7689/The Sorcerer's Homecoming

The Sorcerer's Homecoming
Date of Scene:	04 September 2021
Location:	Sanctum Santorum
Synopsis:	Stephen Strange returns to the Sanctum after a little adventure. Little does he know he's being watched by Illyana, awaiting his return. An understanding is reached.
Cast of Characters:	Stephen Strange, Illyana Rasputina

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Stephen Strange has posed:
The Sanctum has been quiet.

Perhaps...a little *too* quiet.

The master of the house has not been home. Really, does it matter how long that the sorcerer was gone? The mansion is not unlike a faithful hound, though it would shudder if it knew of the comparison. Any time that the master is gone is an eternity, be it mere minutes or days. And, with the places that the Sorcerer Supreme have been, it could have very well been any length of time. Still, the Sanctum sits expectantly, as eager as any companion.

For it has sensed him coming well before his arrival. It knew, and it was eager to take him in.

Stephen Strange has finally returned home.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Wong surely keeps the place in tiptop shape when visitors show up and the Sorcerer Supreme isn't in town. The other sancta in London and Hong Kong presumably have their own caretakers or the poor man is especially busy cleaning up from the various problems encountered during the magical work week.

The other Sorceress Supreme who lives on the same leyline a few blocks away knows the state of the building well.

Haunting the streets in the Village might be unnecessary, because who would honestly assault the temple to knowledge guarded by the Vishanti's favourite servant on Earth? Only idiots.

Other problems present themselves and keeping a low profile is natural to her, when not demon-slaying and causing trouble of an intergalactic variety. So she lingers in front of a smokeshop. She dances in the clubs. She spends too much borrowed money on cafes and coffees with subpar food. Reads on the steps of a brownstone, and snarls at her professor at Columbia for insisting office hours she can come in are right smackdab midway through a patrol.

Across the street, she sits, studying about something she truly doesn't care about, but that degree won't earn itself.

Stephen Strange has posed:
When the master of the mystic arts returns....it is not with spectacular fanfare or with any sort of flair. Instead, he approaches on foot, with his head hanging low. The soft shimmer of an illusion spell tugs at the edges, allowing those who are not specifically looking for Strange to see a normal New Yorker, albeit somewhat haggard, walking. Nope, nothing to see here.

However, for those that know what to look for, the wizard (sorry, sorcerer...no pointy hat) is plainly viewable as he shambles up towards the front door of the historical building. Including the Russian sitting across the street, playing at studying undesired topics. Yet, Strange does not notice her.

This...is unusual. For him.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
With his head low, the man might not be distinguishable immediately. Illusions exist to avoid being spotted, even by sharp-eyed Russian sorceresses perched on paint-stained concrete formed into a handrail and wall separating the walk-up from another. It's not her building and those skimming by might have reason to wonder how someone in ripped jeans could possibly afford the $4,000 a month rent for nearly any place in the Village.

But these are questions better not asked, since Illyana Rasputina's address appears nowhere in life except certain summoning books.

A page flipped over reveals information she cares less for. She's already skimmed the section twice, but a paper won't write itself and asking demons to do research asks for trouble. A haggard New Yorker passing by does nothing to see there. Except for a small piece of herself wound up in him unless he chooses not to notice that, or his own soul sitting a few meters back from the sidewalk, swinging a foot. She runs her thumb in a circle, and looks up as the man shambles to the door.

Eyes narrow. She swings her feet down and starts right into the street, holding out a hand to stop an UberEats delivery rider from going anywhere further. The bike brakes screech. "Go tell him that place only opens on Tuesdays." The poor guy doesn't have much of a choice, as she won't let him past until he rides his Trek over to the stranger.

Stephen Strange has posed:
That unfortunate rider really has no idea what he just stumbled into. However, the blonde young woman will not be denied. And really, from the hard look she gave him, he wouldn't want to mettle with her anyways. And so, he does as commanded.

The shambling Strange pauses, confusion shadowing his features as the messenger approaches.

"What do you want?"

'Hmm, this place only opens on Tuesdays.'

A soft chuckle from the obfuscated Strange. "Who told you that?"

A finger is lifted towards the blonde upon the street. 'She told me to tell you.'

Strange turns his head, lifting his eyes to peer...and to see, truly, from whence the messenger came. And...a slow smile curls the corners of the sorcerer's lips. "Oh, she did, did she?" It isn't a question that Stephen expects an answer to. Instead, he closes the distance to the Sanctum's door, placing a hand upon the doorknob...which seems to almost leap to his touch. The door swings open freely.

"It must be a Tuesday, then."

The rider is dismissed with a wry grin, much to the rider's delight. Anything to get away and finish his deliveries. As he races away on his Trek, grey eyes shift to take in Illyana, as the illusion drops slowly away. A nod inside is given, as Strange opens the door fully.

"Well, aren't you a sight. Shall we?"

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Must be Tuesday and certainly isn't. The poor rider sent over there to harass the Sorcerer Supreme proves himself up to the task, and possibly worth a 15% tip, if only Illyana had any idea of how to tip someone without an app. Carry money? That is truly a fool's errand, not one that she particularly intends to follow through on.

