lostcarnival | ⇨ The Tourist Trap: WEEK 1

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⇨ The Tourist Trap: WEEK 1

Who: Anyone, anywhere in Portland.
When: October 1st - 7th, 2017
Where: Portland area, in the new reality.
What: Memories begin returning to the displaced as the fall gets chillier. How the hell did we end up here, again? Also, apparently, the fair is in town.
Warnings: Individually marked!

PORTLAND BY NIGHT↴

Memory regains will come into effect at the beginning of October, to whatever degree you've decided upon, and may be regained at whatever pace you desire from then on. For those with their full carnival memories, it will be like waking up in the body of someone else - for those with half and half, it will be like rapidly recalling sets of memories from a totally different life. Those with full amnesia will simply feel as if this is how it's always been.

Unfortunately for you, memories aren't the only thing you have to deal with. The supernatural community of Portland is bustling all of a sudden - could your presence and these events somehow be related?

► THE OUTER CIRCLE: As of the start of the month, the Portland Circle of Enlightenment will find itself starting to get swarmed with members from other chapters. Most notably, it would seem that a small cabal of top mages from the North American Enlightenment Council will be making their home in Portland's HQ. For anyone but the highest of ranks, the purpose behind their visit will be unclear, but it seems like something is definitely up on a metaphysical level. The Circle will be buzzing with rumours of unique planar activity and threatening omens. It seems that it all started with an unusual flare of activity in the planetary ley-lines, starting approximately a week ago. However, even if you would usually be the type to keep tabs on such things, you will find that you oddly have no memory of observing this phenomenon yourself.

► THE ANIMAL FAIR: Good news, the fair is in town! Or, at least, it would be good news... if this was a regular fair. Instead, what's being observed is a bunch of nearly identical flyers, spread all around Portland - each of which bears only the words "THE ANIMAL FAIR", a seemingly bloody paw-print of unknown origin, and the directions to a vague forested location outside of the city. It's dated for October 7th, and all instances of its posting having been discovered with a scattering of rose petals, crow feathers, and pre-burnt matches laying on the ground around them. Most are taking this to be some kind of bizarre viral marketing campaign, but others may know better.

► THE EARTH SPIRIT: If you have connections to The Pack or any of its many variations, you'll probably hear whispers of something very odd that occurred last week - according to the elders, it sounds as if the Earth Spirit, the magical and spiritual center of the planet, has suddenly taken a wound. It's not clear why or how, but there is a fair bit of concern among spiritual types, as it is werebeast belief and nebulous magical fact that the magical forces within the earth are the source of all magic here, as well as the source of life. While many werebeasts claim to have felt the Spirit succumb, you strangely have no memory of such an event occurring. Though things do feel strange, if you know how to tap into the Spirit yourself.

► THE WAR CRY: Though Anath's rain of terror across North America lasted for the first fifteen years or so of the Severing, most independent demons have had enough time to start taking the arch-demon's relative inactivity for granted. For that first while, the warrior queen had seemed determine to rebuild an army on earth by forcing her scattered brethren into service - only for her to gradually settle down in a fortress somewhere in Texas and dig in her heels. Of course, this was too good to last - it sounds as if she and her demonic legion have begun tearing their way up the west coast, their goals remaining a mystery. Their destination, however, is almost certainly Portland.

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Strange briefly flushes pink because he actually has asked a deck of tarot cards, though they weren't the things that told him about the warlock in the first place. He's rubbish at omens in general but slightly less rubbish at tarot. The readings made no goddamn sense though, so they were promptly ignored. Still, that brief flush of embarrassment lasts quick enough before it's covered right back up again by snootiness.

"I'm sending you because of your own sources. Do you really think a Circle mage would willingly stoop to asking around and bothering the dregs of Portland?" Because, at least in Strange's mind, the answer is no. Also, there's the matter of Strange not really having any mage friends to begin with, but that's neither here nor there.

If that was meant to rile him up further, it doesn't really work. Funny how a Circle mage won't stoop to asking around 'the dregs' but they'll still desperately want to know if they know anything. At least, that's Childermass's own take and, of course, he sneers over it.

"Is that so?" He replies. "Sounds to me like you Circle mages might know what's going on sooner if you actually spoke to anyone besides your books for once, but I know that's asking too much. Social life is too much for you, isn't it?"

"Why would I willingly want to associate with your kind?" It's an honest question buried under layers of snootiness. Because why would he? Changelings were lesser, unfortunate creatures stuck in thrall due to the curse of their bloodline. He was a Circle mage. He was something different.

"More importantly, why would any of your kind want to associate with me? Even if I wanted to press the dregs for information, being a Circle mage has a certain...reputation that would drive away more help than it would attract." Strange knows the only reason he gets regular information on the Rose Queen that's not from Childermass is because he pays people. One would have to be an idiot to ignore the fact that Circle mages don't exactly have the best reputation among the supernatural.

"I wonder which came first: everyone else wanting to avoid your kind or your kind treating everyone like they're worthless," Childermass has a point he's trying to make, though he knows it's for nothing. Mages typically deserve their reputation and one as petty as this one all the more.

