7606/1000 Faces: The Human Factor

1000 Faces: The Human Factor
Date of Scene:	30 August 2021
Location:	The Underworld, The White Hall of Burned Words
Synopsis:	Sara, Radha, Morrigan and Doctor Strange find themselves in the oddest side of the White Hall -- where the Morrigan's aspect Macha holds court, and warns them of the madness infecting her fellow self, Badb, and the dangers in the world to come.
Cast of Characters:	Jane Foster, Hela, Morrigan MacIntyre, Sara Pezzini, Stephen Strange, Meggan Puceanu, Radha Tackeray
Tinyplot:	1000 Faces of Death

---

Hela has posed:
In the Barbican, consequences tip over, dominoes clacking in rapid procession. May slides down the glass path threading through the pyramid. Footing already made treacherous by the smooth incline becomes outright perilous to navigate under a thick veneer of ice and shattered glass. Dark inkspots mark a possible trail of blood, but she slides to the far corner and round again, fighting up to her feet and picking a path lower.

A portal awash in the telltale signature of /The/ Master of the Mystic Arts envelopes John Constantine and spirits him to safety beyond the Underworld. Phoebe, bleeding black around her kevlar vest from switchblades jammed up to her collarbone, hastens a retreat to a light-framed exit that shuts after her. Rien and Radha hasten in another direction along the platform, shielded by the sorceress' spell.

Destructive spells hurled liberally shattered statues and punched holes in the pyramid's walls in its upper reaches. Falling shards are largely contained to raining down on the streets below or through the open-air central shaft leading almost to ground level. Lower tiers of the sloping path aren't covered in ice nearly as much, the spells concentrated at the platform and the former labyrinth created by the pulverized statues. At the next level down, the ice fades to a thin frosty veneer, then the smooth, slippery glass.

Shades hurry to get to the lower levels, refusing to stop and speak. The Hoodie Guy is blasted apart, and the black wraiths hiding among the crystalline facets hidden to the furthest corners. Below, the soft undulations where bronze pipes and black iron revolve and swivel relentlessly in a murmured melody that creaks under their feet.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan was trying to see if Phoebe was going to be alright when the portal came in and off John and Phoebe went, "Wait a minute...if Strange got them out, then what are we still doing down here?" she frowns at that as she runs a shakey hand through her hair, swiping the white and red out of her face. "Phoebe should be alright. Thankfully that means they'll be alright." she tells Sara. "We should keep moving though. I don't think I can open up a portal or latch on to the Sorcerer Supreme's last." she states. "Are you alright besides the obvious?" she asks her as she starts to move carefully.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
So much chaos, Sara is attempting to figure out everything that just happened while making sure that no one else gets hurts. She lost May, and now apparently Rien and Radha are missing. She saw John disappear in the portal, and Phoebe follow him. Once that assessment is made, she turns back toward the only person left.

"Perhaps we were meant to jump out like Phoebe did," she offers in answer, not entirely certain if that was the case or not. "Perhaps he could only help two at a time? But you're correct, we need to keep moving. I'm going to catch hell for losing May, but I have to hope she can manage to get out on her own."

Hela has posed:
The injuries that Rien herself experienced for the extraction and burning of her heart don't match up with the lack of blood -- or the fact the plasmic organ and ribs were filled in nearly immediately. Cuts taken from glass likewise don't bleed the way they should if any were taken. The pain is there, but not the deeper price on the body. Peculiar, that, but something unique to the Underworld or a wider sign of the broken state of affairs at ground level?

If Sara looks hard enough, she can see May holding up one of her lightsabers and traversing a careful route. Slowly moving down along the walls, halting now and then to look around, the SHIELD agent gets about halfway down to where an assortment of grey hedges form a garden maze.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Meanwhile, elsewhere...

In a realm of muted existence, where stagnation is the norm, there is little to no expectation of anything vibrant. Like color, or light, or the flow of any other magic other than death. After all, in the Underworld, nothing is *supposed* to happen. Even the small orb of light that Stephen uses to explore the behemoth of plate glass and iron that he unceremoniously crashed into is weak and pale...washed white with just the slightest hint of yellow on the edges to signify that it is his.

So, when chaos erupted, with the sudden and violent use of ice and force...not to mention the sudden pull of magic mingled together....death and life?! That catches the Sorcerer Supreme's attention. The head cranes upward, through the flat glass that the Crystal Palace consists of...to an inverted pyramid. With the sparks of electricity, bright light, and what appears to be a pair of light sabers(?!), it is not hard to find. That pull....that is familiar.

John.

Just...what is he doing?? Pulling on death magic, in the Underworld?!

It gives Strange at least a sense of where he is. And...if Strange has that, then he can do something about it.

Hence, the portal.

However, the portal was only for John. Unaware of any other rescuers, Strange doesn't leave the portal open long enough to draw anyone else in. Any use of magic could attract attention. Unwanted attention, at least for Strange, at the moment. So, the portal closes.

And now, Stephen has a direction to head towards. Towards the pyramid...

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan gives a look to Sara and there's a wobble of a hand, "It might have been. I don't think they know who all is down here messing with things at this point. And that little display of power might have alerted more than the good Doctor. Which worries me more than anyhing given we're both nice and squishy living beings." she frowns to that. "But, you should be fine. We can see if we can find May along the way." she points out.

The red haired Master of magics doesn't ask Sara to take point, she does that herself, "I don't want to stray off the paths we're supposed to be on." she tells her quietly.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Ensuring the sword is back in her hand, Sara moves with Mo, not behind her. She's not about to let something pop out and grab the woman, or come up behind them for that matter.

"The question is, what path is the one we are supposed to be on," she asks quietly, still looking around. She was trained of course, for keeping her guard up and listening for trouble, but this was a new environment and things seemed to have a way of just being there when they weren't before.

"May can take care of herself," she then adds. "This is just not the sort of 'mission' she's been on before. I hope we come across her, I won't deny that, but right now you're my main concern, and finding Strange is the mission."

