doctor stephen strange.

[sanctorums-blog]

kid-omega started following you

[kid-omega]

“N-no sir!” He smiled nervously. “…Sorry about that again.”

[sanctorums-blog]

"Sorry that you did not win, yes," Strange's brow arches, but he retains an amused, if not altogether knowing, expression on his features. "Or, rather, that you did not discover who won."

[sanctorums-blog]

kid-omega started following you

"Quentin," Stephen says through the tiniest quirk of a grin. "Not planning another home intrusion, I trust?"

[sanctorums-blog]

Ars Goetia

[warrenkworthington-deactivated2]

Warren narrows his eyes at the translucent figure before him, lips slightly parting. The tone he’s using, you’d think Warren had just offered him a cup of tea or something. The winged mutant rubs the space under one eye with two of his fingers, speaking in a tone of pure, perfected snark. “Oh, well, that’s alright, then. I don’t know why I was worried.”

He’s still not really taking the situation seriously. It’s a bit too surreal for that. Not long ago, he’d had Xavier in his mind, trying to recruit him or tell him what to do, and he hadn’t taken that seriously, either— at first. Maybe that would make Warren think twice about being so dismissive about the Sorcerer, but lacking the immediacy of a bomb about to go off has made the situation here look tame by comparison.

In the short pause, Warren glances back to the mirror. A very slight shimmering catches his eye, something that could almost be mistaken for streaking on the reflective surface. Except, he knows that isn’t the case. He had, after all, been looking rather closely at the mirror only moments previous.

In the second it takes for him to turn his head from the reflection to the actual source, the figures appear, and Warren jumps away. Reflexively, his wings start beating, knocking over several toiletries, not that the mutant notices. The space is far too cramped for him to escape, or even to fight back with his aerial advantage.

There’s simply no basis of comparison for this. There’s the Vanisher, and he had popped up out of nowhere, but he was trying to get away from the X-Men. And these guys aren’t even fully here. As those insistent hands grab onto him, he pulls forward, away from them, scowling with his efforts. His wings redouble their efforts, seemingly of their own accord, granting him extra power.

It’s not enough.

The Sorcerer’s voice breaks through his distraction (and rising panic), and Warren turns his head toward the commanding tone. “What do you mean? How? Do I have t—” He cuts himself off to let out a cry of pain against the vibrant burning sensation over his chest. Without the pain, though, that light is almost saintly. Divine. Certainly a lot more reassuring than the apparent fate ahead of the winged mutant.

He doesn’t stop fighting, but it does him no good.

[sanctorums-blog]

The trip is short and harsh. The astral plane has never been overly kind to those not schooled in the art of its proper navigation, but this is entirely different besides. These men are more than simply unwelcome here. Parasites, violent intruders that carry with them pain and revulsion. The plane itself wants them gone. With enough skill, or maybe sheer force of a singularly focused will, they guide their charge to a dimly lit room, windows in every direction and sand scattered across the floor. 

With a howl, the astral plane spews them back into reality and seals itself up behind them. The two kidnappers have traveled in such ways that they shake off the effects easily. Warren has no such luck. Thrown onto the floor with a tremendous force, the young mutant is rendered unconscious. Whether it is from the force of his head meeting the floor or a more spiritual reaction to the plane he'd just exited, it is unclear. 

Warren's kidnappers waste no time in taking advantage of his state. One mumbles a "Did you knock him out?" as he picks up one of the mutant's lithe arms. The other responds with a "No, I thought you did" as he grabs the blonde's other arm. "So we have no idea how long he'll be out," says the first, to which the second replies, "No, I don't think we do."

They move quickly, unsure of how much time the Angel's unconsciousness will allow them. Though  how many minutes pass register not with either robed figure. Time is nothing for the truly devoted. Time is a device of demons. 

Finally, their stage is set, and it is perfect. The brazier seen by the sorcerer is alight, belching a thick and fragrant smoke up to the domed ceiling. Ancient stone slopes into a perfect sphere above, and the Angel's silhouette is almost striking in its beauty. Perhaps the robed figures would find it so were they not so wholly occupied. 

A steady murmur leaves both pairs of lips as the two kneel before the fire. On an altar of rough, unhewn rock is their prize, the Angel, upper body draped across the altar, his wrists bound in chains. More than simple iron keeps him there, an ancient ward etched into the flesh of his back, smeared with a pungent oil and river mud. It grounds him. 

