Owner	Pose
Stephen Strange	Somewhere, in the darkened uppermost flaw of the Sanctum Sanctorum, the Sorcerer Supreme of Earth sits suspended by invisible forces. The space itself stretches impossible for hundreds of feet in every direction, the physics of the place not beholden to the laws that govern the universe without. The odd, circular window casts a lone patch of light down upon him in the shape of the Seal of the Vishanti. A lone island of Manhattan's electric light in an ocean of otherwise impermeable shadow. knock knock Strange's eyes are closed. His features drawn in a look of thoughtful repose. Deep in meditation as his consciousness wanders far afield. Beyond time and space into the realm of pure thought. Plains beyond counting of swirling color and impossible geometry - all alive and thrumming with the heartbeat of the universe. knock knock knock "I call upon Agamotto the All-Seeing," Strange's voice intones, echoing through the vault of eternity, "Reveal now to m - " knock knock knock The Doctor lets out a flustered sigh as his eyes open. His feet easily find the floor, and once again the upper floor of the Sanctum Sanctorum takes upon dimensions more fitting its place in both time and space. He descends the stairs, the high-collared cloak he wears moving of its own will behind him as though gravity could not contain it. As he walks past the living area, he pauses in the doorway to stare at Wong for a moment. Feet up on the count, headphones on, tablet watching what must be his fifteenth marathon viewing of the Office. A moment later Strange is at the door, opening it inward and forcing a tight-lipped smile. "John. Wonderful."
John Constantine	The ragamuffin mage has a cigarette in his mouth, half finished, and a fist raised to knock on the door yet again, though his eyes look up and to the Sorcerer Supreme. "Stephen, likewise." He says, exhaling the smoke outside of the brownstone. A flick of his finger and the butt goes flying off, and a couple steps later, he is inside. "Tell me, what is on your plate today? Saving souls? Giving the bird to lesser deities? Or what?"   John sticks his hands in his pockets, looking around the place. Was he here due to fate? Or did he just want to be a bee in Stephen's bonnet? Perhaps a little bit of both!
Stephen Strange	"I was communing with the Vishanti," Strange answers, his tone clipped even as he politely steps to the side to hold open the door and allow Constantine passage inside, "But I suppose I can wait until the next conjunction of the Moon and Mars. In July. Next month. Twenty-eight days away." As they move into the Sanctum proper, the Doctor moves towards the doorway leading into the room where Wong is enjoying the antics of Michael Scott. There's a flick of his wrist, index and little finger extended, and the door shuts itself as though caught by a sudden gust of unfelt and unheard wind. "How can I help you, John? A drink? Did they finally roll you out from under one of the tables at Oblivion?" He takes a moment to turn away under the guise of looking at a swirling tangle of animate chains contained with a glass display case. Instead, he's peering at his own reflections and he closes his eyes for a second to center himself. When he turns back, his fingers are politely knit before his chest. A cabinet with ornate Tibetan finish seems to suddenly lurch out of the corner of their collective vision, the doors opening to reveal glassware and decanters filled with ... well, whatever it is wizards drink.
John Constantine	"Ahh, yes. The Vishanti. Do give them my best." Knowing full well what kind of things John has said about them on the past. "Oh, I was gonna say no, but now that you've asked. It'd be rude of me to say no." John comments, smirking at Stephen. "They don't roll me out of the tables, more of a not-so-gentle nudge."   "Mind if I help meself?" He says, before Strange can even protest, he's uncorking a decanter of some odd colored liquid and taking a whiff. "I was just in the neighborhood, and figured I'd stop in." Why he was in the neighborhood a completely different reason. "You didn't reach out for me, did you, Stephen?"
Stephen Strange	"I don't think they want to hear from you after last time," Strange offers amiably enough, "Hoggoth didn't appreciate the 'Garfield' remark. Frankly, I was just amazed that he got the reference at all." As the decanter is opened, he cannot help but wince slightly. He holds out a hand, clearing his throat and adding: "Just a sniff if you're going with the Draught of Dal'ko'malath. The dimension it's from no longer exists." The question, however, causes his dark brows to knit thoughtfully. He doesn't partake of the drinks himself, instead folding one arm over his chest and stroking his bearded chin thoughtfully. "I can't imagine why I woul - " As he speaks, almost as if on cue, the warm lighting of the Sanctum Sanctorum is suddenly extinguished for a moment. At the same time the front doors as well as the windows swing open, as though an unfelt hurricane were sweeping through. It lasts only a moment before the lights return and the Sanctum's wards return the windows and doors to their normal, closed state. Strange stands, hand still at his chin, with one eyebrow raised. "Not me."
John Constantine	"You and I both, mate!" John exclaims before attempting to reach for a glass. His dreams dashed in an instant. "You are hardly any fun." He says, handing the decanter back to Strange before perusing another.   The always trench-coated warlock reels back once the light of the Sanctum starts to wane. His tan coat bellows in the quick second of hurricane winds, and his eyes squint for protection.   "Somethin' tells me the reason I was in New York is about to show itself." Synchronicity was both a blessing and a curse, afterall.   Reflexively he reaches in his pocket for a cigarette and his lighter. One of his own pack that he wards just for good measure. You don't piss off as many people as John has without learning how to protect oneself.
Stephen Strange	"No smoking," Strange offers in a tone that sounds fastidious despite his best efforts, recognizing the wards in place, "The Sanctum is protected well-enough." There's a sudden flourish of the voluminous cape that the Sorcerer Supreme wears, and from within it he draws a crystalline orb. The contents seem to swirl with hazy white clouds, and in his hands, it is almost like looking down upon another planet from far above. It leaves his hand with a lazy turn of his wrist, hovering in the air between them. "So, I have you to thank?" he mutters, still peering at the globe. The clouds begin to part, the image clearing until a figure silhouetted in purple flame can be seen. Semi-transparent, moving over the rooftops of Manhattan. Even through the looking device the power it emanates is palpable, though not of any mystical source the pair are familiar with. The same presence can be felt from outside the Sanctum, too, moving high above them. Then, just as quickly, it is gone. The image fades, and the sense of power is gone.
John Constantine	The lighter had already pinged open, before being shut again. "You have your spells, I have mine."   John approaches the orb, looking down on it with the cigarette in his mouth still, hanging from his lip. "No, not one of mine. I'm blaming this one on the Wave." He does have a tendency to be right where he is supposed to be. "This...is different." He says, looking up once he realizes what was going on, then back to Stephen once the power fades away. "And what do you suppose that was?"
Stephen Strange	"Something unearthly," Strange offers, looking at the now-inert globe for a moment before it once again disappears as though it were never there. "We are at a nexus of realities here, as you know. Different types of energy flowing in from different corners of reality and unreality. But whatever this is? It's both new and ... primordial. I've never seen it before, but something tells me its been here for a very long time. And something is drawing its attention here." There's a long pause, the Sorcerer Supreme obviously deep in thought. After a moment his grey eyes flick up to regard the unkempt British magus. A sigh escapes him. "I suppose you'll have to clear your schedule."