Shadow King: Strange Journeys - Thursday
Feb. 7th, 2008 05:23 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsPreparations made, Strange guides Illyana into the astral plane, where she makes a shocking discovery.
Illyana leaned against a wall, casting a critical eye on the preparations that had been undertaken to send her to the astral plane. She'd pulled her hair back into a long pony-tail and shed her long-sleeved t-shirt in favour of a tank-top, but her preparation for this ended there; not only wasn't there much she could do, but she preferred magic to be done by one person who had control of everything. Magic by committee was another way of saying "inevitable screw-up".
She'd spent some time reading the literature on the astral plane, preparing herself academically for what was sure to be dangerous; that time had composed her, and she was somewhat calmer, though her posture indicated that she was not particularly relaxed.
Taking a breath, Strange opened his eyes and looked up at Illyana from his position on the floor. They were using the conference room, the table pulled back against the other wall to make room for the circle drawn on the floor. As she'd marked it out in charcoal, Amanda had mentioned something about Emma having a fit about the cleaning bill later. Strange hadn't been amused.
"This will be difficult," he told Illyana now. "Normally it takes months, if not years, of training to prepare someone to magically enter the astral plane, but unfortunately we don't have that luxury." He beckoned her over, indicating a spot on the opposite side of the circle to him. "Please, take a seat."
"I'm not some neophyte," Illyana replied sharply, sitting on her heels. "I understand what we're doing." Even if I couldn't do it myself. She was suddenly aware of how grating it felt to be relying on someone else's magic; somehow, it would have bothered her less if it had been Amanda, who she was at least used to, and who had her own history of magical mishaps to take her down a few pegs when necessary. "Let's just get it over with," she added, before she could really give herself over to her own resentment.
"I meant more for me," he replied, a little wryly. "Since I'll be providing the 'oomph', as Amanda put it." He stretched out his neck, and clasped his hands in his lap. "Given the astral plane is a construct based on the subconscious, I'm going to be using metaphor to gain access for you. To 'trick' the plane into letting you in." At her unimpressed look, he elaborated. "Your teleportation disks. I know they won't give you access to the astral plane, but I think if we use the same pathways your mind uses to create the disks, we'll be able to create a metaphorical doorway for your consciousness."
Illyana rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Right," she said. "So what do I have to do?"
"Close your eyes and imagine a disk. But.." And here he held up a finger. "Don't make a disk. I want you to go through the mental processes connected with you using your power, but without actually using your power. Can you do that?" It was asked with just a hint of a challenge. "I'll take the process from your mind, and use my magic to create a metaphorical disk, into the astral plane, which your mind will use to shift from this plane to that one."
"I can do it," Illyana snapped. "You just hold up your end." It actually took her a moment to stop glaring and close her eyes, sliding her attention inward again.
Strange waited a moment for her to get her mind in the right state before closing his own eyes and sending his awareness outwards. It wasn't telepathy - exactly. More of a registering of impressions, energy levels, fluxes. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he concentrated, trying to reproduce what he was seeing in terms of his own astral projection... wait, there. With an almost audible 'click', things fell into place, and he released the spell. White light filled his mental vision, illuminating the figure who 'sat' opposite. ~There is your doorway, Miss Rasputin,~ he told her, speaking directly to her mind. ~Will yourself towards it. And remember, what you think, what you feel... those will be your tools.~
The Astral Plane was a dimension of thought. A dream made unreal and mirage dancing in the corner of your eye. But to those that ventured into its unfathomable depths it could be as real as death. One forgot it at one's peril. And certainly no one who would enter the planescape now would be able to ignore the fact that something was terribly amiss.
For the Astral Plane was screaming.
A maelstrom of what seemed to be pure chaos was cutting a swathe of destruction as far as the mind's eye could see, leaving nothing but anarchy and shock in its wake. Never a model of constancy, the plane was shifting now, roiling under the shock of unnatural being that was but moments from being born. Somewhere close, but an eternity away, a nice host of a God was fighting for his soul and the entire undermind shuddered under the echoes of the conflict.
The open pulsing sores rose to the surface of the Plane, the echoes of wars and miseries, suddenly more prominent as the Undermind groped clumsily toward the understanding of the danger unleashed within its depths. A verdant green forest that seeming moments ago bloomed under the cap of snow, as the Humanity still clung to the memories of winter holidays shivered and died on the vine, strange shadows of bizzare shapes moving within and calling out in stretched, thin howls that made mind hurt and look away.
