lostcarnival | [open]

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Who: Lambert and YOU
Where: The Carnival
When: During the downtime between Atlantis and their next world.
What: Any Witcher worth his salt knows the first thing you should do when you're in an unfamiliar environment: get the lay of the land.

1. not the nurse you're looking for
[ You might have come into the medical tent looking for supplies or something else. If you were looking for Zecora, prepare to be disappointed because there's a scarred man scowling heavily as he clatters around the place, not working on anything in particular.

He doesn't seem to register there's someone else around -- or is he just straight up ignoring you??? ]

2. by the woods

[ With the carnival no longer water-logged, Lambert's taken a walk of the perimeter, even stepped into the edge of the woods, but he hasn't tried to press any further, although he's stood and looked at it for some time.

There's no sense letting his skills get rusty, so he mostly spends the time-- night or day-- sparring invisible enemies, steel sword flashing as he weaves it through the air.

When he's not swinging a sword around, you'll find him sitting on the dirt, legs folded under him and eyes closed. ]

3. getting to know you?

[ Lambert doesn't normally care about getting to know people, but he also normally doesn't stay anywhere longer than a few months, either. And that's at Kaer Morhen, where he can always get blind drunk and fuck off into the woods and kill some drowners if he needs to let off some steam instead of dealing with the other Witcher.

If he's going to be here for a year and a day? He's going to at least need to know names.

So wherever you are, whatever you're up to, you might notice a newcomer watching you for a few moments before he speaks up. ]

So what do you do around here?

4. wildcard!
[ If we discussed a previous scenario or you just want to do something not covered here, go for it! I'll match whatever prose style you go with. ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I sit around and scowl as I write things."

It's an incredibly deadpan answer from an equally deadpan sort of man. Childermass cuts a somewhat severe figure even seated at a table in the cookhouse as he is, even with those patches of raven feathers, dressed in his usual black and white, even if, on closer inspection, those clothes have more wear and tear to them than one might assume from afar. In any case, whatever his job actually is (and it isn't that, it really isn't), that is what he's currently up to.

There's more space to spread out pages on a table out here than in his trailer. Much easier access to coffee, too. While there are loose-leaf sheets out there, chiefly covered in quick thoughts or notes relating to Atlantis, the real writing and the occasional drawing is taking place in a little memo book. He had looked up from it at Lambert's questioning, but only briefly, then gone right back to his work as he answered.

"Cushy job. Wish I'd thought to sign up for that instead." Lambert doesn't seem particularly put off by the response, as he's heard every possible variation on 'fuck off' over the years and has learned to thoroughly ignore them all. What he will do is step closer, studying the paperwork spread over the desk with amber eyes that have dilated in the dim light.

The feathers and the black and white clothing call to mind Yennefer, not that he's actually met the woman in person. But he's heard enough of her from Geralt to make him gag, that much is for certain.

Reaching out, he idly plants a finger on a sheet to nudge it aside and see the writing underneath.

Quick sketches of merfolk, maybe a few buildings from Atlantis, notes regarding mer culture, at least one minor complaint about fish not knowing how to mind their own business are all that can be gleaned easily from a glance. Childermass doesn't seem particularly worried about Lambert messing with the papers. If any of it were a secret, he sure wouldn't be working on it out here.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll do fine wherever you've ended up." He's still looking down, writing, but his previous once-over of the other man when he did look up before was enough to make a few educated guesses at to where that might be. "With the Nightrider or the Warden, I imagine."

"Guess you're a regular detective," Lambert responds, taking the lack of reaction as an open invitation to seat himself right across Childermass and more properly shuffle through them. He's handling the paper with surprising care, nevertheless, and putting it back in the order he found them, someone used to skimming quickly for information that he needs.

"You're half right." The sword on his back isn't exactly subtle, and the scar on his face even less so. He doesn't elaborate on the other half.

"You don't seem like you'd be one of the performers." A carnival like this has no need of a historian, he's pretty sure of that. Accounting, maybe? But from what he can see at this angle, he's hardly likely to be working on a ledger. So that leaves ...