Hela has posed:
In the streets, all is wrong. Wherever Strange walks, he may see the cleaved edges that neatly bisect a perfect example of Second Empire palais, superimposing distinctive Indo-Islamic styles with vaulted gateways and staccato minarets interrupting the bracketed quoins and balustrades fronting a lovely set of apartments. Businesses in chipped stuccos that no doubt would be multicoloured crash into planned parks with a distinctive Victorian flair, and the fissures transforming dirt to cobbled bones are almost razor-sharp in their distinctions. Shades moving between these spaces are not numerous as they go about their business, but a man in an overcoat and handsome boots suddenly ends up wearing a dhoti and kurta with a number of ornaments. Another woman in a plain, heavy dress hastens along and ends up in the thin profile of a gown from the turn of the 20th century, though hardly ostentatious. Places that should not cross, beliefs that should not co-exist, are melded together like pieces of a stained glass window from two entirely different spaces -- a Mucha and Notre Dame's rose window, brought together. Wrong and yet sublime, profane and yet accomplished.

All within the span of two hundred meters.

He passes shops and emptied buildings, little better than facades once claimed but now no longer. Darker monstrosities lurk in the alleys, wraiths hidden in the shadows. Jealous shadows watch with harsh eyes, flowing where they can to follow, but still hesitant to swipe at the man on a jaunty stroll. The centre for the stability in the realm bound as endlessly static and unchanged rests at the Barbican, that great pyramid balanced over it all. Entrance is one way only: a squared-off route that shades stream out from. Those headed in must bypass the two guardians, and one is a three-headed dog. Another, curled up, is a kite with its head under its wing.

Hela has posed:
In the Barbican, Morrigan is well-placed to feel a slight tingle against her Sight. A magical effect so subtle that it barely constitutes a single note in a loud symphony. Knowing to listen for the unusual sets it out: the note is green in a place of endless grey and worn brown and dull bone-white. That it embodies green is a solid tone repeated very softly again, and then sustained in the background at a residual level. And May is visible for a time entering the maze below, walking slowly back and forth, until she is not seen.

Meanwhile, there is a path to walk. Sara has the better time of keeping her balance, since the course is steady if slippery. Shuffling her feet along or using the glass wall for balance is easiest. The sword is enough to send two shades on their level hurrying on, slipping or sliding, but they really don't care. They pass the swirling apparatus in black and bronze, swivelling ever onward in its relentless rotations around the central shaft.

In a pyramid.

A few snowflakes keep tumbling lazily down, down, down.

Stephen Strange has posed:
There is no major hurry from the sorcerer upon the streets. Certainly there is a goal in mind, that is for certain. But, appearances should be kept. Even when, as Strange walks through the streets, his own profile does not change. In the realm where everything that once was somehow coexists.

The world of the living could use some pointers.

Onward, along his own path. Towards the pyramid.

Towards dangers untold and hardships unnumbered.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan doesn't know that Cerberus is just outside at the guard. Because if she saw him her gravestone would read: 'Died doing what she did during her free time, calling huge murderous dogs 'good bois'. But that is for another day. She's also trying to look over everything. Because there's not really a scheduled opening of gates to the Underworld and the clashing cultures and things would hopefully only happen this once.

She reaches out to steady herself and there's a nod to Sara, "She seems like she can handle herself. Wonder if she'd let one of us show those knives of hers to a kid where I teach. That's the closest thing to a lightsaber I've ever seen. And she'd love them." she chuckles to that. She moves towards the orrery though, the green light making her senses fasten onto that, "Now that is a good sign of where we need to go." she points Sara towards it.

Hela has posed:
In the streets... the wraiths cling to their darkest precipices, slinking between the buildings after the man in the cloak. The shades caught in their corporeal state mime the acts of the living in places. He passes a man apparently shoveling something on the sidewalk. A little further along, a woman stands in front of a doorway and screams to be let in to see the children, banging her fists to a pulp even though the thin building with a drooping balcony and empty sockets where windows were is clearly unoccupied.

A gaunt figure with only half a face, the rest replaced by tubes and glass, lifts one of the broken victims from the Barbican into a cart pulled by a horse if crossed by a goat and a wolverine. The spined mount exudes the stench of sin, gluttony writhing around it, corruption seething in its aura. No unicorn, that.

To the pyramid, he is pushed into a queue as all proper civilized people do. Those that pass inside present a token or speak their business to the smartly dressed station attendant, with eyes like balefire coals to everyone who isn't magical. To those who are, it's very difficult to ignore the black folded wings or the thorned halo It wears. For It is one of the fallen, diminished out of Heaven and definitely cast up from Hell.

<<Destination?>> it asks anyone when it's finally his turn.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Steady on her feet, Sara offers to assist Mo when needed so the woman doesn't fall. To keep her balance, the wings on her back spread slightly from time to time, so in this way she can keep the sword in hand and still offer assistance.

The green note grabs her attention, it just stands out amongst everything else that's so bleak. "It'll take point toward that," she says, then steps just past Mo to do just that. The wings are now offered for Mo to use to keep her balance, if needed. "I might be able to talk May into that, one of your students a Jedi or something?" Yes, she knows the reference to May's swords.

Hela has posed:
Kerberos is a good boy. Yes, he is! He is doing his hard work outside this big horrible pyramid, even in not monstrously-sized form. Only ox-sized, his three heads busy sniffing at the shades passing by, staring ahead, and trying to tweak a feather from the kite opposite of the entrance to the pyramid. The kite refuses to be delayed in its nap, head still under its wing. Neither of them are venturing very far. They are total pet targets, though sadly no one seems to be scritching the pupper's heads or the bird.

In the Barbican, the two women approach that rotating steamwork creation. It would be next to nothing to pick their path through the frosted, swiveling pipework. Just time it and scamper through, minding the glass floor ending in the very middle for a large, wide square hole. No shades are occupying the spot, and there happen to be a set of low glass benches set around the periphery of the art for people to presumably enjoy it. As if they could stop to admire the art in the Underworld.

Unchanging momentum remains. Though if they step through to the edges...

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan keeps okay balance, thankfully she didn't show up in heels, she's wearing the boots that Hellboy had a Uber-Brownie make for her. Which are /amazing/! She does steady herself on Sara's wings when she needs to, but doesn't throw them off. It would suck to fall over in all of this glass. "I think that's our way out." she tells her. "Unless something crawls out of that opening and tries to eat us...which I wouldn't put past this place." she adds to her.

