Owner Pose
Illyana Rasputina The news always seems aflutter with something, but the local NPR station takes a break from broadcasting naysaying along with serious news pieces to cover other affairs. The professional tones of the newsreader -- Elsa Kwong-Peel -- cover what is, in heart, a missing person's case. Gone, one Korean professor at Queensborough Community College whose distinctive designer running shoes were found discarded in Alley Pond Park that runs under I-495 to Little Neck Bay. Naturally police claim to pursue leads, but after Manhattan, how can they? Community residents and students speak of a friendly gentleman with only care in his heart, and the little memorial in front of the Alley Pond Coops where he lives joins a few more ribbons and 'have you seen?' signs sagging and faded in the cold.

"This community's going to the dogs," complains another local resident, Joe.

"We're devastated by the loss to the community," says a representative for the Alley Pond Owners Cooperation as the piece signs off.

It would hardly be concerning, hardly draw attention, except that Alley Pond carries one of the few natural sparks of power in Queens that hasn't been cultivated and groomed to the point it bleeds under the concrete. A popular set of walking trails is nice and all, but that faded sparkle carries a rough bent now, too.

Because of the dogs. Great, sleek, curly-furred beasts that bite and snap and mob the place.
Stephen Strange And...it is this spark of power that brings a certain someone to Alley Pond. Not the missing person...and certainly not the level of dogs. It is certainly the natural power that called...and the fact that someone needed to secure the source before other factors came into play.

And...it is a chance to get outside. And that is always a benefit.

"Unusual." The soft baritone of Stephen Strange sounds out as he walks along the walking trail. "There was no mention of the increase of dogs. Well...at least not specifically. That's peculiar." Though...not peculiar enough to warrant him looking into it too hard. After all, there was a resource to protect.
Illyana Rasputina In the Gilded Age, such parks might be expected to be the retreat of the working class confined to Queens. No one worth their money or heaps of perks squandered any time -abroad- from Manhattan, and they very well don't now when the local park users tend to be a cultural mosaic where white skin isn't particularly commonplace and neither is English. Manhattan's gentry are missing out for Alley Pond Park has a definite charm.

If one likes trees with spooky branches scraping a pewter sky or the occasional evergreen holding up defiantly against the bracing breeze. For Illyana, these facts entitle her to wear a coat. It has a hood scrunched up against her neck, and a rim of fake fur largely for the fashion instead of functional use.

"I brought pierogis and black bread from Yuri's," she says. "Set a ward this morning. Maybe ward all Westchester, da? We could start with the boroughs. Queens, Bronx, that bit of New Jersey. Too flashy? Does flash even matter?"

Her aforementioned contributions to food are in a box, the box in a bag she carries as she follows Strange's footsteps. "Get other sorcerers, make them help. Pieces to a puzzle. Just for a few days, da?"

It smells of dirt and snow, damp leaves and animal musk. A place like this always carries natural residues atop the brisk whiff of AXE body wash in a gagging cloud or the hint of a hamburger, greasy and tasty, in another patch a couple dozen meters along.
Stephen Strange Stephen, for his own part, is actually dressed as a normal person. Well...normal looking, at the very least. No cloak today, but an appropriate jacket for the weather. Matching gloves upon his hands...and nothing adorning his head, which seems more of an accidental oversight than anything intentional. The grey eyes lift up, taking in the park for its charms...while also divining which particular way to go.

"Oh..a picnic. Sounds delightful." Those eyes flicker to regard Illyana, as a slight smile tugs at the corners of Strange's mouth. "I wouldn't have thought of that." Of course he wouldn't have. "As for wards, flash has no real bearing on anything. As long as it is functional. At this point, we are not going to worry about winning points for style. Especially if we are going to delegate the ward creation to others. Getting everyone to coordinate is going to be hard enough as it is without having to worry about matching style over substance."

The olfactory contributions to the day's adventure is a peculiar mix. But, it isn't quite enough to deter the sorcerous couple from their patrol. "Do you sense that?" A perfectly vague question. And little in way of explanation. But...an explanation does come. "The mystical energies here. It is rather raw, which is expected. But...it is almost, oh...feral, I would say. Definitely more in line with a forest than a park in the middle of New York. And...with all the dog presence. Think that is why there is a profusion of canines?"
Illyana Rasputina See, two normal people going about their lack of a normal life totally as normal. Nothing to stand out among other hikers or walkers. Illyana isn't in shredded fishnets, Stephen isn't glowing, and neither of them walks a demon on a bedazzled lead.

The world truly needs help.

"Tabitha would say to do them," she admits with a mild shrug. "She, Dani, and Rahne take them. So I try where I can." To be normal. To pretend. To do what people do.

There must be a song about that.

Her teeth set slightly. "Is setting the ward showing we /exist/? Do we want to invite that?" They are questions made strategically about tactical concerns, not merely for the sake of her own doubts being aired, for doubts do not much exist where the Demon Queen does. Sharp, narrowed eyes seek the trail and the places beyond through the woods as the paths carve routes where rivers and creeks once flowed. The slope descends gently, welded by remnant greenery, headed near the great tulip tree in the centre.

Her gaze lifts briefly through icy fair lashes to chase the question from Strange. Her nostrils flare slightly. "Meat. Pickle. Rotting plant. Dirt?" That probably isn't what he means, but she curls her lip. "Fur."
Stephen Strange "Tabitha..." The name is echoed, as Strange speaks, in a slightly distracted tone. Yes, it registers...and Stephen is working on engagement, but it is apparent that his mind is working on the riddle of the mystical source within the park. "She's a friend of yours along with this Dani and Rahne, yes? I imagine....from the Institute?" It is a pretty safe guess, considering. Though, it is apparent Strange is not as familiar with the other subset of Illyana's circle than perhaps he should.

Or he is really concentrating on that source of magic.

The subject of wards is brought up once more...and Stephen is willing to continue the discussion. "Well, adding flash would certainly show that we exist. Though, it could be harder to make it subtle...less noticeable. Sometimes it is better to be blatant and obvious than not. It really does depend on the situation. Though...for this area, I might be inclined with no wards and just careful monitoring of the situation. It really can be a Catch-22, depending."

As Illyana mentions fur, there is a confirming nod from Stephen. "So you sense it, too. A rather large profusion of it. It is unusual..."
Illyana Rasputina "Tabitha Smith. Yes, the very one," Illyana briefly explains. There's more to it than that, though she briefly touches on the young woman's name. "She's gone away again. Not so bad in this climate, but a decision many may not reverse." The departures that drain New York in a time of calamity are like the hurricane disasters in the south or the wildfires in the west. Some won't rebuild. Some won't go home.

Her teeth click together and she draws a circle while the poor man is concentrating. Strange needs focus and she keeps making that difficult without trying. A couple paces away the path twists, diverging where roots and knotted thickets encroach, though the finely groomed state of the landscape tells a human hand controls the place.

But the landscape beneath with its arterial magic, the veins flooded by smaller jots of such mana, do not belong to anyone. She might struggle to find them, sifting them out. "Nyet, not for this area. Wards for the whole borough. Maybe not necessary under the circumstances." Her thoughts might drift, words cultivating a colour.

The sticky musk of soft fur and wet noses, a bit dank and a good deal warm, lies out there to be felt in puddles and pools, diluted by the sweep of the day.