"Ah, Strange. Sending women to do your work for you? Clea was much the same to you, was she not? Another person to hide behind while you tried to justify your existence as Sorcerer Supreme!" Dormammu taunts.
Marlow's spells are an annoyance to him, but his containment is far from certain. Even as he matches mystic might with Strange, seemingly thousands of whispering voices mutter the counter incantations to Marlow's spell. While the forest of tendrils does not abate, it seems to slow to crawl as it approaches Dormammu.
"You could not have Clea, so you have taken her apprentice, Strange? Pathetic." Dormammu snarls.
"Mindless Ones! Slaughter the female mages!" Dormammu commands.
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