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. ]

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Okay, that laugh earns itself an arched eyebrow, as if he himself hadn't thought it that funny, but whatever. If he found it funny, then it was. Suggesting Norrell would have him under a magic contract, however, is apparently what Childermass finds hilarious.

His laugh isn't much like Lambert's at all, more of a soft, amused huff of air before he finishes his third round of whiskey. Yeah, speaking of that particular magician? He's pouring out another one and he isn't being stingy this time.

"No, not at all. He saved those for anyone he considered a threat or wished to be rid of," is at least one answer he can give honestly. His former master's prickliness is hardly a secret to anyone at all. "And you can make up for asking twice by telling me about the magicians in your own world."

In turn, Lambert doesn't get what's so funny about what he just said, but he snorts softly at Childermass's answer.

"Too good to get his magic dirty? Doesn't sound so different from back home." And he'll mirror the act of pouring himself a fresh drink, both pleased and a little annoyed that he's keeping pace -- between the two of them, the bottle is going fast, and he's only just starting to feel the warm buzz creeping up the nape of his neck. It's a big question, but luckily it's not the first time he's been asked this, so the answer's fresh off the top of his mind.

"There's all kinds of mages. The ones with the most talent and power spend years studying, shut up in an academy. Others end up becoming druids or priests -- they say their power comes from the gods, but I think that's bullshit." He pauses, taking a drink. "If they play their cards right, they can end up getting a position at the side of a king or a jarl as an advisor. Piss off the wrong person, though, and they can end up dead just like anyone else. It's a bad time to be a magic user, since the King of Redania's decided to hold a witch hunt for fun."

One day Lambert will figure out he was cheating on the drinking, but until then! It's not half bad, enjoying decent enough liquor without having to worry about losing his edge. All in all, a fine test of the necklace.

"Of course. What gentleman would ever get their hands dirty?" Or, as Lambert had put it, their magic.

Besides, with Childermass around, there had always been someone else to do that for him. No reason to add that part, though, so he'll go back to listening instead. Overall, it didn't seem too off for what he would have expected, save for that last part. At that part, he can't help but frown and lean forward again, resting his elbows on the table's top.

"But why would he do that?"

"A noble and a mage? Great, his ego must have been twice as inflated." Lambert rolls his eyes.

"I don't know his reasons. I don't hobknob with royalty, and knowing my luck he'd probably have me killed on sight too. I do know his father was assassinated when he was too young to rule, and one of his advisors was a sorceress. Rumor is, she might have arranged for it herself -- so she could take over." He shrugs, swirling his drink around his glass before taking a gulp.

"Your guess is as good as mine. Revenge? Fear? Inbreeding? Whatever made him hate magic doesn't matter. The witch hunters and the priests of the Sacred Flame make sure Novigrad burns with pyres all the same."

Edited 2017-02-15 04:00 (UTC)

"I'll make a note never to visit Novigrad, in that case."

It's an idle comment, seeing as chances are Childermass will never step foot anywhere that Lambert is from, but a good plan nonetheless. There's no telling where the carnival might land itself one day. Anyway, he leans back away from the table again, taking his glass with him when he goes, although at this point he's taking his time with his drink.

There's no real rush now that he knows he won't be getting drunk, so...

"And a gentleman in England is not necessarily also a nobleman," he does feel the need to follow up on that particular assumption. He doubts he would have ever been able to address Norrell as 'my lord' without stopping to laugh. "In my own time, that is, although I do not think that would make a great deal of difference to you."

"You're right about that. It does make a difference if one can pay me more than the other." Lambert keeps leaning on the table, apparentlly having found a comfortable position to settle in while he nurses his drink. Can't let himself go dry for long, though, so he takes another sip.

"Tell me more about England." It's a place, obviously, but the name alone doesn't tell him whether it's a tiny hamlet, a kingdom, or a city. He eyes his glass with some consideration, then reaches down to his belt, unhooking a flask and tipping some of the fluid inside into his glass. He doesn't offer Childermass any.

"A country northwest of the continent, on an island," added in case 'just off of the continent' doesn't mean that to Lambert. "Used to be two separate kingdoms, one in the north, one in the south, but it hasn't been that way for a few hundred years now. We do still have a king, but it's parliament that decides what England does now, not him."

There's a lot more he could go on about, but he is trying to summarize, else they'd be stuck talking about the place all day. Not the worst fate, not at all, just possibly of little interest to the other man.

