lostcarnival | so about those faeries

Entry tags:

so about those faeries

Who: Lambert, Strange, and (some form of a) Childermass
When: Early into their arrival in the Summerlands, after Lambert is actually fucking awake.
Where: The Carnival, Supervisor's Grove
What: Stuffy magicians and a witcher become aware of plot, then may or may not get blisteringly drunk
Warnings: Drinking, swearing, not discussing traumatic experiences but certainly thinking about them very loudly!

The directions that Lambert provides to the trailer in the Supervisor's Grove are clear and concise, but even if Strange made a complete hash of them it's still not hard to pick out the trailer with the open door and windows to let the breeze in.

Once he gets inside, he'll find an open space that's been converted into a laboratory of sorts. On one side of the room, several bulky somethings have had canvas sheets thrown over them, presumably to keep the dust from accumulating -- and from a month away, quite a bit has -- but the other side has some kind of chemistry setup laid out, beakers and burners and various kinds of equipment for distillation and refining components Lambert needs. Another workbench has been set up as some kind of assembly station, though it's hard to tell at a glance what for. More recognizably, one corner is entirely devoted to large copper vessels that are unmistakably some sort of alcohol still.

There are multiple vials with eerily shifting liquids organized by color along one wall, but what Lambert is looking at and holding up to the light now is a larger bottle. When he hears Strange come in, the witcher turns, golden tail lazily swinging to the side.

As with all the other Carnival workers, his changes have come back full force, scales and horns and all. Unfortunately, Lambert also looks even shittier than the last time Strange saw him, although he might not have gotten a good look: dark, blood-red veins creep across his face, curling under the surface of his skin like snakes, and he's looking a little grey, dark circles under his eyes. However, since his body's worked through most of today's dose of Swallow, it's not as bad as it looks. Really! But it looks pretty bad, so that's not saying much.

"Hey."

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That is not convincing in the slightest. Strange's expression is still pure 'sure Lambert' as he dodges a kick from the other man. What are friends for if not giving each other grief, and that's what Strange is going to continue to do.

"Of course, you could still spend the other half of the time doing different activities." The amount of innuendo that Strange lays on the word 'activities' makes it entirely clear what he thinks those activities are. After all, there were ways to describe that sort of relationship: tempestuous came to mind.

"If only," Lambert mutters darkly into his drink, scowling all the harder. Strange should anticipate a lot of shin-kicking in his future. As easy as it would be to point out that Strange spent most of the time convinced he was a bitter divorcee, Lambert also isn't eager to initiate a shift in mood that would merit whipping out that damn wife gem again, so enduring the bullshit it is.

"Seriously, nothing happened. Which is pretty fucking sad, when you think about it, because what kind of idiot gets goddamn possessed by the Earth Spirit over blue balls?" Well, blue balls and feelings, but the point remains that Portland Lambert was a hot mess who was in over his head. It's a miracle he wasn't killed in the first week.

Edited 2017-08-03 13:22 (UTC)

"Well it is Childermass. I think that even in a different reality, the man would rather slit his own wrists than show a hint of emotion." You talk grief about someone who's not there, you attempt to comfort the person who is there. Because honestly, it is a bit sad that Portland Lambert got so emotional and made so many reckless decisions based on what might just be a silly crush. Of course, he's got a feeling Lambert's underplaying this: Peridot thought they were secret boyfriends for a reason, after all. Besides, there's something else interesting to draw his attention for now (teasing shall happen again later).

"So the Earth Spirit actually existed? He was certain it was..." Strange pauses for a moment. Oh, what was the phrase the Portland him used to describe it, it's right on the tip of his tongue. "...hippie crap."

This is said despite the fact that Strange has no idea what hippie crap even consists of to begin with. "I don't think he knew what he was talking about, though."

Strange has got that much right, at least. However, with the opportunity to divert the conversation, Lambert is more than happy to take it. As far as anyone's concerned, it was a silly crush. Lambert in Portland had never really known that Winter Court changeling at all.

"It was real," Lambert confirms. And he's going to need another drink for this. A bigger one, and to press his hands on the table. He isn't shaking at the memory, not like Strange was at his own, but he needs the sensation of being grounded.

"If that's how it felt like when it was dying..." He trails off, shaking his head. "You could see why the mages thought of using it for their spell."

