lostcarnival | ⇨ THE SUMMERLANDS

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⇨ THE SUMMERLANDS

Who: Everyone!
When: Day 138 - Day 152
Where: The Summerlands
What: The Ringmaster brings the carnival to the Summerlands immediately after being freed from Portland so that everyone can take a fucking nap. Her included.
Warnings: Individually marked! Most likely discussion of torture and trauma in here.

DAYS OF SUMMER↴

You made it! And things are back to normal... more or less. Upon waking, you will be greeted with a clear blue sky and gentle breeze – the carnival has found itself situated between a pair of mountain peaks, with great fields of flowers extending in the distance. In the other direction, you’ll see mountain-top cities and tall waterfalls accenting vast swaths of forest.

Some of you will already know this place. It’s the Summerlands. You game here once to rest in safety nearly a year ago, and now you’ve come to rest once again.

► WAKING UP: Shortly after the carnival arrives, the Ringmaster will send out a somewhat cryptic radio message - but her immediate location won't be clear. Whatever items you had on your person at the time the Severing was broken will still be on your person, including whatever clothing. All of the animals and pets of the carnival will have returned to the grounds as well, though they are currently free from their designated living spaces. Things in the carnival will appeared to have naturally aged a month, as if the carnival was been sitting here empty and waiting while everyone was in Portland. The lawn needs mowing.

► SUMMER CITY: After the Summer Fae become aware of everyone's presence, they will welcome you into their city. There are stairs that lead up the sides of the mountains, but thankfully there are also magical means of getting up there as well. The Summer Fae will be willing to help workers with the injured as needed, offering herbal remedies and healing magic to those that want it. You'll also be invited to join them for dinner, but they will not be particularly offended if they are turned down, for now.

► SUMMER PEOPLE: The fae here will mostly enjoy the company of any carnival members that offer it - it doesn't seem that much happens here besides day after day of peaceful meditation and relaxation. It is not uncommon to see Summer Fae spent days doing exactly the same thing, whether that be enjoying the weather, listening to music, or dancing - the day and night periods may be similar to earth, but when you don't need rest it can all blur together just the same. Some of the fae work on feats of agriculture or craftsmanship, and while there is no particularly need to work in this place, they take pride in the fact that they do.

► NEW ARRIVALS: Though the Ringmaster will not be offering much guidance for the first week or so, eventually the carnival will begin running for a few small performance sessions, off and on, as a thank you to their fae hosts. The carnival will also be open to receiving new arrivals during that period, and so there will likely be some newbies to train and get orientated as well.

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He could have spared himself the effort. Foster isn't really 'aware' of energies, not the way Zangetsu is worried about. What he 'feels' of the grackle's soul, as it flees its broken body, is.... nothing.

Emphasis on 'broken,' awkwardly enough. While he's been trying to kill these birds by cervical dislocation, the attempt to sever the brain from the spinal column frequently rips the heads right off.

The claws and ursine paws aren't helping, but he can't even blame them--he had this problem with mice, too, back when he was attempting his first necromantic ritual. Rituals, even.

Of course, back then, the body's headlessness made for a nearly ideal model of his ultimate goal.

This?

Is just... messy.

Anyway, he has no use for the soul of this bird. He doesn't even really need the head. The only part of it he needs--at least of this bird--is the decapitated remains of its corpse.

There's no flash of light, no bolt of lightning from the sky. Just Foster, pacing and talking to himself, arranging stones and smoothing earth before finally using his teeth and claws to open a vein in his upper arm and throwing his arm wide to splatter it in a practised arc over the symbols and the bird and the dry, sun-warmed earth.

Almost nothing. But not nothing! Zangetsu watches the soul as it departs, barely even to take a form, much less one of a bird. To his senses, it just looks like a wisp that climbs into the sky and quickly disappears. Not even a morsel, and not worth chasing.

Besides, whatever Foster was doing was much more interesting.

Zangetsu watches, the metallic smell of the blood hitting his nose and making his true mouth water behind his mask. He's never seen a human bleed all over a dead bird before, so he's willing to at least see how this progresses before he decides what to do.

Has Zangetsu ever seen a headless bird stand back up?

The grackle, all shining green-black feathers and long grey legs,stirs in the dirt.

Then, carefully, it picks itself up. It stands for a moment in the warm summer sunlight, shifting its wings and flicking its tail and--uh. Well.

Still leaking crusted blood and sand from the stump of its head. Which doesn't appear to bother it at all. It flutters its wings out once, twice, and then takes flight, pathing right over Foster's head, and...

Towards Zangetsu?

No, that's a new one! He smiles bemusedly behind his mask as the headless bird stands up and starts going but its business as if nothing were wrong. Impressive! So lifelike, even with no soul. A body completely supported by external magic, like a puppet.

He wonders how it tastes.

