Owner	Pose
Hela	The Crystal Palace. A London that was, remembered by the dead, mauled by influences from India, Paris, Tuscany. The Sorcerer Supreme crashed through its ceiling in a shower of broken glass. He walked its darkened halls and left to intercept the mortal explorers who descended into the Underworld. Away from a rotated statue perfuming the air and wrought-iron filigree of an emporium quite like no other. The Crystal Palace for the Iron Queen, the seat of innovation for imperial innovations. Funny how things always come round again, but given whose domain he walks within, should that be a surprise? Kore, the maiden of springtime, became Persephone, the queen of the Underworld. Spring to fall and round again, by the dictates of Zeus Skyfather. Like a lady of life brought low and raised again. Stories. Always stories.
Stephen Strange	There may be a hint of amusement in the back of the sorcerer's mind as the path that he had set forth from, followed diligently from Nemain, storyteller extraordinaire. Grey eyes shift upwards, eyeing the precise impact point that a certain mortal created in his frantic descent from the most vile of travel methods. At least, this time, Strange gets to use the front door, under his own power. His own choice. "Of course." It is the only verbal commentary that the good doctor offers, given freely to the darkness before him. Isn't that how most journeys are? Boldly striving to seek the truth, only to find that you were in the position to find it all along. Yes, there is certainly amusement in the back of the mind at that. All that walking, to come full circle. With a nod, more in greeting than acknowledgement, Strange passes into the Crystal Palace once more. The environs, formerly a mystery, seem almost welcomed. As before, a single mote of light is lit in the sorcerer's hand. Leave your weapons at the door. Bring no fire. That makes so much more sense now, considering the historical implications. Light in hand, Stephen steps in...
Hela	Darkness draws around him like shadows. As before, the marketplace contained herein boasts glories hidden beneath moth-eaten dropcloths and winding sheets to await a dawn that surely never comes to the Underworld cavern. They lack their vendors and sellers given the abundance of dead spectres and souls on the surface. Strange's path takes him up the linear avenue stretching the length of the building. Glass lies in broken fragments where he crashed through and the statue he beheld remains poised with her hand outstretched. Fountains that should be awash in greenery are instead traced in bone-pale stalks and leaves in black, tumbled over. Much could bear interest, but back to the beginning means once more in place. Light shines off dark, oiled surfaces like tears running over the steel. The floor shimmers weakly under the spell. Reflections in the glass roof -- minus that hole -- reveal a fenced garden. An orchard where luxuriant trees are always in their prime, pears and apples glowing red, succulent figs and olives swelling sleek and dark, and a sea of asphodel in hazy, fluffy grey that washes through a landscape of streams and ordered reason. At the center, a cloven chasm disrupts the beauty, leading straight between the two paths where the statue stands. Waits.
Stephen Strange	Well...that was certainly something that Strange did not see before. The fenced garden catches Stephen's eye. Not so much because it exists...but more because there is actual color there. In this realm of washed out whites and greys, the brilliant red of the apples is certainly eyecatching. Why did he not see this before? The thought crosses through his mind...but, then again, he had certain distractions at that point. Distractions that are no longer an issue. His feet follow the path. Away from the marketplace and towards the garden. Yet, even as he walks, the sorcerer performs a service that he should have before. The fingers twitch, tracing circles in the darkness as the eyes close. White arcs materialize, with just a tinge of yellow. Power is expended. And, like he did before, within the catacombs of Paris, Strange corrects an error. The shards of glass dance behind him, even as he walks, flowing and shimmering before taking flight. Back to the panel that Stephen shattered. To restore it whole. Yet, Stephen doesn't look to see if his work is complete. He knows. Instead, he walks for the orchard. To the rift. Towards the statue. For, it is time to greet the mistress of this particular domain. Judging from the orchard and the rift within, Strange has a rather solid understanding as to who that may be. Besides, repairing injuries is only proper when in the palace of the queen of the Underworld.
