finalflight | PSL; [ pump it up ]

PSL; [ pump it up ]

[A portal opens, unleashing its contents into a stranger’s home: the once-Sorcerer Supreme, and a creature.

A dark, murky thing, with long tendrils that might be called limbs were they not constantly fluctuating in a state of obscured shadow. They twist and snarl with an ill-defined face marked by glowing eyes, untangling itself from the sorcerer who has given it chase for an unknown amount of time, but for so long it feels like an age. But the sorcerer—none other than Stephen Strange—slams into the ground hard enough to dizzy him for a few precious seconds, and the creature flings itself away. It rises up, rushes along the walls, knocking over furniture and picture frames, and rushes out the nearest doorway.]

Damn it.

[Stephen pushes himself to his feet, eyes barely taking the time to cast around and register where he is. The answer: he has no clue. It hardly matters, though — a creature like that, the very embodiment of nightmares, needs to be corralled as soon as possible. Away from this reality, or any other.

He exhales, ignoring the stinging cut across a cheekbone and the unsteadiness to his step, and gives chase.]

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Well, you know what they say. C'est la vie, and all that.

[ Amelia summons a sofa chair for herself, across from Stephen, and collapses on it, staring up at the ceiling. ]

For once, I do wish outside visitors would just ring the front doorbell, as intended.

[ Instead of staring into space or even worse, awkwardly staring at him while he fixes himself up, she decides to get some work started. The wind chimes on the floor are first and they float one after another to her so that she can make some quick fixes before they return to the ceiling that's patching itself up. She'll continue to converse in the meanwhile. ]

So is a doctorate needed to become a sorcerer in your world, or is it just for flair?

[Stephen’s moved on to the antiseptic, which really stings, but there’s no need to do much more than that. He can tend to the rest on his own time, and one can’t do much to fix bruises that’ll show in the morning with a first-aid kit.

He watches idly as a wind chime hitches itself to a newly patched-up portion of the ceiling, towel still pressed to a cheek. He scoffs.]

The doctorate’s not for show. I was a neurosurgeon before I was a sorcerer.

[A statement that carries a story with it, no doubt — too bad he doesn’t seem keen on sharing it just now, especially with someone he doesn’t know, and moves on just as swiftly.]

You know it’s going to take forever at that rate. [The clean-up. Which sounds acerbic, and maybe a little full of himself, but he intends for it to be a preamble to his assistance.] Let me do it.

[ Though her expression doesn't show it, Amelia is amused that the explanation for his title is actually normal. Her face remains unchanged as he tells her she would be taking too long and she replies in a curt voice. ]

Forgive me, but I'm a woman who's fairly set in her ways. I like to be thorough when it comes to this particular collection. The wind chimes are highly customized.

[ As if to make a point, she plucks one of her red hair strands and ties it around the suspension cord of one before it sails gracefully into its corner. The strand glimmers with pure magic energy as it settles into the cord. ]

... You can take care of the books. Those won't take as much time. Though really, you ought to make sure you're not about bleed out on the pages or fall headfirst after the endeavor you've put yourself through.

“Bleed out”… Believe me, I’ve been in worse shape than this. I’m tired, but I’m not dying.

[As if to prove his point, Stephen waves a hand towards a pile of books that had fallen off their shelving and strewn on the floor. All at once, they lift into the air and circle about, then situate themselves in the same order in which they sat before a nightmare monster barreled through.

It’s a secondary motion, though, just a basic level spell that’s barely worth the whole of his concentration. Instead, Stephen’s focus is drawn to the tinkling of the wind chimes, and the personal care she’s put into it via a strand of hair.]

What’s so special about the wind chimes?

[He feels the magic imbued in them—can see a portion of it thanks to her display—but this witch’s spellcraft is foreign to him. He can’t quite figure its purpose.]

I should hope not. I'm a witch and a high school teacher, but I'm not looking to add mortician to my repertoire.

[ "Showoff," is what she wants to call him when he collects all the books and sets them back in their place, but holds back saying anything sharp. The sensation of his craft does set off more than one bell of intellectual curiosity.

Most of the wind chimes are mostly unscathed, some looking chipped and scratched, but with a wave of her hand and some extra hair to strengthen its defenses, they're good as new. ]

They're kind of like custom ringtones. [ She points some out. ]

Like that one will let me know if my friend is in town. Another will let me know if it's one of my students and so on and so forth. If it's an unknown, the black wind chime gives me the heads up. It really just depends if the individuals in question visit me enough to have a chime assigned to them.

They will all panic in the case of an emergency though, just like today.

[ She says this last part dryly as the last wind chime is hung up. ]

Though if I were to be honest, I just like collecting them. Wind chimes are nice.

