And it is, still, fantastical and magical and beautiful — it’s just also trying to kill them now. Strange is running alongside Mobius, only to notice after a moment that there’s a conspicuous empty space beside him and the other man is suddenly missing. He skids to a halt, the Cloak billowing like a drag chute to curtail his movement, and then the Cloak itself spins around and chivvies him back down the hallway towards the fallen templar. There’s a gnarled hand coming out of the painting, and Strange grabs an antique Tiffany-styled lamp (with a little wince) and shatters that priceless glass mosaic over its wrist. The fingers clutch, retreat.
Strange catches Mobius’ hand instead. Hauls him back up to his feet, where they can keep running along— oh, the ceiling, they’re on the ceiling now, as the world continues to twist around them as if some cosmic being is taking the corridor and wringing it out like a towel. It’s uniquely dizzying, disorienting, almost nausea-inducing, but Strange seems unfazed by it. He’s accustomed to the mirror dimension. He knows how to navigate reality as it bends.
“There are weapons in the attic upstairs, and we can get through the Rotunda of Gateways to Stark Tower.”
If they don’t make it through that doorway, though, they’ll have to detour back down to the ground floor and exiting through the front door. He’s considering.
He hates the idea of being ejected from his former home like some hairball, but clearly they can’t stay here: the nearest door on the wall is starting to vibrate, thrumming with arcane energy, and it opens and oh, jesus, is that a tentacle reaching for them?? Stranger rebuffs it with another shield, another yelp.
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And it is, still, fantastical and magical and beautiful — it’s just also trying to kill them now. Strange is running alongside Mobius, only to notice after a moment that there’s a conspicuous empty space beside him and the other man is suddenly missing. He skids to a halt, the Cloak billowing like a drag chute to curtail his movement, and then the Cloak itself spins around and chivvies him back down the hallway towards the fallen templar. There’s a gnarled hand coming out of the painting, and Strange grabs an antique Tiffany-styled lamp (with a little wince) and shatters that priceless glass mosaic over its wrist. The fingers clutch, retreat.
Strange catches Mobius’ hand instead. Hauls him back up to his feet, where they can keep running along— oh, the ceiling, they’re on the ceiling now, as the world continues to twist around them as if some cosmic being is taking the corridor and wringing it out like a towel. It’s uniquely dizzying, disorienting, almost nausea-inducing, but Strange seems unfazed by it. He’s accustomed to the mirror dimension. He knows how to navigate reality as it bends.
“There are weapons in the attic upstairs, and we can get through the Rotunda of Gateways to Stark Tower.”
If they don’t make it through that doorway, though, they’ll have to detour back down to the ground floor and exiting through the front door. He’s considering.
He hates the idea of being ejected from his former home like some hairball, but clearly they can’t stay here: the nearest door on the wall is starting to vibrate, thrumming with arcane energy, and it opens and oh, jesus, is that a tentacle reaching for them?? Stranger rebuffs it with another shield, another yelp.