lostcarnival | so about those faeries

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so about those faeries

Who: Lambert, Strange, and (some form of a) Childermass
When: Early into their arrival in the Summerlands, after Lambert is actually fucking awake.
Where: The Carnival, Supervisor's Grove
What: Stuffy magicians and a witcher become aware of plot, then may or may not get blisteringly drunk
Warnings: Drinking, swearing, not discussing traumatic experiences but certainly thinking about them very loudly!

The directions that Lambert provides to the trailer in the Supervisor's Grove are clear and concise, but even if Strange made a complete hash of them it's still not hard to pick out the trailer with the open door and windows to let the breeze in.

Once he gets inside, he'll find an open space that's been converted into a laboratory of sorts. On one side of the room, several bulky somethings have had canvas sheets thrown over them, presumably to keep the dust from accumulating -- and from a month away, quite a bit has -- but the other side has some kind of chemistry setup laid out, beakers and burners and various kinds of equipment for distillation and refining components Lambert needs. Another workbench has been set up as some kind of assembly station, though it's hard to tell at a glance what for. More recognizably, one corner is entirely devoted to large copper vessels that are unmistakably some sort of alcohol still.

There are multiple vials with eerily shifting liquids organized by color along one wall, but what Lambert is looking at and holding up to the light now is a larger bottle. When he hears Strange come in, the witcher turns, golden tail lazily swinging to the side.

As with all the other Carnival workers, his changes have come back full force, scales and horns and all. Unfortunately, Lambert also looks even shittier than the last time Strange saw him, although he might not have gotten a good look: dark, blood-red veins creep across his face, curling under the surface of his skin like snakes, and he's looking a little grey, dark circles under his eyes. However, since his body's worked through most of today's dose of Swallow, it's not as bad as it looks. Really! But it looks pretty bad, so that's not saying much.

"Hey."

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Strange...actually doesn't look half bad. After gossiping and chatting with some of the fae of the Summerlands, they were more than happy to use some healing magic on Strange who was more than happy to accept after he extracted an amazingly long and bizarrely specific promise full of legalese and terms and conditions to take care of almost any eventuality that might screw him over.

Fool me once, et cetera, et cetera. Of course, his chest is still sore and various scratches still linger on his arms and legs, but at least he no longer feels like walking death and no longer looks absolutely awful, just kind of awful. Lambert, on the other hand, looks terrible, and Strange doesn't even bother to hide that expression of worry that flits across his face for a second.

"You look awful," Strange can't help but tease, with a small little awkward smile. Is this good? Can they go back to teasing each other? How precisely does one confront the elephant in the room of Strange straight up trying to murder Lambert? "I brought some food, as you asked. Cheese, bread, some apples, some grapes, and a half dozen or so boiled eggs."

He holds up a picnic basket, nicked from the cookhouse, with the food in question inside. Hope Lambert likes cheese and apples cause Strange is going to eat most of the eggs himself

At that, Lambert can't help snorting. "Believe it or not, I've been worse." It's not even a lie, not really. It's just that the list of 'worse' is very, very short.

Confronting Strange about Portland would require acknowledging Portland happened. Ordinarily, he'd be willing to get into Strange's face about it, but that's a conversation Lambert is more than happy to put off as long as humanly fucking possible. What's a little incidental brainwashing-induced attempted homicide between friends?

Anyway, Lambert punched him unconscious. Food's a good start to making it up to him the rest of the way, and he visibly lights up when it's mentioned, sniffing the air. He doesn't have any glasses, so unfortunately tonight they're drinking out of beakers, which he snags a couple of and brings to the only clear workbench in the middle of the room.

"Put it down here," he directs, though he's already moving towards Strange before he can do that. Setting the beakers and bottle down on the table, he dips a hand right into the basket and feels around for the first he can find -- an apple, in this case. Crunching happily into it with sharp teeth, he settles into a seat.

