61/Smoke and Magic

Smoke and Magic
Date of Scene:	22 April 2017
Location:	Bludhaven
Synopsis:	An old wolf and a young sorcerer meet up after a while, in a poor choice of location for a late night chat...
Cast of Characters:	Bigby Wolf, Doctor Strange

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Bigby Wolf has posed:
If there were a time for folks to be discouraged from strolling through Bludhaven... now would be it. It is well after dark, and a certain burly man in a trenchcoat stalks along the sidewalk across the street from some restuarants -- smoking a cigarette.

His head is somewhat downcast, putting his face into shadow from the streetlights, and his hair hangs down past his jawline. Every so often, he stops, lifts his be-stubbled face, and sniffs at the air -- nostrils flaring.

Then he mutters to himself and continues on.

His cellphone rings.

Fishing it out, he mutters a single word: "Wolf."

A pause.

"No, I don' wan' another plan." *click* "Fuckin' telemarketers."

Doctor Strange has posed:
"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

No doubt the trenchcoat-wearing passerby caught the scent of sandalwood and incense even before the lean and smirking Doctor stepped forth from the shadows of a nearby alley. Indeed, Bludhaven is no place to be after dark, but when you're Sorcerer Supreme...the dark should be nervous of you.

"You could turn the phone off. Block the number," he continues, meandering up to walk beside Bigby. "And smoking will kill you," he add idly, glancing over with a deepening of the amused smile. Of course it won't. Still a favorite clump of fur to tweak on his friend. The good Doctor in his Belstaff looks less foreboding somehow; maybe it's the absence of the glower.

Bigby Wolf has posed:
His head still lowered, the smoker's lips peel back in a toothy, lopsided grin, and he slowly lifts his chin as the 'stranger' approaches. Amber eyes glance sidelong at the newcomer, and the man takes a long pull at his cigarette before exhaling a cloud of spicy smoke into the night-air.

"I also di'n ask fer a doctor..." he mutters, despite the grin and then fixes the other man with a bright stare.

"Yer a long way from that li'l hideyhole o' yours, Strange," says he. "An' no smoke has killed me yet, young pup. This is a vice for us immortals."

Doctor Strange has posed:
"No one asks for a doctor until they need one and the way you smell, I'm not sure that you need a doctor. You need a groomer." Grin returned, gaze met fearlessly. About Strange's neck, the crimson Cloak masquerades as scarf. It wiggles its fringes towards Bigby before settling flat once again.

Relic Red, meet Big Bad Wolf, hello!

"I figured it was time to touch base with you, with Bludhaven as a whole." He gestures nonchalantly with a scarred hand to the town around them. The distant sounds of faint screeches reach them, but neither seems bothered. Simply an alley cat...or a Malk, who knows? All sorts of supernatural calls this place home. "Anything interesting to report?" The good Doctor glances back to the burly man walking next to him.

Bigby Wolf has posed:
"That reminds me, Doc -- Red Ridin' Hood called. She wants her cloak back." Pause. "An' her buns." Bigby Wolf draws on his smoke once more, and then crushes it beneath his boot. Then he rolls his shoulders, brushes his hair out of his face and puts his hands on his hips.

He motions across the street.

"Well, since you said 'please'..." Strange didn't. "The couple in the room upstairs are making out after a long argument -- he finally apologised. He's happy. She's... faking it."

He motions to the alley behind him.

"A homeless feller back there ran afoul of some kids with magic books... He's a cat now. An'... I foiled an attempted child-sacrifice -- missin' kid. Out o' the cops' league, an' then some." A pause. "That's probably more o' what you were after, huh? You know you gotta be specific among us Fables -- some of us take things... awful literally. Remember Pinocchio? He's a real boy -- fer all eternity."

The man grins again.

Doctor Strange has posed:
A snort fogs nearly white in the cold air of a spring night not far from winter's grasp. Little Red Riding Hood has nothing on the crimson Cloak and she knows it, jealous chit.

"Yes, the missing child. As long as she's home again, I can't ask anything else of you currently." Well, Strange could, but that would be simply plucking at the werewolf's ruff. "I'm well-aware of how literally you Fables take, have no fear. I had nothing to do with Pinocchio, by the by. That was the //previous// Sorcerer Supreme." The good Doctor glances up at the owl that swings by with broad, silent sweeps of its wings, clearly off on some errands -- or to hunt mice in the night. "Has the homeless man...cat," he amends, "insisted on assistance? Or is he content to rove about on four legs?"