Hela	Walking through the garden while looking up means possibly bumping into objects, bruised shins as a price of following a difficult route. The trees above do not appear below in any finite form. When the light passes over the glass, the orchard emerges in partial detail, faded where the spell dims away. When he reaches the rift, the only act needed is to step within to be consumed in that dark. Another fall; this time, the process is strangely and weirdly slowed, for all the Cloak of Levitation gracing Stephen Strange's shoulders would keep him the sudden smack into a porphyry floor rimmed in glossy white marble shot through by incredibly rich seams of metal. Here in lavish detail are the handiworks of the Greeks from a pre-Hellenistic period, assembled in brilliant interlocked detail, as stone becomes a proxy for trees and flowers designed in that same orchard, but none of is alive. For a given value of life. Rubies and garnets hang heavy on branches where apples would reside. Pears in pale gold hang heavy and plump. Leaves in deepest nephrite, almost black, form a canopy lit by crystal stars, chunks of quartz and moonstone among countless, unfathomably many opals and diamonds. The only living plants are asphodel, the grey and fluffy grain-like flower found exclusively growing in the Underworld, tediously dull to eat but vaguely nourishing, the food of the dead. But the goddess is not, dressed in a peplum dyed a dark shade that may be black or mulberry, but the torches mounted in their sconces make that unclear to see. She wears her hair up in piled curls, her sharp green eyes rimmed in black kohl, attentive to the appearance of the mortal in her presence. None else are here save a lone Lampades nymph, head down, tending to weaving. "Welcome," she says in a voice meant to sing and trill, far too bright and high for a place such as this. Too alive. Perhaps a reminder of what has happened, what is not. "Though such welcome as I can give offer here seems pale and crude compared to what we might have had. Alas, tempus fugit, as they like to say."
Stephen Strange	A confirmation. Looking forward, then looking up. Ah, yes. That's why Stephen missed the orchard before. He was not looking for reflections, but rather straight ahead. Silly sorcerer. The bruises are welcomed. It gives solid, tangible evidence that he is upon the correct path, such as it is. A hand brushes aside a branch that is only felt, not seen. Until he finds himself at the rift. Only further convincing Stephen that this is the way forward. To fall. For Strange is a student of various mythologies...but Greek was always his favorite. The fall is arrested...more so than he would expect, even with the Cloak of Levitation, ever his companion, assisting. The rift above shrinks to a single point, disappearing into the blackness. Strange's own light remains stalwart, yet even that cannot pierce all of the darkness. Rather, it only provides illumination for the immediate area. And, when feet touch floor, striking marble, those grey eyes shift. Turning to regard not the jewels within stone, but the goddess before him. Persephone. And, as she addresses him, Stephen responds with a low bow, eyes cast downward, arms spread open. "Thank you for your gracious welcome, Queen Persephone. Any welcome from you is more than one such as I could have hoped for." That Strange. He is a charmer when he wishes to be. And, when speaking to deities, it is always advisable to be on one's best behavior.
Hela	Bruises that barely throb in the outer periphery of the Crystal Palace sting here. The cuts in his hand from the Anubid biting him are further reminders of stinging pain, trauma of life. A little blood wells up around the plasm buried into the toothmarks, but nothing overwhelming to cause Stephen to be concerned, surely. What's one more scar among many? The Dread Queen reclines on a couch, the style of which supports her arm curled around the padded top and her body supine beneath the fine silk folds of her dress. Any of her jewels would put the whole Indian Raj's collection to shame and make the British throne's assortment seem like childish baubles from a dollar store. Persephone tilts her head just so. "Care you to sit, Stephen? Would you prefer doctor or sorcerer as a title?" The niceties count for a little something. With a gesture, another couch so easily forms, settled opposite her, if he wishes it. A goblet and krater of wine, plentiful as the libation has always been, stand on a brass tripod for him. "We are at a crux. Please understand the absence of my husband. It would not be seemly for him to appear at a private audience, when matters already hang by a snapped thread. I assure you, he takes an interest all the same." Dark curls beckon, the faded hints of warmer colour at the bottom and her roots in their winter shadows, all glossy as a raven's wing. "What do you intend to do, as a man, a servant of the threefold gods of magic, as guardian of the upper world? For this blaze burns out of control and consumes us both, no longer withheld to the fragments of a realm without peace and torment in equal stead. We have far surpassed a moment when the worlds stood apart, nested within one another but preciously divided by the thinnest walls."