Then, as if hearing his passing thoughts, the bird flies his way! Probably aiming to land in the tree above the bush Zangetsu was crouched behind. As it comes close, the Hollow leaps from the bush, grabbing the bird in his jaws with a satisfying snap of his mask teeth.

He brings it into his true mouth with a long blue tongue... then starts coughing and sputtering as if he'd eaten a pile of sawdust. He spits out the bird (crushed and sliced lengthwise by the sharp obsidian teeth of the mask) and lets his tongue loll out so he can scrape it with a claw.

Well, now he knows what Foster's magic tastes like.

Not great.

........

What.

Is there. Any universe at all where he could have been predicted. Because this definitely is not the one.

Foster sits there, staring impassively at the space where the headless grackle had been just moments before. He doesn't look upset--because he's not, really. Actually, he has no idea what that... thing... even is. With the long tongue and the sharp teeth. Is this some native predator? An outsider that isn't meant to be here? Should he be afraid?

That's a joke.

Foster is incapable of feelings that direct, let alone feelings rooted in self-preservation, like 'fear.'

"--gross."

Well, he should probably be glad that bird was also a failure.

This IS a unique situation! He's still preoccupied by the dry, sandpaper taste in his mouth, though.

His muscular form seems to evaporate around him into black and red flames, leaving a pale skinned teenage boy with not-quite rabbit ears and not-quite rabbit legs. He shakes his head and keeps his tongue stuck out -- still long, still blue. He glares at Foster and points accusingly at him.

"You're damn right it was gross!!" he says in a voice that might be comical if it weren't so thick with creepy reverb. "Go get me some water or something!"

Foster blinks, blood soaking dark and hot into his fur. He has no water. He isn't anywhere near water.

He's briefly disoriented--less stumped than simply unable to process the request.

But once he realises--

He realises something else. He realises he has a solution.

He has no idea what he's talking to, let alone 'who,' but extends his blood-soaked arm, wrist turned, palm up. And he steps forward.

"What about this instead?"

Zangetsu looks at the hand (...paw?) and then back at Foster.

"You're... Really offering me your blood?" he's incredulous, and his expression shows it.

... Well, it DOES smell good. And his mouth tastes like ass.

Without waiting for an answer, he grabs Foster's wrist and brings that bleeding palm up to his mouth.

It'd be kind of weirdly intimate if it weren't so sudden and... not attractive at all.

Well, at least his blood tastes better than his magic.

In concept, the gesture was fairly straightforward; easy, willing, commanded--

~~sacrificial~~.

But that disgusting blue tongue fits into the groove of his open wound, pain broadcasting tenfold, hot and radiant through his palm and into the very bones of his wrist, and his knees go weak, his eyes glaze. His heart is too small--or too large, his chest too tight for the vast emptiness and fullness and he doesn't realise he stopped breathing until he hits the dirt on his knees, hard enough to jolt the air out of his lungs.

He's shaking in Zangetsu's grasp, and laughing, and shivering, and--

Woops. That guy... he uh. Did he pass out? Zangetsu isn't entirely sure. He removes the bleeding wound from his mouth, but holds on to Foster's wrist. It seems like if he lets go, the guy may just fall over completely in a shaky, mad-laughing mess.

So Zangetsu does what comes naturally.

He busts out laughing.

Which leaves both of them laughing like imbeciles for at least a handful of seconds: Zangetsu in response to Foster, and Foster unable to recover his with without it.

But it's probably a good thing Zangetsu is holding him. While he probably would not have actually dropped, it keeps him steady in a less physical sense, and he does recover--breathing hard, face paled, drool trailing from his bottom lip and sticking to his brown chin.

"Haha... hahahaha... how was that?"

He is... very eager for Zangetsu's response.

What a disgusting little human you are, Foster. Human...ish. Thing. Bear mushroom human. Once it seems like Foster has the wherewithal to keep himself standing, he releases the furry wrist.

"Well, it got the gag-inducing flavor of your magic out of my mouth, at least. You have an... interesting soul."

He isn't exactly sure how to put it. Somewhere between a soul that was alive and secured to its body, and a soul that had died and been made free.

Foster stands on his own just fine--a little light-headed, but mostly keenly aware of the sting of opened flesh, the hot wet sensation of his blood and this... thing's saliva on his bared palm. He's still breathing a little strangely, still drooling, visibly, his mouth still opened--he looks both a little dazed and a little too intense.

But, you know. He's not laughing at anything now. So there's that.

"My soul," he echoes, a bit deadpan.

And... his magic? It's not... his magic. He's just... borrowing it.

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⇨ THE SUMMERLANDS

SORRY FOR THE WAIT.... here's an extra long one to make up for it apparently!!

and takes another 13 days to reply nbd

Wait what WHY DIDN'T I GET A NOTIF WHAT THE HELL

WHO KNOWS.

CURSE YOU, DREAMWIDTH..........

o9!!!

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