Owner	Pose
Meggan Constantine	Corona Park is probably one of the few open spaces of real greenery left in the entirely tamed heart of New York. Central Park is the only other major competitor. Alas, most of the city is curbed and controlled, reduced to docility under a layer of concrete, asphalt, steel, and electrical cables. Even the mighty Hudson or East River doesn't escape the command of man. Still, the pretty collection of museums and sports arenas don't quite detract from the pointy spires of trees, the shrubs, and very sad looking lawns that will soon brown out for the rest of the season. Not really an ideal place for flora or fauna to be, but the best that one can get. A teenager screaming is probably not due to winning a pickle ball match or getting dumped by text. Instead, the cry is met with, "Oh my God look at the cute little deer legs!" "*Mutie!*" "Shut up, Manuel, it's a /deer/!"
Stephen Strange	Green space is truly a rare commodity in the concrete jungle that is New York. Vestiges of the World's Fair are certainly still there, with the museums present and yes, even the sports arenas, but that isn't exactly why a certain former surgeon finds his way meandering along walking trails. It is mostly for the fleeting chance to see green, as well as red, yellow and orange, before the peak of the autumn season hits and all but the most resilient of trees shed their leafy boughs for another year. True, there are museums to go to. And, eventually, Stephen Strange may make his way there. But, for now, there is no hurry. The brisk fall air rustles the leaves, freeing some from their moorings upon branches to fall gently to the ground. There isn't much left on the trees now. The shafts of sunlight pierce through the thinning veil of foliage. Yet, better falling leaves here at the park than garbage in the street. The cry is heard. Strange's head picks up as he instinctly turns towards the sound. A deer. Such excitement over a deer. If it wasn't for the derogatory shout given shortly afterwards there might had been a smile upon Strange's features. Such as it is, the racist epitaph earns a slight frown, even as the surgeon looks for the elusive deer. Be it a fawn, doe, or buck...any is a rare sight within Queens, indeed.
Meggan Constantine	Green splotches between the high concrete buildings and the low mounds symbolizing the city's commitment to gambling and sport add to the bright show. Several teenagers and twenty-somethings with little better to do than loiter gather around a rather flat field fringed in a couple of higher bushes. They take excited photographs with their phones, shouting, pointing in the way of jeering crowds everywhere. The curly-haired deer is an oddity for that alone: curly hair. Doubly because the limpid puddle it approaches is disturbed by gold-sheen hooves. Dainty legs, only two as it happens, for the other limbs are very much brawny arms covered in a light down of curling golden hair there, too. Just like the chest and the other bits, growing to an outright spotted golden pelt from hips to hooves. "You seeing this?" crows a guy in a Mets hat. He waves dramatically even though he's recording the other way. "Look at this thing, what do you call that?" The deer isn't particularly tall, at least no taller than a doe would be in the whitetail family. Not fully grown perhaps. The rack of antlers isn't huge but they exist, and moreover, they curl and branch into little points abundantly sharp enough to have collected a couple leaves. "Shit, you bag that, you'd make a fortune. Those are gold," squeals a woman, and that's bound to wipe the smile right off someone's face. Because the stupider they are, the more they bunch up as a group and try to crowd in the deer. Person. Person-deer.
Stephen Strange	It doesn't take much to notice the crowd. The mass of humanity is rather easy to spot, with their arm waving and calling. What is harder to see is the object of their attention. And that. Well...that earns Strange's attention quickly. For yes, he should have put two and two together when he heard the mutant derogatory term. It looks very much like a satyr. Which, is odd, of course. However, what is not all that surprising, but clearly disappointing, is the mob mentality that is taking over...and looking to crowd the dear deer-person hybrid. That needs to be tended to. And, while Strange is a bit of a ways off, there is always the power of teleportation. Or, really, just portals. A quick spin of the fingertips and a gateway appears, with the crowd of people just on the other side. It might be enough to cause them to pause, maybe. But, if not, then the emergence of one Sorcerer Supreme, complete with blue and flowing red cloak, might be enough. Nevermind the fact that Strange was dressed in 'civilian' clothing only moments before. Such is the power of the sorcerer. Well, that and a simple glamour spell. The tail end of the woman's outburst can be heard. A roll of the eyes before Strange speaks. Softly, yet somehow the crowd can hear him quite clearly. "I would recommend dispersing."
Meggan Constantine	A few people here, a couple there. Five to ten of them congregate around the little puddle in a spot that should be roamed by galumphing hounds and happy kids, not gold-hooved and horned beings that aren't obviously a deer. The Ceryneian hind raises his arms and utters a low, guttural snarl. The girls really skitter at that sound, followed by the whoosh of a gateway formed out of nothing. Confused noises articulated as "What the hell" and a string of profanities mingle with "It's a mutant! Manuel was right!" Portals have their place. They're sort of scary when they are a similar colour to the gold, horned, angry deer-man considering sprinting at the lot of them with his head down. This could be a joke to some. Horns, one guy, what's he gonna do? Ask anyone gored by a mad deer how they feel about that. Bound to be a couple ER docs who would fill them in. A few of the guys hiss and stay closer, someone probably muttering about pulling a gun. "Just be smart. Shit, the thing brought a friend?"
Stephen Strange	A shake of the head. Really, will people ever learn? That voice speaks again. This time is colder. Harder. If the first was heard as a suggestion, this is heard as authoritative. An order, not a request. "You will leave this area and let the individual be. You do not wish to test me on my patience. Leave now." Oh, the wizard is not happy now. Especially when hearing murmurs about pulling a gun. Strange gestures with his fingers, tracing intricate patterns into the space before him before clapping his hands soundly. As he separates his hands, a shield of eldritch energy, golden as the portal, emerges, blocking the crowd from the hind and Strange. No, he is not taking chances with guns or anything of that sort. "I advise to step away. Now."
Meggan Constantine	The shield burning even brighter than the portal produces a reaction in the younger, less-canny kids. They run. Maybe out of spite or amusement, but they know to get gone when trouble rears its salt and pepper head. They scatter with the skill of people who played tag in the last decade. The guys thinking about the gun think again. "Told you, he's a *mutie*! Get outta here!" shouts Not-Manuel, though Manuel is trying to mosey toward the tennis courts without outright running. He hustles along when the air crackles. Things don't look so cool when there's actual magic and the horns made out of gold are protected by shiny barriers of some kind. The hind, though, he doesn't not know what that is. He shouts something in a high, piping tone that skirls across the distance and points, his hooves clashing off the concrete. Already at a run, the dainty springing prance is probably ridiculous see except he's got the thigh musculature to move fast and launches himself at the wizard. <Foul servant of Hephaestus! Your trickery against my lord Dionysus in this cesspool of worked rock will not stand. I will avenge his honour!>
Stephen Strange	Well, so much for protecting the satyr. And Satyr it indeed is, for the wizard is certainly up on his Greek mythology. Though....servant of Hephaestus? Really? Though, considering the speed in which the satyr springs for Strange, that thought quickly dispels as Strange instinctively throws up another portal, the shields immediately dropping as the concentration shifts. A portal that shows a definite more green surroundings than the park has to offer. The portal shifts to position itself directly between the hind and the sorcerer...but the sorcerer is not above dropping to the ground, just in case. It isn't so much of a banishment. Rather, it seems that Strange opened a portal to some sort of wildlife area. For those who know and catch a fleeting glimpse, it looks like Prospect Mountain, which happens to be in New York state. Certainly more forested and less developed than New York city. And...devoid of crowds and wizards. There might be a trailing thought, hoping that the satyr enjoys the new environs. Or, really, it could be a sigh of relief that Strange's back is no longer a target.