Firelight flickers off the chains and cast shadows in all directions. The metal leads from his wrists, where they bite tightly into the flesh not with any physical lock, but magic, searing into the flesh. Rings jut out from every surface of the dome, and the chains crisscross every which way, creating an intricate lattice work throughout the entire room. Each spans all around, encompassing the space before finally finding its end back where it began. Almost. A pair of heavy, brutal, large hooks jut through the angel's wings, keeping them forcibly spread. Downy feathers have soaked through with crimson, blood from his skewered wings spattering the floor. 

All the prostrate mutant will be able to see from his position, strapped to that low altar, knees barely brushing the ground and chin shoved against rough rock, is silver. A large silver platter, smeared with his own blood in an arcane set of symbols only a handful of people would even recognize. The silver, the flickering silhouette of his own wings spreading across the width of the room, and the chains hooked in his beautiful wings, holding them there. 

[man-thing]

[helwolf-deactivated20141031]

Everyone here is pure of intention.

[spectacularly-bored]

[greatghuleh]

[thecomicsvault]

From Strange Tales #147

[thelastinterceptor]

[sanctorums-blog]

Ars Goetia

[warrenkworthington-deactivated2]

In the future, Hank is blue and fuzzy. Scott and Magneto were hugging. The Avengers have extra Hulks, for occasions when just one won’t do. Bobby is a teacher, and an accountant, and noisy terrorists seem to have a thing for attacking empty buildings. The future, in other words, is full of the weirdest, most surreal things and people and situations. 

This, right here, still manages to top them all.

The abruptly appearing stranger trails off, and Warren waits a couple of long beats before arching a brow. “Why…?” During the pause, he bends over to pick up one of the slim pairs of pants he’d borrowed from his elder counterpart. That’s one good thing, at least. His size hasn’t changed much at all, and at least Angel still has some taste. He shakes out the fabric as Stephen finally speaks again. Despite this guy’s warning, the young X-Man isn’t feeling too rushed, seemingly. “I’m feeling pretty curious right about now. Do y—uh.”

Warren falls silent as he glances up to see the approach of the largely translucent man. Holding the pants close to his body, he keeps one fine brow cocked high. And then the third eye opens, and Warren looks around, wondering if he’d somehow gotten caught in some weird Mastermind-type trap. But that can’t be the case, right?

Warren looks back up to the man, shaking his head helplessly. “I’m assuming you don’t mean card tricks. I’ve… seen hexes before?” Very close, in fact. Like, a bunch of wooden and granite rubble falling on his head kind of close. He doesn’t think that necessarily counts, though, especially since he’d lost that battle.

Warren bends over again and steps into the jeans, not minding his audience. Hey, this guy interrupted him, so. Hope he enjoys the view. He’s definitely the strangest person Warren’s encountered so far (again, saying a lot). Wings stretching to their full expanse again, Warren glances at the older man. “So can you give me any more information? Are they just going to bust into the bathroom too? Isn’t there anyone at the school wh— Oh, forget it.” The school can’t even fight off a pack of ten year olds, as recent evidence suggests. Better not trust them with this.

[sanctorums-blog]

Whenever this young Warren has come from, he is largely inexperienced. Less than ideal, yes, but things could be far worse. Stephen touches a knuckle to pursed lips, mind working through the myriad of solutions open to him. 

None appear too promising. 

"Oh, that is quite likely, yes," he says, so nonchalant it's easy to miss the fact that he is indeed confirming that Warren could be snatched away at any moment. "Considering the powers these men are toying with, I can't imagine they'll give much thought to--"

Breaking off abruptly, the Sorcerer scowls. Inaudible to Warren, though deafening to Stephen, a scream rips through the astral plane. It is not a person in pain, but the fabric of reality itself, crying out as it is forcibly torn. 

Two figures push through the veil to appear beside Warren, half their bodies here, the other half disappearing into an abyss of darkness and magic. The crimson of their robes seems to be alive, shifting, and the metallic tang of blood would be overwhelming were his physical form in the room. Scorched hands reach for Warren, still heated from reaching through the veil. It's a messy, brutal method of travel, and Stephen's already low opinion of these men plummets.