Strange nods, taking a little sip. Truth be told, he has no idea just what the Earth spirit felt like in the first place. But something had possessed Peridot during their final confrontation. He didn't know what, but he could feel the power coming off of her, power so great that it scared Nightshade. Perhaps that was it?

"With my magic, if I want to do anything large like move a forest or change a river's direction, I need to speak to the trees and the water myself. I imagine that the Earth Spirit would be something like that. The Circle mages speak to the essence of the Earth itself to collect it's agreement and draw upon it's power for their spell." There's a pause, before he continues. "I haven't really heard of the essence talking back though. But then again, I imagine that the essence of an entire world is more powerful than that of the stones, the rivers, or the trees."

It's obvious he's about to go off on a theoretical tangent, but Strange stops himself as he takes a small drink. He's got a feeling that it'll be wasted on Lambert anyway. Though, he does have one more question. "How long did you stay possessed?"

Discussing magical theory that isn't related to how quickly things can be made to die with magic is generally a non-starter with Lambert, it's true, but at least he can mostly hide how his expression is glazing over by taking another drink.

"I don't remember," he admits. "Long enough to interrupt the ritual, but you'd have to ask someone else who was there."

Long enough to nearly kill himself with so much power, too -- more than he'd ever know what to do with. Lambert has some jumbled memories of what people were yelling at each other towards the end of that confrontation, enough to guess the spirit had probably moved on to possessing Peridot, but he hasn't had a chance to confirm that much, either, and the Engineer has been notably scarce around the Carnival.

"Before you get any ideas about getting possessed," he adds, dryly, "Don't. Wasn't as bad as becoming a witcher, but it was close."

Strange can't help but laugh a little as he stands up, stretching slightly. It's mostly just to stand up than him going anywhere--he's spent most of the conversation sitting down, after all.

"I'm afraid I've fulfilled my quota of terrible decisions for at least a month. Possession shall have to wait."

Again, if you joke about something, you don't have to acknowledge it happened in the first place. But honestly, even if it's a life or death situation, Strange will have some reservations about being possessed. His mind is his own--having to watch helplessly while Nightshade made him do all those terrible things has certainly put him off the idea.

Lambert snorts. "It had better. With our luck, we'll be lucky if things stay quiet for two weeks."

In the meantime, while Strange does that? The witcher's gonna reach into a back pocket, fishing out a crumpled package, and tap a cigarette out with easy, practiced motions. Once it's between his lips, a small gesture with a hand is enough to light it, and he lets the pack drop on the table. With no ashtray to hand, the closest thing is an empty petri dish, so that's what he's going to use.

Strange hasn't actually explored this trailer so, as Lambert lights up, he walks around, peering at various things underneath sheets and just generally being nosy. He's not touching the distillery system, but he is looking it over at he talks.

"If the Ringmaster let you convert part of this into a distillery, I should ask for a bigger trailer for myself! Granted, most of my magic is best performed outside, but--"

Strange is walking past that open window where Childermass is perched outside when he stops. Something's odd about this.

"--but there's no harm in asking," he finishes, though he's got a strange expression on his face as he looks out of the window for a bit. Something feels familiar. He couldn't sense it when he was at the table but now, here, that he's closer to the window, there's something different. He stops pacing and being nosy and is instead just looking outside of the window, trying to hone in on that familiar feeling and piece out just what it is.

What's underneath sheets seems to be odd apparatuses with no immediately obvious purpose and -- curiously -- computers.

"Perks of being a supervisor," Lambert shrugs, puffing away. "This used to be the Warden's, so most of this is his. He'll want it back eventually, but until then, I get to borrow it." Lambert's side sticks to the much more basic equipment.

Though with Strange looking out of the trailer, his curiosity's piqued as well -- considering it had caught his attention earlier, too. "Something wrong?"

Had he moved? Had he made a noise? No, Childermass is sure he's barely made any motion since landing here. He's just enough off to one side that he would only partially be visible if one looked just right, but even so... Strange actually realizing first? That was unexpected and now that both are looking towards the window, what can he do?

Keep holding still, he supposes, though if they see a crow hanging out one of them is bound to know who it is. Worst comes, he can still slip through shadows even in this form.

Strange pauses, frowning in thought as he looks out of the window. It's familiar in a way that reminds him of London, but with a cold, dark sheen that he can't place. Possibly Portland? London and Portland and--and then the feeling clicks. It's magic. Oh, he's not entirely certain what sort of magic it is but he can recognize the magician who cast it. Sort of like being unable to identify the specific name of a painting, but being able to piece out who painted it.