Drinking out of beakers. Well, all right then, this seems to be a thing that's happening. Inwardly, Strange just wonders why Lambert didn't ask him to bring cups, but then again, the man often made decisions that made no sense.

He walks over towards the bench, sits the basket down, and reaches in to pull out an egg for himself. Unless the witcher tells him to knock it off, Lambert's probably going to find eggshells all over the floor of the building because Strange starts peeling the egg, absolutely unaware that he's making a mess.

"So, what first? The information or the object I've got to show you?"

"Information," the witcher answers without hesitation. Besides the fact that it's the whole reason Strange came over in the first place, Lambert still tires easily. If it's something he needs that badly to hear, might as well get it over with. That'll also let him decide how much drinking he needs to do later.

Speaking of drinking, he'll take the opportunity to open up the bottle he was examining earlier and start pouring them both a measure of some bright, pale yellow liquid. At the same time, Lambert hooks a foot around the small trashcan under the table and pushes it over to Strange, mumbling around a mouthful of apple.

"Toss your trash in the bin, I just finished cleaning up here."

'Some form of a Childermass' is fairly accurate, by the way. He is actually there, in some form, just not the one anyone might expect. A handful of things came back with him from Portland and it wasn't only a pair of jeans and a now useless cellphone, but the memory of another form, smaller, and even more covered in feathers than he normally is.

While he's been absent around the carnival as a human, he has been keeping an eye on Strange as a crow. When the man finally left to go speak with Lambert, it was only natural to follow, and now, here he is, perched near whatever window or hatch Lambert has cracked open to help deal with whatever fumes his laboratory may put out.

It's easy to eavesdrop this way, especially when you're light enough and small enough to miss easily.

Strange rolls his eyes slightly, more to be a bit of a drama queen than with any menace. Still, any further egg shell bits are going in the trashcan. He'll pick up the ones already on the floor once his hands aren't full of food.

"It's more along the lines of information leading up to a request." Still, there's no use continuing to stall for time so after a pause, Strange continues. He doesn't meet Lambert's eyes as he talks, instead focusing on peeling the shell off the egg.

"When I froze the carnival during Alola, it was due to a faerie I summoned, one who went by the name Frost. Frost knew of the Ringmaster, though he called her the Beast. Well, when we were in Portland, Nightshade also knew of Frost, despite the fact that they were of opposite courts, and knew enough about the Ringmaster to guess that the Beast wasn't from their world."

Turns out that all the fae know all the other fae (and are also mad gossipy but that's neither here nor there). Strange pauses for a moment before he continues talking. "I don't know what this means aside from the he-knows-her aspect of the fae could put English society to shame. But the carnival...we're not entirely good at keeping a low profile. If they so wanted, I've no doubt that the Portland fae could track our movements and manage to find us."

He's paying absolutely no attention to that bird hanging out on the window. Hello there bird, what's up.

That's great to know and all, Strange, but he may have forgotten -- or not entirely realized -- that Lambert hasn't quite gotten the memo on who Nightshade is and exactly what she did to Strange. So when Strange finishes (Lambert having chewed his way through the apple in record time and moving on to a block of cheese) he lapses into uncharacteristic silence, expression souring as he grumpily takes a moment to revisit his Portland memories and line it up with what he knows.

"Should've told me I'd need to write this down," is what he'll start with, though he fully expects Strange is going to write it up in some form or fashion anyway. "Nightshade was your..." What was the word Strange had used back then? "...patron, right?" His nose wrinkles at the memory, given the discussion they'd been having at the time that information came up wasn't particularly what anyone would describe as 'civil.'

At any rate, he'll take this point to cut himself up some cheese, continuing regardless of Strange's affirmation or not. "I don't know what this means either, but I can tell you what it sounds like: politics."

He says that like it's literally the worst thing he can think of.

Edited 2017-08-02 15:47 (UTC)

Oh. Right. Lambert barely knew anything about the fae nonsense in Portland, did he. Damn, now he'll definitely need to write this down, there's no way Lambert's going to remember this all. By now Strange has finished peeling the egg and takes a bite out of it. He chews and swallows before talking again.