"Ringmaster's boytoy?"

Too bad he can't say the same for Lambert, not when he dismisses what he actually is here outright. That's funny in its own way and Childermass isn't about to correct him, though the next guess does bring his focus on writing to a sudden stop. He'll frown down at the page he's working on for a moment, brow furrowed, before leaving off hovering over the notebook to lean back in his chair instead.

"Oh?"

If his reaction could be called anything, it's mild curiosity (after a few added seconds of squinting funny at this random guy coming up with such a weird assumption, of course) and likely not the kneejerk reaction Lambert may have been hoping for. Nah, he just raises his eyebrows and tilts his head a little before asking, "And what makes you think that?"

If Childermass were a monster, Lambert would have his number. Regrettably, people are infinitely more complex ... and how or why someone so nebbish would willingly sign up to be a showman is beyond him. Also, to be fair: most performers he knows spend a good amount of time in tights and brightly colored clothing, so this dour, drab man's as far from his experience as it can get. While he doesn't get the reaction he was hoping for, he does get his attention, so he leans forward to rest his elbows on the edge of the table.

"You've obviously got an eye for art," he starts, tapping one of the sketches. "That's the type her kind like to collect, isn't it? Someone they can spirit away for a hundred years to entertain them, or feed off their energy. Don't think she's a succubi, but could be something related..."

Does he actually believe the crap that just came out of his mouth? Does it matter?

"... Also, as far as I can tell, nearly everyone else here is a kid or a monster. More of a monster," he amends, glancing down at the feathered arms. Lambert, dat's speciest. He shrugs. "Wouldn't be the craziest thing to happen around here, would it."

"Calling that art is more of a reach than I believe you're capable of," Childermass says, sounding indifferent about it even in spite of how, yes, that is something he drew himself. "So I can tell you now you're a bit off in your guess."

He won't, however, be helpful and tell him why nor what the Ringmaster actually is. If the man wants to play guessing games, he's free to keep at it, regardless of whether or not he believes what he's saying himself. As for Childermass, he just idly taps the pen in hand against the page he'd been working on, finally taking the time to size Lambert up. He'd been dismissive before, but if this guy is going to stick around and try to be annoying...

"But you are right about one thing. It wouldn't be the craziest thing to happen around here."

It's also not a thing at all, but why tell Lambert that?

lLambert continues to look as thuggish and uncouth as the last time Childermass looked at him, the leather armor and the sword across his back giving him a distinctly mercenary look -- to say nothing of the scars cutting into his face, drawing sharp attention to inhuman eyes. The medallion on his chest, a wolf's head that's all angles, is almost ostentatiously ornamental.

"Can't say I've ever grown gills before," Lambert answers, apparently taking the statement as agreement. "Glad it wasn't permanent, as useful as it is. Does that kind of thing happen a lot?" He gestures at Childermass' ... everything, lips quirked.

So a brute with poor taste in jewelry, unless the wolf's head meant something else, and for someone calling the other carnival workers monster-like, he has to wonder about the eyes...

"You mean these?" He won't point out, well, everything, but the feathers along his forearms are the most obvious here. "The magic the Ringmaster uses has a bad habit of sticking to mortals, that's all."

Which you would think would be cause for some alarm or at least sounding a little more interesting than he's opting to be, but no, not with Childermass. Even if he does find it fascinating or even a little irritating, he's keeping it to himself. Although on that topic, he'll point right back towards Lambert with the pen he has.

"I take it that yours aren't from the carnival?"

"Good to know." Lambert raises his brows slightly. He was glad to wake up without any more webbing between his fingers, and he hasn't noticed any other changes manifest, so he'd assumed he was off scott-free. He might not be so fortunate in the future.

The joke is exactly that to people from Lambert's world, Witchers are the worst of all. For that reason, he doesn't even blink when Childermass points the pen at him.

