lostcarnival | ⇨ THE PRINCE IS DEAD

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⇨ THE PRINCE IS DEAD

Who: Everyone!
When: Day 178 - B1: Day 6
Where: The Carnival and sometimes on top of the Heart of Stone.
What: Now that the Prince is dead and gone, there's a lot left to sort out. As the remaining servants are liberated and those captured by the Prince are tended to, it's time for recovery and goodbyes.
Warnings: Nothing in particular.

HOME GROUND↴

At long last, it is over. The Prince is dead, and all of his stolen Names have been restored - all that's left to do is treat the wounds and move on. For the first day or two, the Ringmaster will be arranging passage for the servants that are left, all of which have remembered their names for the first time in years. The earth elemental that had been trapped and forced to serve as the Prince's manor, the Heart of Stone, is happy to help for the moment. It appreciates the Ringmaster's mercy, and is free after untold eons of imprisonment.

Yet, there are plenty of aspects that are far from simple. There are still servants left mad and transformed into beasts, with no easy way to change them back. The Prince's spells outlive him, and those bearing his poison and his curses will have a difficult road ahead of them. Though most of the bestial servants have been rounded up, and a large number that had been reduced to unmoving statues returned, even the Ringmaster can't return them to normal so simply.

The next week is for rest and for settling remaining affairs. If you want to bid farewell to any particular NPCs, or assure care is given where it's needed, now is the time to do it.

► A CURE: The Ringmaster will tell everyone simply - there is no simple way to undo another fae's magic. The Prince's powers were essentially on par with hers, which means that those who have been transformed to stone and those that were cursed into beasts and driven insane are not something she can trivially fix. It will take the work of the carnival and a couple weeks of treatment to shed the curse of stone, and the maddened servants are an entirely separate matter. She will do what she can, but for the most part she is arranging for the Prince's servants to be cared for elsewhere. At least for now, the Ringmaster will be animating the stone portions of people's bodies with magic, though those portions will still be a bit clumsy and numb feeling.

► THE NEW HEARTSTONE: In the absence of the prince, the Heart of Stone will be taking over the remains of the Prince's realm and preventing it from collapsing into void. As it turns out, the manor had been an earth elemental all along - a form of Wyld Fae almost on par to the Prince and Ringmaster themselves. How the Heart of Stone was enslaved is a long story presumably, but the Ringmaster considers it to be a sign of the Prince's own depravity. The Heart will be allowing visitors for the first couple days of this period through the portal, but keep in mind you are essentially just walking around on its body. At least the realm has a floor, now, instead an endless abyss surrounding it.

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This is, Lambert realizes, a very stupid conversation. His throat's beginning to hurt from having spoken so much, so although he's tired, he concentrates and clenches a fist. To Strange's magic eye, the spell flares briefly, magic that isn't of witcher origin briefly coalescing around Lambert's lap and resolving into a familiar, lithe shape.

"Hello again, Strange," Celandine says comfortably, sitting herself up to peer at him. Unlike the last time he saw her? In person, she looks sick, fur matted in clumps, and a stiffness to her motions, but her eyes are still bright and alert despite that when she regards him. The Prince's poison might wear away at soul, but Lambert's is as stubborn as he is about being kept down.

"You look like you need sleep more than we do." This isn't true, of course, but Lambert has actually been getting sleep, while Strange hasn't. There's a distinction to be made, there.

Thankfully, the summoning of Lambert's daemon causes Strange to shut up, mostly because he's distracted by the magic. It's the magic of Greysol, but there's a trace inside it that's unmistakably Lambert's. How interesting. Would all their magic look so hodge-podge by the end of their stay here?

"Hello Celandine," Strange answers. "And that's preposterous. I'm getting along just fine, there's no need for any more sleep."

There certainly is need for more sleep as Strange looks hilariously ragged. But he's scoffing like the idea of more sleep is out of the question. Besides, at least in Strange's mind, Lambert looks so much worse than he does. He can't talk for that long, he's petrified, his soul looks a bit ratty...although, come to think of it, there's another idea.

"I hate to be rude, Celandine, but you are symbolic. Would it change anything if I brushed out the mats in your fur?"

Oh good, the distraction worked. Lambert can lean back against the pillows and breathe easier for a bit, now that he doesn't have to talk -- though the trouble, of course, is that Celandine has a much more unfettered tendency to express his affections. Which, for Strange, he has plenty of.

The magician's question makes them both blink, however, and glance at one another.

Celandine looks back at Strange, her tail waving slowly. "We know you can harm someone through their daemon, but whether it works the other way ... John never touched me long enough to figure that out."

Strange's eyes light up with the spirit of intellectual curiosity. "Well, we shall have to try! This is the medical tent, there might be a comb somewhere..."

