girl. He sticks a finger up towards the roof, which is now a gaping hole. "Saw that, huh?" The tone is light, cordial....even despite the sheer force of mystical power flowing through that alcove. He doesn't let the arcane energies impact his speaking. For all he knows, she has no idea what is happening. "Wasn't one of my best landings."

A joke? Of course. Strange is employing his bedside manner skills. Partly to relax the foundling...and also to see if she understands him.

And, if not? Then a little spell could fix that...

Hela has posed:
A tourist caught in the conflict. A wakeful Parisian trying to find shelter from the sleep that has taken her neighbours. A docent for the Pantheon, one of the legion of volunteers, caught in the cold.

All possible were the force of that ritual not roaring through her and going on its merry way to the Lord of the Dead. Life stretched past that point sustains the entropy saturated throughout the catacombs and, this too, for the Pantheon is simply an overglorified tomb. It touches none of the denizens. Their bones and remains gain nothing fron the rite. Only the murmurs from the artwork, singing that damned refrain, attest to anything off.

Arawn has his own chorus. But who comes to the City of Lights without being moved to sing?

The woman is hard to place in age, that point when a woman could be 17 or 28, favouring neither. Black-winged owls bleeding shadow turn their heads full around to peer at Strange, grey eyes hardly glowing in the dark.

Strange's gestures are somewhat alien. Her eyes narrow. Lines forming on her forehead under the dusty bangs give her a quizzical expression. <<What have you done to the floor? Why would you break it, when it hasn't done anything to you?>> French, the clipped and running cant of the western departments, carries a little more music when pulled out. Her eyes dart to the hole in the roof and back to him accusingly.

<<God, you better fix that. This is a heritage spot!>>

The English must go over like a lead balloon, and she keeps skittering back, the safety of a far arch to the stairs closer. Closer. A little more...

Stephen Strange has posed:
A nod. Yes, a little universal translation is going to be needed.

A finger is held up, asking for just a moment. In truth, it is part of the somatic requirements of the quick linguistic spell that Stephen casts. A tap to the ear, then a tap to the lips...and when next Stephen speaks, it sounds like perfect French for his newfound companion.

<<Yes, well, I intend to fix that. It is why I am here.>>

Curious. The young woman does not seem affected by the maelstrom encircling. Stephen speaks again. <<It really wasn't my intention. I just stepped above and the floor gave way and I found myself here.>> The doctor takes a step closer. <<Are you quite alright, though? Not hurt or anything, I hope?>>

Another step closer. Strange is very sincere in his mannerisms. He wants to help this woman. But...he also does not want her to run for the stairs either. This calls for a little bit of tact, a little persuasion...and a whole lot of luck.

<<There has been quite a stirring around this area as of late. I fear it has left the foundations rather unsteady. I hope you do not mind terribly if I accompany you, would you? For our own safety, of course.>>

Another step closer...then another. Win her trust, then save her...and in doing so, save Paris. Sounds simple, right?

Hela has posed:
French becomes French. "You better fix the floor," the woman says, almost spitting it out in her indignation. Any threats or angry comments that want to push forth she swallows, bitter gorge.

French cultural entanglements or gender imbalances might curb her. She swings around one of the growing trees, and the deep bark and spreading boughs give some coverage. Not perfect to hide, the fat trunk stands between her and Stephen, giving her room to keep scrambling back to the next tree-column at her back.

"Stay away from me." A warning, thrown at him like frightened women everywhere. "You won't pin this on me, monsieur, I had nothing to do with what you've done." Her hands reach behind her to feel for the familiar wood, stretching out and trembling. The eagerness to find a rail or the secure weight hurries her on, and she looks quickly to the side, trying to gauge how far she can go.

Her sneakers shuffle. The treacherous sole gets a glare. "I'm fine. See? Leaving. Already two steps ahead of you. And yes, I would mind because you bombed through the floor and did that... that... floaty thing. You stay back, I don't know who you are but you're dangerous!" Which means obviously not safe.

Not welcome.

Next pillar. When the doorway is in reach, she runs.

Stephen Strange has posed:
A sigh escapes Strange. Yes, that exchange could have certainly gone better. But, should he have fixed the roof? Would it have mattered. If the woman panicked because of some simple levitation...then repairing the ceiling magically is certainly not going to win her over.

