The new-rifters have been taking to this world with varying levels of comfort. And even then, even with the ones most enthused about Earth’s comforts and curiosities— sometimes they just need to sit down and breathe into a paper bag.
He can relate.
Accompanying Gela on what was supposed to be today’s excursion down the street, he spots the familiar signs of an encroaching panic attack. She wouldn’t be the first Theodosian to be overwhelmed by all the lights and sounds and annoyed drivers and impatient pedestrians. So the moment she makes that request, Strange slips the sling ring back on his finger; then it’s a quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it gesture of his fingers before a glowing portal carves itself into the air.
“You said the magic word,” he says, gamely, and presses his hand against Gela’s shoulderblades to gently nudge her forward, her hands still over her eyes.
It’s three blind steps and then, suddenly, all of the noise vanishes likes it’s been swallowed up. Silence sinks in instead — and then, after a moment, those smaller noises creep back in now that the city isn’t drowning out everything. There’s wind. The half-hearted twittering of birds in the distance.
They’re standing in a sprawling quiet landscape in the upstate countryside, next to a curious mirrored artifact embedded in the ground, some kind of modern art. The grass is dead, considering the Christmas season, but there’s still trees and rolling hills and open blue sky with no skyscrapers crowding the horizon. There’s birds. There’s absolutely no one around; Storm King Art Center is closed for the season, but the open-air park is still accessible to, say, a sorcerer with a magic portal.
no subject
He can relate.
Accompanying Gela on what was supposed to be today’s excursion down the street, he spots the familiar signs of an encroaching panic attack. She wouldn’t be the first Theodosian to be overwhelmed by all the lights and sounds and annoyed drivers and impatient pedestrians. So the moment she makes that request, Strange slips the sling ring back on his finger; then it’s a quick, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it gesture of his fingers before a glowing portal carves itself into the air.
“You said the magic word,” he says, gamely, and presses his hand against Gela’s shoulderblades to gently nudge her forward, her hands still over her eyes.
It’s three blind steps and then, suddenly, all of the noise vanishes likes it’s been swallowed up. Silence sinks in instead — and then, after a moment, those smaller noises creep back in now that the city isn’t drowning out everything. There’s wind. The half-hearted twittering of birds in the distance.
They’re standing in a sprawling quiet landscape in the upstate countryside, next to a curious mirrored artifact embedded in the ground, some kind of modern art. The grass is dead, considering the Christmas season, but there’s still trees and rolling hills and open blue sky with no skyscrapers crowding the horizon. There’s birds. There’s absolutely no one around; Storm King Art Center is closed for the season, but the open-air park is still accessible to, say, a sorcerer with a magic portal.