Stephen Strange has posed:
In the streets...

A line is a line, regardless if one is living or deceased. If there is any constant, it is that the need for ordered bureaucracy is felt even in the Underworld. It would make perfect sense that the nearest representation of the Underworld holds striking similarities to the local DMV.

Yet, it is not for the queue that the sorcerer is doomed to. As he approaches the pyramid, another magical presence is sensed. Certainly not death magic, which is a relief, and not overtly noticeable, but present.

And familiar.

Could Strange lock onto that particular source? After his go with Constantine, that fact has been easily proven. And, really, given the choice with walking up to a fallen angel, Kerberos and a kite or teleporting to the only other living spellcaster in the vicinity, the choice seems rather obvious.

Besides, Strange was always a curious sort.

The sorcerer turns, moving to step between two buildings. At the same time, the familiar swirl of two fingers, barely visible beneath the cloak, circle in a clockwise motion. Sparks, not the usual yellow but instead a dull white, alight in front of him, the motes of light encircling to form the portal while, behind the two ladies, should they be not entranced with the sights before them, the other side of that door forms.

And...before the shades could move to strike....Strange just simply walks through....

....to appear approximately a couple feet behind Morrigan and Sara.

"Out for a stroll?"

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Sara pauses long enough to watch the timing of the thing, it could likely be darted through, but Morrigan was right about the chance of something else coming out. She'd really had enough with surprises for the day, and Morrigan had already been hurt once, she wasn't going to risk it.

Turning, she offers a nod as she says, "We're going over it, which means carrying you." The sword wraps back into the gauntlet, allowing her to have both her hands free. She then moves to scoop Morrigan up, cradling in her securely in her arms. "Just safer this way."

One jump and son of a... was that Strange?! She blinks a few times, still holding Morrigan carefully, but she lands again and just stares at the man.

"Yes, that is exactly what we were doing, right Morrigan?" She states, only then realizing she can put the woman down, so does so.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan gives a chuckle to Sara, "I've been stress eating, so don't tell anyone I'm extra heavy right now." she manages to joke. Maybe being in the face of death was a good time to get all of that out. "Thank you, I appreciate it." she tells the armored woman as she is lifted. Once on the other side and hearing the voice of Doctor Strange behind them there is a sigh of relief, "Yes, walking in this lovely atmosphere, won't you join us?" she asks him.

"Are you alright?" she asks him. Looking him over to make sure there are no obvious wounds or the like. "I know that John and Phoebe are safe now and thank you for that." she states after a moment. "Did you two notice the bit of green color that popped in or was that just me?" she adds another question to the others.

Hela has posed:
At the entrance to the Barbican, the fallen creature with black wings who otherwise looks like a nice agent known the world round turns. It snaps an inchoate hiss, ophidian and antagonistic. Forth from the smart suit comes a blade, a thin sabre with a distinctly French quality. <<No more may pass. Turn to the Phlegethon or leave!>>

It stalks away through the glass, leaving a 'No entry permitted' sign of all things hanging from a cord of braided hair. The kite lifts its head and ruffles its wings. Given how quickly the irritated fallen angel moves, unperturbed by slipping, they have a minute. Less.

Hopping over the rotating discs actually don't have the same effect as going through, otherwise falling bodies tossed off the platform by the force blasts would have resonated a great deal more interesting effects. Midway comes two effects: the first, the rotating metal apparati anchored to either side of the floor start to rotate in gold (https://youtu.be/1RIdOGfDYgQ?t=63 to 1:06) and a central white orb forms, frosted and barely visible. Traced lines wreath over a circle of wires that stretch from a central trunk. In place of leaves, the great stately techno-tree possesses...

Tickets. Lots of tickets, hanging from each wiry silver twig.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
There is only one reaction possible to something with a sword approaching, and Witchblade reacts. The tendrils of metal spring out from the gauntlet on her right hand and the familiar bastard sword forms once again, the blink of an eye would have missed the transition. Sara is not threatening, there is no sense in that, but she is defensive and won't permit anything to happen to Morrigan or Strange... not that either really need protecting mind you, but it's what she does.

"You have two options," she says to this fallen angel, shade like thing. "Back off and return from where you came, or learn what Witchblade is known for. The choice is yours."

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Well, apart from a rather eye-opening jaunt via the Black Bifrost, crashing through the sheet glass of a long-since destroyed exhibition hall and avoiding automatons emitting black mist, I would say that I am rather well." Strange offers a shrug, and just the faintest hints of a smile, before stepping up to join the two proper. "Though, allow me to state this. If you are ever offered the chance to travel on the Black Bifrost, I advise to decline the offer. There are better ways to travel."

The fact that John is out does offer Strange a small measure of comfort. "Phoebe, you say? Are you referring to Ms. Beacon? I did not know she was present, though I should have realized it when John started randomly pulling from all sources of magic available. It was only that which allowed me to focus on him...and I have to admit, it was a rather hasty spell. When here, given the realm, it is not advisable to steal power from those who rule. I sent John home. Or, well, as near as I could. But...I did not do the same for Phoebe."

And..that is when Stephen turns, sensing the approach of the gatekeeper moments before his appearance is announced by Sara. "Ah, yes. I was afraid of that. It would seem that we are about to have a guest. The winged gatekeeper currently coming is upset that I jumped the proverbial turnstile, so to speak."

"I recommend that we move onward. Is there anyone else here besides the two of you?"

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
When Sara starts getting all spiky again Morrigan gives a look to where the path leads up to them and there's a frown, "We should probably...move, yes." she nods in agreement. "And yes, I meant Ms. Beacon. She was assaulted by a shade and he didn't take too kindly to it." she admits. "I will also note to myself not to enter a black bifrost...or anything Asgardian for the foreseeable future." she chuckles. It wasn't funny...but she was trying to process.

"Commander May is still down here. Rien and Rhada are still down here as well. Are we missing anyone else?" she looks to Sara to see if they are. "As much as I'd like to stay and see...other legendary death focused things, I would also like to get back to the realm of the living." she nods as she turns to see their destination. This might suck.

