89/Spring Cleaning

Spring Cleaning
Date of Scene:	20 April 2017
Location:	Sanctum Sanctorum
Synopsis:	Magical residue is cleaned up. Methods for preventing the residue in the future are discussed.
Cast of Characters:	Scarlet Witch, Doctor Strange

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Scarlet Witch has posed:
Spring dawns bright and clear over the Sanctum Sanctorum. Motes of dust hang in the air through rainbow beams, reflecting upon the translucent shadow hanging in front of the great stained glass window. Floating in space at least ten feet off the ground, that spectral presence does not throw the wards into disarray. No woman's body lies on the ground in a featureless trance.

Wanda herself has turned as glimmer bright as glass, diminished of her normal luminous hues. Gold becomes a soft tint of blown amber. Chestnut transforms to a sheen of bronze. The floating crimson sheen of her cloak is in truth her aura, folded around her, wavering in smooth meanders that disobey the atmosphere and gravity.

Someone has to keep the spell residues away from the lovely window, and she does that with a blue feather alone. The enchanted pinion sparkles with a light dust, banishing the remnants of spells past.

Doctor Strange has posed:
The sound of music playing from upstairs in the Sanctum, a radio station tuned to the 'Best of the 80s' as announced by the DJ in a chipper tone, echoes. A baritone bark of a laugh overrides it briefly as "Cruel Summer" by the Bananaramas comes on and the Sorcerer pokes his head out of the room dedicated to the creation of potions and their ilk.

"This going to be stuck in my head for //days// now," he complains half-heartedly, flashing a bright grin. "Ah, thank you, Wanda." He notes the charmed plume and its delicate yet thorough work of removing the metaphysical residue of a stuffy winter's worth of closed doors. "It's going to shine, but not as much as you."

Charming, coming from the man with his hands in yellow leather gloves. Not cleaning gloves, no, these are fine leather, but...they might as well be. They already spot the speckling of corrosive ingredients coming together when containers were knocked askew. The silvery wards swirl up around the Witch, seeming to observe the work of the feather, before swishing away again. Their job is hunt down the errant sprites that have escaped notice of the Sorcerer.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
Bananarama filling the Sanctum is a sin the Sorcerer Supreme things he can get away with? Terrible. What business has anyone to sing such a terrible song, when 'Walk Like an Egyptian' deserves to be the timely earworm of the hour? She doesn't sing to the harmonised voices, though, the synthesisers humming in the distance.

Wanda does not step into the light so much as float, sweeping the feather around in circles that do not scrub away muck so much as banish its presence elsewhere. Thumb and finger pinch the stem of the feather, the shimmer of pale blue igniting in pavonine dust. It travels in a sparkle of dust in idle puffs around the window, not coagulating upon the frame so much as tumbling off it.

"Whatever compliments you have for me, they do not diminish the fact we must find a better solution for transmutation producing dust." Glitter dust, a fairy trail that can fill her hand. "Useful as a component, but hazardous otherwise." She takes a step and then turns, her profile filling in slightly as the spell keeping her as diaphanous as a moonage daydream weakening. Her face and throat are first to regain their warm complexion, hands to follow. "Have you adequately scoured the vats?"

Doctor Strange has posed:
Man can't get no love, even when elbow deep in empty containers grimed in the bottom curves. The Witch is correct, however, and he emerges a bit further if only to lean on the frame of the doorway, taking a moment to think on her point. The dust, visually pleasing as minute winks of starlight, does tend to settle over time. It's a good point, though he hasn't found it truly hazardous as of late.

"Could always look up a spell, like the wards. A little...butler-esque charm of sorts. A single job, to collect the aftereffects of the various castings. I'm sure there's one someone in the tomes in the library. Probably next to scouring spells," he murmurs, plucking a fleck of dried potion from the cuff of his gloves with a faint frown.

Doctor Strange has posed:
Log edit: plucking a fleck of dried potion from the cuff of one glove (singular)

Scarlet Witch has posed:
Man gets all the love in the world given the manifestation of the universe lives in his house and bakes him muffins or healthy egg and chopped vegetable mini frittatas for breakfast. Unless he needs the living worms. She can handle that. Her mouth quirks up at the sight of the butter yellow gloves, and the question wrought on her arched eyebrows and rounded mouth beckon with all manner of questions.

She blows a puff of the stardust sheen at him. It hangs in the air and the indigo motes of the feather come racing down, devouring the silvery trails before they reach the ground. "Scouring spells, yet here we are scrubbing. I wonder if we could work up a better solution." Thinking of pushing back her hair, it doesn't happen, her delicate headband keeping the weight of her damp waves off her face.