Instead, she snaps her book shut and hauls the overpriced text back into a bag. Banishing it away denies her something to hurl at an interloper if she needs. The heavy weight is something of a comfort, more useful this way than anywhere else.

Blonde fringe hanging in her eyes, she crosses the road. Impeding traffic as much as she has seems a bit unfair, honestly. Her path clicks in defiance of the summer's dying warmth, ripped jeans and the unironic band t-shirt from somewhere in Finland -- all about elves and ending endless winter -- hanging from one shoulder, revealing a strap beneath. It's close enough to resemble her armour not to be accidental.

"You keep bankers hours, showing up exactly when you like, da? That's so--"

Poor rider, seeing that interplay to flee, and the blonde simmering away in front of Strange with a readiness to possibly throw him through a wall. Her eyes dart through the illusion as the door opens. Just because it opens doesn't lessen her suspicion. "--cause to hit you with a broom." Would she? Probably not.

But her teeth are showing behind black-painted lips. A finger reaches out to touch his forehead, to see if she even can. Just in case.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"Nice to see you, too, Illyana."

There is amusement in that voice. There is more...so much more. Exhaustion, to be sure. Perhaps a touch of annoyance, though that is certainly not directed towards the blonde. But, there is definitely amusement. For the first time in some time, Stephen laughs.

A laugh that pauses only when the warm touch of a single fingertip presses against his forehead, finding him to be solid and whole.

"Yes, I am real. Now, would you like to come in?"

Bankers hours, indeed, If only he was so lucky to have been a banker. "I have a perfectly reasonable explanation." A beat, as Strange considers. "Well, maybe not reasonable. But...I do have an explanation."

He will wait until the two are within the confines of the Sanctum before such explanations are given.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Poking one's companion in the forehead with a manicured nail may be perceived isn't particularly nice as a greeting, but perhaps counts for something acceptable.

He hasn't bitten it off. Illyana therefore counts as slightly safe.

A laugh that ends when she presses the off-button, and Stephen Strange is many things, but probably less amused as a result? Sifting through human moods is illustrative, if exhausting. Her chin lifts slightly, giving no question of their difference in height.

"Real had nothing to do with it." Cause for concern for why she might prod the sorcerous fun ball? Her shadow sweeps ahead of her as she steps into the Sanctum, giving no further answer to him, though the ripple of the wards might announce her sending out a feeler for the sword ever at her beck and call. Just in case.

Especially in case. The wards could be ridiculous puppies to knock him over.

Stephen Strange has posed:
There are no puppies storming the front gate to carry Strange or Illyana off their feet, much to the dismay or delight of either. And yes, the wards are fully aware of the check of the weapon that is just as much Illyana as anything. And still, it allows it.

It could very well be that it is because the master of the house wills it. Just as he wills the door to close.

"Yes...I have missed you, too."

Illyana may not have admitted her concern, but Stephen is more than willing to acknowledge his own. "I would have been back sooner, but, well, I ended taking an unexpected trip to the Underworld, which was originally intended as a rescue mission, but ended being so much more. On the plus side, I can claim I have met more than my fair share of death deities."

The Cloak frees itself from Stephen's shoulder. It shakes itself, then encircles Illyana, giving its own version of a greeting, before flittering off for some rest all its own.

"This might seem rather silly...but...what day is it really? I am not afraid to admit I lost track of time."

Traveling through the Black Bifrost, then the Underworld will do that to a man.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Illyana wouldn't work well with ward-puppies anyway. One might get smacked, another told to firmly sit down in the corner guarding the sea of snakes in a jar before they form another jazz jam band. That never ends well for anyone.

Her teeth set for a moment as she eases back on the unease, habit-forming and terrible as it is. Her expression changes just a little.

"The sanctum was defensive when you were gone," she says, barely touching the surface. Missing sorcerer in residence will no doubt put it on a specific footing, prepared to admit none and endure itself. Her finger taps against her hip. "You can claim falling out of touch."

Ooh, burn. Except is it really? When the balance is poised on a shining crescent wrapped around her finger, locked in the fractured pieces internally, what then? Her lips flatten to a line and she turns to him, face still partly shadowed in profile. "The fourth day of September, three in the afternoon." Taking pity? Never. But factual reason ablaze in purpose, this she can do. When the cloak loops around her, she puts her hand to the relic's soft hem, slanting her shoulder into it. How is it easier to be soft with a cloak or sword over a person? They have wishes and will, too.

"Did you do what you meant to?" she asks him.

Stephen Strange has posed:
"I did."

A pause. Then clarification. "My initial intent was to pull a mad magician from whatever realm he has stumbled into when he fell into the black abyss that had befallen the Botanical Gardens. I...had sealed it, but not before following into the unknown. I have gained a newfound appreciation for your stepping disks, my dear. In comparison to the method of travel that I found myself an unwilling participant of."

Such is the novelty of the Black Bifrost.

"I was thrown, through time and space and, towards the end, centuries-old plate glass. My quarry had travelled farther, but found him I did...and sent him home."

Stephen takes a moment to consider. The date. Is it really the 4th of September? "Nearly a month? Can it really be so?" Oh, crap. No wonder Illyana is cross with him.