Hela has posed:
In the Barbican, the oscillating frosted iron and bronze bars keep slowly turning. Their slow oscillations mark every two seconds with alarming regularity, as steady as the skies in the lands of the living. The white tree no longer remains visible with the trio outside their reach, though stepping back inside by Strange or Morrigan produces that same effect: silver wires, steely trunk, tickets flapping on the branches. Several twiglets are untouched, small bone hooks rattling there awaiting their offering. Others have brought them, and each ticket reads 'ADMISSION ONE. THE WHITE HALL OF BURNED WORDS.' Different names and phrases appear: albera, leuka, leuca, aubel, silverpoppel, poplysen, baltapse, zurzuri.

Every step closer to the edge where the roots cling to empty air demands one thing and one thing only.

                                    Faith.                                    

Walk over empty air and open the gates of the pyramidal treasure, protected by glass walls and traveling shades, a fallen angel at the door. It keeps closing, the black blade lifted and its wings -- visible to the mystics -- lifting in a patchwork of scorched feathers, venomous snakes, and writhing patches of moire-spinning madness that could be eyes burned out to sockets of writhing insanity. It keeps following the periphery, two levels lower, a level and a half lower...

Sara Pezzini has posed:
With the warning not heeded and the winged figure still approaching, it was time.

As she leaps into the air toward the thing, wings spreading out to catch her, her direction is obvious. She doesn't know what this thing is, or why it's upset, only that it is a threat she can deal with while Strange and Morrigan decide which direction they will all be going.

"Last chance!" she calls to the blackened creature, even as she is swooping in toward it. "I don't want to have to destroy you, but I will!"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Despite the approach of the irate winged gatekeeper, Stephen takes just a second to turn to Morrigan. "Ms. MacIntyre, you mentioned that you saw a flash of green, did you not? Just now?" Yes, the sorcerer caught the question, even if he didn't answer right away. Avoiding Thanatos' mini-me, from the looks of the black angel still approaching, caused the question to be temporarily forgotten. "Here, of all places. That's not typical, as our monochromatic friend approaching will tell you. I believe that we would want to go there. After all, it was color that led me to you."

If Morrigan saw the flash, then perhaps Stephen can trace it, too.

Looking....looking....

Found it.

"I do believe we would want to go this way, should we wish to rejoin with the green." 'This way' happens to be a gateway...right in front of him. Really, all he would need to do is reach out slightly and he would be able to touch it.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
"Morrigan is fine. I can't have folks calling me Doctor MacIntyre down here." Morrigan muses to that. Then she looks after the flashes and there's an ah..."Sounds like a good idea. We'll do that." she nods to him. Then the Irish woman digs out her ticket and looks back to Sara, "Hey, come on. We're getting out of here. Unless you really really want to add 'kicking dark winged badass' to your resume. I'm not going to argue with that!" she calls to her. "Doctor, do you have a ticket?" she asks him, because if her time at Sanctum Santorum taught her anything you didn't leave the Sorceror Supreme behind.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Pauses in mid-flight, looking to Morrigan then to Strange. Something told her that arriving via this dark bifrost did not garner the man a ticket like they had, which meant the gate may not open for him. Eyeing the dark winged beast, she turns and swoops back to Morrigan, she's not giving up on the possibility of adding it to her resume, but for now there were other matters.

"I have a ticket like you do Morrigan," she says, and a tendril of metal holds it up from inside the armor, than back in it goes. "But I doubt Dr. Strange does."

Hela has posed:
The ticket doesn't even need inspiration to get to a branch. A hook comes to it as soon as Morrigan fishes it out, and the bone tip strikes through the punched hole.

The tree illuminates in ogam spirals, a myriad of them forming out of the bark to create a creased hole just about wide enough for a somewhat thin person to squeeze through. Objects in the tree may be bigger than they appear. Morrigan doesn't have to squeeze if she crosses the threshold, for the scents of wet Irish forests blossom practically instantly and the short spiralling chalk path dances through thickets of green, green turf.

The tree damn well wants to stretch a twiggy branch out after the Witchblade in air when the ticket pops out. But if she's outside the orrery, Sarah has to go to it.

Stephen Strange has posed:
Sara is correct. Stephen's particular mode of arrival negated the need for him to have received a ticket. However...if this tree is the portal to what Strange suspects...there may be a way. "I have an idea."

With that, Stephen reaches down, to the amulet hanging upon his neck. He hoists it into his palm, then turns....and holds the amulet up, towards the tree, and announces in a clear tone.

"I am Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme of the Earth realm. Chosen by the Vishanti, the Three above All. As the chosen representative of Oshtur, the Grey Goddess of Balance and Order, I bid thee to allow me entrance."

Yes, Stephen has decided to use the tried and true celebrity method of 'Do You Know Who I Am?'

As Strange finishes his announcement, the amulet opens. The Eye of Agamotto within remains closed, but visible to all. Morrigan and Sara certainly...but also to the tree itself. And...it is the tree that has the most need to see the verification of Strange's claims.

Hela has posed:
Another route past. The fallen angel no more clashes its wings together and that hypnotic quality of the burnt out eyes produces a stomach-flipping distortion to stare at too long. It's willing to close on Sara cagily, though it doesn't quite realize the Witchblade's potential or may be angry enough, driven enough, to pursue her regardless.

If she goes to the tree, then her ticket is snagged and the path stays open. The white ogam tilts a faint gold hue, the weakest of butter yellows, when Strange announces himself.

If he tries to wiggle through the tree, then the Sorcerer Supreme finds the chalk spiral and the short walk to the middle in a long, green sward.

Sara Pezzini has posed:
Watching the tree snag the ticket before it can be put back into it's hiding place, Sara lifts a single brow then merely shrugs it off as another thing that happened.

"Seems we're good to go," she offers, still watching the dark winged thing approaching. It seemed odd to her that it was talking, and not all the quickly. Perhaps it was on some sort of alternate time, where in its mind it wsa moving quickly but to reality, well this reality, it was moving slowly.

Whatever the reason for the slow approach, it seemed it was going to get to keep existing, "Morrigan, you should go first, then Dr. Strange and I'll bring up the rear, just in case inch worm over there decides to speed up and attempt to stop the Doctor from getting out. If needs be, Witchblade can find other ways out, but I don't think that will be an issue here."

