lostcarnival | MUSHI DISASTER

There's a slow clapping noise from behind her when she finishes spooking the mushi away. Somehow, for such a simple sound, it manages to be surprisingly sardonic, but that's probably not much of a surprise once she turns around and sees who it is.

Lambert looks, entirely unsurprisingly, incredibly annoyed by this whole endeavor, but at least he hasn't succumbed to narcolepsy like so much of the Carnival seems to have -- nor acquired a sudden reflective doppelganger. He watches the snails lazily float back to Scout with a raised brow, lip still quirked in vague amusement, but he doesn't seem inclined to offer much else at the moment.

Scout's not going to admit it but she's kind of dismayed that Lambert's taller than her now. When she'd looked down on him it had been one thing, but with this height difference his scars now make her think of her second Master, Jai Maruk, who had also been sarcastic and bad tempered, if less aggressively so, and she's going to think about the old hawkbat later, all right.

"I'm happy to please!" she says, forcing the cheer a bit. It shows in the way she holds her eyebrows. Scout's forehead lure, longer and thinner than her horns, starts to pull back in. There's this almost eyelidlike aperture it fits into. "It's easier than waiting for it to come in melee range, you know."

Having the extra height is great, honestly, no matter who he's dealing with -- but that's not much comfort to Lambert at the present moment. While his cheer couldn't quite be called 'forced,' there's some sense that whatever's funny isn't really funny at all. He tracks the way the lure disappears, then shrugs at her response.

Rather than answer, though, his own tail -- whippier and more flexible than her own -- curls around to idly try poking at one of her arms, where a few of the pinprick wounds are still visible. Raised brows make the motion a question, though he offers no attempt to explain why he's so curiously nonverbal at the moment.

All right, yes, the uncharacteristic silence is also reminding her of Maruk, who could brood like a thunderstorm when he wasn't sniping. Scout can imagine him standing beside her, those dramatic burn scars pulling his face into a permanent lopsided smile, snorting in disbelief that some mercenary makes her think of him. Scout wears her heart on her sleeve enough that it's clear she's thinking of something else, to the point where that habitual wariness falls away. Her green eyes unfocus and widen, her brows relax, her lips part.

Then, almost absently, she catches the end of his tail in a firm grasp, glancing just for an instant down at his feet and shifting her weight; her first reflex on being touched without expecting it is to fight back, but she does have control of it. Scout releases his tail and shoves it away with hers.

"I don't know where that's been, I don't want it in even really minor wounds," she says bluntly. "What's with the silent treatment? Katarn got your tongue?"

For all that Lambert's been getting used to having a tail at all, it's still fucking weird. Half the time, it seems to do its own thing, whatever that is. Having it grabbed so roughly? Certainly not something that he's used to, at all, and he about jumps straight up at the sheer shock of the sensation, eyes wide even as she releases him and he can back away, the appendage curling defensively behind him. All right, point taken.

Still looking sulky, he slowly nods his head at her question. He doesn't know what the hell a 'Katarn' is, but he provides the clarification himself by waving a hand to indicate all the scattered glowing things floating around them, bring that open palm to his throat, and clench it in a tight fist, miming throwing something away.

Losing your voice sucks, bro.

She can't help it, she smiles at his flinch. Not having things go his way is good for this guy. Builds character. "You need to get used to that, or something's going to happen at exactly the wrong time in a fight. I recommend sparring, but I always recommend sparring."

'Speaking' of the flying snails, she has to start waving or knocking them away again. These can't hurt her if she doesn't let them sit on her for more than a few seconds, and they always scatter before something bigger comes along, so she's tolerating them being in the vicinity.

"I see. Yeah, whoever's responsible for taking down the anti-mushi defense needs to never do it again. I am so sick of glowing things trying to eat me." She rolls her eyes and quite deliberately shifts her feet, putting a heavily armored heel just besides where it had just been. Something covered by loose soil writhes furiously under its weight.

Sparring isn't a bad idea, honestly -- Lambert's been working on improving just basic coordination all on his own, but from what he's experimented with in Alola, the tail is surprisingly prehensile, a useful advantage in a fight. But now it'll have to wait until after this mess is cleaned up.

He watches her squish the mushi with a foot, but the things are strange -- not quite corporeal, yet still tangible enough to be affected by wind, or shooing motions -- so he doubts it's been hurt by the experience. Although unaffected himself, his tail waves around in the air to keep mushi from drifting too close.

His fingers tap at the radio clipped to the belt at his hip, and he nods his head at her, then the mushi. What's she heard so far...?

"There were some around before and they'd try their luck now and then, but if I went a dozen meters or so they'd give up. Now there's too many for that and I'm telling you, the moment the Ringleader says there's a new world open I'm gone." A particularly vigorous swat of her flaglike tail sends one of them tumbling clear out of sight into the canopy of a tree.