Bigby Wolf has posed:
"Never been happier."

Bigby shrugs his shoulders. "Must be hard, livin' in a world that pretends it doesn't exist -- magic, that is. Bit like... wearing clothes while pretending to be nudists. Huh. Now there's an image..."

His nostrils flare, either as a reflex action or maybe he is fishing for details about Strange and other reasons for his visit, if any? Mister Wolf's senses are...unusually specific. Regardless, he asks the question anyway:

"What about you? Greenwich is a long way from all... this." He isn't referring to it in terms of //distance// either. "Did you really fly or teleport or bunny-hop over here just to chat? Or is this just a projection..."

And he goes to poke Strange in the arm.

Doctor Strange has posed:
Bigby will feel muscle run lean by long hours in other dimensions fighting tooth and nail with fist and spelled fury when he pokes said bicep. Strange eyes the lone finger before curling a smile. The crimson scarf rises up one length like a snake disturbed, clearly protective -- jealous? -- of its master.

"Bigs, you give me far too much credit. If I were an illusion or in Astral Form, I would be way less polite. After all, you can bark all you want at a spell and feel like an idiot for it afterwards." Still, Mr. Wolf isn't incorrect and Strange lifts a shoulder in a nonchalant shrug. "It's not that difficult living under the radar when you get used to it. You're no stranger to it. You must hate wearing clothing anyways. But please, keep them on," he adds, wrinkling his nose even as he laughs a few times. "I used magic to get here. Walking? Not a chance. It is a nice night for a flight, so I might ride the breeze back. Nothing really new as of late. Central Park remains quiet, thank the gods. There was a brief scare with a pond demon where people drive around their RC boats, but that was dealt with easily enough. The ley lines hum like cello strings and New York is a convoluted mess, but that's nothing new."

Bigby Wolf has posed:
Wolf hmphs.

Fishing out another cigarette, he lights up and takes a moment to enjoy the feeling. "Yeah. Funny that most Fables call this place 'mundane', yet it's as 'convoluted' as the Homelands in its own way... Funny thing, perspective."

He stiffens a moment later, as a group of individuals approach from down the street, behind him. There are about six of them, gang-members perhaps, all chatting, joking and enjoying beers. Some of them are undoubtedly underage. Bigby's nostrils flare and he shakes his head.

"Alcohol and testosterone... now there's a concoction worse'n any witch's brew." For now, the gang-members have no idea who it is ahead of them -- it just looks like a pair of foolish guys out having a late-night chat and a smoke. Knives are flashed. They do not appear to be supernaturals but regular human beings.

Bigby looks back at Strange and comments: "Don' lookit me -- I don' eat junk food."

Doctor Strange has posed:
"No? You're sure? The one on the far left has enough hair gel on him to crunch. Eh, I take it back," and Strange grimaces as he eyes the group of adolescents. "They all have pepperoni face. They'd be oily enough to set your stomach off. Peons."

With his usual inherent self-confidence broadcast in air and winning smile, he stops and about-faces, hands still in his pockets. "Gentlemen." He speaks loudly enough for all to hear without projecting further. "You should be tapping away at your blogs or attempting to solicit pictures via the voice channels on Halo. Whatever you do these days." A dismissive sniff and the smile drops away entirely with the drop of his voice to a frosty chill. "Do us all a favor...and go home." There is a clear implication of //no// patience at all for these delinquints.

Bigby Wolf has posed:
"Peons?!" Bigby barks in amusement, tilting his head to one side and rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. "An' here I thought you were from the Twenty-First century... Been holdin' out on me, Doc."

While Strange addresses the 'youths with ill-intent', Bigby wrinkles his nose and looks away, and then upwards, blinking as though his eyes were watering.

"Stink of 'teenaged boy', if ya know what I mean," he mutters aloud -- enough for Strange to hear him. This is //not// how he had envisioned spending his night, shooing teenagers with entirely too much testosterone...

And entirely too little common sense.

One of them laughs.

"Haaa, haha! Gentlemen?! Jeez, Pop. What century are you livin' in??"

Bigby glances at Stephen and shrugs his shoulders. "That's what //I// said," he mutters under his breath, smirking just a little. It's enough to show one canine tooth... which is a little longer than it should be.