Another tremor and then another and then suddenly the landscape tore like tissue paper and shifted, the tears scabbing over before Illyana's very eyes and rising, rising like mountains.... no, not mountains. Scars! Like a blinded fighter, still power and dangerous, but helpless for all his strength Humanity lashed out blindly, haphazardly trying to isolate the source of its agony, trying to lock it behind the fall of stronger emotions, of the events that were big enough, strong enough to leave a permanent mark on the face of the Astral Plane.
The emotion came off them in waves like hot desert air; she felt the temptation sing through her bones, a siren's call, an invitation back to the fold. One more step. Just one. Another - and she could be there, as the gas streamed into the shower room, only a small slide closer and she too could become death and destroyer of worlds as the flower of hell's fire bloomed in the New Mexico's desert. Only inches and she could celebrate with the thousands dancing on the remnants of the Berlin Wall...
The ridged scar tissue kept shifting, a macabre spectacle of snake-like movement as they ringed the epicenter of the conflict in the vain attempt to quarantine it, to stop the tumor from growing.
As if in the derisive riposte to the attempt the darkened skies thundered and started weeping blood and fire, adding the last detail to the landscape of horrors that the Astral Plane had become.
Looking around the visage that would have made Bosch or Goya blanch, the girl that once ruled Limbo realized that she had volunteered to go back in Hell.
Crossing her arms, as if against the chill, she leaned into the wind and pushed forward toward the source.
It took a few moments -- closing her eyes and her mind to the chaotic melange of images around her -- for Illyana to orient herself amid the howling wind and ever-changing landscape. Once she had done that, it was easier to isolate the real anomalies: tendrils of power streaking across the landscape regardless of its change, at times jagged, at times softer than shadows. All she had to do was follow one -
It seemed to take forever, and yet no time at all. Stomach knotting (was it fear? Apprehension? Excitement) she looked further, and found the source. It was unmistakably attached to Mr. Marko, whose astral presence she recognized after a moment. Sitting on him like a fat, dangerous spider, it was - she had to close her eyes against the maelstrom - was it peeling back his mind? Yes; layer by layer, bit by bit. Revulsion at such an intrusion made her look away, which was when she noticed the other outgoing tendrils. Walking (or was it walking?) to their conclusions, she found psychics, and saw what she thought might be signs of shock: Yes. There was Betsy, Mr. Haller; Dr. Grey; Mr. Dayspring, even the Professor - down and down, until finally she found the last.
Undoubtedly, this was him. The one was responsible. She'd seen him at the school - an old guy, with a weird assistant, whom she had tried very hard not to get to know because old people smelled weird - and there he was.
She had to get back.
Illyana leaned against a wall, casting a critical eye on the preparations that had been undertaken to send her to the astral plane. She'd pulled her hair back into a long pony-tail and shed her long-sleeved t-shirt in favour of a tank-top, but her preparation for this ended there; not only wasn't there much she could do, but she preferred magic to be done by one person who had control of everything. Magic by committee was another way of saying "inevitable screw-up".
She'd spent some time reading the literature on the astral plane, preparing herself academically for what was sure to be dangerous; that time had composed her, and she was somewhat calmer, though her posture indicated that she was not particularly relaxed.
Taking a breath, Strange opened his eyes and looked up at Illyana from his position on the floor. They were using the conference room, the table pulled back against the other wall to make room for the circle drawn on the floor. As she'd marked it out in charcoal, Amanda had mentioned something about Emma having a fit about the cleaning bill later. Strange hadn't been amused.
"This will be difficult," he told Illyana now. "Normally it takes months, if not years, of training to prepare someone to magically enter the astral plane, but unfortunately we don't have that luxury." He beckoned her over, indicating a spot on the opposite side of the circle to him. "Please, take a seat."
"I'm not some neophyte," Illyana replied sharply, sitting on her heels. "I understand what we're doing." Even if I couldn't do it myself. She was suddenly aware of how grating it felt to be relying on someone else's magic; somehow, it would have bothered her less if it had been Amanda, who she was at least used to, and who had her own history of magical mishaps to take her down a few pegs when necessary. "Let's just get it over with," she added, before she could really give herself over to her own resentment.
"I meant more for me," he replied, a little wryly. "Since I'll be providing the 'oomph', as Amanda put it." He stretched out his neck, and clasped his hands in his lap. "Given the astral plane is a construct based on the subconscious, I'm going to be using metaphor to gain access for you. To 'trick' the plane into letting you in." At her unimpressed look, he elaborated. "Your teleportation disks. I know they won't give you access to the astral plane, but I think if we use the same pathways your mind uses to create the disks, we'll be able to create a metaphorical doorway for your consciousness."
Illyana rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Right," she said. "So what do I have to do?"