[Look he’s not saying he could get this whole room done for her in a few passing moments, but since she wants to be meticulous about it…]

No need for a mortician this time. I’ve had my fair share of death and dying, and it’ll take a little more than a nightmare demon to do the trick.

[Books done, he’s going to work on the hole in the wall, which he starts with a wave of the hand—plaster and pieces of it carefully slotting itself together—but allows it to run its course automatically without any further intervention.]

Okay. [He supposes it’s as good of a reason to have wind chimes around.] A witch has to have her enchanted items, after all.

[Spoken like the Sanctum doesn’t have a gazillion of them.]

So if you’re a witch, that means there’s a coven — or some kind of magical community?

Yes and no.

[ Amelia stands up to glance over at the work being done by the Doctor before going to work on the kitchen. Dust and debris are lifted and disappear into thin air and cracks on countertops are sealed.

As for the dishes... She actually just starts turning on the water, grabs a sponge, and starts scrubbing some dirt off of it manually. Everything else around her is being repaired magically, but she's keen on doing this one task hands-on. ]

The ones that are awake and thriving aren't the coziest with one another and if they are, they're fairly insular. I've been told that the oldest ones who haven't perished put themselves into an everlasting sleep.

[ The lukewarm water kind of helps her center her focus and settle down from the destructive incident that just occurred. Though she had not shown any fear outwardly, Amelia was truly shaken once it was all over. The conversation with her guest is helping too. ]

... We also have a Witch King. Not human, absolutely not of the natural world of this reality, but he is what he is.

[ Though she tried to keep a neutral tone when mentioning the Witch King, there is the slightest tenseness in her voice and harshness in her scrubbing. ]

It's more accurate to say, he's the reason why there's magic here in the first place. So he's not really a 'ruler' despite the name, but you can have fun guessing the implications if you want.

Edited 2021-12-27 22:52 (UTC)

[The running water is white noise, the sound of being kept busy. He wonders how much the abnormal lands on her doorstep like it did today, that she’s taking this all so causally; if she’s like him, despite playing the part of a “normal” person in a non-magical community, so entrenched in oddities and mysticism that the abnormal has become mundane.

Still, at the mention of a Witch King? He frowns. That sounds… oddly ominous, and her tone gives away something uneasy.]

What do you mean he’s the reason why? Is he a source, a conduit? Did he teach all the witches of this world their magic?

[ He asks a lot of questions; though Amelia thinks that if their positions were reversed, she'd be doing the same thing so, in that sense, that's why she feels accommodating enough to answer as best and as concisely as she can. ]

It's a little of Column A, B, and C. And in Column D, the first of the magickind originated from his body, and from there, they mixed with humans. That's why magic and various phenomena can differ across many cultures in how it appears and is practiced. It's also an explanation of why we're so scattered.

[ Without looking up from washing the dishes, she changes the subject abruptly. ]

Do you need any ibuprofen?

If you have any Tylenol, that’d be great. [Please tell him that’s a thing on this Earth.] Otherwise, the ibuprofen’ll be fine.

[Did you try to change the subject, Amelia? Stephen’s innate curiosity so rarely lets that come to pass.]

You sounded wary when you spoke of him just now. Not exactly like he’s an entity you’ve come to revere. Have you actually met him?

Let's see...

[ She turns off the water, dries her hands, and proceeds to rummage through a nearby cupboard. When she finds the familiar red bottle, Amelia is about to toss it to him before acutely remembering a certain detail about his hands.

So instead she walks over to hand it to him normally instead. ]

Here.

[ Looking down at the newly repaired floors and walls, Amelia replies to Stephen while making sure her books are arranged the way she likes them. ]

He's my mentor. Though that was more in the early days when I first encountered him back in the 50s. I hardly rely on him these days if I can...

[ Looking at the books has struck Amelia with the realization of... ]

... Shit. [ She groans and runs her face, making a swerve to look around the living room. ]

Where's the Kindle?!

Edited 2021-12-28 15:58 (UTC)

[He would’ve remarked he could have caught the bottle if he had known what was going through her head, but maybe a little bit of gratitude is needed that he needn’t rely on hand-eye coordination in his current state. At any rate, Stephen takes the bottle, opens it up and gives him a moment to down two of the pills. He snaps the cap back on, raising a brow at her sudden alarm.

Really, she’s worried about her Kindle, interrupting his intriguing spigot of newfound information about a so-called Witch King? This seems needlessly mundane, but he reminds himself that he was the one who crashed in, literally, to someone else’s home.]

Probably fell in-between the couch cushions. [Helpful. More helpful, though:] Here, let’s see.

[He casts a quick spell, with amber shining at his fingertips for just a moment, and everything small-ish that had rested on the floor floats upwards, mid-air so that they can see. Spot your Kindle in the mess, Amelia?]

[ Her eyes scan the floating items, but no dice so far. ]

Ugh. Knowing my luck it got caught up in the spell to trap that thing.