Why Strange thinks that there's a comb in the medical tent is anybody's guess. Though scientific inquiries into how the soul responds to brushies will be put on hold for a moment as Strange gets up to rummage through a nearby drawer in the hope that there'll be a comb in there.

"And Celandine, I know of at least three other people named John, you'll have to be specific."

"Doesn't matter," Lambert says before Celandine can chime in with anything more specific or incriminating than that, shooting her a warning look. She sniggers, but she'll settle, watching Strange rummage around with a cocked head.

"Are you sure you know what you're doing?" She asks, a bit skeptically. "Your hair's like a rat's nest, you know..."

"Just because I forget to brush my hair doesn't mean I don't know what a comb is." The rummaging and searching continues and unsurprisingly, Strange doesn't find a comb. But he does find a popsicle stick tongue depressor and okay, that'll work. There's a brief surge of magic in the room as Strange coaxes the thing to grow teeth like a comb has before he turns back to Celandine and Lambert.

"This should work." With a grin, he sits down at one of the chairs near Lambert's bed. "Come along Celandine, let's see if we can't work one of those mats out."

Soul brushies for the greater good.

Lambert looks more uncertain about this than Celandine does. The polecat seems more curious and open about it than apprehensive, tail waving slightly in anticipation while she watches him creepily grow teeth from that tongue depressor (cheating with magic, as usual, as Lambert can tell from the hum of his medallion).

"All right. I'll bite you if it hurts, though." It's a warning for both their sakes, really. She may be the best of Lambert's impulse control, but that doesn't mean she isn't prone to impulses of her own. Speaking of which--

"Don't move." She gathers herself up and leaps into his lap. The effect is immediate; Lambert sucks in a breath.

Strange doesn't seem apprehensive about this at all. Then again, it wasn't his soul that's getting brushed. (Though the thought of Siobhan flopping around the medical tent and demanding attention was slightly hilarious.) He stays still as Celandine jumps in his lap...though Strange does give Lambert a little frown at that intake of breath.

What was that all about? Was it some daemon thing?

His first movements are slow and deliberate, giving plenty of time for either Celandine or Lambert to tell him what they think about this. He combs down an untangled patch of Celandine's fur before, slowly and carefully, going to work to comb out one of her mats.

Lambert's not in much of a mood to explain to Strange just how weird, exactly, having your soul touched really is. He hadn't tried it with Siobhan, wary of the results after Celandine pranking both him and Childermass by talking his daemon into playing along, and right now it's impossible for him to return the favor, for obvious reasons.

Celandine holds herself stiffly on Strange's legs for a few moments, the twitch of her tail betraying her own nervousness despite her bravado, and her ears can't help flattening a little when Strange begins to work. It's not pain, exactly ... but it's not the shock of elation that hits them both whenever Childermass touches her. It's not bad, but it's different, and they have trouble placing it for a moment, both blinking slowly.

"Oh," she yawns, relaxing bit by bit as the magician works at the tangles in her fur. "That's not bad."

It feels strange -- she's not really a real animal, for all she looks and feels like one, but her fur manages to slowly get brushed out, although it's painstaking, patient work. Half a beat later, Lambert's wary expression gets interrupted by a yawn, too, although this looks like it catches him off guard and he blinks rapidly, shaking his head.

For a man who plows through life at double speed, Strange is being uncharacteristically calm and gentle as he continues to brush Celandine. Whenever there's a particularly matted bit of fur, he gingerly works on the tangles, taking care not to yank her fur too much or poke her with his claws or the comb.

This is relaxing. Not as relaxing as it apparently is to the other two because he straight up noticed that yawn.

"You can take a nap if you want," Strange teases, as he looks over at Lambert with a little grin. "Celandine and I shan't gossip too much."

This is a gross overestimation, there will be plenty of gossip if Lambert takes a nap and the daemon spell remains in place.

"I'm not--" Lambert begins to protest, but he's cut off mid-sentence by another yawn, brow furrowing. He isn't wrong -- he wasn't sleepy until just a few moments ago -- but now trying to resist the compulsion is harder than trying to swim with full armor on.

"Don't gossip with my soul, Strange," Lambert mutters. But fine, since his body seems determined to get horizontal regardless of his own wishes, he swears under his breath and lets himself slide down until he's lying on his back, arms loosely crossed over his stomach as he fights to keep his eyes open. It's not even sleepiness, not really, but a pleasantly lightheaded sensation that just makes it easier for the exhaustion to creep back in, like he's had a bit too much to drink but without the boisterous tipsiness that normally comes with inebriation.

Safety is a feeling Lambert doesn't experience often enough to recognize.