But since the previous observation will come to nothing useful, he'll add, "Was that all or shall I take out your trash as well?"

Because seriously, man, clean up your damn apartment.

Strange just glares as Childermass mentions the state of his apartment. It is perfectly habitable, thank you very much, it's not Strange's fault that he doesn't have any reason to keep it clean. It's not like anybody visits him or anything so there.

"One last question and then you can go. A while back, I was unable to summon you for a few weeks. Likewise, scrying pulled up barely any results. What did you do?"

Strange still doesn't know Childermass can be a bird. And man, is it easy for spells to get messed up when you're looking for 'human' instead of 'bird.'

And just as Strange has so little of an idea of what changelings can do, Childermass has just as many holes in his own knowledge pertaining to magecraft. The puzzled look he gives isn't, for once, a huge phony one to get on his nerves. No, no, this one time it's honest.

"I do not know." Well, now there's something he'd like to know the answer to, as well. He frowns, brow furrowing as he does. "What weeks were those?"

And then Strange rattles off the dates that Childermass was hanging out with Lambert, stuck as a crow because his sisters are jerks. They're very accurate dates that I personally don't know oocly because time is confusing but Strange sure as shit knows them icly because even though he has no idea what Childermass was doing, he's still a huge creep and kept tabs on him.

Though the fact that Childermass is just as confused is...odd. "I don't know why you're giving me that look. Surely you knew what you were doing then, right?" Maybe?

Oh, that. He has to race through ideas of why he may not have been able to summon him. While he had wondered, actually, at how peacefully those two weeks had passed, he also never bothered with asking about it. No point, since Strange didn't throw up more fuss than usual about it until right now. Of course, the reason he lands on is the obvious one, him being a crow at the time.

So that's the loophole...

One he now needs to guard, especially since 'oh yes, I was injured and making sad bird eyes at a strangely buff nerd all that time, isn't that hilarious' is a terrible answer.

He makes a show of considering the problem, but never acts like he's come across a sudden or surprising reason. He's going to keep it vague, very vague when he answers with, "I must have been in and out of different realms during that time. Could be you can't compensate for a summoning if you don't know which I'm in, so bad luck with your timing. Has it continued to happen at all?"

It is such a terrible answer and would straight up get Childermass made fun of. Thankfully, summoning magic is so nitpicky and Strange isn't entirely sure just how the practicalities of different realms work with summoning magic that Childermass's answer is plausible enough.

Still, he could have sworn he compensated for that sort of thing while writing out the necessary metrics. Maybe he'll need to apply a different theory or try a different language next time.

"No, it was only happening for those two weeks...which is odd. October is an etheric high point, of course, but the few months leading up to it aren't entirely lacking in etheric energy. And these odd readings weren't showing up then..."

This is Strange more talking to himself than Childermass, frowning slightly as he walks over towards the kitchen table, rummaging through so much junk on there to find something in particular.

And since Strange is talking more to himself than his summoned servant over in the apartment's living room, Childermass just won't say anything else at all. One one hand, it does still rankle that the mage does that so often, not bothering with treating him like an actual person or anything (he is, unfortunately, very used to that). On the other? It means he can hand out vague bullshit answers like that and not actually have them scrutinized, just as this proves.

That's probably a good thing.

So, no, he won't add any more to the story. It's already been bought and Strange doesn't get anything else thrown in for free. Instead, he looks around, settling back into being bored (and still somewhat tired) before once more digging out a cigarette and seeing how far he can get with lighting up and smoking before Strange even notices.

Take all the time you need, Strange, all the time in the world.

Childermass is able to light up and get at least a few drags of the cigarette in just because Strange is that messy. Eventually though, he finds what he's looking for.

"Ah-hah!" Strange holds up a small black notebook that is chock full of scribbles, notes, and tables of all sorts: all organized, but organized in a way that doesn't really make sense to someone viewing at first glance. He's downright excited as he talks, walking over to Childermass to show him this page chock full of notations, data, alignments, and other sorts of nerdy magic nonsense. "The etheric energies and planetary motions were coming up perfectly normal during the time I couldn't summon you. So whatever the problem was, it certainly wasn't that. That makes it all the more likely that the problem is with something on your end. Perhaps if I put a tracing spell on you and then tried to summon you while you were in the Rose Queen's court--"

Thankfully, that line of terrible thinking that would end up with both of them dead is quickly squashed as Strange actually gets a whiff of cigarette smoke. Urgh. That excited mood is killed almost instantly as he gives Childermass a Look. How many damn times have they done this? "There's an ashtray on the coffee table. Stub the cigarette out on that and don't light up another."

At least he's learned to be specific with regards to these orders. The ashtray is a cheap Wal-Mart thing, bought entirely because Childermass just keeps smoking in his fucking apartment.

Good thing, too, since Childermass already knows being yanked out of the court before being dismissed is a surefire way to lead real faeries right back to Strange's place. If that thought hadn't even crossed his addled, stupid mind... Well, he's sure it hasn't, but for the sake of not bringing it back to the forefront of the conversation, he continues to say nothing.

