2753/Maam There Are Nazis In Your Bed

Maam There Are Nazis In Your Bed
Date of Scene:	08 October 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Leah, Magik

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Leah has posed:
Sometimes you meet people on the street and your destinies intertwine forever. Sometimes you never meet the person you've always wanted to meet, no matter what.

Sometimes a person just shows up in your bedroom.

Leah shows up in Limbo. What a simple and easy word to describe what was a complex office. She opened a portal, showed her certification, and strode inwards. She passed guards, serenely ignored the glares of demons and passed a riddler with aplomb. A majordomo accompanied her for some distance, but Leah has some familiarity with the distorting loops of space and time. She ditched him.

The heavy glass stone she carries, with its shining green arrow within the leaden translucency, is all the guide she needs.

"I come in accord with my Mistress," Leah informs the forbidding darkling doors that guard the sanctum sanctorum of the ruler of Limbo. "Admit me or perish." Leah's head tilts back as she breathes out, thin vapor rising from her lips as her arms spread apart, the wind rising with the icy cold of Niflheim as she lets herself open to the hot blackness of this entrance, the gelid energies of that dark realm moving...

and...

It's like conning a doorman. The doors begin to swing open, and Leah steps forwards, hips swaying back and forth. She raises her voice, to be heard clearly.

"I know you are in here, and if you come forth now, it will go far better for you. Hela applauds your cleverness and wishes only to know how you accomplished your escape. Sate her curiosity and you will be rewarded!" She doesn't mention the converse.

Magik has posed:
    Illyana keeps any number of private rooms, which is of course entirely within her right given that - well, it's Limbo, and so by definition any and everything is 'within her right' here so long as she's its ruler. The one into which Leah so rudely bursts would most properly be considered a 'cabinet,' but the reign of Charles the I of England shifted the term towards government use and so it must instead be called, far less poetically, 'a den or a study or whatever.'

    The room is dimly lit (what light there is comes chiefly from a black stone fireplace, the flame dying on charred wood) and richly decorated - a number of paintings are recognizably by masters of the Renaissance, there is a desk that is plainly hundreds of years old, and no volume plucked from endless rows of shelves dates any later than 1308.

    And, seated in a leather chair before the fireplace, is Illyana Rasputin.

    Wearing a black silk robe with an enormous, feathered collar, and a pair of fuzzy black slippers, her head tilted back and an ice pack over her eyes, both hands currently devoted to rubbing at her temples.

    "Stop yelling. God."

Leah has posed:
Leah's head tilts about five degrees to the side.

"Oh," she says. "Understood. Do excuse me. I shan't be long."

And at this point Leah begins to work from the left around. The dim and tasteful environment is perhaps not /too/ interrupted by Leah silently and without hesitation searching the joint, reaching the books and starting to do a maddening cycle of taking a volume down, checking the frontispiece and then tapping it once and putting it back.

She doesn't speak. At all.

Of course the constant swsh of old volumes and the slowly increasing quantities of old paper smell may be maddening. Other questions may come to mind, but Leah is very good at doing what she's been asked in a passive aggressive way.

Magik has posed:
    The bombshell blonde in the patently ridiculous robe draws in a slow, deep breath and exhales it as a somewhat exaggerated sigh, fingers moving to pinch the bridge of her nose as she blindly gropes about at a side table until managing to stumble upon cigarettes. She manages to bring one to her lips, and then to light it without setting herself, her icepack, or her robe on fire. Another deep breath, this time a drag; she takes the cigarette between fore- and middle-finger, then exhales through flared nostrils.

    "Oh my god you're being SO loud," she mutters under her breath but in a way obviously meant to be heard and to be understood. "Why are you here? Are you looking for one of those stupid hammers? Because I don't have one anymore, that was another timeline and I didn't KEEP it even THERE. Then? There."

    A moment's pause.

    "Oh my god it doesn't matter what do you want?"