"Real fetching, isn't it?" He smirks, his expression cynical. "If you want to get your own, though, I'm afraid I can't help you. Wasn't as easy as magic rubbing off."

Edited (hit enter too soon oops) 2017-02-13 07:46 (UTC)

"I would prefer avoiding additional surprises there, in any case, so that's for the best."

One color change to his eyes is enough, thanks, although Childermass supposes he should ask how else Lambert changed so. The reference to monsters before likely meant he was still human, but asking would also mean showing more interest than he actually cares to. It's a struggle, really, even if he does decide to in the end.

"But if it wasn't the carnival's doing, I assume it's something from where you're from." An easy guess. "Surely you weren't born that way."

At least, in his case, the change is not merely aesthetic. The observation would be a natural prompt for an explanation, but Lambert doesn't take him up on it quite yet. One finger taps the table thoughtfully, before he finally says:

"You're right about that. But if you want details, this conversation is going to need a lot more alcohol." They are in the cookhouse, and Lambert assume this carnival has to have it stashed somewhere.

How unsurprising. Of course, it's only natural to exchange strange stories over a few cups, so Childermass isn't at all inclined to disagree. No, instead he'll glance away to check who from the cookhouse might be keeping an eye on the kitchen. It's that lull between meals that proves no one aside, he would guess, from the cinder sprites and so—

"Just a moment," he'll say by way of excusing himself. He'll stand and leave the pen behind, as well as the loose papers, but the little memo book he'd been writing in is shut and tucked safely away into a vest pocket. It will only be a moment, too, as he knows exactly where to look in the kitchen to find what he wants.

And it won't be the best whiskey the cookhouse has — Lambert wouldn't thank him for bringing the head cook's wrath down on them — but it's also not the worst. He'll return with a bottle of that and two glasses, all of which he sets down on their table.

"Unless you would prefer wine...?"

He imagines not. Whiskey is probably more than strong enough for the man's taste, judging by looks alone, and also strong enough for what Lambert doesn't know. The ulterior motive for so easily agreeing to fetch this all. If he's going to test out a certain anti-toxin necklace from a certain underwater city, hidden under shirt and cravat, it may as well be now.

Edited (didn't like the wording in a thing) 2017-02-14 00:48 (UTC)

"Nah. This works for me." The liquid in the bottle looks promisingly alcoholic, and Lambert's always been more of a quantity than quality kind of guy. Witcher hallucinogens notwithstanding. The quick look around Childermass had given before stepping to the kitchen is noted, as is the way he keeps the small notebook close but leaves the rest alone. Clearly, one has more value than the other.

He'll go right ahead to picking the bottle up and taking the liberty to pour whiskey out until the cup's nearly brimming, and up to a more normal level for Childermass. It smells as promising as it looks, and he's already looking forward to it kicking in, which is why he doesn't wait for him to start before knocking back the whole glass, feeling the satisfying burn all the way down.

"That's more like it." And he'll go straight to pouring himself another. "So how'd you wanna do this? Question for a question?"

"I doubt you would find my own answers all that interesting, Mister... You never actually said, now did you?"

It's a leading question, as someone hasn't bothered introducing himself yet. Childermass hasn't either, of course, but he isn't the one who invited himself to nerdy writing central over here. He settles back into his chair as he says that, sliding his own glass closer to himself.

Lambert's free to take that as the first question for a question, though. It is one, after all.

"I suppose I didn't." Frankly, people aren't usually interested in calling him anything but 'Witcher,' the medallion a dead giveaway. But a lot of rules don't apply here.

"It's Lambert." He keeps his drink close, swirling the liquid inside the glass. This, too, is new -- he's more used to drinking from rough-hewn tankards.

"What do I call you?"

"Childermass will do," is the name he'll offer. It's not his full name, but there's only one person in the carnival who even bothers to use that and even that's a little weird, to be quite honest. Besides, handing out a full name to dangerous looking people in a faerie realm is, in retrospect, likely a bad idea.

"So what is the story with your eyes, if it isn't magic?"

