The Gallows fortress itself is large enough that Strange hasn’t felt claustrophobic or trapped during this enforced quarantine, but the broad-scale confinement still rankles for a man accustomed to jaunting across an entire planet and multiple dimensions: without a sling ring, he’s no longer able to casually open a portal to get across town, or even for something as banal as reaching for a book or a cup of tea when he couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way to the Sanctum kitchen. It’s a humbling reminder that he’d grown complacent with his magic; or even, god forbid, lazy. Without the aforementioned Cloak of Levitation, he can’t even fly.
So like an absolute pleb, Doctor Strange has to use his own two legs and walk down the island towards the ferry and Gwenaëlle’s houseboat moored there. It’s unmissable as he approaches it: tumbledown wood storeys, layers piled on top of layers, as if the chaotic building had grown itself naturally out of the water. He stands on the shore for a moment, craning his head back and peering up at it. Houseboat, she’d said, and he had pictured… well, something else. Rich friends with yachts and their luxury boats had primed him for entirely the wrong picture. This one has overgrown foliage crawling up the walls.
A curious sight for someone’s home; but also, he’s in his forties and living in a goddamned Riftwatch dormitory now like he’s an undergrad again, so. Who is he to judge. A private home sounds marvelous, even if it’s Baba Yaga’s riverboat.
He’s still wearing his scarlet cloak despite the fact that it’s theoretically useless, but the rest of his attire is Theodosian basic, with mage robes similar enough to what he’d worn back home. The man paces up the creaking deck to the front door, knocks briskly on it, and ignores the stab of pain in his knuckles at the impact.
→ action.
So like an absolute pleb, Doctor Strange has to use his own two legs and walk down the island towards the ferry and Gwenaëlle’s houseboat moored there. It’s unmissable as he approaches it: tumbledown wood storeys, layers piled on top of layers, as if the chaotic building had grown itself naturally out of the water. He stands on the shore for a moment, craning his head back and peering up at it. Houseboat, she’d said, and he had pictured… well, something else. Rich friends with yachts and their luxury boats had primed him for entirely the wrong picture. This one has overgrown foliage crawling up the walls.
A curious sight for someone’s home; but also, he’s in his forties and living in a goddamned Riftwatch dormitory now like he’s an undergrad again, so. Who is he to judge. A private home sounds marvelous, even if it’s Baba Yaga’s riverboat.
He’s still wearing his scarlet cloak despite the fact that it’s theoretically useless, but the rest of his attire is Theodosian basic, with mage robes similar enough to what he’d worn back home. The man paces up the creaking deck to the front door, knocks briskly on it, and ignores the stab of pain in his knuckles at the impact.