"And yourself? Where would you call home, Lambert?"

There. Back on track with the question total.

The only islanders Lambert knows of are headstrong, quick-tempered, and fond of their drink -- so it's a bit odd to be thinking of Childermass as one, even if he logically knows there's no reason to expect islands from different worlds to have anything in common. What the hell is a parliament though… it sounds suspiciously bureaucratic.

In any case, that's more of a loaded question than Childermass probably realizes. Lambert pauses to consider the question, sipping from his drink in the meantime, before he finally puts it down to speak.

"Don't really have a place to call one," he answers. Kaer Morhen doesn't count, he figures. And the village he grew up in ... he can't even remember its name, though he can remember the fury on his father's face. "Once you're on the Path, you're on it for life. No Witcher's ever died in his bed."

Extremely bureaucratic.

"Too mercenary for one place, is it?" He asks without really expecting an answer. Overall, even that isn't much of a surprise to Childermass, although the lack of at least a country or a kingdom is interesting. Was he just something outside of it all? Truly from nowhere at all? "Although you've lost me on what you mean by Path."

Lambert knows it sounds ridiculous, because he'd thought so the first time Vesemir called it that, but.

"It's just a fancy way to say working." He waves a hand vaguely, taking a gulp of his Witcher-spiked alcohol. Mm, that's the stuff. "I'm sure this comes as a surprise to you, but monsters aren't exactly lining up to throw themselves on my sword. I have to go to where they are, and then I have to find someone who's going to pay me for it."

"And if no one is paying, you just leave the monsters be and continue on?" Childermass asks after a moment of thinking on that. It's not as though he'll judge Lambert if the answer is, in fact, yes, he would just continue on his merry way, but he is curious to know.

"That's right." Lambert says, matter-of-fact. "Unless the monsters attack me first, obviously. Then I'll defend myself." Witchers don't work for charity, and there are enough ungrateful clients in the world that Lambert can't really shed a tear over it.

Now how had Jamie put it ... ? "Think of it as glorified pest control. Aren't there any monsters in your world?"

Edited 2017-02-16 03:46 (UTC)

"Only if you count certain people among the monstrous," he answers with a shrug. Faeries, too, or at least one he never met himself. What else might come back into England now that magic's returned, even he doesn't know, but that's yet to pass. "England has seen very little in the way of magic and its creatures for some time now."

And then he'll nod towards Lambert's glass.

"What was that you added? Seems odd you'd need to put anything more into whiskey."

"Hah. Lucky England. Should hope it stays that way." It's said with some measure of sincerity, even. The moments where he can say he enjoys the work he does are few and far between. He's vague on his world history, but the Conjunction of the Spheres is something even he's heard of. More than a thousand years ago, and all the magic it brought is still royally screwing the world over.

At the question, though, he smirks. "White Gull -- Witcher brew. Don't get me wrong, this stuff is decent, but it adds that little ..." He wiggles his fingers. "...kick."

It won't, but that, too, falls into the gray area of what Childermass can and cannot say. Anything he tells the others could still make its way to Strange and so all he does is say, "What I do and do not hope matters little in that case."

In particular due to prophecies being involved. Those especially don't care for anyone else's opinion. Magic aside, whether it exists or doesn't exist or is coming back and bringing monsters, he'll raise his eyebrows some at Lambert.

"And I would say that it is rude not to share, but I already suspect rudeness is something you enjoy." Like before when he asked whether Witchers ignore monsters they're not paid to kill, there isn't really any air of disapproval here, either. More like a fact he's decided to state out loud.

"Funny, I thought it was polite not to poison someone I'm drinking with. Or is that different in England too?" Lambert grins, leaning against the table edge. He wasn't lying about the brew's potency; the latest glassful's left his eyes half-lidded and cheeks flushed. He is not, however, going to bother denying the charge of rudeness, something so blatantly true that to say otherwise would be plainly farcical.

As he continues to prove when he slides the bottle across the table. "If you want to start seeing visions and puke up blood tomorrow, be my guest." It won't kill him, but he'll probably wish he was dead. He remembers sneaking out alcohol from Vesemir's stash as a kid, before the first set of mutations, and he'd more or less survived. Probably burned a permanent hole in his liver, but he survived.

"It's usually used for alchemy, but you look like you can hold your drink."

