lostcarnival | MUSHI DISASTER

Yeah, Strange missed the warning entirely. So Strange cocks his head to the side, obviously confused as to why Lambert's miming listening to the radio. Did someone make a broadcast or something like that? Or was he trying to tell Strange that this involved the radio? What had been flawless communication slowly starts to break down.

Behind him, the reflection mirrors Strange's head tilt, as if it's studying the man via mimicry.

"Of course nobody's made any mention about odd reflections over the radio—I'd have this all sorted out already if that were the case."

Lambert mouths more things that, from his expression, are almost, definitely more swearwords. He's not good at this, and the creepy thing tilting his head is about what does it for him. With a sour look, he casts a blast of pure force at it -- his magic, obviously, unhampered by the lack of speech -- and doesn't bother to watch how it shatters and reforms.

He gestures sharply in the air, clearly less interested in communicating than getting all the frustration out first, before his eyes narrow and he regards Strange with sudden, sharp interest. After about a beat, he holds a palm out flat, then traces the finger of his other palm on it, looking at the magician with a sense of impatient expectation.

And Lambert just gets the BLANKEST OF STARES in response. Strange isn't getting it.

"Something involving hands?" He's very tentative as he says that, Strange's tone of voice one hundred percent betraying the fact that he knows he's guessing wrong but really, he has no idea what to guess to begin with. "Do you need me to do something for you? I told you, whatever this is it isn't magic, I don't know how much help I would be."

For one of the greatest magicians of his age, by default and lack of competition if nothing else, Strange really can be dense. Lambert rolls his eyes and crouches down, picking up the nearest pointed object that comes to hand -- a bit of metal that may have once been the lynchpin to some mechanism -- and scratching out a short, succinct message in the dirt.

Need writing stuff. And if there's anyone in the Carnival who would have such tools in abundance, well, it's certainly Mr. Jonathan 'I wrote a book once' Strange.

Edited 2017-04-28 04:03 (UTC)

Ohhhhh that makes sense. Of course, Strange has something on hand. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small notebook, which he offers to Lambert. It's gotten a lot of use: this notebook is dog-eared to hell and back, with some pages torn and others stained. If Lambert were to creep through the notebook, he'd see that the majority consists of notes written about magic, faerie, the Ringmaster, and the locations they've visited, in absolutely no order whatsoever. Half the notes are just jotted down, but the other half are in paragraph form, as if Strange was testing out a paragraph or a turn of phrase for a future book. Occasionally there's a terrible drawing of a Pokemon or one of the merpeople in Atlantis. Rarely, there are pages that are torn out or scribbled out entirely. Strange reaches back into his pocket as he talks, searching for a pencil.

"I want that back, by the way. That has my notes about the Carnival, faerie, and all the things I've seen here since my arrival." And, unlike other magicians, Strange has no qualms just magically popping into Lambert's trailer and stealing the notebook back if needed, no asking necessary. This time he pulls out a small stub of a pencil from the same pocket, which he again offers to Lambert.

Edited 2017-04-28 04:53 (UTC)

That's just going to get another roll of his eyes. Look, Strange, he's not super interested in reading your weird notes (though he will stop on a particularly hideous doodle of a Haunter and an Exeggutor because just? No??? What kind of shit notes is Strange taking, good lord, nightrunners need better supervision) he just needs something to tell you what to do next. As he proves when he flips to one of the last pages, taking the pencil stub (with a small look of irritation, it is hard to grasp something like that properly in clawed fingers) to begin writing quickly and rapidly for a minute or so. When he finishes with his little essay, he tears the page out of the notebook and hands it all back to Strange.

Given more room to express himself, the witcher's writing is less abrupt: his script isn't about to win any calligraphy contests for certain, an almost block-like quality about the letters, like one might make notations on a map. Hard to say if that's just how he writes or if it's whatever fae magic is at work to make the different languages readable to one another changing some of it to reflect his own language...