Yet, as she rabbits, a thought finally breaks through to Strange. The exchange with the 3. The gruffness of Agamotto. Every thing from him was telling Stephen to look. To use his eyes. To see.

And again, Stephen is humbled.

The amulet that hangs upon his neck. It is rare that Stephen would consider to use it. Perhaps it is felt more as a courtesy. Or, rather, it is more than Stephen is rather adamant that he try to resolve issues under his own power. Tenacity, some call it. Stubbornness would be a more apt description. Would allowing the girl to leave this place, to separate her from the Catacombs, would that break the ritual? It is obvious she doesn't know she is part of it. Or...is it?

Ragged hands cradle the amulet upon Strange's neck. "Help me to see the truth. Guide me to reveal what there is to know. Is she who she appears to be? Should she be allowed to depart?" With that, the amulet is returned to his chest, while the fingers shift and twist. The amulet shifts, then opens...allowing the Eye within to peer out...

Hela has posed:
Reconstruction as a sign of goodwill has gone over well in Europe since 1919. It tends to demonstrate a certain arseholish quality to have the funds and means to patch up blasted empires, but the gesture counts.

The woman flees with adrenaline in her veins. With her goes that whirlwind of energy, flooding through her as a pillar to the rite and the rite to her. Death and life converge, the maelstrom spilling down to the floor from the Pantheon above. Webbed lines radiating all over keep spooling through her. Where her feet come down, the lines anchor. When she lifts her leg, the stray green-grey tendrils spill out.

Stairs ahead, she takes two at a time. Fear gives that extra oomph to get out.

And the Eye opens, brazen bars surrounding the focal point within. Stylized bars in the Vishanti window at the Sanctum aren't merely for show. They surround the living legacy of the first Sorcerer Supreme, now raised to godhood.

Hela has posed:
In the light of truth...

Fear. Distrust. Confusion. Three bars of light halo the Frenchwonan's aura, floating over the scars from mental trauma going back to childhood. She runs away at her current age, but there's the hungry seven-year-old from poverty and the skinny teen covered in bruises and impetuous pride. Her eyes swim with the Celtic god's gray light, and the hoodie doesn't cover the incandescent knotwork around her neck like a torc. Gorgeous ropes of the spell ends in two finials, each lovingly wrapped in leaves and a pair of immaculately formed hounds almost touching nose to nose. Neither of the Hounds of Annwn snarl, animated to point and offer the steadying guidance that a trusted canine companion would.

The fear is of Stephen Strange, the stranger. The breaker. Harming something that never did a thing to deserve it, iconoclast in the original sense, breaking the sacred. Just like the others. Thieves.

Ghosts do not linger here, not a one. Psychometric imprints for famous people match their achievements, some like Voltaire and Marie Curie much stronger than other statesmen or generals. The overwhelming sea here exists as the stamped knotwork of a divine mantle -- Arawn's -- under siege from Thanatos' influence, black feathers and green flames of his torch. Death energy ignores bodies, instead feeding into that reclamation of the land. Land to the throne, the crown. The life energy sustains the spread through that kingdom, flowing over the catacombs, spreading across Paris.

Mortal kings walked in to seize their occupied territory with armies. He uses the civilian population eventually his to do the same.

The girl? A Joan of Arc, a shieldbearer, a messenger holding a part of the writ in her hands. Her talents are dim but for deep faith. She couldn't cast a spell if she tried.

To run outside makes no difference to the ritual, which will continue through that solid linchpin holding it to the world even if the other corners were disrupted.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Wait...Let me explain..."

Words. Almost useless for the instance. Strange sees, finally, how he is perceived. A destroyer of faith. Shatterer of sacred ground. Avatar of destruction. Exactly the sort of image that he does not wish to portray. And...he didn't do any favors in falling through the roof. Completely not his fault, but to try to explain that...now....would be fruitless.

And so, Strange forgoes speaking and proceeds with doing.

