Poor Ellie has consistently been on chauffeur duty, and since Strange knows her a little better than most, he often winds up hitching a ride whenever Abby isn’t nearly strangling her in a panic.
Thankfully, this passenger is easier. It turns out the older man is surprisingly comfortable in the air, unflinching about that sweeping vertigo in the pit of one’s stomach, accustomed to peering down from a birds’ eye view. He does a lot of scouting over her shoulder, squinting at the ground and looking for signs of travellers or camping. The main thing which keeps throwing him off is the griffon itself, having to get accustomed to the rhythm of those beating wings and stay out of their way, and balance his weight on a living creature instead of being magically suspended in the air.
So this is the start of Doctor Strange’s griffon training: the occasional oh, fuck as he tries not to lose his balance and fall off behind Ellie; and then after long hours scouting in the saddle, climbing off stiff-legged and wobbly as he sinks to the ground. They’re perched on a treacherously narrow ridge, and everything hurts. His hands are aching from the cold air, even in his warm gloves.
“Did I ever tell you about my sentient cloak?” he asks, conversational as Ellie also dismounts and starts to tend to the animal. “I don’t really know how it worked, but it always knew what I was thinking and where I wanted to fly. These griffons seem more difficult.” A beat, reconsidering, “Alright, sometimes it disagreed with me. But still. Point being. I’m not used to needing to guide them with reins and knees or whatever.”
But he’s gonna have to get used to it. He misses the sky, misses quicker travel, hates being landbound: he wants to learn.
another ancient latecomer pls forgive
Thankfully, this passenger is easier. It turns out the older man is surprisingly comfortable in the air, unflinching about that sweeping vertigo in the pit of one’s stomach, accustomed to peering down from a birds’ eye view. He does a lot of scouting over her shoulder, squinting at the ground and looking for signs of travellers or camping. The main thing which keeps throwing him off is the griffon itself, having to get accustomed to the rhythm of those beating wings and stay out of their way, and balance his weight on a living creature instead of being magically suspended in the air.
So this is the start of Doctor Strange’s griffon training: the occasional oh, fuck as he tries not to lose his balance and fall off behind Ellie; and then after long hours scouting in the saddle, climbing off stiff-legged and wobbly as he sinks to the ground. They’re perched on a treacherously narrow ridge, and everything hurts. His hands are aching from the cold air, even in his warm gloves.
“Did I ever tell you about my sentient cloak?” he asks, conversational as Ellie also dismounts and starts to tend to the animal. “I don’t really know how it worked, but it always knew what I was thinking and where I wanted to fly. These griffons seem more difficult.” A beat, reconsidering, “Alright, sometimes it disagreed with me. But still. Point being. I’m not used to needing to guide them with reins and knees or whatever.”
But he’s gonna have to get used to it. He misses the sky, misses quicker travel, hates being landbound: he wants to learn.