( Strange has met literal aliens and been strangled by a few, so after that initial beat of surprise, he manages to smooth over his reaction: it’s not the most unusual appearance he’s ever seen, but he wasn’t expecting it. He chuckles at the joke, then holds out a hand for a professional handshake: the fingers gnarled, scarred, shaky. )

Yeah, I can imagine they’re out-of-season this time of year, fashion-wise. Bit too breezy round the, y’know.

( There’s an amiable affableness to his demeanour, that constant lurking dry humour even when he’s in working mode. But he’s looking at the other (man? elf?)’s fingertips, which had just been glowing green a moment ago. Not shard magic; he would’ve recognised that. )

So, what does being a druid entail, for you?