The hands raise, the fingers tracing glowing circles of arcane glyphs, even as the magical buckler is dispersed. The eyes fixate on the rubble...on the destruction accidentally caused by him, by his attempt to save lives, only to cause chaos. And, the hands shift to the pile of strewn tile and masonry. Those arcane images flicker, then dissipate, but the power behind those runes remains. It envelopes the rubble and, as eldritch words flow from the sorcerer, the damage that was cause begins to reverse itself. Stone and tile flow upward, spinning around in a lazy, serene dance quite the opposite of the chaotic maelstrom of power that encircles still in the chamber above.

The woman demanded that Strange correct what he had caused. And so he shall.

As the mausoleum's ceiling flows into place, Strange calls out, his words still within impeccable French. "Daughter of Arawn. I come here not to destroy, but to restore. To protect. There is a battle waging and I need your assistance." Brick upon brick seal themselves into place, as Strange speaks. He does not watch the female...but speaks plainly. "This battle threatens to destroy that which all hold dear. Will you help me protect the realm of Annwn from its invaders?"

Hela has posed:
The Eye is open. All revealed as it is, not how it would be, the trappings of mortal ignorance fade.

Truth is not kind. Owls take flight and the Hounds of Annwn recoil from the Eye of Agamotto. The trees stand thick and dark, boughs rustling, these emblems of the Lord of the Dead's power offering what shelter they can to his wardens and guardians.

"Get away, I won't tell you again!" Bravado in the face of fearful truth. What's she really going to do?

The Frenchwoman, Yasmene, zigzags to the safety of the steps. Her shoe catches the third wrong, misjudging the shallow ascent, and she goes down hard to one knee. A crack resonates with knee meeting worn marble. Those seconds count to collect herself, hauling up on the metal rail. "No!" It's wrong to swear under her breath, but the pain grinds down her resolve not to spit tacks. Another step and she shies back when the marble and splintered concrete goes in reverse back to seal over the gaping hole in the floor faster than any French contractor could hope to manage.

A hound howls from upstairs. The maelstrom finds her even diverted. Waterfalls in living power flow through her. She doesn't borrow the thinned out lives from sleeping Parisians that pass through her. They are the thread hauled by the dark Gaulish god in his battle against Thanatos' claim, and before the Eye, their distinct personalities and identities might come alive if Strange chose to watch or pluck one to hear its tale.

"W-what do you want?" Her hands clutch at the rail to keep herself up. Eyes go from the ceiling to him and back. This is not Shuma-Gorath, not Karl Mordo, no Victor von Doom. But someone enmeshed in the greatest conflict all the same. The mystic torc around her neck turns, hounds' eyes gleaming. "You aren't one of His. What are you going to do?" Distrust zings, her own desperation pushing at it. So easy to push her one way and to break her.

Stephen Strange has posed:
There is no approaching of Yasmene. Not until what was broken asunder is made whole again. However, that does not preclude Strange from answering her questions. "I wish for this conflict to be resolved. I wish to restore that which was...to restore the king to His throne, just as He has been for centuries. I know what foe He faces. I also know what steps Arawn is taking to try to reclaim that which was His. However, doing so will rob Paris itself of all life and threaten to shatter the very foundations on which it was built. I intend to help Him take back what was stolen."

A pause. "On one condition. All of Paris flows through you. The lifeforce of its people. I ask that the power being siphoned from the people be ceased...and to allow me to replace it. If only to allow those yet living to know of His mercy."

The mausoleum, now whole and sound, echo Strange's plea, though he himself does not hear over the howling of Arawn's hounds. "I assure you, I wish nothing more than to restore Him to His rightful place. However, I wish for there still be a realm left to restore." Those grey eyes settle upon Yasmene, even as that third eye, the eye of Truth, peers out. The Eye that Strange bids to close for the moment, as a show of faith. "It is true that I may not be one of His. I serve a higher authority. But, I assure you of this. I intend to assist Him fully in my capacity as Sorcerer Supreme to restore Him to His throne."

Does Yasmene even care for the title given? Most likely not. But, Stephen isn't speaking to impress. He is offering truth, simple truth. And, it does not need the Eye upon his chest to verify the authenticity of Strange's claims. He intends to help. It is a matter of seeing if Arawn agrees to the assistance.