"No," Strange remarks, with a wry smile. "Nothing's wrong in the slightest." But he's not going back to the table. Instead, Strange sticks his head out of the window as he calls out,

"I admire your handiwork, Childermass. I can tell it's you but I'm not entirely sure what spell you've cast to begin with." He's not even looking in Childermass's direction, just hollering out the window in the hopes that the other magician would hear.

Lambert's tail thumps on the bench beside him as Strange bawls out the window -- seriously, dude, do you want every single supervisor to hear this? Beyond getting a slight furrow in his brow (just how long has Childermass been out there, and how much did he hear?) though, he isn't going to offer much of an opinion on the proceedings, standing up to fetch a clean beaker instead, movements stilted.

"Tell him to quit being a shadowy bastard and have a drink," he calls, finding his seat again. Like Childermass is going to come in now, and yeah he knows the other magician can probably hear that easily enough, but it's just not Lambert if he's not making an ass of himself, is it.

Edited 2017-08-03 20:03 (UTC)

The fact that a bird can field Strange sticking his head out the window and yelling more or less right next to it without so much as ruffling a feather would likely be proof enough that it's Childermass, but the other magician straight up never looked to the side before pushing the window open to shout.

Which means, naturally, the very second Strange moves to turn and pull his head back in, he's going to find a friggin' crow launching straight at his face with the barest of warning, a very low sound, as close to an angry noise as a bird can get. Surprise, asshole. Guess who's still pretty mad at you?

Edited 2017-08-03 20:12 (UTC)

Jesus Christ he did not expect this.

Strange has absolutely no idea that Childermass could even turn into a bird to begin with, whether in Portland or otherwise. So as the bird launches itself at his face, Strange lets out a very undignified yelp as he attempts to back away. The problem here is, in a battle of reflexes, Childermass wins.

Wham, Strange straight up gets a bird to the face. He stumbles backwards slightly before looking over at Lambert with an expression that's pure 'what the hell is happening.'

Lambert, on the other hand, has a pretty good idea of what is happening, even if it is a surprise that this bit of magic is something that followed them from Portland.

So yeah: he's just going to take another drink and keep puffing on that cigarette and enjoy the show.

It won't be much of a show, truth be told. The crow only goes after Strange long enough for him to stumble back and leave him enough room to flutter in and alight briefly on the window's edge. He eyes Strange first with a beady black eye, then tilts his head the other way to do the same to Lambert.

The latter won't be much happier than Strange is about this in about three, two, and—

Fun thing about this is that not only did the ability follow him home from Portland, so did every bit of know-how at being a total asshole of a bird. When he bursts into flight again, this time it's the witcher that he's going after, though he takes a roundabout route to do it. He flies by Strange's head again, swinging around that to make a swoop for Lambert's cigarette.

The bird's staring at him. The bird which looks suspiciously crow-like and is acting oddly for a bird, oh for heaven's sake, it's been a few days! How could that damn fae find them in just a few days? And in Summer territory to boot!

Having leapt to the obvious and not-at-all wrong conclusion that this is some sort of sentry from the Count of Crows, Strange starts muttering a spell only to be cut off mid-way as the bird swoops by his head again. He quickly finishes the spell and a small fireball about the size of an apple appears in his hand. He spins around, ready to throw it at the bird (you're not getting Childermass back, asshole)...only to stop in confusion and watch as the bird steals Lambert's cigarette.

Well this just confuses his half-baked theory even more. The fireball still hovers in his hand as Strange points out the obvious. "But birds don't smoke."

He has also straight up forgotten that the room also plays host to an alcohol distillery. Might not want to be throwing around fire, buddy.

"Hey--!" Lambert jerks back, lifting a hand to swat the bird away -- but his arm freezes halfway through the motion, and that split-second of hesitation allows the bird to claim its prize and flutter off to wherever in the room it intends to go. If it stays at all.

"I know who does," Lambert says, scrunching up his nose. Stealing cigarettes isn't a habit Childermass has given up, apparently, though this is the first time Lambert can remember he's done so as a bird.

"You could have asked, John."

Cigarette in beak, the crow lands on whatever furniture happens to be opposite of Lambert — be it actual furniture or part of the distillery-laboratory setup — and changes immediately on setting down. The witcher has seen this a hundred times before, even if, technically, most of those times never even actually happened, but it's definitely going to be new to Strange. There's no drawn out transformation sequence, just one second he's a crow, the next he's Childermass, leaning casually against whatever he ended up by and taking the stolen cigarette out from between his lips.