"I suppose we should call it what it is. Nightshade's the one who controlled me and made me attack you and the others in the Count's castle." Call a spade a spade, call a brainwashing faerie a brainwashing faerie. Strange just says it in a matter of fact tone, though it's obvious he's trying his hardest to keep his voice level, to not let the anger and disgust he feels at the whole situation shine through.

Still, he can't help but give Lambert a small little smile as the other man shows his disgust. It is an amusing thought, Lambert dealing with politics. Amusing in a way where it'd be even funnier if Strange was watching from the sidelines and not dealing with both Lambert and politics head on.

"Don't worry. I've experience dealing with kings, gentry, and all of that sort. Shove me off to deal with the fae and the politics while you go find something to stab in the background."

"What a fucking bitch," Lambert says, as supportively as he can. Unlike Strange, he makes no attempt to temper his own seething fury. Because anger's always been his default way of responding to things that confuse or hurt him, but he's had a distinct lack of things to direct that anger to. Nightshade makes a fine target of spite as any, for the direct harm she's done to Strange and the indirect harm she's done to everyone else.

After a moment he sighs, picks up a beaker, and knocks back a sip. It's probably best to take it easy on the alcohol since his body's not going to be in a hurry to clear anything, but that just means it's easier to get drunk for once.

"As far as I can tell, stabbing might be the way to deal with it anyway," he says, after he swallows. "The Beast obviously wasn't much of a fan, and she was happier to kill fae who were part of the courts than negotiate a truce. Though that was when they were cut off from Arcadia."

Which, well, what the fuck is Arcadia even. Maybe Nightshade spilled about that too, so he looks at Strange to see if he recognizes the name now.

Edited 2017-08-02 17:16 (UTC)

Strange catches Lambert's expression and manages to understand it almost instantly. Unfortunately, he doesn't know much either and responds to Lambert's look with a simple shrug. "I think Arcadia's the main realm of the fae. However, I don't know specifics. I never talked about it with either Nightshade or Frost."

There's obviously something going on in Strange's mind as he finishes eating the egg. He pauses for a moment, mulling his words over before deciding fuck it. He needs to ask Lambert this. As he talks, he reaches for one of the beakers of alcohol because he's going to need this just as much.

"There is a chance that the Portland fae will find us somehow. If that happens and I am controlled by Nightshade again, I need you to kill me." And, because he knows that Lambert's probably not going to like that, Strange continues talking, just talking over any immediate objections the witcher might raise. "I've already made an arrangement with the Ringmaster to be brought back to life--much like she herself is doing right now, I assume. But we both know it's lucky I only hurt other carnival members." Yuya, Steven, possibly even Peridot, Strange knows that it's luck and his own ignorance of their skills that kept them alive.

The sharp twist Lambert's expression takes says he absolutely doesn't like that. His tail lashes heavily against the floor, but before he can draw in the breath to do more than make an outraged, non-verbal noise at the back of his throat, the magician beats him to the punch.

"You're an idiot," is what he'll still say, bitingly, cutting off another piece of cheese with entirely too much force. Leaving aside the matter of the Ringmaster being able to cast a ritual to revive the dead, which now seems a much less bizarre proposition than it would have a month ago, it's still a stupid idea, for reasons he's about to outline sharply.

"First of all, what happened to you could have happened to literally anyone else at the Carnival." Assuming anyone else is ever idiotic enough to be kidnapped by the fae in the first place. "Second of all, it has happened. You told me people were controlled in the Matrix, and some of the supervisors attacked us in Hell." Another apple gets fished out of the basket, and he continues in between alternate bites of cheese and fruit.

"So, sure. If it comes down to it, I can and I will kill you. But you better be fucking ready to do the same thing to me or anyone else she gets her teeth into." It's the most he's spoken since they've gotten back, and his voice is a hoarse snarl by the end of it. "Unless you'd like to volunteer any better ideas?"