"Warren," the sorcerer says, his commanding tone a far cry from the casual, conversational tone of a few moments prior. "Keep your wits. No matter what you might see, don't panic. I will find you." The robed men are tugging the angel backwards with far more force than two ordinary men should be able to muster, and Stephen knows the window of opportunity for intervention is far past closed. Really, it was never open to begin with. A glimmer of light illuminates Warren's ribcage, accompanying a brief, but searing, pain. Unfortunate but necessary. With such arcane, brutish adversaries, a delicate touch would be ineffective. 

Warren is tugged through the gaping wound in the astral plane, and Stephen's jaw clenches tightly. It isn't often that the Sorcerer Supreme is left no recourse against a foe. 

Dark eyes snap open in the Sanctum Sanctorum. The tracking spell entwined around Warren's ribs calls to him like a beacon; the sorcerer wastes no time. Fingers outstretched, arms move, and with one muttered incantation, he is gone.

[sanctorums-blog]

Ars Goetia

[warrenkworthington-deactivated2]

Being in a horrible dystopian future, where one of his friends is dead and Warren himself is a completely new person and another friend is a supposed terrorist, is no reason to stop caring about oneself. From the moment the wing-shaped bruises had first started forming on Warren’s back years ago, he hadn’t been able to gain weight to save his life. That doesn’t do a lot for muscle, though, and flying only exercises so much. It’s cardio. And really, the last thing Warren needs is cardio.

Warbird was an excellent and willing instructor. She’d even given him more than a couple of flattering glances during their session. He’s never sweated so much during exercise, and the ache in his muscles is something Warren’s choosing to take as good. It’s certainly a much better feeling when you’ve performed it with a woman like that. 

A shower had most definitely been required afterwards, and now Warren is standing, bared fully, in front of a full length bathroom mirror. It’s his own room, after all, and not even Xavier had ever interrupted him in such a compromising situation before. He’s studying his form, one hand raising to brush wet strands of hair with his fingers. There are more than a couple of visible bruises on his slender frame, and even a long cut (courtesy of the blade Warbird had insisted on training him to dodge). As he turns around, pulling his wings in close around him, Warren looks over his shoulder at his back. There’s a nice mark right between his wings, too, and he smirks before stretching his hands over his head.

All in all, it’s not too bad. Warbird said he had done well ‘for a stripling’, and he’s choosing to take that as a compliment. A well-deserved one. He can’t help but look at himself again, studying. Looking for a visible flaw he should take care of.

… Nope. Nothing.

Warren throws one arm up, bent at the elbow, hand hanging down so that his fingers can lightly trace the nape of his neck. With his other hand, he teases a towel from the rack. The air has mostly dried him by now, but not completely. Once the towel is free, though, he immediately drops it in shock, jerking back a few steps from the suddenly appearing image before him.

Remember the part where Xavier had never interrupted him in such a moment? Yeah. Warren wouldn’t be so shocked if he was flirting with Jean, or sleeping, or picking on Bobby. 

Pure instinct has him throwing his wings out to their full expanse, taking up most of the room, as he holds his hands out defensively. “What? Who are you? Do I look like I have a defensible position?” Those are the first questions that come to mind. He looks down at his own nude body to emphasize his point (though he’s not unduly embarrassed over it). “Who are they? Are you sure you have the right Warren?”

[sanctorums-blog]

This is not the first time Stephen has intruded on someone at a rather inopportune time. Nor the second. Nor even the third. It happens with an alarming frequency, now that he thinks about it. This is, however, the first time the subject of the unfortunate barging-in-upon has actually made no move to cover themselves or shriek "What the hell?" or some other variation thereof. Hm. Interesting. 

"I am not sure who they are, Warren, but rest assured I will do my best to figure that out. And why..." Stephen trails off, not bothering to finish his sentence as thought takes him. It is a habit he is told is most frustrating; it is also a habit he has made no effort to change. Some things are more important than etiquette or the comfort of those around him. 

This time, it's Warren's words that have him drifting into thought. Are you sure you have the right Warren. At first, he had dismissed the question, but upon a cursory search of the auras at the school, he is taken quite by surprise. 

"Oh, that is most curious," Stephen murmurs, as another cheyarafim presence is made quite plain to him. Another Angel, this one far above the school, quite happily soaring through the air. This one quite older, yet far less worried, utterly content. His wings are metallic, and though his body has far more age, his mind is quite young. Quite... unique. Had he more time, Stephen would much like to peer within. 