"Let me know when you're done," he mutters, finally letting his eyes shut. (But he's not sleeping, dammit.) Celandine snickers quietly at that, dozy as well, then wiggles over slightly just so she's in a better position for Strange to get at some of the matting along her side.

"I shall," he remarks, trying to hide the grin that's creeping up Strange's face at Lambert's sleepiness. Because as much as Lambert grumps and fusses and gets all huffy, the fact remains that soul brushing seems to make him sleepy and that is downright hilarious.

Though that whole 'don't gossip with my soul' bit? Yeah, that's not gonna happen. Time for shittalking with someone's soul.

"I'm not sure whether I should be pleased or offended that touching you causes Lambert to feel sleepy," Strange mutters to Celandine, as he starts to work on the matting along her side. Oh, he's certain that someone in Greysol would have had some hippy dippy explanation for what it means. But then again, those in Greysol would be scandalized by this in the first place.

"He'll just remember this later, you know," Celandine warns the magician, the smirk audible even if it doesn't translate on her face. Lambert grunts, new ears flicking to show that even with his eyes closed he's still determined to eavesdrop, but the break for his throat is particularly welcome right now...

"It's not that odd," she goes on, drowsily. "In Greysol, touching someone's soul was the fastest way to incapacitate them. But--" Another yawn. "--he trusts you, so being touched by you doesn't hurt. The sleepiness ... that might have more to do with how how you feel about him."

At Celandine's warning, Strange simply shrugs. So what if he hears this later? Celandine is still a part of Lambert, just the slightly less irritable and more rodent-like part. Besides, Strange knows how their friendship works. They joke around and grin and tease each other but it's all with the understanding that it's so much more than they'll ever outright say. At least with Celandine, Strange might have an easier go of vocalizing these hard sort of questions than he does with Lambert himself.

"I trust him too, you know," Strange murmurs, as he gently works at a particularly matted spot of fur. Lambert might remember this later but he might not hear it now—which really, is the main reason why Strange is saying this to begin with. Because he does. He trusts Lambert with so much: his feelings, his history, possibly even his life if the situation came to it. A wry little smirk plays on his face as he continues talking, "Though I'm afraid I don't understand that last part. How on earth would tiredness come into play with my feelings towards our friendship?"

"I know," Celandine says, smugly. Strange is right -- in some ways, it's easier and more direct to speak with her about this sort of thing, since Lambert's too much himself to not deflect something serious with a joke unless he's too drunk to care about appearances. So good call there, Strange.

The question, though, stumps her a bit. It's not like they've talked about it much, other than what they had back in Greysol, and the memory of that sharp, almost exhilarating joy when Childermass touched Celandine.

"Maybe it's because you want him to rest," Celandine suggests, her tone of voice making it obvious, yes, this is just her best guess here. "Or because you're trying to make him feel better."

Friends know to talk about important things to their friend's rat soul instead of their friend themselves.

"Of course I want to make him feel better. He got himself hurt," Strange admits, a bit under his breath. And, more importantly, he got himself hurt in a way that Strange couldn't help. For someone so used to throwing magic at a problem until it fixed itself, the fact that Strange couldn't do anything quick and easy with this magic was aggravating. Because he wanted Lambert to be better. And yet...what the hell could he do besides experiment and wait?

"He'd do the same for me." Just in his own Lambert way. Strange brushes Lambert's daemon while he naps, Lambert gets Strange drunk to keep his mind off of Nightshade. They each had their own ways of coping.

"He would try," Celandine agrees. And since she is part of Lambert? That means she'll raise her head to peer at Strange, ears flicking despite her own sleepiness. And she'll call for a pause in the proceedings by resting a paw against Strange's hand, blunt claws pricking lightly.

"You still saved her. The real her," she says, simply. She doesn't think she needs to clarify who she's talking about. Doesn't take a genius to know that seeing an illusion of his wife's got to fuck with Strange hard, but though it's not much comfort, she offers what little she can. "No hallucination's going to change that."

The tiny paw does what Celandine hopes it would: Strange stops brushing her for a moment, looking down at the daemon with a quizzical frown. That frown only lasts for a moment or so as her words hit him. Because she doesn't need to clarify in the slightest: they're talking about Arabella.

It was so much easier during the time before the Hunt, when everyone was kidnapped. Then, Strange could just focus on her words, focus on her last request of him. Save everyone. Well, once that happened and once he did, then what? Then he had to actually pause, think, and reflect.

"I know," Strange simply responds, trying his hardest to keep his voice level. "It's just—" and then he breaks off for a moment, taking a deep breath, trying to keep calm. "I keep losing her," he admits, almost under his breath. Thinking she had died. Freeing her then being cursed. Seeing her then having that vanish in front of his eyes. It's stressful.

