Owner	Pose
Illyana Rasputina	Morning counts as whenever the Russian sorceress feels like it. As long as the sun moves through the sky at some point, the day carries on and the hour when a person might drink tea is nigh. A battered silver samovar accompanies Illyana as she walks through Greenwich Village. Not the strangest thing she could carry by far, in all reality, though she wields its protective box almost aggressively against a gaggle of college students streaming for New York University. The far too awake, strident pace she prefers might be alarming, and they scatter like ducklings ahead of a goose. No one trusts geese. Nor should they. The Sanctum Sanctorum at Bleecker Street rises ahead of her. Forget the scents of offal in the mulching for nearby beds or the droning traffic, she could almost imagine herself transported back a century or two. Or three... No, definitely two. Horsemen gallop down the narrow road, heedless of cars or pedestrians. Sweat lathers the beasts' sides. The men riding them are just approximations thereof, their clothing a pastiche of 1820s and 1830s, military uniforms and gentlemen's day dress all abounding with woolen stuffs and China crepes. Just a totally normal day in New York. A Siberian witch caught in the crosshairs of a spectral race.
Stephen Strange	Fortunately, for Russian sorceresses as well as college students, it actually is morning for New York. Therefore, it is not unexpected for pedestrians to be out and about. Then again, it *is* New York, so having people milling about is not unexpected at any hour of the day. The samovar is not even all that unexpected. Given the ethnic mix that Greenwich Village has, it might actually be recognize for what it is, though those of the younger persuasion may mistaken the device for some strange steampunk prop, with Illyana potentially a prop mistress for some off-off Broadway production. It certainly adds a sense of mystery, but hardly enough to truly rouse suspicion. Instead, the students scatter, the younglings on a corner look up and point towards the blonde with the really cool thingie, and all appears to be as they should be in the neighborhood. Save one thing. The door to the Sanctum Sanctorum is open, with a figure leaning against the doorframe. Greying temples betray an older gentleman...certainly not one of the university students. However, his dress is rather casual, to say the least. A simple white shirt, black trousers, and a grey peacoat hanging on his shoulders to provide just that extra bit of warmth for the 50 degree morning. Not that he really needs it, but he is standing outside, for some reason. Might as well look somewhat fashionable as he does so. As the blonde approaches, a smile and a tip of the head is given to her for greeting. "Good morning to you, Illyana." Ah...seems that the gentleman was waiting for the Siberian witch with her precious cargo. Did she call ahead? Does it really matter? Some things just do not need explanation. And, Stephen Strange waiting outside on an apparent whim, fully expecting a guest? Yes, it is better if one doesn't ask...
Illyana Rasputina	New York never sleeps. New York never cares about greater or lesser troubles short of what will end it all. Even those apocalypses, which are few and far between, get rolled over with particular speed. The blonde girl isn't entirely unused to horses, given how vital they were and remain to steppe cultures. Transportation over uncertain roads and fickle waterways, where one wrong turns sends you north to the Arctic Ocean, factored into her very early life. Unlike tractors, horses sleep and can be bargained with. They tend not to trample children simply because. Trustworthy thing. The gallivanting spectres cascade in a wild rush that zings past a metal pole slathered in posters for the latest off-off-off Broadway act, musician, or art installation. Not a few of them yellow on contact, drifting to the ground as their tape or rusting pins give way. One fellow steers his horse around to cut off the path of another, oblivious entirely to the little hatchback car that takes out his steed at the legs. Cue screechy brakes, the cursing of the driver. The horse doesn't even notice, trumpeting a neigh of derision to its peer, who is barreling Pell-Mell past the Sanctum. All in a day's ride. Work. Fun.
Illyana Rasputina	Lo and behold, the queen of Limbo is narrowly avoided, partly by holding out the samovar in front of her as a protective measure. Her fingers curl into the silver and she hisses something, spitting out a phrase that probably amounts to a protective shield against gossamer gadabouts. Just the sort of thing Stephen on his high perch can no doubt observe taking near invisible form, a brief flare of power invested into a deflection mechanism that isn't entirely needed. Supposing that they don't circle back, she has avoided a common act of 19th century mischief. No fear of trampling here. Turning to the impressive edifice, she makes short work of reaching the steps where stands the guardian of the dimension against supernatural threats, seemingly just another well-heeled New Yorker not thinking anything amiss of paying six grand a month in mortgage or rent. It helps to have paid-off property, even just as a landlord or caretaker. An upnod for him as she approaches, not quite verbalizing that greeting. In a battle of wills, the city falls before they do.