Hela has posed:
Yasmene wouldn't take him coming much closer well. Her hip rests heavily against the railing that she clutches in both hands. Raw suspicion darkens her face. "You're trying to trick me. I'm not stupid." Her cheeks flame and her breath comes in gulps. The cost of the ritual rages around and through her, heavily spun down, but her aura flares strong and golden, faith giving purpose.

"How can you even do that? Help my Lord?"

She can't meet his eyes. The Eye is too bright and fierce for her, a ruthless mirror for too many things. Vines twist and draw as close as they can to her, draped down the walls, but no shadowy coolness of the forest reaches her while that light burns so bright. "You'll give him his kingdom here again." Her slow words come with all the doubt of a person living with the system rigged against them, always at a disadvantage, always looking for the hook.

He intends to help. She halts from fleeing, though it's a thin and narrow thing. "What's it going to do?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Yasmene's words are repeated back, in the soft baritone of Strange.

"I will give Him his kingdom here again."

As for what 'it' is going to do, that is an ambiguous question. What exactly is 'it'? The ritual that uses her as a focal point? Or the Eye upon his neck? Or the battle that rages ever onward. So many questions...and so little time to answer. Instead, a different approach is taken.

"Not it. We. Together. We are going to come to His aid, if you would allow me to. The torc upon your neck. It is a direct link to Him. Please, allow me to join you. Allow me to add my power to that flowing through you. I am willing to stand by His side and shine the light of Truth upon his invaders. Truth is a harsh, unyielding weapon and very few can stand before it unwavering. Allow me to add my light to His shadow, so that both may be brought to bear against His foe."

Strange's intention? Just as Arawn found it difficult to stand before the brilliance of Truth, so too will Thanatos. The torc should serve as the foci needed to bring Strange to the aid of the Gaulish god and, with the Eye open, the Greek invaders should find that it will behoove them to retreat, or discover just how blinding the truth can be.

Hela has posed:
Yasmene's expression is torn between distrust and uncertainty, the balance not clearly established. She backs up a little on the stair, the wall used for support instead of the railing once she stands up. "Paris he cares about. The... the others don't, they only see only their own advantage," she repeats, all fire coming through. Her lip curls in disdain. "I won't give them a centimeter!"

Stephen speaks of her torc and she clutches at her collar with a hand, almost protective of the ephemeral jewelry ringing her neck and sitting on her collarbone. Her shoulder rises, and she turns a little, as protective for something by rights she wouldn't normally even see. "It can't hurt the dead. I won't do anything to disrupt them. They're his charges. Tourists and cretins go down there all the time without a care, smearing graffiti or poking at the bones, instead of treating them with respect." A cataphile, then, for the Catacombs of Paris. Her skinny body trembles.

She might just tackle him for lying, hopeless as it might be. Her fingers sketch a clutching motion at the torc, and the hounds above howl. An owl hoots.

"Swear on that thing you're wearing you will help him reclaim his throne from the carrion vultures trying to stop him." She nods jerkily. "*Promise*."

Stephen Strange has posed:
A promise. Most sacred of contracts. Especially so when given upon the Eye of Agamotto. Yasmene may not know the implication of what such a request means, but Strange does. And, while it might have normally brought a smile, perhaps a wry grin, to the sorcerer's face, circumstances here dictate otherwise. It is a solemn vow, to swear upon that which pierces through lies and deceit. And yet, Stephen has no issue with it. If that is what it takes to gain the trust of the Acolyte of Arawn, then so be it.

"I, Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme of the realm, do solemnly swear upon the Eye of Agamotto, created by Agamotto himself, one of the Three, the Vishanti, that I will help Arawn, King of Annwn, in the reclamation of his throne from the invasion forces led by Thanatos. Shall the shining light of Truth, from which no deceit can hope to prevail against, find my vow to be sincere and resolute."

No immediate reaction from the Eye. Strange does not burst into flame nor finds himself incinerated where he stands. He absolutely intends to stop this madness...and this...this seems to be the best way to do so. He then focuses on Yasmene, those same words ringing as he extends a hand to her. "I will not take the torc from you. I merely need to touch it. I swear to you that it will remain with you at all times."

For...just like Strange will not willingly part with the Eye, he can see that Yasmene feels the same with the band of twisted gold upon her neck. And he will not ask her to. A touch. Just a touch is all that it will take to initiate the sorcerer's plan and hopefully bring an end to this nonsense.