Many of these - just about all of the ones hanging around when the repellant was up - wouldn't have more of an impact than letting herself be bitten by mosquitos and horseflies. She can ignore that and keep her body's response to the random things insects inject her with minimal, not swelling or getting infected. With mushi there are a lot more risks.

Folding her arms over her chest, Scout raises her eyebrows. "I pay attention, if that's what you mean. If things get much worse we're either going to have to head to Ginko's homeworld or the Ringmaster will decide to get clever." She sounds dubious about that.

Lambert crosses his arms, nodding with a wry expression as Scout goes on. He'd done much the same when Strange had caused that bit of unwanted winter, after all -- they've all got things they refuse to deal with, and this is apparently hers. The mushi seem to be equally likely to appear whether it's in populated areas or not, so he doesn't really have any suggestions to offer for her to get away ... though she'd probably know her options better than him anyway, having been here before.

At 'the Ringmaster will decide to get clever' Lambert can't help making a face. It probably speaks volumes: no, he has no desire to see what the Ringmaster's idea of a solution would look like. Speaking of the Ringmaster, he's not certain where she is now at all. It's tempting to try and see if he can summon her, but since nobody's in danger of dropping dead and dying yet, it's probably not quite that drastic. He sighs (silently, since the damn mushi took away even the ability to so much as make a grunt audible) and shrugs, pointing a finger to his chest, then his nose, then gesturing about again.

He's going to keep looking for the repellent. In the meantime ... good luck, Scout.

"I've known people who can just tell pests 'I'm not food' and never get bitten. I'm not one of them! Some of these can really hurt you. I've only been able to avoid those so far because-" An issue with Lambert not talking is that Scout wants to talk more. She cuts herself off, makes a face, frowns at him.

This is the Carnival, not the real worlds. Some concerns 'back home' don't apply here, where strange powers are shown off with abandon. Even if the next stop was Coruscant, or Imperial Center as it's called now - why? What was the point of changing the world's name? - there would be little profit in selling her out to the Jedi hunters. "...because I have special skills," she says, begrudgingly, almost under her breath.

"Yup. Yup, it'd be something like nose-mounted ion cannon," she says sourly. ...That wouldn't work at all for her, Scout barely has a nose to begin with. "Or worse. Is that what you're saying?"

Lambert snorts -- it doesn't make a sound, but it's still obvious he does it -- and shakes his head. Not even close, Scout. Still, this charades show is getting tiring for him to keep up, so he finally digs around in a pocket and produces a handful of scrap papers already covered in his handwriting, finding one that's less written over and taking to it with the stub of a pencil he'd 'borrowed' from Strange.

Not even close. His handwriting is surprisingly neat and careful, though he writes slowly. What do you mean, special skills?

Sure, they have a carnival full of these things to clear out, but that's more interesting right now, all right?

Scout looks at the writing and gives out a long, dramatic sigh. Naturally there are consequences for talking more to fill the silence, and there'd be more if she decided to just back out of this conversation.

"Okay fine, but if we do go to somewhere the Inquisition's got influence and you tell anyone about me, you don't have what I have but you're still not baseline. They'll take you too." Or hire him, knowing how they work. She talks quickly. "And then the Ringmaster will get belatedly overprotective and then everything will be on fire, so let's just avoid that whole outcome."

She stares at him for a moment even after that, wary. "Do I have to give a crash course in why there's an inquisition, or do you just want to hear what I can do?"

In answer, Lambert shrugs.

There's only ever one reason there's an inquisition. People looking for a scapegoat for their problems. Sure, he can't sound bitter over text, but his expression says enough. Witchers aren't popular people, and even though Lambert's never experienced being the victim of that kind of wide scale persecution directly, there's a gully full of bones near Kaer Morhen that acts as a testament to where fear gets you.

Start with whatever makes sense.

Scout's mouth twists in a wry way, and she uses her brass nails to flick away a flying snail that's lit on her clothing. "That's part of it. It's a really long story."

"I'm not going to really get into the philosophy, but..." She wavers a moment more. "There is a kind of presence that connects and binds energy and matter, and especially everything that is or was or will be alive. Some people can touch it, communicate with it. I can a little bit."

Scout's tradition sees the Force as something with an unknowable mind of its own. "I can... it lets me tell someone's body to stop hurting. Or I can call on it for telekinesis or to do a bunch of other things. I got my nickname because it helps me see things and figure them out faster than most, and it often shows me what will happen in the next few seconds."

