Clea smirked despite herself at that reply, also pushing away her plate and taking up her tea after Dealer refilled it. She had the natural style and poise of someone born to nobility, treated and trained that way.
“So, Dr. Strange shares his homeworld with the Golden Hag,” she mused. “It must give him great peace of mind. Who is this ‘Great Bear?’” she asked.
“Ah, he’s the ruler of the most powerful nation on the planet, and probably the single most feared and admired man alive upon it. I can guarantee you that if mystic entities know of the Golden Hag being here, they are also aware of The Great Bear. She is the Sword, but he is the Hammer.
“Hmm, I should ask the Doc what kind of magical activity the Russians see over there. I imagine it is no less than what he deals with...” Dealer mused aloud.
“With Dormammu in charge, the Dark Dimension is rarely threatened by outsiders, save when my uncle gets it into his head that he must be about showing everyone how powerful and mighty he is, and must go conquering and warring and so forth. If he fails, he just hides inside his palace until he regains his strength, then comes out and throws out any invaders, proclaiming he has protected the people and saved them once again.”
“You don’t seem particularly impressed by that, Clea,” Dealer observed, sotto voce.
“The people of my homeworld are naturally gifted at magic, but they are not allowed to develop their skills beyond the most basic, only drained of their magic to benefit Dormammu’s own ambitions.”
“It is true that raising the floor will allow them to deal with minor threats and leave them less dependent on him, but it is also a truth that in the world of magic, the biggest fist is also very, very necessary, especially on the mystic worlds,” Dealer pointed out to her. “Your uncle’s aggressive behavior is a sign that he is powerful and he knows it, and so do his neighbors. They also know that his power is not dependent on his rulership, or likely they simply would have destroyed the whole dimension to break him.
“So, he’s like this unkillable burning cockroach they can’t get rid of, so they just have to put up with him.”
Clea spluttered into her drink as a burning cockroach in holo scampered around, shrugging off hammer-blows meant to kill it. “He really is,” she managed to agree after a moment of giggling. “He does not challenge the truly strong, but he is enormously peevish and petty at times.”
“His flames obscuring his face are definitely compensating for something.” Both of them laughed knowingly. “Speaking of flames, is it true he’s fallen Faltine? Do you have access to the Flames of the Faltine?”
“I... do not know?” she admitted after a moment’s hesitation. “I was never taught how to bring them forth. I was not raised by my mother, after all...”
“Mmm. Well, the Flames of the Faltine are one of the great mystic fires, and you should be a natural at wielding them. In fact, they might be a cornerstone of your power. Not being OF the Faltine, that little bit of distance might be enough to become a window to true mastery of mystic fire. It is something to consider.”
“Fire has great significance and power in the Dark Dimension,” she agreed slowly. “But I have no greater empathy with it than any other force.”
“No?” Dealer tilted her head, and flicked up a two of hearts. “By Clea, born a Fireheart, may Eternal burn Her Name, I call forth Creation’s Fires, let flare the Faltine Flame!”
Clea spluttered tea all over the place when she felt the power leave her at the Invocation, and dancing gold and scarlet fires arose on the playing card before her. “That, that is-!”
Dealer studied it keenly, the Primal Ring on her finger reacting to the mystic fire there intently. “Yes, a powerful mystic fire, one used to enhance or power other effects, as much as to stand on its own. It also has a very powerful abhorrence for the undead. Take note of that. If you are fighting undead, these Flames will devour them nigh-instantly.”
Clea was still staring at the flames in disbelief. The locals eating there regarded the pair of them strangely for a moment, but they were already weird enough, and it was a place that knew weird, so they were ignored again after a minute.
“You... by calling on MY name?” she spluttered.
“Of course. You’re effectively the youngest of the Faltine. Why wouldn’t it work?” Dealer smiled smugly. “Like I said, the power of the Faltine Flame.”
The card burned up into less than ash, and Dealer finished her drink as Clea stared at her.
“You... are also a capable sorceress, are you not?” she asked Dealer suddenly.
“I have my strengths and weaknesses. However, I am not a true Vishanti Caster, as is the Doc. Someone like you, who has to live out in the places where such Entities play, is probably better off having a foundation like his, rather than the more Elemental one I have.”
“But you just used an Invocation!” Clea pointed out quickly, taking the hint as the tea dropped that they were done. Dealer dropped the overpayment on the table, waved to the server, and the two headed for the door together, their Disk gliding up out of the way after them and somehow managing to make it out the door it couldn’t possibly fit through without any trouble.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Any fool with a Wand can use an Invocation. I just so happened to have the responding Entity right in front of me. What were you going to do, say no?” Dealer asked archly. Clea was momentarily speechless again as she paced her masked guide back towards the Sanctum... rather enjoying her comfortable new sneakers as she did so.
“I think you have a very different approach to magic than Dr. Strange does. I have helped him confront my mother and uncle before.”
“He’s a Vishanti Sorcerer. His approach to magic is based on what he was taught, and his foundation is the Vishanti foundation. Mine is different. That is all. That doesn’t mean I can’t use some of the Vishanti methodology, but that is not the core of my power.”
“What is the core, then?” Clea asked eagerly.
“Elemental.” Four card suits spun around Dealer’s hand, and swirls of energy gathered about them: Earth to Diamonds, Fire to Hearts, Wind to Spades, and Water to Clubs. “The Vishanti Tradition considers this lower magic. Any Elements they use, such as the Flames of the Faltine, the Vapors of Valtorr, or the Winds of Watoomb, all have mystical significance to them.