Hela has posed:
More lives thread the needle. More fuel for the fires. In the city beyond, the desperate ploys between the black-winged Deathbringer and the Lord of the Death convulse themselves. Nymphs dance and Hounds snap. Stags kick at coiling creatures. Cobbles crack and buildings shudder, with desperate EMTs trying to unsuccessfully rouse so many comatose victims. Vehicles skim the wet streets, bound for hospitals already puzzling over a failure to respond to medical interventions.

The wrong kind of Doctor, perhaps.

Yasmene's vaguely satisfied by the promise. She swallows thickly and squares up her shoulders, though she is six inches and more shorter than Strange. Her hands go to her sides after reluctantly leaving her throat. At least that gives her the means to shove him away if he tries to hurt her, so overmatched and completely unaware. Her strength and her size don't favour fighting him.

Her chin goes up. "You gonna take all night?" Bravery is sometimes just a masquerade for failing courage.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Not if I can help it."

The good Doctor finally approaches, closing the distance between him and his temporary partner in the salvation of Paris. A hand reaches out...just a single hand, the palm turn upward towards the newly reconstructed ceiling of the tomb they stand it, a pair of fingers indicating the sacred hoop adorning the faithful standard-bearer's throat. "May I?" He is not going to encroach until Yasmene allows him to.

If given the authority, then Strange's fingers...and only his fingers...reach out to make contact with the torc. The touch will be all that is needed. Enough to supplant the flow of Parisians lives with his own substantial power, augmented so with his own sacred talisman upon his chest. The flow should be more than enough...more than necessary to repel the carnivorous nymphs and the other agents of Tartarus that Thanatos himself may employ.

The intention is true. The hope is for a swift and sure strike, but only for repelling. To allow the foe to retreat. This Strange can do. This...he can control.

For, when the power source is cognizant of being one, then it becomes much easier to regulate that flow.

Hela has posed:
Yasmene tenses, coiled like a spring, the surest sign of any trouble likely to send her running or plowing through him. The magic she wears has a cost and it might be that tetchiness originates from a burden too heavy for the average person to wear. Her throat tightens, another gulp swallowed back.

"Get it over with," she mutters, shaking her head and her braids waver. Another of the stalking hounds comes as close as it can in the light, hunkered down low, agitated and prepared to act against its own volition if the need arises.

Strange's fingers touch the torc. A thing of solid magic, it holds the grey incarnation of the dead. To touch it is to shudder with the vibrating lifestream and dive into the unchanging immortality of the afterlife, the realm where hunts roam and life ascends. Separating where life turns to death is a component of an elaborate divine ritual, a challenge for any mystic, though less one empowered by Agamotto to see the countless threads worked into that tapestry.

She clenches her fists.

Stephen Strange has posed:
In another life, Stephen Strange had the steadiest hands in the medical world. Hands so nimble, so stalwart that he could repair injury no other surgeon would dare to perform without assistance.

Those hands may not be the same as they once was, but the memory is there. The precision never truly goes away...that is as much a mental feat as it is physical. And, as Strange connects with the torc, the mystical embodiment of the dead, it is that same precision that is going to serve him well. The Eye, awake, sheds its light...not only in the mortal realm, but the Astral as well, where each and every green pulsating strand of life...the life of Paris...can be seen, with the conversion noted and isolated.

Finally, the mystical surgery can begin.

Time is not the same in the Astral. When one can move at the speed of thought itself, a meticulous ritual, with the painstakingly task of the severing of the conversion for each strand, can seem like a few seconds, perhaps a minute or two at the most. Which, is how tedious Strange is moving. But, before he starts the separation process, he first adds a connection...to himself. Then, the sorcerer's counter begins in earnest. For each strand removed from the grand engine fueling Awarn's efforts, a little more of Strange's own vast power, augmented by the elder god, is added. Each strand a life restored, the owner brought to wakefulness.

The couple, passed out on a bench.

The patrons, asleep upon their seats at the outdoor cafe.

The teenager, stirring to consciousness, much to his canine companion's delight.

All start to awaken.