"Close your eyes and imagine a disk. But.." And here he held up a finger. "Don't make a disk. I want you to go through the mental processes connected with you using your power, but without actually using your power. Can you do that?" It was asked with just a hint of a challenge. "I'll take the process from your mind, and use my magic to create a metaphorical disk, into the astral plane, which your mind will use to shift from this plane to that one."
"I can do it," Illyana snapped. "You just hold up your end." It actually took her a moment to stop glaring and close her eyes, sliding her attention inward again.
Strange waited a moment for her to get her mind in the right state before closing his own eyes and sending his awareness outwards. It wasn't telepathy - exactly. More of a registering of impressions, energy levels, fluxes. Sweat stood out on his forehead as he concentrated, trying to reproduce what he was seeing in terms of his own astral projection... wait, there. With an almost audible 'click', things fell into place, and he released the spell. White light filled his mental vision, illuminating the figure who 'sat' opposite. ~There is your doorway, Miss Rasputin,~ he told her, speaking directly to her mind. ~Will yourself towards it. And remember, what you think, what you feel... those will be your tools.~
The Astral Plane was a dimension of thought. A dream made unreal and mirage dancing in the corner of your eye. But to those that ventured into its unfathomable depths it could be as real as death. One forgot it at one's peril. And certainly no one who would enter the planescape now would be able to ignore the fact that something was terribly amiss.
For the Astral Plane was screaming.
A maelstrom of what seemed to be pure chaos was cutting a swathe of destruction as far as the mind's eye could see, leaving nothing but anarchy and shock in its wake. Never a model of constancy, the plane was shifting now, roiling under the shock of unnatural being that was but moments from being born. Somewhere close, but an eternity away, a nice host of a God was fighting for his soul and the entire undermind shuddered under the echoes of the conflict.
The open pulsing sores rose to the surface of the Plane, the echoes of wars and miseries, suddenly more prominent as the Undermind groped clumsily toward the understanding of the danger unleashed within its depths. A verdant green forest that seeming moments ago bloomed under the cap of snow, as the Humanity still clung to the memories of winter holidays shivered and died on the vine, strange shadows of bizzare shapes moving within and calling out in stretched, thin howls that made mind hurt and look away.
Another tremor and then another and then suddenly the landscape tore like tissue paper and shifted, the tears scabbing over before Illyana's very eyes and rising, rising like mountains.... no, not mountains. Scars! Like a blinded fighter, still power and dangerous, but helpless for all his strength Humanity lashed out blindly, haphazardly trying to isolate the source of its agony, trying to lock it behind the fall of stronger emotions, of the events that were big enough, strong enough to leave a permanent mark on the face of the Astral Plane.
The emotion came off them in waves like hot desert air; she felt the temptation sing through her bones, a siren's call, an invitation back to the fold. One more step. Just one. Another - and she could be there, as the gas streamed into the shower room, only a small slide closer and she too could become death and destroyer of worlds as the flower of hell's fire bloomed in the New Mexico's desert. Only inches and she could celebrate with the thousands dancing on the remnants of the Berlin Wall...
The ridged scar tissue kept shifting, a macabre spectacle of snake-like movement as they ringed the epicenter of the conflict in the vain attempt to quarantine it, to stop the tumor from growing.
As if in the derisive riposte to the attempt the darkened skies thundered and started weeping blood and fire, adding the last detail to the landscape of horrors that the Astral Plane had become.
Looking around the visage that would have made Bosch or Goya blanch, the girl that once ruled Limbo realized that she had volunteered to go back in Hell.
Crossing her arms, as if against the chill, she leaned into the wind and pushed forward toward the source.
It took a few moments -- closing her eyes and her mind to the chaotic melange of images around her -- for Illyana to orient herself amid the howling wind and ever-changing landscape. Once she had done that, it was easier to isolate the real anomalies: tendrils of power streaking across the landscape regardless of its change, at times jagged, at times softer than shadows. All she had to do was follow one -
It seemed to take forever, and yet no time at all. Stomach knotting (was it fear? Apprehension? Excitement) she looked further, and found the source. It was unmistakably attached to Mr. Marko, whose astral presence she recognized after a moment. Sitting on him like a fat, dangerous spider, it was - she had to close her eyes against the maelstrom - was it peeling back his mind? Yes; layer by layer, bit by bit. Revulsion at such an intrusion made her look away, which was when she noticed the other outgoing tendrils. Walking (or was it walking?) to their conclusions, she found psychics, and saw what she thought might be signs of shock: Yes. There was Betsy, Mr. Haller; Dr. Grey; Mr. Dayspring, even the Professor - down and down, until finally she found the last.
Undoubtedly, this was him. The one was responsible. She'd seen him at the school - an old guy, with a weird assistant, whom she had tried very hard not to get to know because old people smelled weird - and there he was.
She had to get back.