“Elementalists just consider those a different type of the same Element, and Creation is just full of different sources like that. But the Vishanti Traditions prefer their three Big Guns, the Octessence, and the various Limbo Courts and Demon Princes. They largely ignore, or try to, the Fey Seasons, the Elemental Kings, and so forth as minor players at the bigger game, leaving them to ‘less elite’ Casters than themselves.”
“Is that because their Patrons are stronger?” Clea asked, furrowing her brow.
“I imagine so, and since their reach crosses many worlds, that they are dealing with ‘imperial’ powers, as opposed to merely ‘regional’ ones. The Vishanti are truly mighty in the supernatural world, as are many of the Octessence, with magical power beyond mortals and many gods. I do not think I need to speak of the Lords of the various Hells.”
“Also very powerful, despite the many restrictions they are under,” she agreed quietly. “I imagine your style means you are less beholden to greater powers, then?”
“That is correct,” Dealer confirmed calmly. “But being beholden also means bestowed upon. Dr. Strange has the ability to call upon layers of pure power from his Patrons that I cannot equal, and when facing some of the beings he does, that is incredibly important. Even if he cannot equal them, he has the power to pull off tricks that give him the victory anyway.”
“Yes, that does match how I have seen him work,” she agreed. “Magic and power, but with cleverness.”
“Always needed when dealing with Entities so much stronger than you are,” Dealer pointed out. “Play this power against that one, find some clever way to bend the situation to your advantage, and walk away. It’s a perilous game, but he’s very good at it.”
“Have you... trained under him?” Clea asked carefully.
“No. We’ve exchanged ideas and chatted about various things. He lets me peruse his library when I’m bored, and he finds the uses of my Card Magic an intellectual challenge. Mostly he just considers me a user of a lower style of magic, albeit I’m quite good at it, and I’m not willing to step forth into the greater universe of contracts and obligations to mystical Entities that is required of a Vishanti follower.”
“Do you take students as well?” Clea asked, interested now, and not above stooping to learn from someone younger who knew her trade.
“I definitely don’t have time to be a full-time master. I instruct Wanda several times a week, but that’s mostly fundamentals. She’s a Scarlet Witch, a user of Hex and Chaos magic, and so her magic is very different from mine in style and form. However, the core disciplines of Will and Focus never change, and lore is always useful, although if I don’t make it entertaining, she just falls asleep.”
Dealer’s resigned voice made Clea laugh. “Well, I should think I’m a better student than that. You do recommend that I study under Dr. Strange, then?”
“Yes,” Dealer confirmed. “You live Out There, right in the middle of The Mess. His Tradition is literally made to be at its most powerful in such a situation. It will instantly make you allies, gain you the recognition of neutral parties, and what enemies you gain are either not friends or would despise you anyways... and you’ll have their wary respect, regardless.”
We walked in silence for a few minutes, her considering that perspective and finding that she had to agree with it. “I would still like to see your own style of combat!” she finally sighed.
“Oh, sparring! Sure, we can do that. My style is actually much better for magical dueling, since it doesn’t have the focus on Big Spells for Big Things that the Vishanti do. More flash and bang, and less direly direct ponderous Invocations of doom and damnation, and all that.” Dealer swirled her fingers, multiple Suits flying around them, ready for use. “And after all, a proper sorceress MUST have a style, you know?”
“Flames of the Faltine?” Clea asked knowingly.
“Only one type of fire?” Dealer sniffed haughtily. “Use them ALL, girl!”
Clea laughed despite herself, but there was a spark in her eyes that indicated that wasn’t all that bad an idea...
==================
More time passes, great adventures and foul evil-doers met and vanquished in righteous pummelings and quickly-escaped prisons...
Those who came did so because we fought alongside him, even if this was a personal thing. Of course, a guy who dealt with the vampires was one thing, and an actual Grigori incarnate in the city was something else.
Mr. Hill didn’t come in, and there was no active use of magic, as the Wards here were pretty ready to go off if the usage was detected.
That said, there were Thralls among his people, six of whom took some nasty alchemical Boosters for the fight that turned them into bullet-proof murder machines, and there were at least some Cursed Weapons among their gear.
No straight enemy Casters, however. We tore through the Costas house guards in swift order, me mostly playing blocker and emergency warning system, along with occasional wall deconstructor.
Expecting a much bigger, badder fight than this, we’d actually dug up floor plans of the place and mocked it all up with holograms in an empty warehouse so we’d know the lay of the ground, at least roughly, where, who, and what to hit.
It didn’t go that way.
---
“Is this even possible?” Frank Castle swore, staring at the corpse of Francis Costas, sprawled in the chair behind his desk, a fairly-large caliber hole through the middle of his head. The wound was only minutes old; it had to have been inflicted at almost the time the assault had begun.
I flicked some testing paper at him, and it poofed into brimstone flame before it could touch him. “Hellfire. He was definitely an infernal host. So the correct answer is... no. There’s no way a mortal assassin was going to be able to kill him, unless he wanted to be killed.”
The Mick was energetically removing paperwork from drawers and putting it into a stack. Chopsaw had secured most of the grounds.
I stepped over to a painting, swung it aside, and flattened my hand against the wall safe there. There was a flash and crunch, and I heaved it out of the wall, tossing it to Blade, who caught the weighty thing deftly and put it on his Disk.
“Go. No reason to stand around. We can talk elsewhere.”