Yesterday, one of the carnival workers said their supply of special tobacco went missing. Since then, we've been seeing more of these kinds of creatures around the Carnival. He called them 'mooshee.' What's following you now might be one of them. When I asked him about it before, he said most of them were harmless, but he conveniently also failed to mention some of them might start mimicking people.

You said you felt tired after trying to get rid of it, but I've seen you throw a lot of magic around before without passing out, so it might be more dangerous than it looks. It could be affecting you, though I don't know how. You should find him and ask about it. I think his name was Gingkoh(?)

Edited (edits edits a million edits) 2017-04-28 05:16 (UTC)

All I'm saying is that there's a reason Arabella did the art for his book.

He waits patiently as Lambert writes out his what he's trying to say and hands everything back to Strange. He's not pocketing the notebook and pencil just yet, as who knows if Lambert will need to write another note or not. There's a pause as Strange reads it over, quietly noting the fact that huh, Lambert has better handwriting than he does, that's hardly fair.

"Find him and ask him about it? Certainly, sir," Strange teases, giving Lambert a small smirk. Because this? All of it sounded far too official. Lambert still might be a little shaky with actual nightrider duties, but he seems perfectly content bossing Strange around like this (and Strange might be underdressed and a bit tired but he seems perfectly content teasing Lambert about said bossing around.)

"I've talked with Ginko a few times--he works in the menagerie. If you don't know what he looks like, I'd be happy to provide a description." Ah, no, wait Lambert can't talk, time for yes or no questions. "Do you know what Ginko looks like to begin with?"

Lambert nods, beckoning for the paper again -- though the scowl he's been wearing softens into a more characteristic smirk when Strange calls him 'sir,' the humor lightening the situation a bit. One he has paper in hand, he'll write on a fresh sheet, more surely now that he's gotten the hang of it:

I met him recently. He was rolling some dried herbs and tobacco, which is what I'm working on tracking down.

Hence, the copious sniffing. Which Strange should be able to connect the dots, there. But as Lambert continues, he starts scowling again.

The smoke it creates is some a repellent for these things. Someone stole or destroyed all of it, which is why the Carnival is drowning in them. If we can find it, we should be able to fix this. When I find the whoreson who did this I'm going to shove their head so far up their ass it comes out of their throat. Lambert might be in danger of tearing through the paper with the force he writes that out. He exhales, soundlessly, shoulders heaving, before he finally finishes it up and hands it to Strange:

I'll get my voice back eventually. Nothing else I can do right now but try to help everyone else.

Strange hands over the paper, waits, and then takes the paper back when Lambert's finished with it. There's a pause while he reads it over. Strange can't help it and makes a little 'ah' of recognition as he gets to the part about Lambert tracking down the herbs and tobacco. Yes, that explained the sniffing.

And...then he keeps reading about what Lambert's going to do to whoever caused this and Strange can't help but raise an eyebrow. Mm-hmm. Tell him how you really feel about all this, Lambert. "I'd recommend at least hearing out whoever caused this mess. It's entirely possible that whatever happened was an accident."

Why yes, how could you guess that Strange was speaking from experience?

Lambert folds arms and shakes his head at that, emphatically. No translation needed for that, but he reaches out to grab the paper back, harshly scribbling out:

They had their chance to step up yesterday. Even the warden asked whoever's responsible to step up. Their infamously difficult to move warden! Unless... he squints at Strange.

You dont have anything to do with this, do you?

As he takes the note, Strange can't help but look insulted. Rude, Lambert. Even through his tiredness and disheveled nature, he manages to look pretty darn annoyed. "Of course I didn't! I had no idea what mushi were to begin with before this happened! Besides, what possible reason could I have to do something like this in the first place?"

Answer, none. Lambert already knew why Strange summoned the faerie that froze over the carnival, how could destroying Ginko's herbs and tobacco help save Arabella?

Lambert exhales, frustrated, and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment rather than answer that question for the moment, then shrugs. You're a magician, my man: when has a magician needed any reason to do something other than simply because they can?

Regardless, the point is neither here nor there. Instead, what he writes is: Do you have a spell that can locate objects? The last time you were looking for something, the faerie kept that from working. Could you try looking for the tobacco now?