Doctor Strange has posed:
Log edit for last Strange pose: /somewhere/, not someone, in regards to the tomes.

Doctor Strange has posed:
Having finally picked off the rubbery pink reside from the soft glove's surface, he glances up in time to watch the race of the dust against feather's charms. A clear winner in what the plume drops to snatch and devour the errant sparkles. That mobile mouth curls to a fond smile.

"Spells would make everything //too// easy. We don't want to get fat and lazy like contented house cats, now do we? A practitioner who relies too heavily on casting loses an edge that could mean life or death when hogtied or gagged." Preaching to the choir, Strange knows, about utilizing physical counter-measures in the face of surviving a desperate attack. Still, there is good reason that the tutelage of Kamar-Taj included rigorous martial arts and weaponry lessons. The Sorcerer indulges in a long-armed stretch that includes shoulders and chest; he patpats the top lintel of the doorframe absently before settling down to normal height. "There's something about the physical work anyways. More...gratifying."

Scarlet Witch has posed:
This is a test to see if the log will pick it up because I'm curious for.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
The feather vanishes. With the feather turned into nothing, Wanda tugs on her sleeves to bring them down to her wrists. Each careful adjustment of black cotton unpeels the gathered, rumpled edges. They are smoothed and eased into placement.

"Fat," she dryly remarks. "No. I do not mean to use spells for all the easy things. Only the dangerous or the difficult ones. You see that scouring may be useful to gather bits. The residue? Maybe it can be turned to something else." Her shoulders rolled, she glides behind him to close the glass door of a smaller container visited by the feather dusting of Oshtur.

Doctor Strange has posed:
"Next time, we'll gather it into bags." She whisks past him and he rotates in place, aligning the lintel along his spine as he continues to lean. Removing the gloves in no huge hurry, his eyes run rather impertinantly along her form, hovering as it is. That mobile mouth shows a small smile and it's clear that he's attempting to keep a formality about him. "Any plans for this evening?"

What's this? A faint note of hope in the Sorcerer's voice.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
The choice of the yellow gloves will warrant a conversation later, the kind that has something to do with why he chooses to wear dish gloves in leather as his chosen attire. However, until then, the business of tending the sanctum remains in their bailiwick. The glistening finish of the spell around her completely fades, allowing her once more to resume her usual scarlet and obsidian appearance, spun from solid lines rather than ghost stuff. "Whatever shall we do this evening?"

Ever had a sense of deja vu? It applies now, of course, as she tips her head and shakes out her dark hair. "I had not any plans thought out."

Doctor Strange has posed:
Indeed, deja-vu is the oddest thing. It flits over his mind as well, the cause of the tiniest frown, before that smoothes away for the slightly-wider smile.

"The weather seems nice enough. Perhaps...a walk around the Park? Light dinner? Coffee afterwards?" Aforementioned leather gloves are tucked into the top of his dress pants to hang along the seam. He cranes his head to look around her towards the one window in the potions room. Indeed, the scuttling clouds don't appear to threaten rain and though there's a bit of a brisk wind, it's far kinder than weeks before, when each gust brought the bite of residual winter.

Scarlet Witch has posed:
A right and proper date in their courtship, no less. Something other than otherworldly business, no trace whatsoever of irony about it. She nods and then glances down at herself, but the attire worn today is very little from the uniform worn most everyday. Not even as an Avenger, simply a change of pace from the constantly altered wardrobes for other young women with too much fashion sense and not enough money. Maybe it's the other way around. "I might speak with the trees to wake them," she murmurs. "It has been too warm a year. They are sluggish." Changing weather patterns in the last decade have their mark; winters are brutish and short, but too often too warm too early. Nothing cold as she would know it.

Her distant gaze floats away from the wall that likely wasn't there at all for her, skimming into a deeper corner of contemplation where the labyrinth of thoughts dissolves into an agreeable nod. "I have not seen you take a good meal today."

Doctor Strange has posed:
"Eh...eating is for other people." She's right, nonetheless, and his stomach grumbles as if summoned from the pits of forgotten physiology. Strange frowns down towards his belt before sniffing dismissively. "I'll snag something out of the pantry before we leave. Street food hasn't agreed with me in...years." Hopefully no one's finished off the box of Sixth Dimension cruisine stashed in the back of the fridge. Shoving that down his face without tasting will solve at least the problem of an empty stomach.

"Meet me downstairs in fifteen?" Framed in the doorway, he pauses to throw out the query, the fond look thrown half over his shoulder.