Edited 2017-08-02 19:17 (UTC)

"I don't have any better ideas!" Strange snaps, annoyed tone in his voice. "She's a True Fae, Lambert, do you know what that means? None of us here could even attempt to match her power or undo her influence in the first place. I can only think of one magician who would have the slightest chance at doing something like that and it certainly isn't me!"

It's obvious the way his voice breaks, the way his hands start trembling despite the fact that Strange is trying to keep them calm, the way Strange just refuses to look Lambert in the eye, that he's scared as hell of Nightshade. He has to complete his contract, he has to save Arabella. He can't do that if he's enthralled by someone else. And for all his blustering and repression and trying to seem like everything fine, he's got this, Strange is absolutely terrified that what happened to him in Portland will happen again.

He takes a larger than expected swig of the alcohol to try and calm his nerves...but then discovers that this is like some 30% hooch and starts coughing and choking slightly.

Lambert recognizes the fear in Strange's voice, the way he holds himself. He knows what scared people look like -- he simply absolutely isn't used to them being people he on any level cares about. He remembers his own fears from Portland, but the terror feels more distant now, less immediate, shuffled mentally into the same space that lets him stare down a charging griffin with a steady heartbeat.

It's lucky that Strange finds himself choking on the alcohol, because it takes about that long for Lambert to decide on what to say.

"Look, human magic managed to trap all the True Fae on that world for twenty-five years, right?" he tries, once Strange recovers. "So we know their power doesn't make them invincible. They can be beaten, and they can be tricked." Not to mention they pretty much saw that the Ringmaster could be beaten and tricked -- and completely molded out of the shape of her own mind -- because that's not helpful to the discussion right now.

"Of course she's got power. A lot of things have power. You think I'm stronger than a griffin? That I could kill a troll without breaking a sweat?" He does have a point to make here, which he's getting to in a second. "I only beat monsters because I learned to. Because someone else figured out how, and I can use that." His hand clenches on the table, claws pricking into his own palm.

Strange just pauses for a moment, taking another, smaller drink as he does so. Because he recognizes what this is. This is Lambert's attempt at comfort, trying to ease Strange's worries about this whole debacle. And part of him is just so grateful that Lambert's even making an attempt in the first place.

It's just that the attempt is really terrible. Strange could easily counter with how the fae aren't griffins or trolls, how the spell that trapped them came at the expense of the world itself, how they could be beaten but it would be damn harder now that both sides knew what they were going up against, how they'd have access to so many more resources now that they weren't cut off in Portland...but honestly, it's a bit of a losing fight and he's still a bit too frayed to give Lambert a laundry list of all the ways that his plan of 'learn about the monster and then probably stab it' won't really work.

This only impresses on Strange that he's going to have to come up with a plan himself, some sort of spell or ritual that would be better than get info and then possibly stab.

"Do all of your comparisons default to killing monsters?" He can't help but ask, leaning over to grab some bread from the basket. Strange is actually looking at Lambert this time as he talks. The fear's still obvious in his eyes, but he's at least giving the witcher a weak smile to go along with his gentle teasing.

Lambert scowls, because while the intention had been a little bit of comfort, it's also essentially what he intends to do to keep something like this from happening again. Lick their wounds, find out more, don't get caught off guard next time. There's nothing else to do -- it's hardly like they can hunt it down and fight them on their own ground. He's aware of the shortcomings of this plan, but that's what other people's ideas are for. He just needs to find more ways to kill things.

"Considering that was literally what I was made for? Yeah, they kind of do." Since Strange is leaving off the eggs, it's Lambert's turn to go for some, picking out two and making quick work of peeling the shells off as he continues.

"I'd say they're likelier to go after the world we just left, just for the insult of trapping them there. If we hadn't crashed in, they'd probably still be stuck. Beast seemed to think part of how the Severing worked was making Arcadia forget about them."