"Depends on who you talk to," Childermass says without one damn hint of worry. Apparently, Lambert's warning either doesn't hold water to the man or he really does think he can handle it (which he does, actually, but that'll be the surprise). He catches the bottle Lambert slides his way and takes a moment to hold it up, get a good look at it, before giving a sort of half-shrug to himself — like saying 'all right, whatever' without actually saying it — and opens it.

Less goes into his drink than he saw Lambert pour into his own, of course. He'd been told the necklace can only handle so much poison and, with it hidden away as it is, he can't exactly keep an eye on it for any dangerous color changes.

"Used for alchemy how, if I might ask?"

Sure, he's about to drink literal poison, but he's also still going to carry on with the conversation casually as he closes the bottle again and slides it back to Lambert. It's only after that that he'll drink the rest of his whiskey, White Gull and all.

Edited 2017-02-16 14:52 (UTC)

White Gull is a strange brew -- translucent and with a faint scent that's both medicinal and sweet, under the sharper, nose-singing quality of really strong alcohol. Still, there isn't anything about it that marks it as having any particularly magical properties.

The indifference would be infuriating, but it's more intriguing instead, the self-assured confidence something Lambert hadn't expected from the man at first glance. He sort of ignores the question at first, watching him like a hawk while he drinks it all. After a few seconds pass and Childermass neither drops he laughs (loudly) and pounds the table with the flat of his palm.

"You're one tough bastard, Childermass." Judging from the tone of his voice, that's clearly meant as a compliment, not that he cares if Childermass takes it as one, and he skips right back to answering the question like he wasn't interrupted.

"A lot of magical components don't dissolve properly in water, and that's not going to work. A solution and a suspension do completely different things. So you use alcohol instead." There, like it's obvious.

"Or say you need to extract something from a raw material, but you can't heat it or break it apart to do that. Almost any really strong alcohol will work, but some are better than others."

Edited (NERDING NERDILY) 2017-02-16 16:51 (UTC)

At least that solves the mystery of why Lambert would spike alcohol with even more alcohol. What was in that bottle, being that strong, must outstrip whiskey by far. If that man can drink it without a magical trick up his sleeve, too, he can only imagine whatever those "bad potions" he had mentioned before has changed much more than how his eyes look.

Good to know. It's not that he would ever think to try poisoning someone else, but knowing what won't work is always a plus. In any case, he sets his glass back down and shrugs, like it's nothing at all.

"So I've been told." He'll take it as a compliment just fine, but he never really knows what to do with those. If anything, he, again, sounds like he finds it funny. The explanation for its actual use, however, that he can respond to better than any compliment. "Ah, and yet here you are drinking it."

Well, both of them now, not just Lambert, but that was very much a one time deal on his own part.

"No wonder you would call it poison, if that is what it's meant for."

Edited 2017-02-17 06:47 (UTC)

"Mm-hm." As if to prove the point, not that there is much of one to be made, Lambert takes another swig of his nasty Witcher cocktail. "And now, so are you." maybe the man has more going on under his skin to, or the raven feathers hint at a nature that isn't entirely human...

"You sound like Vesemir. 'Young man, that is meant for alchemy, not your stomach. Put that down at once!''" He deepens his voice and wags a finger at Childermass like he's a schoolboy, squaring his shoulders until he's standing at rigid attention. He only holds it for a couple of seconds before he lets it drop again, reaching to take his cup and drain it dry. Conveniently, that means he can pour the last of the whiskey and White Gull into it, reclaiming the empty bottle.

"A toast to bad decisions, then?" He lifts his glass, raising a brow.

"If that means that I sound sensible, I see no reason to argue." Whoever Vesemir is, if he thinks drinking poison is stupid, then he's only going to take that as another compliment, even if this time it's entirely unintended on Lambert's part. Still, he won't be so serious that he won't incline his head in the barest of nods to his toast and raises his own glass.

"To bad decisions, then. Usually other people's."

Because oh boy, are Childermass' bad decisions come far and few between compared to pretty much everyone else he knows.

To that, Lambert's happy to drink, draining his glass in one long, steady pull that leaves his throat burning, though he's grinning widely when he puts the glass down.

"Well, Mr. Childermass, as entertaining as this has been, I think I'd better take my leave. Still have the rest of our coworkers to meet and all that." A touch unsteadily, he pushes himself to his feet, giving him a wave with a flick of his fingers.

"Let me know if you ever want to grab a drink again. I'd be more than happy to take you up on the offer."

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itt: i use google to help me write vaguely science things

what is science we just don't know

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