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
"Oh it's going to let you pass. Thank the gods." Morrigan states with a hasty little breath out. She gives her ticket over and there's a silent prayer that they are going to end up somewhere nice. Or well...as nice as New York can get.

Hela has posed:
Inside the tree... Nice is a subjective term. Is a dark, lush stretch of grass blowing lightly in the wind pleasant? Certainly. Here there is no sky one can see without a heavy-hanging pallor of silver clouds. Otherwise the glade is circled by a thicket of trees, predominantly white poplar. The Underworld never shines with sunlight, exactly, but here the suffused light through silver leaves bears an almost dreamlit quality. Just as after it rains, things belong to this world and the next. Nice? Maybe.

Nice is a delicate layer of green turf, springy and thick, though the intense green of it keeps fading back to a paler shade. A chalk spiral cut into the turf forms a white, closed path not unlike those common in monasteries throughout Northwestern Europe where the Celtic arm of the church once held sway.

The redheaded woman waiting in the middle, however, is no devotee of theirs. Straight-backed and proud, she bears a heavily ornate red cloak pinned off her side, elaborately embellished by knotwork embroidery of a fortress and rearing horses, the inner green lining as richly detailed. Pinned off her shoulder, it leaves her cream gown bare, the pair of ravens a subtle disc on her low-slung belt. "I thought you would never come." Her fingers tap her arm, that imperious lift of her chin daring them to gainsay her.

She's speaking an ancient Goidelic language, though instantly understood regardless. "The battle is nigh upon you. There is a time to be fashionably late, and this is not it." A dark flash in those eyes goes black, then back to keen, pale green. "Always trust a sorcerer to show up exactly when he chooses, is that not how it goes? Surely you have questions. I will answer you, but time is not your friend here. My /sister/ is not your friend here, nor mine."

The ground shudders like a herd of mares decided to gallop across the field as she speaks of kin.

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan's eyes go a little wide when that language hits her ears and is translated and it takes her a moment to look over the red head that's in front of them, "Oh no..." she shakes her head. Then she's looking to see what direction the riders are incoming from. "Who exactly is your sister?" she asks the woman as she steps to the side swiftly and tries to prepare for what she can only guess is about to be a mess of a fight.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Sisters. Two of them, if I am not mistaken."

The clarification comes freely from the Sorcerer Supreme, as he passes past the entrance , through the thicket, and into the field proper. "Though, I suspect that our host is referring to a peer." Grey eyes shift to regard the firey-haired individual. Strange offers a proper bow, but never breaks eye contact. "Morrigan MacIntyre, allow me to introduce you to the mistress Macha, one of three that are also known s Morrigu. Or, rather, you may know her better as your namesake...the Morrigan."

Once the introductions are made, Stephen speaks to the goddess directly. "I certainly do apologize for my tardiness, Great Queen. I did not expect such a round about trip, though it seems you certainly did. I do hope I did not keep you waiting long."

Such manners. Then again, Stephen has spoken to gods and goddesses before, so perhaps this is standard for him.

"Questions we do have, though I suspect you already know what they may be." Damn cryptic sorcerers and their penchants for mysteriousness. Just get on with it already!

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Anger simmers there as the woman taps her slippered foot against the chalk convoction at the centre of the spiral. Broad lines burn a bright white against the deep emerald grass, which has a tough, tight texture springy underfoot. The chalk path is smooth, practically slippery, as though a recent rain swept through.

"Praythee name Her not," announces the redhead, "supposing you prefer your skull attached to your spine and not soaked in quicklime to prepare for transportation. Maybe a vessel. I no longer know what compels those benighted moods."

Cedarwood, incense, and aged oak follow a pinch of heliotrope when she dusts her cloak off her shoulder. It falls in stark ripples, stained deeper. "Peer, pfah! Prisoner, more like." Little mollified by her proper title, she raises a finger and casts a look through the silver-dappled woods, the white-barked trees standing proud and tall. In the clash of shadows there, words resolve themselves in the darkness, on the bark: Do not work your will here.

"Leave your weapons," she gestures sharply to the ground. "They have no purpose. What knives or chains you might favour you will find useless. Come, walk."

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan gives a look to Strange, "I'm aware of them...yes." she nods to that. She does have a look like someone walked over her grave though. And for good reason. "Doctor, I would ask a favor, if I die, will you please tell Jason Blood? I just...wouldn't want him to think I was ghosting him...I think that's what kids are calling the dropped connection bit these days." she sighs as that is the only favor. Then she paints on her smile again. Everything else would work itself out without much trouble.

Then her violet gaze returns to Macha, "Pleasure to meet you, but I wish it were under different circumstances." she admits with a respectful dip of her head. "My only question was answered for the moment, the good Doctor might have others, yes." she smiles to that.

Then Macha is telling them to leave weapons and Morrigan has none. She then moves to walk with the Goddess quietly. Feeling like she was on a last route home sort of deal.

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"Better a feast than the field or the ford," Macha remarks. Her slender fingers again tap where she stands on the middle of the chalk path. It swerves in a broad circle that cuts in and around the woman so that she remains always the focal point for the route and the conversation.

Funny how treading that ground is rather like slogging through mud and tracking through the woods, keeping her in the middle. "Long of days ere I heard anyone speak that name without bitter loathing or contempt. What company *do* you keep out there?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
Oh, the good sorcerer knows more than what is good for him. In any case, he does what the goddess asks and does not mention names. Except for Macha's own. Though, the Irish goddess' reaction to the mention of peer draws attention. "It is for you as it was for king of Annwn, then. An invasion? A consolidation of power to overtake those that resist?" It...would seem that Strange has had a bit of experience already with whatever circumstance has Macha angry.

And...as for the mortal Morrigan. "I will wager that you will find dying a rather perplex notion at the present time, Doctor MacIntyre." Yes, he remembered that she said to call her Morrigan, but with two answering to that name, it is probably best to go for proper titles. "Gathering the experiences that others have had, as well as I, it would seem that there is a war on who may claim the dead...and because of such, death itself is rather in flux."

A glance back to Macha herself. "Which one placed you in metaphorical chains, if I may be so bold as to ask? Is it for the purpose of simply gathering power?"