Continues to say nothing and raises his eyebrows at the command. Stub the cigarette out on that, huh? Not in? With how the mage includes two objects without specifying which he's putting his cigarette out on exactly, what happens next probably won't be too surprising, considering how Childermass goes out of his way to use every ridiculous loophole he can.

So he mutters, "Of course, sir."

And proceeds to step over to the coffee table with the ashtray and... crush the cigarette out against the tabletop, right next to the tray rather than in it.

It's almost comical how Strange's eyes widen once Childermass crushes the cigarette against the tabletop. Fuck. And here he thought that his explanation was thorough enough.

"You knew what I meant," Strange remarks, through gritted teeth. But what he means doesn't matter, does it. What matters is what he says. Still, as Strange goes over his order in his head again, where he messed up becomes all the more obvious. He should have specified, it's all specificity and exact words with these creatures, even changelings.

And now, his coffee table has suffered due to his lack of specificity. Strange shoots a even more grumpy look over at the coffee table. God, that was never going to come out of the wood, wasn't it. And that coffee table wasn't cheap! "I don't know why you insist on being such a goddamn nuisance!"

Says the reigning champion of being a goddamn nuisance.

That he doesn't know is downright offensive and Childermass won't bother trying to disguise the look of disgust he gives Strange. He's too tired to pull another stunt like before, with all the illusions and shadows and magic he threw around, which only adds to how easy it is to get on his nerves here and now.

"You don't know?" He scoffs. "No. Of course not. You wouldn't. You shallow, conceited, useless little man."

He flicks the remains of the cigarette — what bit of it hasn't been thoroughly ground into the grain of the coffee table's wood — off into the mess that Strange calls home. Where it ends up, who even knows, but it's out, so it'll do nothing more than exist as another piece of trash he won't bother to clean up. That done, he'll do what doesn't call for any extra expenditure of magic and approach the mage, hands curling into fists as he does. Obviously, he won't attack, but that's never taken much edge off of how menacing he can be.

"What would you call this? What would you call dragging an unwilling person into your home and forcing them to serve you, with no right to leave your service whenever they want? How would you like that, Mr. Strange? Maybe we should find out? Maybe I should drag you back into the Rose Queen's realm myself? I'm sure she would love to own another mage."

Strange's hands are also curling into fists, nails digging into his palm as he stares down Childermass. He's trying to seem imposing and trying to seem like the other man's words don't bother him when in reality, they bother him tremendously. There's a brief flash of pure loathing in Strange's eyes as Childermass calls him useless. That's what pisses him off the most. He's heard shallow and conceited before, words that Amanda flung in his face during one of their more heated arguments. But he is not useless.

"If there's anything useless here, it's you. You're a changeling," Strange hisses, pouring as much disgust into the word as he can. "And a changeling who serves the Rose Queen despite being a blood relation to the Count of Crows? I don't think I'm the only being keeping you, with no right to leave." He still doesn't know the circumstances behind why Childermass serves the Rose Queen, just that there must be circumstances in the first place.

"But you're right on one account--I am forcing you to serve me. And there's nothing you can do about it." Strange smirks, a nasty, smug, triumphant smirk, before he launches into another command. "Unless I expressly command it, I forbid you from taking me to the Rose Queen's realm. You cannot teleport me there directly, you cannot give me directions, you cannot bring me there via magic or force, you cannot even introduce us unless I give you express and direct permission."

There. Try dragging him now, jackass.

He'll just have to drag him metaphorically, then.

But another time, since Strange's own words strike back just as harshly as his own had. Childermass goes through a brief flicker of emotions, a range, anger being chief among them, and then he backs down. With the command given, his threat falls flat and bringing up who he's related to only ever works to make him fall into sulking rather than menacing. The same proves true now.

"You're still an idiot," he mutters, glowering at Strange under a furrowed brow, distaste — as always — written plain across his face. He then goes on to ask, "Will that be all?"

The poison, the warlock... Whatever it is he's up to, something about it is only making him even angrier. He doesn't care if the moron poisons himself or, at least, he shouldn't. What the hell is he up to?

Strange's smirk just widens as Childermass glares at him. He touched a nerve. Good. He'll have to make certain to touch it again if Childermass decides to remain this stubborn. Still, at the question, Strange nods.

"That will be all. I don't require the plants immediately but don't dawdle in fetching them." No matter what Childermass thinks, Strange isn't an idiot. He knows that it'll most likely take a while for Childermass to find these poisonous plants to begin with, especially in the middle of Portland. And who knows. Maybe in the time it takes Childermass to actually get an assortment of poisonous plants, Strange will figure out just why the hell he wants them in the first place.

Then he'll be gone, as quickly as he appeared. Whether it's through slipping out of the summoning spell purely by being given permission or him taking off through the shadows too quickly to be seen, it doesn't really matter. He's just gone, leaving only the smoldering remains of the cigarette crushed against the coffee table to prove he was ever even here at all.

He even lets Strange get the last word for once with how fast he departs, not even uttering further threats or mocking him.

Though he does wonder if he might not find all these plants in the Rose Queen's realm. If he can't bring Strange to the Rose Queen, well, he never forbade the other way around, now did he?

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⇨ The Tourist Trap: WEEK 1

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