Apologies will come later. Over dinner and tea and whatever else Strange can think off to mollify the Demon Queen before him. He has to finish his own narration, first. "From there, I found that others had journeyed to the Underworld, in search of the Magician. In search of me. I had found them in much the same manner...and sent at least two on their way. But, I tarried behind, to seek answers. Surely you have noticed that there are battles being fought amongst Death themselves. I know now what it will bring. What it may have awakened, if it is not already."

"And...if it is as I fear, there may yet be days where I am absent from home. Without warning. I pray that you forgive me when the time comes."

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
He did. Then it must be enough.

Illyana may dislike this, of course, but the job comes before desire. Supposedly it works somewhat like that. Her brief nod barely registers, leaving golden hair disrupted around her shoulders in a flowing wave. "Stop following stupid magicians," she advises after a terribly long pause. Such is the novelty of giving a damn about someone at a deeper level.

Her jaw flexes, a muscle jumping, as Stephen continues further on the business of moving through space and time. "Next time," she adds, "maybe you call. Da? You know somewhere in allwheres and allwhens, maybe useful to you." Her heel bounces and rolls as she faces him, eyes still scouring over him in search of signs he's still intact.

But he is apologizing in his roundabout way without saying sorry, as she herself is quite good at. Saying things between the lines, again an American matter, but she holds her hand out to his chest to stop the doctor from going anywhere. If push came to shove... she's the stronger, perhaps, but he has more to throw down.

"So? That is work, it calls and you go." That simple, really. "You have no empty bed anymore. Gives a reason to get back faster, da?"

Stephen Strange has posed:
The doctor stops.

Rough fingers reach up, interlacing themselves over the sorceress' outstretched hand. Cradling it, holding her to his chest. "Yes. I have a very good reason to get back faster."

Then, wonder of wonders, Stephen utters three words that are more powerful than all others. If only because he says them so rarely.

"I am sorry."

Then, silence. If only for a moment. The fingers rest upon her own, content to remain close, before reluctantly dropping to the wayside, allowing freedom once more.

"The next time I am swept away by the Black Bifrost, I will be sure to contact you, my dear." No malice...not even any snark that Stephen can excel at, should he want to. Just a straightforward statement.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Her pupils shrink and her eyes widen slightly. The value of an actual word spoken honestly matters more than all the platitudes in the world. Things she wouldn't care about anyway settle as an offering for the blonde sorcerer.

His fingers mirror hers. Strange's palm to her own finds the balance of her faulty equilibrium. Broken soul, no better than when he left it, and the holes within he manages to partly fill. The kinetic force of soulcrafted selves duel and spin in their time.

Her throat works a little. Illyana is no master of words.

So she chooses not to use them at all. Instead she leans into him, closing the distance by a long step, one that proves very short. Her cheek presses to his, his dark goatee brushed against her skin in a line. Without the spiked black headdress of her office, he need not fear being stabbed or poked by accident. Their hands remain entwined.

Stupid feelings. Stupid separations.

Shoving that aside, she kisses him, eyes still narrowed more from irritation at herself than anything else.

Stephen Strange has posed:
The sudden step inward may not give Strange pause. The continued entwinement of fingers both his and hers does. It is a welcomed development, though. The hands remain clasped as the two stand in silence, cheek to cheek. Words are certainly not needed here. Understanding can be obtained by the touch of the cheek. The soft warm puff of breath upon the ear. The tender caress of fingertips.

And yes, the impulsiveness of a kiss.

Eyes close, as the two share a moment. Even as one pair of hands remain together, the other free hand reaches up, the fingers sliding through blonde tresses as emotions are reciprocated. The kiss, an expression powerful in its own right, lingers for a few seconds more before it breaks, allowing a sigh of contentment escape from the sorcerer's throat.

Oh, yes, after that, it is rather easy to believe he has been gone for far too long. And...he will not strive to do that again.

The free hand shifts to hold Illyana close, the fingers nestled in her blonde locks, the palm of his hand resting ever so tenderly upon the back of the head devoid of queenly accruements.

"I....do believe that the proper thing to do is to sit, drink tea, and discuss frivolous matters...like what porcelain pattern would be best suited for our tea set. Shall we?"

Translation: Strange just wants to tarry with Illyana...and will use any excuse to do so.

Illyana Rasputina has posed:
Words that mean everything and nothing rest between them, the way that truths engraved in sandstone withstand four thousand years of desert heat and punishing storms to remain legible still. Maybe not painted, not beautiful, but enduring. That too has its beauty.

The tilt of her chin meets Strange midway through that kiss, and it too endures, stretching out seconds to the veneer of taffy or caramel in a confectioner's kitchen. What words don't say, actions do.

Where were you?
    I missed you.
        Remember what you come back to.
            You thought you would linger overlong, when you have this?

"The lilies," Illyana murmurs, a touch drunkenly, but there you go. It takes a moment for the center to fall back in, when the disparate pieces of herself are not ringing in exaltation or a firm desire to tempt someone to terrible actions.

"Let us. Maybe I can tell you about the heart of the universe. I should remember most of it..."

Minor things.