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
"At least one of you comes prepared." Macha's toe continues to tap that flat cadence, the smart little slipper she wears something netted from the finest leather and gorgeously stamped with the likeness of prancing horses. "The swine, who ever chafes at losses endured before the Brigantes sold out his people. He retreated instead of fighting then, and comes ever belated to reclaim scraps. Had he stood with Us in the first place, none of this might have come to pass." Her tone drips condemnation, all spirited pride and a regal cast that spares Strange none of an innate pride. "Where did it leave us, but beggars at a paltry table, chewing over scraps like starving curs."

Her shoulders lift and she scowls at them both for a moment, though her eyes are hot and turned to the distant clamouring beyond the trees. "She went mad for the chance. Always was too impulsive when it came to battle. Consolidation? The opposite happened. We argued against Her, and She refused to listen to reason. A goddess in one aspect, not three, would have the power of Us all, wouldn't She?"

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan is having a quiet debate with herself for the moment. Maybe she should have heeded the advice of the demon. She gives a nod to Strange, "That is a bit of a comfort I guess." she muses to that. Having to see the name sake was something she'd not planned on really and there was a nervousness that was hanging around her form. She's just going to have to fight she guessed.

"Bloodlust sometimes get the best of people. Or gods." she frowns at that. "Does she mean to try to murder you and the other for...this madness?" she asks.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Siblings refusing to listen. A constant almost as certain as death Herself." Perhaps it was meant to be a joke. If so, it was poorly delivered, as Stephen remains completely serious. "She saw opportunity, certainly. I would wager so. The question begs...why now? What changed that caused the war that now rages? What tipped the scales that were oh so carefully balanced before?"

Of course Strange would ask that. As the emissary of the Elder Goddess, he would know how precarious everything truly is. "The scales are skewed. Balance is lost. Certainly, such an act cannot go without witnesses. Such a swing will invite chaos."

Meggan Puceanu has posed:
Her namesake in the flesh turns those unfathomably green eyes on the lady doctor, and Macha breaks her crossed arms to illustratively leave a burning blade dancing in the air. "My sister's privileges upon the battlefield excluded Our chosen. A sacred duty to select those worthy of Our attention never clashed with Her intentions until it went to Her head. She is no longer recognizable with any honour but satiates Herself at Her leisure. A gluttonous hunger would be acceptable were it not simply for pleasure. I saw the signs. Nemain would not heed me, and nearly burned up in the sun when confronting Her."

The third aspect, the battle goddess, warrants the dripping bloody on the classic Celtic sword. It drips as the redhead speaks, coursing down the blade, thick ichor pooling on the chalk in drops. "We who are one and the same have been reduced to this, sorcerer, to halt the travesty enacted on the living. There is no care for who they claim anymore. They are /scavengers/. We prey on those whose time has come, but never this abomination. They gorge themselves so greatly the worlds rend at the seams."

Her mouth twists and once more her eyes go black, fine feathers sprayed at her temples, overtaking the cloak in a weak, slow march. "You see chaos. This was no chaos but act of malice to turn Her. She always worked in communion. We are Three as One, greatest when together. We would turn upon Her and cleanse the stain from Us, but no such opportunity arises. The strength in Her is too strong as they battle and chew at one another for the last seats at their table. Who will join Death? Who will be anointed and favoured, taking their strength from all the souls who are before them? It is only a start. Why merge together all their fates if not to conquer, and change the order of things?"

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan's violet gaze gives a look to Strange, "I've never had siblings...sadly." she shakes her head. But hey she was well adjusted to life, right? There is a look back to Macha as she explains what happened and there is a deep frown at the information. "I will do all that I can to help with this situation." she tells her with another dip of her head. She wasn't sure what all that would entail, but she didn't ask that.

"Hopefully this is something that we can reverse...or at least heal it once these situations are seen to an end." she comments quietly.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"I did. A long time ago."

The comment is given, but no further explanation is given. And the words delivered...were cool. It would seem that it is an uncomfortable subject for the Sorcerer Supreme.

How odd.

The goddess' words are not lost upon Strange. For Macha, in her own manner, has revealed her stance. She is not one to welcome the change to the order. "You are against such actions." It isn't a question, but more an observation. The fact mentioned, that they only take those whose time has come, is met with acceptance. "Of course. You only take what is expected. For you who are Three understand that balance is ever paramount. To upset the balance is to invite retribution. Swing the pendulum too far in one direction, and the backswing will be too great for this plane of existence to withstand. Surely they must know this"

Surely they do. But, like most, it would appear that they do not care.

Hela has posed:
In the tree... A shadow blots the warm sunshine that filters through the passageway that cuts through a thicket of poplars. Crushed cedarwood and salt travels from another route through the winding woods that surround the plain, those shrubby trees weathering the sea's fury. Rustling bushes part back as another terminal path of marble-smooth chalk turning rougher, less perfectly polished as it approaches a lush green stretch of turf. The slight arch is there, and if Radha looks to the sides, arrowheads and broken swords peep out. A few yellowed bones bleached by the passing of time lie beneath curling, thick grass.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Radha runs through a space in time. This place --

-- well, there's sunlight.

That's already an improvement.

Radha breathes heavily, one finger still in her mouth, nursing the cut within it. She lingers for a moment, the crushed cedarwood fragrant as she turns her gaze round hte seaside scrub. Bushes rustle. Is the ocean near?

Her eyes rest on something laying in the brush. A broken sword. Rusting. A stone - or - no, she thinks, sinkingly.

"Look upon the bright side," Radha tells herself as she takes a moment to straighten out her dress and slide her backpack properly on, "you aren't being assailed by spectres in this moment.Not many can say that." (Athel, Radha thinks. Athel. Why did it say Athel?)

Down the path she goes, shading her eyes against the sun.

Hela has posed:
In the chalk circle, a tall woman in a cream gown stands in the very center. Her luminously embroidered cloak bears a pattern of corvid feathers not previous there before, and the lower reaches of the maroon wool are lushly embroidered to a degree the bead-dappled threads look nearly jeweled. Applique couldn't come close to display the minute tableaux that change the longer she stands. Horses surge in battles. Legions bleed when colliding with a dark swarm of crows. In another octagonal pattern, masses raise their swords and bows. The Bayeux and Unicorn Tapestries, though diametrically different, show nothing on the elaborate, gorgeous artworks. Or windows.