Leah has posed:
Leah's general rate of progress can be assessed by the fact that she does her damn weird little /thing/ on two books and is about to tap the third by the time Illyana lights her cigarette.

Her lips move and Illyana can probably tell, even without any sort of lipreading X-man training or sorcery, that Leah is answering her in the smallest tone of voice possible.

She finishes book #3.

Then she puts it up and turns with a swish of skirt. Her hands clasp before her. Leah speaks then in a tone of voice that is soft and gentle but completely clear.

"I am not looking for hammers," she says.

"Pursuant to the agreement between your... father...? and my mistress, I am pursuing several fugitive souls. They are in this room. I do not know where. Therefore I must search." There is a pause, and she says, "If you're offering, I will take a cigarette, though."

Leah approaches without making footstep sounds.

Magik has posed:
    "Why would I care in the least what sort of weird deal your dominatrix struck with Belasco?" is Illyana's exasperated response. She lifts the icepack just enough to peek out from under it, to get a look at this dreadfully, terribly rude intruder in her chamber of moping, and then clicks her tongue.

    "Oh. You're one of Hela's. Hmph."

    The icepack drops back down and she waves a hand in the very general direction of the table set next to her chair, upon which is set an unlit candelabra of pure silver, what very much appears to be an opium pipe carved from ivory, a book that really seems to be bound with human skin, and a pack of expensive cigarettes, a Zippo lighter (the Soviet star, with hammer and sickle, on it) and a cheap plastic ashtray.

    "Yeah, fine, take one. Why would there be 'fugitive souls' in Limbo? No one comes to Limbo by choice."

Leah has posed:
Illyana makes the offer and that's an invitation! Leah digs out a cigarette, taps it, and lights it with efficient grace as she answers with a soft "hm," after which she takes a drag and holds it between index and middle fingers in her left hand while exhaling towards the fireplace. Her free arm wraps around her waist loosely.

"Driven, perhaps, by necessity? Or there were other connections. It's quite a mystery, and I suspect they have some sort of aides or greater scheme. It's already hard to credit." Leah raises the cigarette to her lips and takes an extremely long drag that kills over half of it, swivelling her hand round with cold precision to tip the ash off.

She speaks as she exhales. "My impression is that you do not care. I do not have a choice. I like that book, by the way."

"As for why you should care about the /agreement/: It is how I was able to get in here. Are you informed of such matters?"

Magik has posed:
    Illyana rolls her shoulder, and then she adjusts her robe so that it once more covers her shoulder, a thing which it had ceased to do when she proffered a shrug. Then, she gropes until she finds her ashtray and, knowing vaguely where it is located, manages to ash her cigarette into it. Another drag follows, lips pursed as smoke billows forth from between them.

    "You may borrow it if you wish. If you are able to read fourteenth century Tuscan, you will be treated to Belasco's rambling and not at all poetic rendition of the 'true story' behind Dante Alighieri's famed Comedia."

    She pinches the edge of her ice pack between two fingers and slowly slides it off; it drops down to the floor beside her chair. Illyana's eyes are puffy, and slightly red. She devotes several moments to staring, blank and expressionless, at Leah; and then with a snap of her fingers there appears a large, glowing 'window' of light.

    "State the name, clear and in a language known to the soul, and you will be shown where they would conceal themselves."

Leah has posed:
"Oh, a new form of torture. Beautiful," Leah says, raising up the book. Her tone is perfectly balanced between sarcasm and genuine appreciation. Her fingers fondle the skin. The ones that don't have a cigarette. "You are very kind."

She looks at Illyana's face then. Leah seems perfect, other than a tiny smudge of some kind of sulfur on her cheekbone. Then - Snap!

"Oh, my thanks!"

"Heinrich Grausch und Dieter Helmut," Leah says.

Leah is silent for several seconds.

"My lady," Leah tells Illyana, "They're hiding under your ass."

There is an extremely tiny curse in German between Illyana's legs.