[ This isn't like any battle he's been in before. Oftentimes, by the time a conflict is on the radar of the Masters of the Mystic Arts, it's either so specific to sorcery that there's no other way to deal with it or it's so huge that it's already in its final throes with an army of the galaxy's finest all ready to throw themselves into the mix.
This fight has had time. Huge, yes, but a vastness outside of his usual remit. There's no backup coming. The battle is less final than infinite, an ongoing push that started long before they arrived but will at least finish before they leave - if they leave. Stephen's been a soldier at war before but not like this. Not flanked by citizens turned soldiers forced to take up arms just to die and be awoken again by the very enemy whose forces struck them down. It's chaos. Outside the castle the undead press in, and inside the castle the dead stumble back up onto their feet to turn on former comrades.
Out there somewhere, Rathakku orchestrates. The same undead thing that had made a murderer of him just weeks before.
The fighting has been fierce all day. He's been zipping around, pulling harpies out of the air with whips of golden magic or sending the same terrible lightning that had ruined one of the merchant's gates down to splinter a catapult into nothing. But finally, after the latest batch of murdered soldiers rise from where they fall and are engaged in battle again with their former friends, something snaps. If it's reinforcements they need, he can provide.
Stephen soars above the writhing mass of undead gathered around the slowly falling fortress, one man and a cloak that billows in the wind. One man for now, at least. Up here in the air he's an easier target for screeching harpies and one spots him, turns to gun for him, but he's busy with another focus. Hands come together, raise, and as they do another pair - another - another - all spill out and spread around him until there are so many arms reaching out from his torso it's almost impossible to count them. Then, a second later, as the harpy is mere metres from him— they split.
And suddenly there is not just one Stephen Strange in the air above the battle. There are fifty. A hundred. All of them copy the exact same motions, and the harpy careens on, and as it flies straight through the illusory body of a Stephen who isn't really there the real one turns to catch it with a whip. The closest twenty copies do the same, and with one yank of his many wrists the harpy is torn to shreds.
He turns his attention back to the battle below him. Power coils in his hand and a hundred hands around him, and once it's grown into an orb of pure amber fury he sends it down, down into the waiting armies outside the castle, a hundred living corpses burning up under raining columns of concentrated magic.
Call on him if you need him. With the towers soon to fall, he's available for rescues and on the spot cremations in what is fast becoming a free for all. ]
are you tired of being nice?
This fight has had time. Huge, yes, but a vastness outside of his usual remit. There's no backup coming. The battle is less final than infinite, an ongoing push that started long before they arrived but will at least finish before they leave - if they leave. Stephen's been a soldier at war before but not like this. Not flanked by citizens turned soldiers forced to take up arms just to die and be awoken again by the very enemy whose forces struck them down. It's chaos. Outside the castle the undead press in, and inside the castle the dead stumble back up onto their feet to turn on former comrades.
Out there somewhere, Rathakku orchestrates. The same undead thing that had made a murderer of him just weeks before.
The fighting has been fierce all day. He's been zipping around, pulling harpies out of the air with whips of golden magic or sending the same terrible lightning that had ruined one of the merchant's gates down to splinter a catapult into nothing. But finally, after the latest batch of murdered soldiers rise from where they fall and are engaged in battle again with their former friends, something snaps. If it's reinforcements they need, he can provide.
Stephen soars above the writhing mass of undead gathered around the slowly falling fortress, one man and a cloak that billows in the wind. One man for now, at least. Up here in the air he's an easier target for screeching harpies and one spots him, turns to gun for him, but he's busy with another focus. Hands come together, raise, and as they do another pair - another - another - all spill out and spread around him until there are so many arms reaching out from his torso it's almost impossible to count them. Then, a second later, as the harpy is mere metres from him— they split.
And suddenly there is not just one Stephen Strange in the air above the battle. There are fifty. A hundred. All of them copy the exact same motions, and the harpy careens on, and as it flies straight through the illusory body of a Stephen who isn't really there the real one turns to catch it with a whip. The closest twenty copies do the same, and with one yank of his many wrists the harpy is torn to shreds.
He turns his attention back to the battle below him. Power coils in his hand and a hundred hands around him, and once it's grown into an orb of pure amber fury he sends it down, down into the waiting armies outside the castle, a hundred living corpses burning up under raining columns of concentrated magic.
Call on him if you need him. With the towers soon to fall, he's available for rescues and on the spot cremations in what is fast becoming a free for all. ]