Using his first name only earns Lambert an icy look as he breathes out some smoke. Overall, it's a pretty cool entrance, though only one made for the sake of being able to smack Jonathan Strange in the face with a wing.

"You shouldn't be smoking around all of this, anyway, Lambert," he replies, ignoring the fact that he's just continuing to smoke where Lambert left off. Although speaking of things on fire near a whole lot of flammable liquid, his look doesn't change much at all when it switches over to Strange. "And you, put that away before you kill us all."

Idiot isn't added out loud, but his tone sure does imply it.

Edited 2017-08-03 22:37 (UTC)

Childermass?! Since when could the man do that? Strange can't help but gawp for a moment before Childermass reminds him that oh yeah, he's currently got a fireball primed for throwing. With a wave of his hand, the fire vanishes. Strange moves back towards the table, partly to put the table between the two men, partly out of sheer practicality because he's still a bit hungry.

It was a pretty cool entrance, though. So much so, that Strange can't help but gently tease Childermass about it. "Careful. If you keep showing off like that, people might get the impression that all English magicians are a tad ostentatious."

Strange knows that he's a tad ostentatious. He does not realize that he's way too ostentatious. And thankfully for him, he also knows that in all likelihood, Childermass still hates him. It's a well-deserved hate, of course, but a bit aggravating considering Strange wants to put that man's actions as far behind him as possible. So, he quickly adds on, "The magic is quite impressive, though."

It is a familiar sight, enough to make Lambert turn away -- so he misses that icy look entirely. Besides, he's already kicking himself for letting the name slip out.

"It's my laboratory. I can smoke if I want." And since he really doesn't think Childermass is gonna be swapping cigarettes with him like they used to, he's already tapping out another one. There are only so many left, so he might as well stretch it out unless the Carnival's got some tucked away somewhere...

Once he's lit up again, Lambert tunes out of the magic debate. Instead, he sets about cutting cheese, apple, and bread again, glad to have something to do with his hands.

If Strange had expected any poking fun to be met with like, he's going to be disappointed. There's no change in Childermass's cold demeanor, although the look he's giving the other magician does grow a tad bit more tired like he's only been in here for a handful of minutes and he's already feeling done with the both of them.

"I doubt I will ever aspire to as pretentious with magic as you, Mr. Strange," he says in reply and doesn't even bother acknowledging the compliment. If he's going to be in here, he's going to circle back around to a more important topic.

"You said you thought the fae from Portland may be able to track us. How sure of that are you?"

Edited 2017-08-04 03:26 (UTC)

He can accept tired. Truth be told, half the conversations these three get into involve Childermass just looking tired and regretting ever entering the conversation. Better Childermass looking tired with his nonsense than Childermass looking at him like he's the scum of the earth.

"I'm not sure in the slightest," he admits, with a frown. "I suspect there's a high possibility they can at least find where we've been. If they can use that to find where we are now, I don't know yet. I'd imagine the Ringmaster keeps the carnival warded from most prying eyes, but..." He doesn't have to say it, he just trails off with a frown. But the Ringmaster's currently an egg. Slight problem.

"It can't hurt to assume that they'll be able to find us." This isn't paranoia and his ever-growing fear of Nightshade speaking, not at all, this is sheer practicality. At least, that's what Strange keeps telling himself. "And I think it's certainly safe to assume that some of those fae will at least try to find us--most notably the Rose Queen."

"What, because the Beast attacked her?" Lambert never met the Rose Queen himself in Portland, of course, but the memory of her realm is fresh in his mind, and he finds himself dropping a hand to his side, feeling out ribs that are still tender from being freshly mended.

However, something doesn't quite add up here, and he picks up his beaker again, swilling the liquid around.

"I doubt it. She kicked our asses and she didn't even bother to send someone out to finish the job. And that's when we were right on her doorstep," he smiles, humorlessly. If she had, he probably wouldn't be standing here now. But the fae don't think like mortals, so there's no sense in ascribing mortal motives to them. Still...

"I'm not saying you're wrong," he adds, not at all reassuringly. "But I don't think this is like the vampires. Whatever fight the Ringmaster's got with Arcadia, it started long before any of us got here."

Edited 2017-08-04 04:11 (UTC)

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