The concept doesn't seem remotely alien to Lambert, oddly enough, because he nods along with her explanation, seeming to follow well enough. When she takes a pause, he's swift to write:

Back home, that's what magic is. You'd be what magicians call a Source. He pauses, tapping against the paper, and adds: Magicians used to hunt them down.

"Well, that's fun," she says lightly. "I have more of a connection to the Force than most people, but no way for them to take it from me. If some of my blood or body was transplanted they might get sick and dream about the past or future, but it'd be mixed in with normal fever dreams, and they'd end when the fever broke. Hard to tell what's real." In case he has any ideas, for himself or that mirror-eyed friend. She's not going to explain midichlorians, how they'd multiply wildly and then die back just as fast.

More slowly now. "There was... there was an institution of us stretching back more than a thousand generations. I was a knight-in-training."

Lambert shrugs. He's getting really tired of doing that, but there really isn't a more effective way of conveying either a lack of opinion or the simple sentiment that 'it doesn't make a difference to me.' If he were more intoxicated, and he had his voice ... well, that might be a different story. As he's neither, though, he can only give Scout his undivided attention, listening to her explanation with a thoughtful frown.

By choice? He writes. Or coercion? It might seem a strange question to ask at this point in time. How many?

Generations makes it sound like a lot. That could be a good or bad thing.

She gives him a look. "Of course by choice. It's all I've ever wanted! If I'd wanted to be something else they'd have wanted to be sure, but they'd have let me go. One of my best friends did that." Okay, yes, people have said that all Jedi were either stolen from their parents or given up by families that didn't care for them, but that's overblown and she's not getting into it now.

"I don't know how many generations. We evolved from a different order twenty five thousand years ago." Space past history is very long. "It's changed back and forth a lot in that time. Obviously. Our biggest enemies have existed for just as long."

'All she's ever wanted,' huh? Lambert can't imagine anyone ever saying the same thing about becoming a witcher. Twenty-five thousand years ago, though? That's a hell of a long time, and he makes a face just hearing it. However, his next question's more to the point:

Said you were in training. Did you finish?

Scout does something indignant and expressive with her eyebrows.

"No one ever finishes. The Grand Master is nine hundred years old and even he's always learning." Yoda is still alive, out there somewhere. She'd know. She's known when others on the Council died. "But I'm not a knight, if that's what you mean."

That's just gonna get her huff of amusement -- helpfully telegraphed by the way his shoulders rise and fall -- and a roll of his eyes. Sounds just like something Vesemir would say. Nine hundred years old, though? He can't help squinting at her suspiciously at that.

How old are you? Forget asking more probing questions about the rest of that, this seems more important to answer at this time!

Silence is a good look on Lambert, it makes him appear however falsely to have attained some reserve.

"Seventeen. If I don't get killed I could make it to three hundred." The way Scout says it makes it sound like a very outside possibility. As a Jedi, even if she's not a knight, she ages better than a lot of people. Then again where she's from humans with good medical care regularly make it to a hundred twenty. "People like me last longer sometimes. There was another human who made it to eight hundred, but... not in the kind of shape the Grand Master is, still smart and strong."

She still admires Yoda, and misses him. The best thing about being in the Carnival again is not feeling it as old friends and teachers die far away, not waiting braced for the dwindling list of those who are left to shorten further.

That's enough to get Lambert to cock his head, trying to figure out how to phrase the question forming in his mind with wasting the least amount of effort. (Look, he's written more in the last few days than he really has in an age, it's not fun.)

The training changes you? he writes, slowly. 'Another human,' she says, implying she is human, but ... the only humans Lambert knows who can live that long are magic users and witchers.

He really needs to get keys to type on, she thinks. Growing up in the space past she'd probably have at least as much trouble writing at length.

"The training teaches you to change yourself. Ah... just being connected does a little, it makes it harder for you to get sick. But the training helps me deepen that and let the, the breath of all things help sustain me." The last time she was here she'd come up with several translations for the Force, but she's rusty on using them. It's been a long time. "I can't specially heal, but I can get my body to heal more completely. I can keep myself from wearing out too quickly, if it comes to that."

Her lips compress a bit. She's known so many people who could do as much and so much more. It hadn't saved them.

It might be even more painful to watch him type, honestly. Lambert is almost definitely a hunt-and-pecker.

Regardless, what Scout's describing sounds more and more like what witchers have done to them... only a whole lot more voluntary and deliberately directed. Closer to being a druid than a sorcerer, from the sounds of it. He's no idea what the expression on her face means, though it won't stop him from writing back.

Handy. Witchers can't get sick either. Or knock anyone up, but you know what, that's probably not a conversation to be having with Scout. Instead, he'll circle back to the point that started this line of questioning in the first place:

So why are these trying to eat you?

MUSHI DISASTER

B!

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