Edited 2017-08-02 23:27 (UTC)

Now that's some interesting information he didn't know about. They weren't in Arcadia right now, but perhaps the spell caused the Summerlands to forget about them as well? He'll need to ask around, bother the fae, see what's what. After all, he's got a sneaking suspicion that other people in the carnival are going to keep a bit of a distance.

"That wouldn't surprise me," he muses, after swallowing a mouthful of bread. "Nightshade was particularly put out that she was stuck there for so long." Though the fact that Lambert keeps on calling the Ringmaster 'the Beast' just makes Strange's weak smile grow a little stronger.

"You can call her the Ringmaster, you know. That's who she is." And then he takes another sip from the beaker and winces. The slightly potent taste just throws him for a loop every time it hits his taste buds.

Lambert shakes his head. "You wouldn't say that if you'd seen her then." He'd brought her up often enough with Strange, but not in detail, never divulging all that much information, and he can guess he never ran into her himself.

"It was her, but she was ... different." He's struggling to put words around it, it's clear to tell, like he just doesn't know exactly what he wants to say, so eventually just gives up and leaves it at that. From his experience with the Ringmaster, he would never have described her as having morals, but compared to what she'd been, her present incarnation is a paragon of virtue.

"Hard to say what was real and what wasn't," he settles on, finally. "She called herself a Wyld Fae, and those don't get along with the courts. Rumor said she killed a True Fae called the Winter's Claw, and she was willing to kill the Rose Queen just ... for having a face she didn't like and to brag about it." He waves a hand, vaguely. Hopefully, this is helping Strange see some of why it's so bizarre to think of the Beast and the Ringmaster as one and the same thing. The next part is harder to remember, so he's going to take a drink and shut his eyes, resting his forehead against the heel of his hand.

"The Courts were going to repurpose the world, if they'd succeeded," he says slowly. Now how did she describe it...? "Something like creating a changeling, only with a whole universe."

He groans, opening his eyes and leaning back. "You'd have to ask her or Peridot for the rest of that. I wasn't exactly taking notes."

"As blunt as this sounds, there is precedent for some of her more extreme behavior. Remember our trip to hell?" Aka remember the time the Ringmaster literally ate the heart of her ex-girlfriend. Lambert might think this is different but, as much as Strange loved the Ringmaster's company, there were some definite things about her that made someone remember just how not human she was.

As for the Winter's Claw...how Strange would love it if that was just something that happened in Portland, nothing to do with the Ringmaster herself. But her address sticks in the back of his mind. The Ringmaster could have been a heartless fae who would be happy to murder someone based on their looks just as Strange could have been a heartless man keeping a servant bound out of sheer spite.

"Oh, I've an entire list of things to ask the Ringmaster when she gets back," he mutters, with a sigh. This whole dying thing is far too inconvenient, RM. "I'll put that on the list somewhere." Strange knocks back the rest of the beaker with the ease of someone who's been chugging poison for the past few weeks.

"Good luck getting a straight answer," Lambert responds, dryly. Strange has got the right sort of idea anyway, so when he sets his glass back Lambert will top him off again.

"And that's a good point." However, maybe your perspective gets a little skewed on what's more unsettling when someone's literally sucked out part of your soul and put it back in. Weird, how he used to think Hell was the worst they'd be put through, but he sighs and knocks back what's left of his own beakerful, grimacing as it hits.

"Was that all you wanted to meet me for? Extract some kind of death pact out of me?" One wonders why he needed Childermass present at all, though Lambert now suspects the request was really more so Strange didn't have to hang out with the other magician alone...

"Well I wanted to tell you what I learned about the fae," Strange explains, with a little shrug. "But I do have something to show you as well."

And Strange just seems so excited as he stands up, setting his empty beaker down on the table. Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulls out a ruby gem, the size of a ping-pong ball. He holds it up to the light so Lambert can see the stone as well.

