ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ sᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ (mysticism) wrote in unhinged_ic, @ 2023-08-05 07:37:00 |
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The castle library reminded him a little of the Sanctum’s library, in a way - and for that, Stephen was already a bit homesick. In the New York Sanctum, he was attuned to every corridor, connected with the Sanctum as its guardian - each creak, each thump, each movement of whatever heavy tome he needed to read, dust and ancient paper and golden sunlight falling in thick bars across the floors. The magic in the air, in the Sanctum, the way the whole place pulsed with it, it was the kind that you couldn’t set by the exact gram, no exact boiling point either - it just was. A warm and comforting cloak (sometimes a literal cloak). There were plenty of reading nooks and cushy furniture to sit in; everything smelled like old paper, like coffee and chocolate since old paper tended to give off that aroma for some reason. The release of compounds, a very scientific thing. Here, at least there was a place to pick up a nice cup of tea while reading - he supposed he could appreciate that, if nothing else. And while he was homesick he was also going to look at this as a way to evade having to deal with Incursions and other nonsense for the time being - he missed America, he missed Wong, he missed the efforts to rebuild Kamar-Taj brick by brick after devastation (it pained him to not be there for it); but he didn’t miss a world where he had given up any shot at a normal life, given up everything for the sake of humanity, and he had no idea how to be happy on his own terms. Some space to figure it out was appreciated. Cloak fluttered at his back, a pair of maroon wings, and he levitated as he cracked a book open to read while a teacup floated beside him and he sipped. For now he was alone in here but that didn’t last long - his blue gaze drifted toward the doorway when he thought he heard someone else. |