341/Two Shakes of Kindness, One of Disbelief

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Two Shakes of Kindness, One of Disbelief
Date of Scene: 09 May 2017
Location: Unknown
Synopsis: Summary needed
Cast of Characters: Loki, Doctor Strange




Loki has posed:
Souls being saved are an oddity, a strangeness. At least when the man in question isn't human and hardly renowned for doing such deeds.

The man in question saunters into Greenwich Village and wordlessly shoots a flare. Or the equivalent, as it happens. A harmless shaping of mana that spindles a leyline into a tree shape, he holds that for the better part of fifteen minutes while reading through a book on varied energy transferral methods. His lazy saunter around the street goes mostly unremarked upon. But seeing as how the Sorcerer Supreme in residence will eventually pay attention to such an invitation, there won't be long to wait.

He can finish his latte in that time.

Doctor Strange has posed:
Might as well have set off a firework in the wilds of Siberia. Across the wavelengths constantly attuned to his sense of reality around him, the resonance travels with impressive speed to break upon a mind in meditative perfection. Ensconced above the circular platform before the Window on the Worlds, the good Doctor sits cross-legged, hands in formations to aid the crystallized passage of energy around, through, and out from himself.

Closed lids open slowly and pupils narrow as the present presses in upon his attention. Unfolding himself with long-limbed grace, it takes him not but a few minutes to gather together his travel blazer and toss the crimson scarf lazily about his neck. His air, unconcerned; his mind, rapidly filtering through memories of Mystical religions, cults, symbols... Hmm. He might be onto something with that connection. If so...well.

The Sanctum's front doors lock behind him as he exits and stops deliberately on the landing, face turned in the direction of the flare in floral majesty. He sees the caster easily enough and his eyes narrow. With hands in coat pockets, he observes what he can before flicking up his eyebrows and huffing a short sigh.

"You rang?"

Loki has posed:
Loki finishes the drink with its heavy foam veneer, and not even a spot of a moustache to show for it. Unlike his brother, he disdains facial hair, presuming he can even grow it after the Sif incident. The flavour of Earl Grey and lavender fills his palate. He wordlessly tosses the emptied cup with its two soggy tea bags into a recycling bin, and saunters further along. To anyone else, he's a handsome gent out for a walk, possibly being pursued by six girls with smartphones and a young man obviously pondering how to ask something terrible. Like a date.

His loose-limbed walk is unrushed. It owns the street, commands a kind of purpose that might not have any at all. Unrushed, he swings around Franklin to Bleecker Street. A burning green eye surveying the shops along the way finds little enlightening, other than the preponderance of sales ticked to early May. For his own edification, he tucks his hands in his pockets and times his path exactly to the point that the Sorcerer Supreme bothers to make his appearance.

Appearances are everything even if made of candyfloss deceit and marchpane lies. He gives a languid smile. "Tolled, actually. You've a problem, one of those sorts specifically in your resume."

Doctor Strange has posed:
"I see." With deliberate steps, Strange makes his way down to street level with this toller of Mystical bells. About his neck, the scarf vibrates the tiniest bit, a frisson of a hummingbird's heart against his skin, and it serves his purposes to return said smile with one more restrained, less at ease.

"By all means, regale me as to what issue I should be dealing with currently. Bonus points if I'm already involved to some extent," he adds, settling his weight to one foot as he levels a gaze of quiet circumspection upon the younger man.

Loki has posed:
The belltoller adopts a casual stance, weight on the heel of his foot, the other lightly placed against the ground. Humble concrete somehow feels the brighter in the sunshine pouring through the broken cloud cover, hints of white cotton fluff driven forward by a promising breeze. Loki slides his hands behind him, cuffed neatly. "Extraplanar entity gathering strength by devouring the potential of your flock," he replies after a moment.

The revelation receives the proper amount of time to sink in. Time means nothing to a man of his ilk.

Doctor Strange has posed:
The light wind ruffles through hair and along the fringes of the scarf. His steel-blue eyes narrow before closing off entirely. A little frown invites one to wonder precisely what the Sorcerer is up to; the Asgardian, being of Mystical sort, will likely recognize the sensation of sleek power extending tendrils beyond with extreme speed and reach. Just as quickly, Strange blinks and visibly grits his teeth.

"Son of a bitch. //Sneaky// son of a bitch," he emphasizes, a growl beneath his murmur. "So that's what the alarms were about. What do you know?" He asks this brusquely.

Loki has posed:
Patient to such affairs, Loki does not make comment on what he detects. His amused grin curves up the corners of his mouth. It crinkles the edges of his eyes, lending a youth and precise joy sometimes absent. The boyish fall of loose hair tinted so deep a black as to appear almost brownish, perhaps stricken by a shock of sapphire, laces across his brow. A flick casts a piece away. "That's what the wards were about. Containment effort, very neatly done. Though your foul nemesis has acquired quite a collection of power and souls. Mined a manhole cover and uses the derelict buildings nearby to collect itself a warren. The usual, of course, den-like behaviour and such."

He does not entirely castigate Strange for the use of questionable language. How often does someone make him swear?

The smile is not very large or terribly profound. It marks the measure of things. "Ugly one. Hungry for the magic potential, as I said. It gains its own strength. Soon you might be seeing a being below the level of your interdimensional princes ruling dread, empty realms but higher than the average demon. Potent because, obviously, magical. I can think of a few ways to nip that in the bud."