"Now don't get any ideas. This isn't for you, though I do have some books you should borrow back at my trailer--oh damn I'll need to remind Childermass about the books as well." That is, if the other magician would even speak to him after this. He knows Childermass is alive and well enough to talk about the Ringmaster (how did he find out she had died anyway?) though any other details beyond that, Strange doesn't know. The lure of books would worked to draw Norrell into conversation but Strange honestly has no idea how well they would work for Childermass.

"Here, help me clear off some table space and I'll show you what it can do."

Lambert's gaze snaps to the gem, of course, instantly interested, though his lip curls as Strange warns him off. With the air of a man suspecting he's about to be tricked, but deciding to humor a friend anyway, he moves the basket off the table, though he'll tip the bottle and refill Strange's glass while he gets things set up.

"You got me books?" is what he'll ask to pass the time, brows raised. "I told you I wanted jewelry, not paper."

But there, now Strange has his space, his rapt-if-sardonically amused audience, and his big shiny rock. Lambert waves a clawed hand generously, lips curling to show off sharp teeth. Come on, Mr. Strange, you have the stage!

Very carefully, Strange sets the stone down on the table, point down. Oddly enough, it balances perfectly despite the fact that it really shouldn't be doing that at all. And then, from the stone into the air, projects a memory. It's Arabella, gently chastising Strange for something. Snippets of conversation flit in and out--it's hard to remember every spoken word of a conversation, after all. But the general gist of the memory is obvious enough: it's Arabella telling her husband to get a goddamn job.

A man needs an occupation, Jonathan, the memory of Arabella says, as Strange just stares at her, absolutely twitter-patted and madly in love despite the context of the memory. It's amazing how just seeing his wife, hearing her voice, does absolute wonders for Strange's psyche. Any remaining trace of fear or terror in his expression is just melting away as he hears her voice and sees her face.

God. It's been months since he heard her voice. Something like this...it's amazing.

"That's Arabella," he simply offers as an explanation, once he realizes that Lambert probably has no clue who the woman projected by the stone is.

On some level, Lambert's aware that this is supposed to be a meaningful moment. However, the look on his face as the images and snippets of sound begin to flicker past is increasingly deepening confusion. The only part that makes sense is the gem as a focus; megascopes worked in a similar way for recording things. Not that Lambert's ever had a reason to use it himself, but at least he's familiar with the theory.

And then Strange speaks, and Lambert turns to squint at him. Well, that's a hell of an expression.

"Strange," he says, in a remarkably steady voice, though the corner of his lip is starting to twitch and his shoulders are shaking ever-so-gently. "Did you seriously come here to show me a memory of your wife telling you to get a job?"

Edited 2017-08-03 02:03 (UTC)

"It shows other memories as well." Strange picks up the gem and the memory fades away into nothingness. "And, if I spin it, it also plays music."

Again, he gingerly sets the gem down on the table, point down. This time the memory is another that doesn't make much sense. It's Arabella sitting down at a table, making herself breakfast and talking to Strange about something. Carefully, Strange reaches over and gingerly twists the gem into a spin. It remains perfectly upright while it spins, like a children's top. The music it starts playing is honestly a little unnerving at points but Strange just keeps staring at the memory with a doe-eyed expression.

"This was when I returned from the peninsula," he explains, lost in his own memories and not really paying any attention to Lambert. "I always knew she was beautiful but that morning, when I was looking at her...she seemed like the most beautiful woman in all creation."

Being in love, Lambert decides, must be the fastest way to losing intelligence. He already knew that much from seeing Geralt lose his shit over Yennefer, and Strange's twitterpated expression is just supporting evidence for that hypothesis.

Seriously, if he's going to sit here having to endure Arabella and Jonathan's greatest hits, can't they at least get to the spicy parts? No, nevermind. With the music playing that would be even worse.

"Do I need to give you some privacy with the spooky memory rock?" Lambert asks, loudly. "Because I'll be honest, I really don't feel like I'm necessary for this." So much so that he's already eying potential escape routes from his own laboratory, including possibly jumping out of the window--

Hang on, is there something out there?

Edited 2017-08-03 02:48 (UTC)

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