Stephen Strange	The pain is felt. That registers with the sorcerer. Here, of all places, the pain that life brings is felt. True, it is little in comparison to what he has felt before...but he does feel it. That is worth noting. The hand that was bitten is regarded...the slight welling of blood dealt with. It would not be good to bleed upon the furniture. Speaking of, Stephen offers his appreciation while he does take the opportunity to sit. However, he does not touch the wine. Not out of any contrary notions. After all, he is a student of mythology. He does, however, responds in a rather conversational tone, though with proper respect still. "Stephen will be just fine, your Majesty." Yes, Stephen will use titles until told otherwise, though he will not require it himself. And....a question is asked of him. To which, he is compelled to answer. "I intend to understand the threat. To confirm what I already suspect, given the information already provided by storytellers of old recently visited." Strange does not mention Nemain's name...but he suspects that he does not need to. "To complete the tapestry that lays before me. Then, once understanding is reached, appropriate recompense will be weighed." There is a pause, as Stephen decides how to proceed. How often is this chance to present itself? Even he, who has conversed with the Vishanti, knows this is truly a rare honour. Finally, he proceeds. "This has happened before. And then, there was a reckoning. A great hunger awoken and consumed the darkness that had manifested. If I am not mistaken, this is going to happen again. And, sooner than any of us would care for. Is this correct?" Before any answer could be given, another thought escapes him. "This hunger...was born of the son of the sister of my own patron. The...son of Gaea. Is this also correct?" It would seem that Strange has been an apt pupil. Asking for confirmation, rather than nebulous concepts.
Hela	Pain to the body, but the mind or the heart are more durable and proof to the suffering the Underworld brings. What is the pale echo of life without the hurts and traumas magnified; the pleasures, then, are diminished substantially and the more treasured for it. Persephone watches the sorcerer choose his path, again and again. That he sits and thinks, not drinking, though she is scarcely without recourse there. A small cup she brings to her lips, sipping. "Our odds decline, but one among you listened to her. Those complications will present future trials." Her warning is mild, couched in the eternal softness of the spring maiden instead of the dread queen that Orpheus barely warmed. When Stephen speaks, she listens, a rapt audience and the greater judge often forgotten in stories. Yet Hades bears the epithet 'The Good Counselor,' and from whom did he take his counsel beyond Rhadamanthys? His wife toes at the hem of her chiton. "Correct, the cycle begins anew. Gaea and the Demiurge, the realm that gave her shelter, have a son." She plucks her words with care from an assortment, interspersed by a careless sip of wine. A trace of anguish and jealousy in that might be audible to only the sharpest ear. But Agamotto is nothing if not pitiless truth. "He has fallen to his hunger and become Demogorge, eater of souls and gods. You cannot halt a process already complete, nor stop a titanic force already in motion. Now we may act or react, but not avert."
Stephen Strange	"Demogorge." The name to the hunger is given. Stephen takes measure, his own voice soft, as he repeats the name. Eater of souls and gods. "He has already awakened." Not a question, but a statement. With the way that Persephone speaks, it was a certainty. No need to question that. However... There is another question brewing. "This Demogorge cannot be averted? Cannot be stopped? If the oral history given is any indication, it can be diverted. My patron herself was spared from the initial purging, as was her lover. Surely there is a way to combat such force, if not outright cessation, then via redirection?" The question lingers in the air, even as Stephen's mind begins to work. "I do prefer action in comparison to reaction. If, from what I understand, we choose to wait to react, then we are lost already."
Hela	Demogorge. A name. The name, one scattered across literature in the modern era and certainly written in the great Book of the Vishanti if Stephen attends upon it in another place, one where time flows at all. Persephone's soft brow is grave, her eyes dark and absent of the laughing flame that may have been extinguished by her fall, or the loss of her people's civilisation to Rome then the white god. "He cannot be averted from his course to your world, Stephen Strange. Too long have the indignities to the dead strung a litany of crimes that must be answered. He will come. His purpose has ever been to correct the injustices against life, and if he seems excessive, it has been so often because the extent of the ill deeds was nearly as great." The Lampades nymph in the corner weaving softly raises a tune: "The great hunger is coming,     Greed stirs the eater from his stony sleep,     The dead are forsaken; old lawns thrown down,     Vengeance arises from the lightless deep. "Pandemonium reigns from seven thrones;     The boundaries fall; many become one,     The hunt begins in a pitiless eye,     A feast of divine ichor has come. "All falls apart under blackening skies.     The God-killer hears the cries of the bound;     The dead speak for the living: the door opens,     Judgment born from the bloodied ground!"
