Owner	Pose
Illyana Rasputina	The Chatham Square branch of the library isn't the closest to the Sanctum, but "close" is irrelevant for a teleporter, isn't it? Illyana's tasks for the day include returning a few DVDs, a couple novels, and a fat tattered book covering the records of a haunted bridge/house somewhere in Pennsylvania. The collected meeting notes for a hundred years of post-Revolutionary activity to account for why this haunted house has a flooded basement "pool" and a history of hauntings apparently also needs to include fights over toll fees for said bridge/house stretching through sixty years. The life of a mystic just isn't all that exciting, sometimes. The slither of teenagers on Spring Break at the library /should/ be very exciting. A sign of an erudite younger class, even if they are lolling around on their chairs, airpods in, refusing to listen to anyone but their music, podcasts, or social media. Yapping in too loud voices or scrolling on their phones instead of reading books is part and par for the course. Consider it a blessing that the librarians have yet to notice the ruckus on the lower floor, among the Chinese heritage collection.
Stephen Strange	Close is a rather subjective term. When everything is merely a step away, 'close' becomes arbitrary and more associated with the actual effort to obtain rather than any real distance. An item on one's person is closer than an item procured via portal, but only just. It is much the same way with travel. A distance of miles reduced to the amount of time it takes to take a step. Stephen's tasks for the day would normally be too much to list. So, there was a conscience effort to do as little as possible, at least for today. As such, Stephen's most important task today is a singular one. To accompany Illyana. And, if that task takes him to the library, then so be it. Truth be told, the haunted house had been intriguing. The basement waterway itself is fascinating, not to mention the particular hauntings. Oh...and the pictures. Those were most enlightening, if not exciting for the modern sort. Then again, Stephen could be considered an 'old soul'. Or, perhaps he is more strange than his surname suggests.
Illyana Rasputina	Close by walking on foot spares someone the need to cast magic or crash into a bookshelf. Maybe the extra calories burned and the little bit of muscle fibre used will contribute to improved cardiac health and other benefits besides. Aerobics are good. Just ask the woman who fights with a sword for hours a week. The Soulsword expertise won't make itself happen and the law of the sword matters a great deal to the icy Russian blonde when her hoards and hordes exist in that damned realm. The library smells of old books and vanillin, smart vacuuming and paper. Dropping the books into the return slot occupies Illyana's time, leaving Stephen to take up contemplation of his surroundings. Maybe the odd pattering of little feet. Thumps. A muttered curse in a language most definitely not English might not be audible from down the stairs in the Chinese Heritage Collection, but the quiver ripple of smoke emerging from a box pings off senses sharpened by far for that. A mental tug practically wheels the blonde around on her heel. "Demon," she hisses.
Stephen Strange	There is something to be said for the smell of old books. It is a rather satisfying smell. And the tactile feel of pages in hand....much better than the feel of hard plastic. At least, for Stephen, there are distinct experiences with a library that one would miss with a simple e-reader. And the promise of exercise, notwithstanding. Exercise the body with the mind. Not that Stephen is a slouch by any means. He may not wield a sword on the regular, but he is certainly not a novice when it comes to it. It is partly muscle memory that puts him on guard the moment that Illyana turns around. He caught the smoke almost as quickly as she did...but it was more her reaction that Stephen focused on. After all, the Demon Queen would certainly be more sensitive to demonkind than Strange. Still...it is sensed. And...Strange focuses to find the source. "Downstairs?" It is a simple one word question, offered not only to signal that he too senses something, but also given as a synchronization. It might be he picked up something completely different. A mystical calibration, given with a single word.