For the change is slow but present, and may well be scenes of a world.

"They will use her against you." That warning comes with a dire sharpness, though perhaps Macha does not mean to cut. Her attention moves to the approaching girl, confrontation beyond the circle of trees and in spaces beyond more audible than not. "I endorse change. What are we if not ushering on the transition from life into death? Nothing may exist without transformation, the lessons taught by the lowliest druidic acolyte and witnessed now in an age of quantum particles and interstellar struggles. Yet you would see it plain, all of you. The desperate need to encapsulate youth or wealth or name in a single moment in time, and nothing itself may ever encroach upon that. You dread age, death is a filthy curse instead of a hard-earned end."

The goddess, queen for the phantom epithet of the Morrigan, trails her hand along the gleaming girdle slung low on her hips. "My sister has passed a point of return."

A bitter laugh splits the sky. "Even Our faithful cannot reach Her. The witches who prayed fell screaming of blackest omens, bleeding from their eyes. We inflict omens upon our beloved. Nemain cannot wake from her walking fugue. What happens when the greedy take too much? What has always happened? /Revolt/."

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan is looking at...The Morrigan, but something feels off to her in her soul over it. Like it's some weirdness she can't quite piece together. "I don't think that Macha is the one that is too far gone at the moment." she states as her violet gaze stares at the woman. "There are checks and balances. You out of all of the Gods and Goddesses must realize that this is madness and this will only end in catastrophe. There has been too much death. There has been no balance for it." she tells the other Morrigan.

This is where Neo goes 'Whoa'.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Radha appears, from the shroud of the woods. She gazes at a woman in a cream gown with red hair and a rich cloak and simply stares for a moment. The cloak is lush, yes: she can appreciate good clothes.

A moment later she sees it move.

Radha is struck by wonder for long moments, hearing, perhaps, some of what it is that the woman says. The woman? Perhaps more than that.

She steps forwards, with her somewhat dirtied dress and her four-year-old backpack. Her eyes turn towards that woman, Morrigan -

"Oh shit," Radha says quietly to herself as she steps over the chalken circle.

She's in the presence of... (OH SHIT! Radha thinks to herself.)

Her palms clap together and she dips her head, staring at the cream-gowned figure.

"I'm sorry to come in so late," Radha then says, with a glassy-eyed forward momentum. "You were speaking about revolt? I am sorry to hear about your sister. Uh, is that what was going on at the Met? The Metropolitan museum, I mean," Radha continues: "In New York. Forgive me."

Hela has posed:
Those green-bright eyes follow Radha as she comes close. They give a measured look. One stares, she stares back unblinking. It's not a war to try and win, not with someone who is ancient.

"Oh, hush, I am not going to eat you," she tells the newcomer. "Disarm yourself in my presence, if you would dare." The meaning of 'New York' versus actual York might be a problem for someone currently speaking the most ancient form of insular Goidelic, but she still is comprehensible even if Radha or Morrigan haven't ever heard older-than-Old-Irish. "The dead wait for the commands of their masters. They assemble knowing, as we do, a moment of reckoning is coming. It has already come. But when the realm of death never changes, the transition takes longer to impact the world of the living. Now, now you are in your last moments to find a way to *save* the mortal world from falling to the tyranny of hypocritical, power-hungry gods who pride themselves on winning battles by sowing strife. As if that means anything."

Opinionated? Yes.

"No, I am not the 'mad' one. Never was I even in Our fullness, and reason is a lost cause. I temper this visit with the warning that you cannot turn the tide coming in, no more than I can walk outside unmolested." Macha shakes her head sharply, her thick red hair swirling around her shoulders. "I am angry. A righteous anger for the abomination performed against me and my sisters. We stood together against the predations of the country and people We love. They turned away from Us and still We performed the sacred duties to tend to the fallen and the sacred places. We rejoiced in their fierce demeanor in battle and, even diminished and scorned in time, bided the time until once more the faith returned."

She snaps her wrist to the side, banishing the notion that Morrigan presents. "There is no balance. Once we stayed to our places and received our due from those who venerated us." In that agreement, she sounds truly bothered. "What happens when I can reap whomever I like? Is there not to be a war over that? Is there not to be death among the aligned death lords who pretend to be unified? My sister may think this brings Us great prominence denied to us for centuries, but they have only proven themselves to be ambitious and consumed by hunger."

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan looks up when Radha appears and there is a sigh of relief, "If you have any weapons put them down." she nods to that. Then there's a look to Macha when she corrects her. Maybe she'd been taught the wrong way. Ah well, always times to be corrected and this one was a good time. She looks between the two sisters and there is a frown that seems plastered in place. She was certain that someone was going to be losing something. She just wasn't sure who at the moment.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
In your last moments to save your mortal world.

That sounds bad, Radha thinks. She takes a moment and reaches into her pocket, taking out the little knife she'd had out before and which she had put back into her pocket on the train (check last ish, true believers!)

A moment later, she rolls her shoulders and the backpack - with its cargo of two plush animals and some sewing equipment, plus cigarettes and some miscellany - lands on the ground.

Radha weighs taking off her boots, as well, but decides this to be superfluous.

"I do not quite follow what you say," Radha says. "We cannot stop it, but you are saying that, uh, that we have to find a way to save? the world? from these hypocritical gods?" Her voice is steadily shrinking.

The last part - reaping whatever she likes - feels, to Radha's naive reasoning, bad. But this woman (who Radha is guessing as to the identity of, if implicitly) is speaking to them with reason. Maybe this is a vision, Radha thinks. Should I just ride with it?

Hela has posed:
This is not the last train home. The realm instead seethes and ripples as the sunlight diffused through the greying skies shifts. Battle tempered in a clash of arms at the edge of hearing, just out of side in a haze of dust and heat, might be approaching. It might not.

"Even if Nemain and I rose against Our sister, She can call on countless stolen souls to strengthen her. We refuse." The goddess throws her arms wide to her sides, gesturing ot the open space.

