Silent Conversation

June 12, 2017:

Doctor Strange talks to Darkedge about the attack by the Thralls a few days ago. But the elf is not very friendly.

The Oblivion Bar

Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: None.


Fade In…

All manner of magical creatures and people find their way into Oblivion. The dark elf would had been brought in by Ripclaw and opted to stay behind a little longer. The water that was being brought to him was free of iron content so he reclined in the booth, feet up on the outside the of the bench, back to the wall, head tipped back, light above him off, eyes closed. He looks asleep.

*

Strange just got back to the Oblivion Bar after talking to Ripclaw. He missed Darkedge before, but now he has a name and the bartender points to the elf easily enough. The staff is usually discreet about the customers, but hey make exceptions when the Supreme Sorcerer looks like he means business.
“Master Darkedge,” he greets, after clearing his throat. “I would talk with you about that ambush a few days ago.”

*

The elf turns his face toward Strange as the man speaks, but something made it clear that Darkedge was aware of his presence before sound was made. His chin dips down slowly as his eyes work to open. The silver irises are clear and bright, but the whites of his eyes are still slightly red and irritated looking. His breathing is slow and measured.
« "I do not know you. Go away,"» the elf's mind presses thoughts at Strange without leaving itself open for a return message.

*

“Then I will introduce myself,” replies Strange. He is a lean human, taller than average, looking a few years past his prime. “I am the Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange, the Supreme Sorcerer of Earth. I have already talked with Bearclaw, so this won’t take long. Talk to me and I will heal your wounds.”

*

Silence is Strange's reply, though the elf clearly does not want to trust this human who pings of magic.
« "You may talk. I may not answer. I have no want of your healing, human,"» states the elf, words cold and mind held at a distance. He sits quietly, silver eyes trained on the Sorcerer in open discontent and distrust.

*

Strange’s eyes narrow at the rudeness of the elf, but he is not here to make friends. He slides into a seat in front of Darkedge and shifts to telepathic speech. « ”Very well. A few days ago you were attacked by the thralls of an ancient, fallen god. An enemy of humankind. I would like to know what happened and why did they target you specifically, if you know.” »

*

Not caring that Strange sat aross from him, not when he is as drenched in shadow as he is, Darkedge turns his face to keep Strange in his sights.
« "You will have to ask them," » is all the elf states, forcing himself not to react to the feel of the human's mind in his own.

*

« ”Hardly possible, as the thrall’s hosts were killed and their handler burned herself from the inside” » comments Strange. His psychic touch is crisp and precise, a learned skill, not innate, brought forward by intense discipline and a will of steel. It hints vast power without revealing anything. «”But I expect you will targeted again” »

*

« "And I will be more prepared for them," » states the elf, fluid with this manner of communication while using all he has to keep the power he can all but taste in the air around Strange away from the core of his mind. His eyes narrow sharply, lips pressed into a line.

*

« ”Yes, perhaps” » replies Strange with some skepticism. «”Some others have gone missing. An odd mixture of foreigners, monsters and enlightened humans. All loners, friendless” » And perhaps it is difficult to determine who is missing and who is just hiding or has left, but Strange has sharp intuition. It feels wrong.

*

« "This concerns me, how?" » comes the terse reply, haughty and cold and is there any doubt this is an elf? As if the tapered ears weren't enough of a clue. His eyes narrow again, the red irrtation visible around those silver rings.

*

« ”You have chosen to dwell in this city, and this city and all its inhabitants are in danger” » explains Strange. « ”if you remain, you will share its fate. If you are even to live that long.” » He warns calmly.

*

Silver eyes narrow sharply and lips press into a thin line.

« "I have been told of dangers. Are these more pressing than have been seen thus far?" » asks the elf. A sudden tension dances across him, turning his thoughts into the threat of sharp knives which are not as of yet fully brought to bear.

*

Strange considers his response, his grey eyes narrowing. He has no idea of what dangers has Darkedge seen so far in New York. Or of his experiences in his Avalonian homeland. The city is not -that- dangerous, magically or mundanely. Not compared to Gotham. Certainly not compared to Mexico City or Calcutta. Strange keeps his backyard safe. Almost always. Grimly, he sends: « "Right now there is a powerful demon in the city, hiding from the sight of the most powerful mystics. He is a master sorcerer and necromancer and physically equal to an Asgardian. He targeted you, and his minions surprised you and disabled you easily. Judge this menace yourself, warrior." »

*

Easily. Darkedge hates that he was taken down easily. He hates it more that his eyes still burn slightly and his chest is still tight and raw. The very idea that he was targeted makes him unhappy, but not wanting to put Avalon in danger means the elf stays on Earth, in the human realms. But that he was so easily taken down, and that Elinor left and has not returned to her apartment has him frowning.

« "What do you want of me?" » he demands coldly

*

Strange shakes his head, then speaks calmly. « “I just wanted to see if you knew anything about the enemy. I see you do not. In truth I seek nothing else from you, but I would offer you an alliance against him, if you wish to retaliate. I suspect this enemy might be ready for me, therefore I will gladly work with others to drive him out of my city” »

*

« "That's it? You came all this way, poked and prodded, finally got my attention and for nothing? Had you not believed me when I first said I knew nothing for you? I could not lie, no matter how much I wished to deceive," » snarls Darkedge, pushing to his feet. A harsh wheeze is his breathing.

« "Let him be ready for you. I will be ready for him." »

*

« "Master Darkedge, I have been nothing but polite to you. I have given you information and advice, and offered an alliance." » Strange stands up, looking serious and regal. « "In response you have given nothing but anger and rudeness. Your sincerity… is appreciated. Your hostility, unwelcomed. Farewell." »

*

It might a snarl, for all that it is silent. Darkedge sinks himself into the shadow of the table, using it to step away. He needs to check on Elinor… and then ready himself. Somehow, against a foe that would use cold iron against him.

*

But Strange is already gone, turning his back to the table to walk towards the door to New York. There are some other supernaturals to see and talk to, some scrying spells to research and to attempt, and a vengeful disciple to watch over.

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