And here, Strange shakes his head. "The spell I was using was to dispel magic. The faerie had placed the candle under an enchantment. While I was searching the carnival, I cast that spell to help dispel the winter magic as well as to try and remove the magic on the candle."

But Strange is still thinking, frowning slightly as he does so. "I can still try to look for it, though. If I change a few words and add a few additions to my scrying spell, perhaps it could be used to find an object instead of a person. It hasn't worked that well before but we are in faerie. Now might be different."

He trails off, already getting lost in thought as Strange mulls the possibilities of fiddling with spells and changing things up and trying to scry for objects instead of people.

Lambert's familiar enough with that look to know what that means: clear out, no hope of getting anything else out of Jonathan Strange while he's in this state. Instead, he looks warily at the reflective creature next to them, which has been quietly watching the whole conversation and has adopted a pose not too dissimilar to Strange's. It's eerie. And it makes him uneasy.

Do that. He scribbles back. Try not to fall asleep if you can. I don't like the look of this thing.

Strange takes Lambert's note, reads it, and nods. Well, glad to see they were on the same page with regards to this...thing.

"I don't either," he admits, as he looks over at the reflective thing next to him with a frown. Like before, the creature mimics his movements, as something close to a frown appears on it's face—which only makes Strange's frown deepen even more. "It didn't attack me or anything like that while I slept, but I'd rather not take any chances."

After all, it could just be trying to grow stronger or study him further or something along those lines. Who knows what this thing is doing?

It's imitating you. That tells us something Lambert writes back.

My world has creatures called dopplers, changelings. They can turn into any living thing they see. It's not an illusion -- it's a complete transformation, including how what they've transformed into thinks or feels. They don't go around watching people like they're their shadow, though.

It's strong stuff. A witcher medallion wouldn't pick up on a doppler that's turned itself into someone.

Edited (I DON'T KNOW WHY I CHANGED FORMATS) 2017-05-04 02:03 (UTC)

Well at this point he might as well just read over Lambert's shoulder as he writes. So, when Lambert's about halfway through writing it down, that's what Strange does, walking over to the other man and just straight up creeping over his shoulder as he reads.

"In that case, how do you kill a doppler?" Because if it's something magical, he can at least try it on this bizarre reflection thing.

Lambert keeps writing, even if he does give a half-hearted swat when Strange comes up to read over his shoulder like he's a goddamn cat coming up behind him.

The usual. Silver sword. This looks like it's made of silver, though. Tried hitting it with your bowl yet?

"Not yet," Strange remarks, with a little laugh. Because really, bashing it over the head with his basin? It sounds remarkably silly.

Of course, he's going to do it, but the point stands. "The basin's still in my trailer. I doubt it'll have any effect, but I can at least give the thing a good whack upside the head."

It might be wasting precious paper, but what the heck, if he can't give Strange shit voiceless, he might as well be dead.

The key is to build up enough velocity. Think your arm's up to that?

It's a good thing Strange knows where some of the supplies are kept and has no qualms sneaking into the supply closet to steal some more paper.

"Do I need to throw it at the thing? Can't I just hit it over the head?" said as he pantomimes hitting the doppelganger with the basin.

You still have to hit it pretty fast if you want it to hurt.

As amusing as it would be to actually be there to see it happen ... they both probably have other things to do right now. And so:

Let me know how it works out. If it doesn't try to eat you after that.

"If it does eat me, I'll let you know." It's said with a wry smile on his face, like Strange is privy to something that Lambert isn't. Eventually he'll tell his boss about that whole 'I bought a rebirth' thing...eventually.

MUSHI DISASTER

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CONGRATS U GET MY LAST CRAMMED PHONE TAG BEFORE I TAKE OFF

HAVE FUN ON THE PLANE if it's at all humanly possible

I CAVED AND BOUGHT AN HOUR OF WIFI

OH MY LORD

AND MANY MORE HOURS

planes suck, this much is a fact

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