Post by Dr. Strange on Jul 28, 2008 11:02:33 GMT -5
For Sigma.
Standing in the middle of a street in Bludhaven, a ruined, blasted street, Dr. Strange lifted up his hands, palms raised to the sky. Under his breath, he muttered, “C'aissim perdei com perdet se… Miralhs, pus me mirei en te…” There was a wave of light, it rolled down the streets and in its wake the streets and buildings healed themselves, the rubble returned to its homes, everything smoothed away, the clouds dispersed above and, as the spectators watched, it seemed as though nothing had happened here. The only indications of what had been were the bodies that littered the street, the weak moans of the injured that lay scattered about the street and in doorways. Those moans were cut sharply by the gasps of those standing to see their city rebuilt, Strange shook his head slightly at the injured and the dead, wished he could do more, but there was nothing else.
He swept an arm under Dr. Erskine’s arms, held him up, and held his arm out once more. He called forth the Winds of Watoomb and, with the sudden force of gale winds, Strange’s feet were lifted from the ground and the scene around them changed. Instead of the flashing lights and shouts of Bludhaven they had landed on the quiet nighttime streets of Greenwich Village, inside the gate of a beautiful old Victorian home. He supported the other doctor as solidly as he could, opened the door with a wave of his hand, and stepped into a warmly lit front hall, a staircase rose into the air in front of them and doors went off into various rooms. Like he did at most times he wished that Clea were here, she would be better adapted to deal with all of this than he was.
Still, he had some small consolation, “Wong! Wong?” The slim Asian man came from a door on the right, a towel in hand, raised an eyebrow at the disheveled appearance of the doctor and, again, at the man he was holding. “The doctors, they are on the third floor, yes? Tell them it is safe, they may go… hurry them out. Tell them whatever will get them away…. I, we, will be in my study. We can’t be disturbed… far too much to do…”
He brought the doctor up the steps, opened a heavy wooden door on the second floor landing and revealed a vast stone room mostly empty until Strange waved a hand, a chair materialized in the center of the room, it was into this chair that Strange deposited the doctor before he ran his hands through his hair. “We are in my home, in the Sanctum Sanctorum, I have some idea of what to do… I think that, perhaps, if I can get into your mind I can separate you from… from the creature, even more. Perhaps remove him utterly and trap him.” It wasn’t entirely clear whether Strange was talking to the man or simply to himself, thinking aloud while he drew a heavy book from thin air and flipped through its pages. “The fluctuations of magical energy will hurt him, but they won’t hurt the natural self, the existent soul. The soul is, itself, magic, a form of mystic energy, therefore, to separate the mystic from the mundane is a task, at its heart, similar to peeling an orange, if we take the Peel to be the mundane creature, and the actual orange to be the soul and body that are yours. Do you understand?” He settled on a page in the book and released it, letting it float in the air beside him, “Now, you are ready for this, Dr. Erskine? It will be best to do it now, before he has a chance to regroup.”
Standing in the middle of a street in Bludhaven, a ruined, blasted street, Dr. Strange lifted up his hands, palms raised to the sky. Under his breath, he muttered, “C'aissim perdei com perdet se… Miralhs, pus me mirei en te…” There was a wave of light, it rolled down the streets and in its wake the streets and buildings healed themselves, the rubble returned to its homes, everything smoothed away, the clouds dispersed above and, as the spectators watched, it seemed as though nothing had happened here. The only indications of what had been were the bodies that littered the street, the weak moans of the injured that lay scattered about the street and in doorways. Those moans were cut sharply by the gasps of those standing to see their city rebuilt, Strange shook his head slightly at the injured and the dead, wished he could do more, but there was nothing else.
He swept an arm under Dr. Erskine’s arms, held him up, and held his arm out once more. He called forth the Winds of Watoomb and, with the sudden force of gale winds, Strange’s feet were lifted from the ground and the scene around them changed. Instead of the flashing lights and shouts of Bludhaven they had landed on the quiet nighttime streets of Greenwich Village, inside the gate of a beautiful old Victorian home. He supported the other doctor as solidly as he could, opened the door with a wave of his hand, and stepped into a warmly lit front hall, a staircase rose into the air in front of them and doors went off into various rooms. Like he did at most times he wished that Clea were here, she would be better adapted to deal with all of this than he was.
Still, he had some small consolation, “Wong! Wong?” The slim Asian man came from a door on the right, a towel in hand, raised an eyebrow at the disheveled appearance of the doctor and, again, at the man he was holding. “The doctors, they are on the third floor, yes? Tell them it is safe, they may go… hurry them out. Tell them whatever will get them away…. I, we, will be in my study. We can’t be disturbed… far too much to do…”
He brought the doctor up the steps, opened a heavy wooden door on the second floor landing and revealed a vast stone room mostly empty until Strange waved a hand, a chair materialized in the center of the room, it was into this chair that Strange deposited the doctor before he ran his hands through his hair. “We are in my home, in the Sanctum Sanctorum, I have some idea of what to do… I think that, perhaps, if I can get into your mind I can separate you from… from the creature, even more. Perhaps remove him utterly and trap him.” It wasn’t entirely clear whether Strange was talking to the man or simply to himself, thinking aloud while he drew a heavy book from thin air and flipped through its pages. “The fluctuations of magical energy will hurt him, but they won’t hurt the natural self, the existent soul. The soul is, itself, magic, a form of mystic energy, therefore, to separate the mystic from the mundane is a task, at its heart, similar to peeling an orange, if we take the Peel to be the mundane creature, and the actual orange to be the soul and body that are yours. Do you understand?” He settled on a page in the book and released it, letting it float in the air beside him, “Now, you are ready for this, Dr. Erskine? It will be best to do it now, before he has a chance to regroup.”