Stephen Strange	The sorcerer listens. Not just to the song that the nymph weaves...but to Persephone's own words. And...he catches a phrase. "He cannot be averted from arriving to my world. He is already on his way." His expression is that of...what? Displeasure mingled with fear? It would be an apt description. That mind, that glorious mind of his...is running almost away from him. Words already spoken are considered. But...especially a title given. Eater of souls and gods. "If we do nothing, he will devour the world. Completely and utterly. If his goal is to devour corruption, then all will be lost. Yet, if I somehow stop the purge, then those that cause him to awaken will remain free to continue." Yes...quite a dilemma. Does Strange save reality as it is now, or let it reset, taking everything with it? Those grey eyes lift up to the Damned Queen before him. "Is there hope that this realm can be saved?" No...not just this realm. But everything. All of it. It is a question that he does not expect an answer to. Should it be saved? A flash in his mind. A vision, with platinum hair and tangled intentions. Fractured essence. Would he be so selfish to fight a god slayer just to ensure he himself retains a future...with that vision?
Hela	"Her song, not mine," Persephone replies with a languid flick of her wrist. "Mother Nyx's children sometimes see true, though the Moirai conceal their secrets from even Zeus Pater. For nine moons, warnings relayed through seers and portents strike the living world. A system out of balance, based on endless growth, is unsustainable, Stephen Strange. A basic principle of your sciences." How different for the science of gods and men, if there is any. The Dread Queen she is, but not without mercy for those living or passed, for she sets her goblet aside. "I too have spoken to the world above, for those willing to pay heed. At the end of all trials, the only path forward can be hope. What shape this takes cannot be my decision alone. Had I the means to placate the God-Eater back into a place of contemplation or sublime dreams, I would be out there and not here." A wan, slim lift of her smile answers. "Once my mother faced that question. Did the world deserve to live on when the light from her life was quenched? She would have punished all mortalkind for my decision, my loss of innocence. These matters are needlessly complicated yet, at their core, belong to the same concerns that belong to life itself. What is life if not the suffering and the striving, growth and gain, denial and discovery?" The immortal speaking to a mortal is one thing, though she shifts her chiton aside, and holds up a pomegranate where none was before. "The God-Eater has a place in the celestial order. Doesn't everyone? But when we abandon what is right and good, the very sins corrupting us in turn corrupt it. I cannot perceive how devouring the world of the living and the dead in some terrible restitution for the pains of both clears the board. An eye for an eye has never been a way of law, and here, my husband and I are in agreement," she adds.
Stephen Strange	That is a comforting thought. That...if there was a way to calm the God-Eater, Persephone would be there to do so. But...is there? That is the question that Strange keeps coming to. The single thought that wracks at his brain. Is there a way to pacify that which will not be pacified? In much the same way that thoughts come unbidden in inopportune times, that vison of platinum and darkness springs to Stephen's head. And...despite the seriousness of the situation, despite the fact that the sorcerer sits before a goddess, discussing the near evitable death of life as he knows it, he finds himself wishing he had more time to spend with her. She who has a piece of his soul, quite literally. That thought...grows to wish he had more time to consider what to do with the advent of he who was Atum, son of Gaea. More time to consider all the possibilities. More time... Time. And, with a start, the sorcerer sits up. He turns to Persephone. "There is still hope. As long as there is still time, there is hope. And...there is time. Time enough." The good doctor does not elaborate...but it is apparent he has ideas. "Thank you for this, your Majesty. You have shined a light where there was none before." Ideas are afoot, of that it is certain. And...a Sorcerer Supreme with an idea is a dangerous force to contend with. Especially if that sorcerer is Stephen Strange.
Hela	"You have no time here," Persephone says as that elided smile grows bright. "To keep you would only extend the inevitable, and that is a luxury that neither you or I have ever been permitted. By my husband's grace have I learned the art of patience." She rises from the couch. The pomegranate gleams in her hand and she approaches Stephen, giving him the fruit with both her hands cupped around it until he can accept or not. But a gift is a gift. "One for sorrow, Two for hate, Three for the stolen dead, Four for undone fate. Five for hope, Six made bold, Seven for a story yet to be told. Eight for a treasure that cannot be won, Nine for a judgment that shall not be outrun. Ten for the God-Eater, The great hunger comes." As the melody painted across cities shines, she leans closer, the scent of wildflowers and sandalwood, all growing things caught in their last bright profusion, and gazes hard into the man's eyes. "I command you to live, Stephen Strange. I command you not to come to my halls until your victory is passed. I bid you recall my sisters' tales and remember my sisters to your travelling companions." Then the vault inverts, the ground cracked open, as the invisible presence who commands the Underworld -- at least this close to Tartarus -- uncovers the way. "For the Wheel turns. We begin again."