The other boys laugh, and one reaches for a flick-knife. "Pop an' Scruffy," says he with a smirk. "How's about you hand over yo' wallets 'n shit." Behind that one, is a blond fellow, who... rather quietly begins murmuring a 'Compulsion' incantantion. Awkward, embarrassing... but entirely effective against Mundanes.

Bigby resists the urge to facepalm.

Doctor Strange has posed:
"Testing their general intelligence. They failed. Now...are you 'Pop' or 'Scruffy'?" Strange asks sidelong of the man standing next to him flashing a rather pointy set of fangs. His eyes flick to the blonde fellow with the mouth moving in words that //should// have had an effect on the general Joe Schmoe.

Bad, //bad// idea.

"I'm inclined to think that, considering I'm the classier of the two of us, that makes //you// Scruffy..." He tilts his head towards Bigby. A scar-mapped hand rises from the pocket of his coat and points //very// deliberately at the one muttering. The teenager seems to stutter even before the good Doctor's steel-blue eyes flood ultraviolet with light.

"That makes //you//...with tongue of soldered lead,
Lips gone numb as ice,
Voiceless as the newly dead,
And best run, son, because...I ain't nice."

Clapping a hand over his mouth as the spell smacks him there, the blonde makes muffled yelling sounds. The rest of the group begins to come apart at the seams. It takes the testosterone-fueled glare of the ringleader with the flick-knife to keep them from scattering.

Strange simply grins, a fairly wicked-looking crook of his lips indicating that he's indulging in one of his favorite pasttimes: putting troublemakers in their places. "Bigs? Care to blow them all down? Or shall I charm their inseams to their skin?"

Bigby Wolf has posed:
"Yeah, an' yer clothes t -- hey. Hey, wait! Dudes!" The 'leader' of the little pack of ne'er-do-wells is the last to cotton onto the fact that his spell-slinging cohort is stricken with dumbness.

In more ways than one.

The leader is also the last one to go running away, after his friends. "Hey! hey, wait up! It was supposed ta //work!// Tim, you //swore// it'd //woooorrk!//"

Bigby glances from Strange to the louts and back again, and shrugs his shoulders. "They look like they've had enough," says he and he takes a long pull at his cigarette, blowing out a cloud of smoke in the direction of the fleeing teenagers.

Except, it isn't 'just' smoke.

The force of wind to chase after the boys is much greater, slithering its way toward them like a hungry serpent -- and when it catches up, it has just enough force to knock them into a heap of garbage up against a wall.

"//Almost// had enough," Bigby amends with a smirk.

Doctor Strange has posed:
Strange narrows his eyes and lets out a slow sigh as he watches the youths scatter to the winds. Or rather, the winds scatter them. A little wince for the sounds of impact, but the bark of a laugh erases any semblance of sympathy from his expression.

"And that's what we call...taking out the trash," he quips, with no apology whatsoever in tone or twinkling smile. "It'll cover that smell you were talking about too. Eau de Landfill." Turning in the direction of their previous travels, he begins to walk again. The chance of them being molested by anything shy of someone needing desperate aid or a truly terrifying spectre is about nill now.

"I'll reassure you that the spell will wear off...in a few hours. He can gibber like an idiot for a while longer," the Sorcerer adds quietly.

Bigby Wolf has posed:
Bigby grunts.

"Fabletown may be here in Bludhaven, but I'm surrounded by walking -- or running -- shitsticks like that bunch. Bah. At least we got a bit of a laugh outta it."

The now-eerily bearded man itches his jaw and gives a faint shake of his head. "Need ta shave again... Well, I'm done fer the night. Wrapped up another case -- favour fer a friend. How neighbourly are you feelin' tonight, Doc? I could use a portal outta here 'n back to New York. You eaten yet? Wanna beer?"

Doctor Strange has posed:
"Oh, I wouldn't leave you to walk all the way to New York, Scruffy." Pausing in the shadow between streelights, Strange glances over at the Wolfman. The intensity of Mystical light in his eyes has faded an appreciative amount, leaving them with the simple warmth of a candle behind drapes. "Your paws might get tired. I ate, but a drink wouldn't be a bad thing. Hot Toddy, I think."

The air before them begins to flicker with sparks. "Any preference as to where? Pub? Bar?" The Gate is withheld, a feat of controlled willpower, as the Sorcerer awaits said preference.