"It is too late to stop the Court of Death from some abuses. They steal worshippers. They kill their lessers to take their power, and hunt us who defy them like deer. In the living world, the dead cannot pass to the Underworld. We cannot escort the worthy home or take Our portion. Now She does not even want to. Our own enemy is at Our breast." The points she lays out again, not exactly impatient, but impassioned and quivering with that frustration. "One of these acts alone is an abomination of the order and law of the world. Now compound them. Remember that saying? Two wrongs do not make right? Two, four, sixteen, two hundred fifty-six. Where does this end?"

It is a rhetorical question and yet not.

"In revolt or in ruin. When they have ripped one another apart, leaving their corpses and those of cities in their wake. Is it not the way of the world? The mad and ambitious do not stop without force of arms, like atomic bombs, tanks, the threat of starving them to submission even economically?" The question is a horrid one to be given from a goddess of sovereignty, the right to rule, but she speaks it. "So if the course cannot be changed, what do you do?"

Radha Tackeray has posed:
"I," Radha begins.

Why am I doing this. This is stupid.

This is probably why that grubby guy was telling me to go away, Radha thinks.

Except, she thinks, I'm in this already. She sucks in a deep breath, and she says:

"I don't know. Um."

Her hands come together with a faint clap again. "Like I mean I'll admit it, ma'am. My lady. Your majesty," Radha says, bowing slightly. "I, I mean -- if you point me, I mean, I don't want to speak for you, ma'am." (this last part to Morrigan MacIntyre) "but if you point me in the right direction I'll try. I have enough blood on me already, I - I mean I don't want to see any more, for myself."

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan gives a thoughtful look to Radha, "Aye, I do as well. I will aid you in that so you don't have to go alone if you like." the redhead offers as she gives a look from Radha then to the Goddesses. She wasn't going to be able to do anything here...or she didn't feel like she could.

Hela has posed:
"You are far too honest for your own good, child." Macha rubs her thumb down the slope of her arm as she addresses Radha. "A small sin not to be faulted for."

She walks the spiral outward, leaving a vacant space on the path. The spiral's heart, the middle of the labyrinth. "I cannot go forth without being hunted by the Court of Death. Our sister is a mad dog. The balance is so far broken that almost certainly there will be a reckoning to correct it, one as likely to be out of control as the cause. To put a fine point on it, We are goddesses of battle and death forbidden from the battlefield. I would give you some means to act against the coming storm. A woman with my very name stands before me, surely this is not coincidence. The most loyal servant of Krishna, is this also chance?" Her fingers card through her cloak, blood-dark, the feathers fading in and out, her eyes shifting from black to green. "You were willing to spill your dearest hopes here. I heard them. It is not often we try to *avert* war, but I can choose Our champions."

Radha Tackeray has posed:
"I," Radha says, perhaps about to object to being called a child.

"What?" she says then, before visibly (Morrigan can absolutely clock the exact moment) remembering what her name means. "Oh," she says. "Um," she concludes.

After another glance towards Morrigan, Radha's brow knits.

"... errrrgh well I mean, uh, I don't know how to place it, exactly," Radha says, her hands coming up to fold behind her head and lace fingers together. "You honor me, though! My lady. I just, uh." Her eyes track the cloak.

"I guess you could change the form of the war or something," she says. "I don't know what that would look like. Though. Though, wait."

A moment passes.

"This feels like a puzzle," Radha mumbles to herself. Glancing back to Morrigan, she says, "Did you see it though? Like if you think about it. I guess, anyway. Like... there's, um." Her eyes return to the Macha, as she lowers her hands, visibly anxious (probably from being near an apparent and actual goddess.)

"You're not quite working alone I bet, are you, ma'am." A beat passes. "Because death isn't always the actual end of things. You can go into the underworld and come back. Just," and here she takes a deep breath, "maybe, not for good, right?"

Hela has posed:
"Ah, she has listened to her lessons up there." The smirk becomes a smile. "It is a transition in a cycle. What comes after death is life, is it not?"

Morrigan MacIntyre has posed:
Morrigan gives a look to Macha and there's a shake of her head, "Not a coincidence, no." she states. Especially if some things were already preordained in timelines and all that good stuff. "I'll take on the mantle of champion for this." she looks from Macha to Radha. Then she smiles, "That was something that I didn't think on." she comments quietly. Because she was distracted.

Hela has posed:
The spiral flickers to life. White chalk itself used to demarcate the ancient figures of Neolithic Britain and Ireland churns backwards, threaded through by a rumble of powder that puffs up. Within the spiral's heart, a green hillock splits open for a sapling to rise up. The tender shoots spread out, jarred to a thickening trunk that scoots after the sun, throwing its little branches forth. Each one is no thicker than a lady's finger, tipped in perfect ebony buds. The leaves growing off that bone-white tree spread out, serrated around their edges, a spear-point described to the eye. Or an arrow-head. The differences are quite modest.

"Then your task is the harvest, as mine has been since time immemorial. We are the Phantom Queen. Move unseen by taking your hopes as they bloom and make a mantle of them." She gestures at the tree. "And?"

Expectantly to Radha.

Radha Tackeray has posed:
Forward. Forward. A mantle for the warrior-lady-vampire(? radha does not realy believe this) and then the goddess, having praised her scholarly traditions and knowing her stories, encourages her.

By gesturing at the thickening sapling.

Radha rolls her shoulders and then she reaches forwards, towards the tree. Radha looks away for a moment, towards Hela, and says, "I don't really want to hurt it, I mean, if it's growing. That feels like it might be bad, you k now? I mean there's life and there's death but it's kind of weird when you,"

snap! Off it comes.

While Radha was addressing the divine with a complex mix of emotions, some of the little sapling branches had woven something together. Flexible, hollow: it looks like a wicker jackdaw, if with an elongated body (visibly hollow) and a second pair of somewhat smaller wings disturbing the image of the bird's shape. Two small wood knots make eyes. The beak is a hard-shelled flower, with the tiniest hint of pink in it.

Radha holds up the thing with some wonder. She manipulates one of the wings, which seems to bend almost as easily as a real bird's might. "Oh," she says. "Wow."

Hela has posed:
"And a last parting gift for the sorcerer." Macha gestures with her hand to the silver-dappled hollows through the trees. Her eyes are narrowed, sharp and wise. "Your hope to burn within you when none else does." Two more leaves droop from the tree, bursting from the broken twigs. "For to ascend from death, you must have hope. Now go!"