"I had not realized," he says, his astral form closing the distance between himself and Warren, still hovering quite high. Leaning down, he peers closely at the mutant's face, and seems to be scrutinizing the young man. A third eyelid, in the middle of his forehead, opens up and peers as well, and that's when Stephen nods. "Henry," he sighs. "I might have known. Never mind that, however. You are the most... outwardly angelic, I see, and thus the more likely target." Hands behind his back, Stephen floats upward a bit, his third eye opening once more, this time in place of the other two, which close. He is searching, searching, and then...

"They are very nearly upon you, Mister Worthington. Have you any experience against magic?"

[amyzzombie]

[opset-2-deactivated20141007]

[freakun]

Sketch 472 - Megacon // by MatteoScalera

[ultimatejoshaua]

“Fear that I have reason to open it. Fear what fuels my urgency. And fear most of all… time slipping away.”

From New Avengers # 4 by Jonathan Hickman and Steve Epting

[sanctorums-blog]

Ars Goetia

These visions have confounded him for months. 

At the first, they were so minor, so devoid of foreboding as to be beneath notice. In a flood of images, sensations, and feelings, they had barely registered. A circle of men, heads bowed in prayer. Six, no, seven bodies, kneeling before a brazier, smoky incense so thick it coats the ceiling. 

The next time such a vision visited, there were undoubtedly six men, and it was only when he felt the spectral presence of the seventh that the sorcerer turned his eye their way. Before he could fix his gaze, the vision was gone, faded into a heady smoke, fragrant, yet the scent is gone before a name can be placed. 

Four men stand around the brazier, now, and this time he is ready. Eyes scan a room devoid of markings, peering through the shadowy forms of three men no longer of this world. Sand lines the floors at the edges of the room. Large windows flooded with a blinding light flank every side save for one; that way is darkness. Soft murmurs sink into his ears, though the words are formless. Prayers. Yes, they are prayers. His eye narrows, straining to see more. Flames surge  from the brazier, a wall of heat rushing forth like a hand to push him away from the vision. 

It has been months since the first. Six months, in fact, to the day. A coincidence? No. Stephen Strange knows there is no such thing. 

Deep in meditation, the Sorcerer Supreme pushes his mind to its edges and beyond. There are voices pushing out into the astral plane, reaching, begging for aid, but there is one certain sort he looks for tonight. That prayer, it has haunted him. Unable to place the words, he has no true idea of its purpose, but the timbre, the plea buried within is easy enough to decipher. 

Power. These men crave power, and believe they have found some way to obtain it. But how? A voice, the smallest whisper of a voice, reaches the ears of the sorcerer, and his astral body edges ever closer. Time, distance, dimension, it means nothing on this plane. They could be in the room beside him and he would need to travel for hours to find them. 

Not this day. It takes mere moments for the voice to grow louder, and as Stephen's hand pushes through the veil, what he sees has his eyes widening. Two men in robes of red silk, on their knees, head bowed before a roaring brazier. It's the scent, though, that has him reeling. Cinnamon and myrrh, common enough, as is the scent of burning almond wood. But the galangal, oh. Oh, no. 

He is struggling to find some identifying mark, and his eyes land on tablets of silver surrounding the brazier. Before he can make out the markings, though, that same hand of flame is pushing him back, and in the Sanctum Sanctorum, Stephen Strange's eyes snap open. 

"The Ars Goetia," he murmurs to himself. If someone has truly uncovered its secrets, he has no time to lose. Oh, he should have seen it sooner. So lost has he been in worldly matters, his meditations have been somewhat lacking. After all, he is somewhat out of practice at being supreme. 

If these men have truly uncovered the goetic secrets, they will be in need of a cheyarafim, which are in a short supply in this dimension. In fact, Strange knows of only one. There is no way he can make it to Salem Center in time, not if the ritual is as far along as it seemed. Head bowing once more, the sorcerer dives into the astral plane once more, this time emerging before one Warren Worthington. He neither knows nor cares what the young man is up to as of this particular moment. Whatever it is undoubtedly pales in comparison to the danger currently closing in. 

"Mister Worthington," Stephen's voice carries, commanding the attention of any who hear it. "You are, unfortunately, in a most grave danger. Have you a defensible position? They will be coming for you shortly, I am afraid."

[back-to-the-futurama-deactivate]

[sanctorums-blog]

Stephen Strange and Peter Parker by Paolo Rivera