Stephen Strange	Did Stephen say good morning too early? Perhaps he did. Of course, he was witness to the little spectral parade himself...with the mechanical beast that is the hatchback passing through the noncorporeal beast that is the horse. There might have even been a slight chuckle at seeing the reaction of the hatchback, brakes squealing and the driver almost certain he saw the flank of a horse before it just disappeared. It is amusing because of course it is. And only those sensitive to such things are in on the joke. A little girl, sitting on the steps of a nearby brownstone, calls out to her mother to see the pretty horses, only for the mother to dismiss her daughter's insight as imagination. If only she could see... The shielding spell is noted. It is reviewed...an effective countermeasure, elegant in its simplicity. Though, as the caster could determine, not entirely warranted. It does its job in protection....should the ethereal equestrians decide to loop back. They do not, so perhaps the shield was not needed. Or...it did its job too well. There are viewpoints on both sides that could be argued. But not today. Today, Stephen steps aside to allow Illyana to gain entrance within the domicile. With a glance back to the little girl, there is a flicker of fingertips as he waves, intoning to the little one to keep an eye out for those horses...especially that chestnut mare, for she seems particularly frisky. There is a widening of the eyes...and a big grin for the doctor from the girl as he closes the door. For...she knows that he saw the horses, too. And that means it is going to be a great day, at least to her. The door closes, with Strange holding the doorknob. "I perhaps should have warned you. Normally, they take their ride a little earlier in the day. They must have been delayed." They? Oh...it must be a semi-regular occurrence. Cheeky doctor. "Where would you care to take your tea to?" Oh, he did not miss the inclusion of the samovar. "We could take it to the rooftop, if you like. Or perhaps simply seated by the window..." 'The window' in this case is the stylized Eye picture window that is such a prominent feature. Already, there is a table placed, with two settings. Perhaps he was planning ahead?
Illyana Rasputina	Good morning? He probably did considering Illyana's focus on horses, hordes of spectral riders, and protecting her samovar. No one will ever question a ghost horse stamping a hatchback roof, but they sure whine about construction or the subway being down, again. It's a strange place, the city. Besides, if the ghostly equines and riders truly intend to be a problem, the blonde possesses far more at her disposal. A long, slender blade wreathed in fire happens to be one of them. However, with no sign of that being necessary, she falls back rather than tempt full-out war. "Not everything is about us," she states bluntly when reaching the doctor with his open smile for the child possibly preparing to prod at the supernatural world. "The world teaches this lesson often, da?" The samovar is presented, arcane shield and all. No contents of course; carrying hot tea sloshing across the city isn't done, teleportation disk or not. "Sometimes, people talk like they do not know anything else happens outside them. The weird, it is good to see now and then." No harm, no foul. She won't be out there stabbing hapless horses, either. With her gaze lifting briefly to said window as Stephen mentions it, she turns her gaze back to him after a time. "Windy, this morning. Maybe better to go up after for a bit of air and rejuvenation?" The latter word comes to her tongue easily enough, loaded with just a smidge of doubt. Enough to make it interesting.
Stephen Strange	"Right. Then the window. It will provide a rather enjoyable view without none of the wind to vex us so." So, it seems to be decided. If allowed, Strange will take the samovar, shield and all, then offer Illyana to walk alongside. Not that it is much of a walk, for a single step and the two are at the prepared table, nested at the base of the large window. The silver decanter is placed on the table and then hands reach down to slide a chair out, offering the Russian to sit first. There is a temporary glint of light, though the source is unknown. Perhaps just a flicker from the chair catching the morning rays of the sun. It is then that Stephen answers the first question. "No Not everything is about us. And I find that refreshing. Imagine how burdensome that would be." Yes, let the world move on without them for at least a little while. Best to find relaxation when one can. "Letting things happen without us allows us to catch the unseen. We are more receivable when our guards are down." A little girl has no guards up. Adults unfortunately do. Is Strange saying that adults should be more like children? It couldn't possibly hurt. "Is there anything else I can get for you?" A last question before he claims his own seat.