Illyana Rasputina	The pleasant hours spent in a library keep the students active. They drink from their bottles of water, though they shouldn't. They talk too loud, though they oughtn't to. They banter and loll, their headphones turned up too loud. All the tiniest of sins, and hardly a big deal. Except maybe not, compounded by ten, fifteen, thirty teens. Whatever is downstairs might be drawn to that, or not at all concerned. Demons are a mixed bag about their appetites, and this one perhaps has more reason than not to be concerned with the cultural rather than vice-ridden side of everything. Burnt rice and incense bleeds through that downstairs floor, stinking slightly and creeping up the stairs to the main floor. Downstairs is accurate; the width of the library is taken up by that room, along with different storage areas. The first of the stifled shouts of surprise is muffled, distant, accompanied by the crash of someone falling off of a table. Maybe they shouldn't have been dancing and duelling around like a set of hooligans do.
Stephen Strange	Fabulous. Mystical senses are in tune. That is reassuring. What is not reassuring is the muted ruckus that is slowly drifting their way to the ears of the sorcerers above. Could it be just simple rough-housing from simple delinquents? Or could it be something a bit more sinister triggering actions? The question remains unspoken, but Strange is determined to find the answer. "Shall we, my dear?" For some reason, Stephen feels the need to fill the quietness with spoken words. Perhaps not the best for being in a library, but at least he keeps the volume to a library-respectable level. The lingering waft of sulphur is relatively easy to track. Easy enough to follow on foot, rather than portal. Why the mundane walking? There could be plenty of reasons. Use of magic could be detected, easily enough. Stephen wouldn't want to set off the demon. But, ultimately, the reasoning is simple. Strange just wanted to walk down.
Illyana Rasputina	Indeed; Strange's are superlative. His skills in noticing the traces of magic and the infinite variations of the multiverse are probably second to none, short of Agamotto bopping through. Agamotto neither bops nor intends to show up, so the priority will be on the man. Down the stairs they go, then, the short flight doubling back and host to not much other than a librarian rising from their chair to toddle over and SHHHHH the noisemakers. They really ought to be calling the police or security but the branch is small and teenagers distract. Mind, the incense makes the place look... mostly normal, actually. A little darker than usual. Only the magical sight bestowed on both stands a chance of revealing the choking youngster in black leggings and a sweatshirt -- the female fashion standard of choice, ages 11-16 -- of a dark-haired person sprawled out on the steps, coughing and trying not to potentially pass out from the noxious fumes that saturate the place. Magic of a different sort; hint of the demon's presence. Then again, the clanks and clunks are harder to hear, either as a bad thing or a good thing. Once Stephen enters into that brew, though, the smell rolls over him and assaults his nose with acrid finishes. Burnt rice is a *smell*. So too are perceptions distorted, or attempt to be, the world browning and grotesquely tinged in a charred sepia finish. The demon in question has a mostly human face, an iron-red body, and a long, long set of snake tails -- three -- ending in quills. They lash around, impaling one unfortunate teen, another trying to fend off a tail by hitting it repeatedly with part of a broken chair.
Stephen Strange	No, there will be no special appearance from Agamotto within the library. Which should bring some sense of relief to whatsoever is causing a disturbance in the lower level. Then again, said disturbance has to contend with not one, but two Sorcerers of the Supreme variety, so perhaps it shouldn't be too relieved. It is unlikely that the malevolent force will fare much better against the two. The young woman on the steps gets Stephen's immediate attention, followed shortly by the olfactorial assault of burnt rice. He frowns, visibly. It is a rather putrid stench, not unlike burnt popcorn. Stephen kneels, but also reaches out with a back-hand waving motion, as if he is brushing aside a curtain. A gesture that would have been more grand with a cloak, rather than the casual jeans and sweater combo currently worn, but it is no less effective. There is a palpable rush of air as the acrid smoke blows away from him and the stricken female...and remains away, providing a bubble of fresh air to allow the girl to regain her senses. The trident-tailed demon gets a look. Stephen doesn't comment...at least not yet, but he does at least attempt to draw the impaled teen to the bubble of protection established. Hopefully the teen is still alive. Hopefully. Otherwise, Illyana may feel the need to unsheathe her sword. And Stephen will have no qualms in allowing her to do so.