Funny thing is, he’s pretty sure there is a magic shotgun on display somewhere—
But before he has a chance to chime in, Mobius is squaring off in the middle of the room, staring down those stairs and wielding a halberd. Reciting what is, even to Stephen Strange’s decidedly unreligious ear, clearly the Chant. The halberd hits the floorboards, his knee drops, his voice rises with the firm conviction of absolute reality — and that wave roils out in a blast radius from the templar, peeling back the layers of this world.
The sight would be surreal enough, like Mobius has stripped away a layer of paint from reality (or torn aside a veil), as everything around them simply vanishes. Wong & co turning on them was already an indicator, but now they know. They’re now standing in a blank circle in the middle of the Crossroads, so similar to the floating islands that Strange bounced around when going for the Book of Vishanti,
but his world is gone, the Sanctum is gone, and he feels decidedly unwell.
It’s— the strangest sensation— his fingertips buzzing with bees, oddly numb, all of his body prickling as if it’s fallen asleep and the nerves are only haltingly flaring back to life. Strange’s sense of his magic was already askew after coming to Thedas, his own grasp on sorcery approached a little sideways. It’s been a little muffled, being in another universe and his own existence possibly spun out of fadestuff (not a thing he ever wants to think about too closely)…
But now his magic is entirely out-of-reach. Silent, like someone’s slammed shut a door between him and his abilities. Mobius has slammed that door on him. Reinforcing reality. Stating what is and is not. There’s a terrifying moment where Stephen panics and wonders if this nullification is going to dissolve his own body, his self unraveling into nothingness because he is also not real,
but instead, thankfully, he’s still standing. Even if his magic is gone. He looks a little shaky, a little wan, trembling. “That was… worse than I was expecting,” he says. Mobius had warned him, and still in Strange’s arrogance he had thought, Oh, I can handle it.
He forces himself to keep thinking, to keep talking through that numbness.
“Christ. Alright. I don’t know how this works, but if we run here, maybe we’ll pop back in a corresponding place further along in the,” ugh, “illusion?”
no subject
But before he has a chance to chime in, Mobius is squaring off in the middle of the room, staring down those stairs and wielding a halberd. Reciting what is, even to Stephen Strange’s decidedly unreligious ear, clearly the Chant. The halberd hits the floorboards, his knee drops, his voice rises with the firm conviction of absolute reality — and that wave roils out in a blast radius from the templar, peeling back the layers of this world.
The sight would be surreal enough, like Mobius has stripped away a layer of paint from reality (or torn aside a veil), as everything around them simply vanishes. Wong & co turning on them was already an indicator, but now they know. They’re now standing in a blank circle in the middle of the Crossroads, so similar to the floating islands that Strange bounced around when going for the Book of Vishanti,
but his world is gone, the Sanctum is gone, and he feels decidedly unwell.
It’s— the strangest sensation— his fingertips buzzing with bees, oddly numb, all of his body prickling as if it’s fallen asleep and the nerves are only haltingly flaring back to life. Strange’s sense of his magic was already askew after coming to Thedas, his own grasp on sorcery approached a little sideways. It’s been a little muffled, being in another universe and his own existence possibly spun out of fadestuff (not a thing he ever wants to think about too closely)…
But now his magic is entirely out-of-reach. Silent, like someone’s slammed shut a door between him and his abilities. Mobius has slammed that door on him. Reinforcing reality. Stating what is and is not. There’s a terrifying moment where Stephen panics and wonders if this nullification is going to dissolve his own body, his self unraveling into nothingness because he is also not real,
but instead, thankfully, he’s still standing. Even if his magic is gone. He looks a little shaky, a little wan, trembling. “That was… worse than I was expecting,” he says. Mobius had warned him, and still in Strange’s arrogance he had thought, Oh, I can handle it.
He forces himself to keep thinking, to keep talking through that numbness.
“Christ. Alright. I don’t know how this works, but if we run here, maybe we’ll pop back in a corresponding place further along in the,” ugh, “illusion?”