[ She throws up her hands and shakes her head at Stephen. ]

Nothing so far. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have taken it with me to a monster fight.

Edited 2021-12-28 16:35 (UTC)

Well, we’re not uncorking this— [He toes the wine bottle next to his foot, where it’s been set so he can deal with his wound and his headache.] —just so you can have something to read.

[This woman likes her books, it seems; not that… Stephen can judge… with his massive amount of books stowed away in the Sanctum, or the time he’s spent in Kamar-Taj’s library.]

Nose-in-a-book kind of person, I take it?

Then I guess the demon will have a thrilling time with my literary selections for eternity.

[ It's definitely a joke, but there's a bite to it due to the irritation of losing an important item. She was just getting the hang of it too!

Amelia, with a grumpy metaphorical cloud over her head, sits back down on her sofa chair. Waving a hand so that two mugs of strong black tea appear, she takes one to drink and stew in. ]

I'll just get a new one. And yes, I teach AP Lit, so the books are my job.

Edited 2021-12-28 16:49 (UTC)

[He’s definitely getting a grumpy vibe now, though maybe the e-reader was more important than he gave it credit for?]

I can buy you another one. That won’t be a problem, and you can just sync your purchases up to the cloud again.

[Though—] I thought you said you were on break.

[ The offer to replace her Kindle makes her look up in surprise. For some reason, Amelia didn't peg Stephen as someone who would be willing to extend that sort of helpfulness. ]

I... would appreciate that. Very much.

[ Ah, said with equal amounts of gratefulness and confusion. She's good at it. Taking another sip to gather her bearings, she shrugs again. ]

It's currently the two week winter break for the school I work at. I spent most of it grading late papers and lesson prepping.

[ She tilts her head at Stephen. ]

If you were a neurosurgeon before than you'd kind of get it. You may have a "break" but you're actually finding yourself working on another task in the meanwhile.

Though, as a fellow magic practitioner, that may typically apply as well.

[ Or maybe she works too much, that is also possible. ]

[Mental note: purchase a new Kindle and send it her way. It’s added to the list of things he needs to tend to, but it’s easy enough, and slotted near the top. Stephen might not appear thoughtful, or even empathetic at first, but the opposite has always been true.

Though, at her assessment, he cannot help but scoff.]

I never get a break. There’s always something threatening my reality, and it’s my responsibility to make sure terrible things don’t come to pass. As you can imagine, that keeps people like me busy.

[Or maybe Stephen also works too hard, but such is the life of one labeled a “hero” back home. He makes no comment about his past life as a neurosurgeon, though — all the luxuries he afforded himself, spending money as fast as he could make it, indulging in the spotlight of progress even when he was working, has no place in this conversation with a stranger.]

That's fair. It would be difficult to take your attention away from a duty like that.

[ Though she described the fabric of reality on this side as "tenuous" it appears that his side had much more active forces running amok as opposed to the simmering and sinister powers that bubbled beneath the surface here. ]

... All that being said, you look like and are probably feeling like a mess so maybe taking a quick break before you return wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for you.

Do I look that bad?

[Worse for wear, certainly. But he has to have enough gas left in the tank to return sooner rather than later. It feels… odd, to just sit and converse with a witch in her abode, while a nightmare monster remains bottled up in glass at his feet.]

I’ll stay, but only because I promised help with the clean-up. I’m not just going to sit and—

[He rises to his feet here, pushing himself up with a wince.]

—linger like I own the place.

A wise man once told me after I had one too many drinks...

[ Amelia pauses as she watches him stand up, brows raised incredulously when he winces at the effort.

And without wasting another beat: ]

"You look like shit."

[ You see, at some point , and she's not sure when, Amelia has given into the elderly urge if not giving a fuck (but not in front of the high school kids, she's a proper adult for them so shhh.) ]

Edited 2021-12-28 18:24 (UTC)

[w o w

The honesty is flung back sardonically.]

Thanks. Still doesn’t mean I have time to waste in another reality other than my own. Wong’s probably getting impatient by now…

[Straightening properly, forcing any sign of pain off of his features.]

So let’s just get this over with, shall we?

[ Like calls to like, she supposes.

Amelia sweeps one arm towards the hallway. ]

Choose any door except the first one for a room to rest in. The hallway goes on forever so my suggestion is to not tire yourself out trying to go any further than necessary.

Right.

[Stooping low with the rigid intent of not falling over, Stephen picks up the wine bottle by the neck and straightens again. He accepts her description of an endless hallway like a man who also lives in a very magical, sometimes nonsensical, home.]

What’s behind door number one?

[He assumes it’s just her bedroom, or some other private space, but he has to ask.]

The Forbidden Chamber.

[ She's saying this in an extremely neutral tone of voice as she gathers some books to reorganize on the shelves. ]

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