Strange doesn't slow down, doesn't stop and think. He's not so different from Lambert in that regard, only Lambert has the benefit of not having an ego so large he can't see anything beyond his own nose, as long as there's someone around to point out why rushing in isn't the smartest idea.

With Strange, more often than not, it's Lambert who ends up trying and failing to pull him back. Quiet moments like these are rare. Celandine's silent, letting Strange compose himself, but she shifts enough to rest her head over his hand instead of just a paw, nuzzling that small wet nose comfortingly along the back of his knuckles.

"And you'll keep finding her," she says, simply. "You're too stubborn to do anything else." He might very well almost kill himself in the attempt, an outcome neither Celandine or Lambert would be happy about and one they'll certainly have to make sure he doesn't do, but...

The terrible thing is that it's a near certainty Strange would almost kill himself in the attempt. He already almost died trying to save Arabella once. There's a high chance he'll do it a second time or a third time or however many times fate seems to taunt the two of them by pulling them apart.

Celandine's little nose is unexpected, but welcomed all the same. Strange pauses for a moment before moving his second hand over to pet her himself, making skin to fur contact instead of brush to fur.

"Thank you," Strange responds, smiling a weak little smile at the polecat, trying his hardest to push back to his devil may care sort of normal self. "I'm also too stubborn to let you two stay like this. We'll find a cure no matter what." Which, Lambert already knows that Strange is dedicated to fixing this mess and undoing the Prince's handiwork. But it means so much more now that they're like this, in a quiet moment, instead of Strange loudly crowing it for all the medical tent to hear.

The more direct contact sends a full-body shudder running through Celandine -- even as careful as Strange is being, as much as they trust him, it's a bit too direct. But she'll bear it, leaning her weight against him and offering what reassurance she can by her presence. On the bed, it seems like Lambert's completely drifted off, though he rouses slightly at the contact, cracking an eye open to peer blearily at Strange and Celandine.

"Why are you feeling up my soul, Strange?" he asks, groggily.

"Just enjoy it and go back to sleep, Lambert," Celandine answers fondly, and the witcher makes an inarticulate noise of complaint, probably something about not being a kid, as he shifts to a more comfortable position on the cot. Though after a moment, she'll slyly look up at Strange too.

"You should do the same, you know. There are plenty of cots open, it won't hurt to nap a bit."

If it were anyone else, Strange would whine and complain and say that no, he doesn't need to nap, he's perfectly fine. But this is Lambert. And this is Celandine. And he really does need to nap, whether he wants to admit it or not.

"Just a half our or so wouldn't hurt," he admits, as he looks over to one of the cots. "Unless you'd want me to continue brushing you, of course."

If this was helping Lambert or Celandine feel better, then Strange didn't need to sleep. He'd just sleep later and continue doing what he was doing now.

Brushing her fur won't make any difference, Celandine knows. When Lambert summons and unsummons her again, she'll simply reappear as hurt as she did to start. Being possessed by the Earth Spirit irrevocably changed Lambert's soul; an injury like this won't be so easily soothed either. At best, the contact will be something that keeps Lambert asleep instead of jerking awake at nightmares that relive being strangled and then having his neck snapped -- and really? That's reason enough to cuddle shamelessly up to Strange's hand.

"You may carry me to that one," she says primly, raising her head and a tiny paw to point him in that direction. "And you will pet me until you fall asleep. That will do."

Of course, if she has her way about it, Strange will sleep for much more than half an hour. Without Siobhan manifesting, someone's got to look out for this idiot magician somehow, and it can't all be Childermass.

Strange can't help but laugh a little at that, a small chuckle under his breath. He may carry her to that one and he will pet her? Who knew part of Lambert's soul could be so prim and prissy? Still, he's going to do so.

"As you wish." As he stands up, he adjusts his hands, trying his best to hold onto Celandine, but it's far too obvious that Strange's small animal experience is next to nothing. Still, she remains supported as he walks over to one of the cots, and sits down on it, fully clothes, shoes and all. Laying down, Strange moves his hands away from Celandine.

"Make yourself comfortable." And once he does so, he'll start petting her again, a few fingers giving soft long strokes down her back.

Fortunately, Lambert's small animal handling experience is also next to nothing, so Celandine has learned to move deftly under clumsy hands. Once Strange is lying down, she'll move to curl up on his belly, a warm lump over the cloth.

"Sleep well, Strange." Her tone is fond. When Lambert slips into deeper, more restful sleep, the spell holding her will break, but she's sure Strange will be unconscious by then.

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⇨ THE PRINCE IS DEAD

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