Illyana Rasputina	"Better ways to get hair out of place," agrees Illyana. She releases the samovar but watches it like a hawk, the aged antique something that probably witnessed the imperial collapse, Bolsheviks and Mensheviks fighting over the corpse, and the resurrection through Lenin to Stalin. It warrants more nobility than the pair of the combined, probably, all stately, aged, and carefully mended by hands in the dark of a basement or a farm. Treasures like this ended up buried in the black earth, It shows its wear, not the tear, of time. Fierce politeness applies, still, as she circles around the table and pauses when Strange pulls the seat free for her. Those small gestures hold their own message and catch her by less surprise than regard, but surprise the same. Still, she sinks in, and scoots forward with a hop and a drag. Must mind those floors, after all. A good guest doesn't scuff! Preferences stated, she holds to the wayside until they are quite situated where they need to be: sorcerers and cups, as it happens. The drink is best taken hot and very sweet, but to each their own. "The world is more than I want." To say nothing of the onster inside. "You would suggest we receive more impressions from the world and walk among it unguarded? That is a sword with two edges. Weighted badly, coming back to cut. But there go the lessons: first you learn to see and then you don't." She waves off anything more, that slow arc of her lips barely making a phantom of a smile. "Nyet. I have all I need here, da?"
Stephen Strange	There doesn't seem to be a lot of worry about the floors being scuffed. They have perhaps seen worse and appear completely pristine. It does help some to have mystical reinforcement, of course. Not that it will ever be mentioned. In fact, there is more care placed with the samovar than the floors. Perhaps the sorcerer picked up on the concern from his guest. More so, he most likely discerned the value of the relic just from the brief moment he held it before placing it upon the table. It receives the utmost respect due all heirlooms, with the device just a fraction of an inch closer to Illyana than center. Only the most perceptible of associates would catch the slight off-center nature, which means that the sorceress currently sitting will most certainly catch the implication. There is a slight smirk as Strange moves to seat himself. "Already with the verbal jousting. This proves to be a most enjoyable morning." No sarcasm at all. Strange means what he says. "I would be remiss to advise to walk about this world without some sort of protection. Really, it is a fine edge to traverse.....to remain diligent yet open. Quite a balancing act that I am sure we are both aware of how difficult it truly is. The trick is to find that perfect accord. One that will work for you or me. And, because none of us are truly like the other, that equilibrium is unique to the person seeking it." Yes, leave it to a sage to drop some advice that is both meaningful and useless at the same time. Stephen moves on, resting his elbows on the table as he regards his partner at the table. "I would hope that I have provided all that is needed. Still, I ask, to ensure." And also to show he is engaged. But that is to be expected.
Illyana Rasputina	Those minor details equate with respect given and acceptance triggered. Illyana doesn't watch over the pot like a dragon of old, some faerie guarding hearth and home from Russian stories. She isn't quite that possessive, and the sin of envy somewhat less than the others. For the record, gluttony lives at the bottom. What pivotal instances would compel her to guard the samovar might bear telling later on, but for the present, she awaits presentation or pour. The latter, though she is happy to do, she will forfeit to the sorcerer supreme if he would prefer to take it up. Once situated properly, she pulls her blonde hair back over her shoulders and dusts her hands idly against her upper thigh. A contentious person might insist on a napkin or a serviette, but it's perfectly satisfactory for the instance in making herself appear respectable. As respectable as she can possibly be, anyhow. "The eye must be narrowed some. Otherwise the intensity would blind you." The general conversation she follows, a thread picked up on. "You make a point. Many with talent never see, da? They close themselves off. Gifts that do not receive training, lives wasted. It is not their fault. Until recently no one would talk of such things. Taboo or a good way to end up in the crazy house." Or Limbo, but that's another story. The world for children showing ghosts of ability varies considerably from a decade or two ago, thanks to people like the Avengers, Superman, monsters flying in on war machines from other dimensions. She flicks her wrist lightly. Just teleporting in glasses would be gauche, so she doesn't do it. Supposing the wards would even allow it, that's just not how she cares to show respect to her peer. Instead, she drops a small bag onto the table. "Brighton Beach has the best shops. This one is not quite so dark, better for everyday drinking. Try it if you like?" That much is present. "You provided more than was expected." She doesn't sound unhappy about this. "I am not accustomed to it. So I thank you."