There, next question asked. He'll take the chance to lean back in his chair and clear out his own glass of whiskey while waiting for an answer.

It's a mouthful of a name, and Lambert's already thinking of alternatives. He'll go right ahead and take another refreshing gulp of his drink before he responds.

"Drank some bad potions when I was a kid. I got off lucky, all things considered." Other boys died in screaming agony, though Lambert wasn't in a position to notice that. He was in pretty significant pain of his own.

It's his turn for a question, though, so he won't waste any time firing back. "How did you end up here?"

And people wonder why he doesn't fully trust Zecora's potions. Sure, they're probably fine, but then you hear that...

"I came looking for it," Childermass replies, then takes a moment to pour a refill for himself. "And obviously found it. What of yourself? Another accident or are you here on purpose?"

Just wait until you find out the other half of his job, Childermass.

"Accident. I was tracking an ekimmara, jumped into a river, and ended up here." He'll gloss over the part where, upon realizing he couldn't get out, he went hunting for its owner ... until he realized there were other advantages to being here.

"How'd you hear about this place to start with? Other worlds don't tend to make themselves easy to find."

He'll never step foot into the medical tent again.

"Some very good friends of mine pointed the way out to me." Which is a very uninformative way of saying his tarot deck had a hand in it, especially since he isn't so inclined to bring them up easily. "What in the world is an ekimmara?"

Edited 2017-02-14 06:22 (UTC)

As long as he doesn't experience life-threatening injury, that probably won't be a problem, now will it?

"Hm. Some friends," he snorts, but the next question makes him smirk, even as he takes another drink. "An ekimmara's a kind of vampire. Ugly fuckers, but they're fast and vicious. Not hard to beat, as long as you know what you're doing."

And have the right equipment, which reminds him that his silver sword confiscated, and that makes his smile fade. "So did you plan on making a bargain to stay, or did you get tricked into it?"

Edited 2017-02-14 06:37 (UTC)

A kind of vampire?

There's more of a reaction to that, beyond what's so far been a fairly careful mask of disinterest, even in spite of the questions. It isn't even much, only a raise of his eyebrows, but it is there. That someone who tracks vampires just happened to wander into the carnival... That's interesting. He won't say so out loud, but it is.

"I planned on it," he says, shrugging and taking a second or two to drink, consider his next question. "And you? You don't seem the sort who would take well to being tricked."

Honestly, the apparent disinterest does more to provoke Lambert's interest and desire to poke and pry more than having a regular conversation would. Like worrying at a loose tooth with his tongue, Childermass' more visible reaction only encourages him, leaning his elbows on the edge of the table.

"I don't." Childermass' response to his question is annoyingly vague, so he could leave it at that, but this isn't going to be a productive question and answer session if they stick to responses under five words, is it?

"Normally, I'd be trying to figure out how to stop something like this, not working for it. But since she could give me what I wanted, I made a deal." Simple as that. "What'd you ask for?"

Lambert's going to find it to be only increasingly annoying to get longer or even, in this particular case, real answers out of Childermass. It isn't a dislike for the man or anything that keeps him from answering a few of them truthfully, but that if there's information he won't be sharing with Strange, then it's only fair to leave everyone else out in the dark as well.

So to what he asked for, he'll say, "The location of a vast but very much lost treasure trove left behind by a pirate king. You wouldn't know him, but he died a very rich man. Secretive, too, as no one's found where he kept all he stole since his death."

It's utter bullshit, but the problem with that is Childermass has one hell of a poker face. Even if there is a hint of amusement behind it, he still manages to sound entirely serious. Though, since he's hardly given a true answer to that, he'll at least keep from turning the same question back on Lambert.

"You'd normally be trying to stop this, you said?" He'll finish drink number two and pour a third, not feeling any sign of a buzz or being tipsy whatsoever yet. Seems the necklace works after all. Good to know. "And you track vampires. Does most of what you do involve dealing with the supernatural?"

In a more violent way than his deal with the Ringmaster, of course.

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