Bigby Wolf has posed:
"Bar," Bigby replies, squashing another smoke on the ground. "An' seriously, 'Scruffy'? Who's scruffy-lookin', ya lummox?" The wolfman smirks, showing teeth again, just briefly. "Pick a bar, Pup. Any bar. You can tell me how things're goin' with yer Vindaloo -- no. Ashanti? Shakira? Whatever those godlings are called. Leash not too tight, I hope?"

Doctor Strange has posed:
The good Doctor hmms to himself. Then, glancing back to the opening Gate, he wills it further along with alignment to the destination. It's a small place in Greenwich Village, little hole in the wall, but home to some amazing specialty drinks...if one can afford them. Thankfully, the barkeep knows him well enough and a few helpful charms to keep away the troublemakers has marked the Sorcerer as welcome along with guests.

"The Mason Jar is a treasure," Strange explains as the brick wall of the side-alley to the bar becomes apparent beyond the wavering air surrounded by crackling lightning. "Maybe a bit ritzy for your tastes, but they do serve beer. Craft beer." A smirk for the distinction.

Bigby Wolf has posed:
"'Ritzy'?" the wolfman retorts with both eyebrows raised. "Someday you oughta see ol' King Cole's palace..." and he turns back to grumbling. The big man in the trenchcoat leads the way to the bar, picks out a stool and sits down.

"Beer," says he. "Best ya got."

Then, to Strange he remarks: "Been up to any fun then? Nabbed any cultists, banished demons, found yerself a she-witch to raise some rugrats?"

Doctor Strange has posed:
Settling in beside Bigby, the good Doctor rests forearms lightly on the bar top. A close-lipped smile from the scruffy man to the bartender asks her to humor the roughly-spoken seat-mate. She knows Stephen; she nods, giving him a knowing grin in return and replies in turn to Bigby, "You bet, sunshine." With a bit of a flounce, she turns back to the taps. Over her shoulder, she asks, "What'll you have, Doctor?"

"Hot Toddy," comes the reply to be met with a curt nod. Back to minding her bar she goes, which leaves Strange to listen to the remark. His brows flick up at the last of the trio of questions strung together. "Rugrats, hmm? Never pegged you for being nosey, Bigs." Bah-dum-pssht. "Cultists were last month, demons a week back. The Witch...?" He shrugs in the very manner known to drive Mr. Wolf most up the wall. Insouciant, distant...one-hundred percent //not// admitting //anything// and just obvious enough to catch this fact.

Bigby Wolf has posed:
"I'm a wolf," the wolfman replies when his beer arrives. "And an investigator. 'Nosey's what we do." A pause. "I invented 'nosey'. No. No... that was Pinnochio."

Another pause.

"I can smell yer smile there, Pup," he tells Strange pointedly, without looking at him. He can probably 'hear' the smile better than actually 'smelling' it, but in Bigby's experience, referring to humans and how they smell tends to offend them -- which is amusing in itself, as their own sense of smell is... nonexistant by comparison.

"So, no pups but yer thinkin' about it -- fer the future. A mate o' some kind -- female from the smell on you -- and... yup. Cultists a month ago." He down his beer in one go.

"They were into sacrifices, huh -- you got scent traces o' 'burned flesh' on you, Doc."

Doctor Strange has posed:
Rolling his lips inwards and canting his head to one side, as if to eye the trifold stand of menus, he attempts to //not// offer up the smile that Bigby claims to smell. The wolves of Fabletown are interesting creatures and the son of the North Wind not a hair less so. He gives Bigby a side-long glance that eventually turns his face near-fully back.

Trust Mr. Wolf to know of the Witch. No doubt he can pick out the subtle notes of Turkish rose and sandalwood beneath the general ambience of incense on the Belstaff. The presence of the residual charcoal from the sacrifices?

"Bullshit, you can't smell that," the good Doctor mutters as his Hot Toddy arrives. The barkeep is given a big grin and he sips at it before sighing. "Yes, sacrifices. They always do sacrifices."

Bigby Wolf has posed:
'Mister Wolf' grins a bit more broadly at his friend as the next beer arrives, and snags it with his free hand. Then he swivels on his stool to face Strange a bit more and raises the glass.

"Here's ta mates -- may they be just the kind ta leave a scent that always says, 'I'm with someone better'n me'." The grin broadens again, and the amber eyes gleam with rare amusement.