Finally, when all has been freed...and the sole power source is Strange's to control, a soft murmur escapes from his lips. Meant for Yasmene initially, the warning is given not only to her, but to the denizens of Arawn that watch over the two. Three simple words.

"Close your eyes."

With that, the servant of the Three, Protector of the Realm of Earth, Possessor of the Eye of Truth....beckons the Eye of Agamotto to open fully. Within the Astral, the power of Truth funnels through the sole connection left to the torc. Strange's connection. More than one could possibly hope for, yet still a fraction of what could be.

Yet, more than enough to hopefully win the day. Certainly, more than enough to provide a warning to those that decide to upset the natural order.

Hela has posed:
Minutes to him.

Lifetimes to her.

Every thread he pulls away yanks on her, and the embattled Lord of the Dead seizing on the loss. The first few hundred incisions and restitchings send a thrumming backlash through her, grey snapping teeth and the Hounds of his dusken realm stalking. Trees shake. The maelstrom seethes, and Yasmene arches taut as a bowstring. Her fingers claw at the railing, bent and bloodied. Her teeth bared in a rictus snarl might look a little like the canines singed by the light that emanates from the symbol of Strange's office. The promise of Agamotto to his mortal successors is no small thing.

It hurts. She holds back the scream, but it bleeds forth in starts and strangled gurgles. Arawn's balance is under siege by Thanatos and the claim he enacts on the Parisian dead, this his realm. This his kingdom, the empire of six million interred, not to be seized by some upstart Greek. Though that upstart Greek commands his own power.

Wings clash. Rage simmers. A faint scent of lightning still lies on the air.

She wrenches her eyes shut with no other choice. It hurts too much when he reattaches the electric wires to a naked battery of sorts, and every jerk or pulse speaks to an overload. The owls staring from the trees edge along the boughs, unfriendly sentinels prepared to swoop in, if their wings would carry them. The cat on the roof's claws are audible even buried under the ground. Annwn's hunting pack throw their heads back.

So opens the Eye.

So a god diminished and raised gathers that offering surely, pulling it almost greedily to himself, mixed with the grey death permeating his existence. Arawn is somewhere across the arrondissement, that Parisian neighbourhood, striking with spells in blazing spearpoint strikes and howling hounds that bite at feathered wings, alabaster limbs, and collapsing nymphs. There is a cruelty to it, a calculated tactical assault.

Rage and exaltation are a frightening thing. Riding a god in a moment of violence is an experience of dying, rising, and being carried on fathomless tides. Bells chime. Skulls sing. Bones rattle. Not a few of those fallen are lifted in the attack, formed into beasts that only walk in myth, snapping and striking to coil around the Greek god on the wing.

Until he's torn to pieces, feathers ripped from his back, dismembered of that mantle under a resurgent grey wave. A suffocating pall crashes in across the streets where his power held, and the choked moment hauls on every offering made by mortals, by that divine source Strange gave. Yasmene topples.

Grey light bleeds from the catacombs. The seal crashes in, and the ritual fractures as one mantle expires, transferred to the other.

Vive le roi.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Promises were made. The Sorcerer Supreme promised to help Arawn win back his kingdom.

However, Strange did not promise that it would be painless. Later, there will be time for remorse. For apologies, should it be demanded. But not now. Stephen has promises to keep.

With the connection firmly established, it is child's play to follow his own deity-fueled essence to the battlegrounds of death. Astrally, the fight is witnessed. The battle...fierce. And the outcome....is expected.

Though, nevertheless, welcomed.

The ritual shatters. The divine assist that the sorcerer provided is instantly cut off, as the Eye upon his chest closes, returning the tomb beneath the Pantheon to its dimly lit splendor. Even as the Eye closes, Stephen wills the amulet to seal itself, as the astral rejoins the physical, with arms reaching out to catch the servant of Arawn before she strikes the unforgiving stone stairs once more.

The grey eyes of the mortal Strange shift, turning to peer into the darkness, harboring the avatars of Paris' defender of the dead. "Thy kingdom is restored unto thee." However, unspoken, another statement is given. The Celtic god received assistance from the protector of the realm. A favor was given freely.

It is possible that a favor may be asked for. Such is the way of things.

But, for the moment, Paris finally finds peace.

Promises fulfilled.