lostcarnival | ⇨ THE LUNAR SOLSTICE

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⇨ THE LUNAR SOLSTICE

Who: Everyone!
When: Winter Breaks: Day 6 - Day 25
Where: THE MOON
What: The carnival journeys to one of its moons to celebrate the Lunar Solstice. More information here.
Warnings: Winter fun.

MOON WALKING↴

The journey to the moon only takes a blink of an eye, but it leaves the carnival far away beneath you. The second moon can be seen on the peripheral, massive compared to its usual view. At least when the holidays start out, there will be no notable wildlife on the moon, though this is something you can talk to the Ringmaster about if you think it needs a change. It sounds like this is the first time she's used it in quite a while - it probably needs some dusting off!

Claim your cabins, and proceed to... well, do whatever you want! There is no rush and little obligation, besides to enjoy yourself. For real, this time. She promises there will be no vampires. Or, at least, none that don't already work for the carnival.

► CABINS: Living arrangements are character choice for this event, and there are a variety of cabins of various sizes, mostly built to house 2-6 people, though you can fit more in if you squish. They are all made of wood and of a rustic design - no fancy modern furniture, here! Each building is housed with a fireplace and the needed amenities. You can pick up materials to cook with the private kitchens if you like. Theoretically, you could spend the whole holiday sequestered away, watching the snow fall. Some of them also have outdoor hot tubs available!

► ACTIVITIES: Activities are mostly going to be character driven, though there will be some large group games like bingo and maybe a poker tournament happening at some point in one of the festival halls. Otherwise, there is a lot to offer: skiing, snowboarding, hiking, ice sculpting, snowball fights - it goes on! If you'd like to run a winter activity, just let the mods know, and we will get the word out there for you.

► FEASTING: Every day isn't a full-out feast because that would get a bit unhealthy, but there will be a number of specific feast events over the holidays where everyone is encouraged to let out their inner hedonist and stuff themselves. There will be one big feast per week, with smaller but also delicious meals offered in between. The feast dates will be B12, B18, and B24. There's also plenty of alcohol available for anyone who wants it.

► SHOPPING: As mentioned in the planning post, there is a massive market being run by the World Walker Caravan! The Ringmaster has given everyone 1250 credits to spend on items, but there is a caveat - must spend at least 500 of those credits on gifts for other people. And it better be a good one, if you only buy one! (She will ask that you do not buy her presents, however. She appreciates the sentiment, but it seems sort of silly buying her things with her own money! If you'd like to gift her, please have it be something more personal or handmade, but you are not obligated to get her anything at all.)

► TREATMENTS: The beginning of the holidays will also be about the time that the emergency Medical Team will have finalized their treatments for the Prince's poisoning. Watch out for further information on that - and make sure to get treated if you are suffering from petrification or poison induced illness! The holidays will be a lot more fun that way.

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There was a logic behind Foster's decision to take the whole thing at once, however deeply buried. Under the impulsive zeal, the spite, the knowledge that he could and the desire to get it over with, there was also the hidden knowledge that if he did not, that if he stopped, even just a moment, even just to breathe, he would never retrieve the willpower to to put the bottle to his lips a second time.

And that would have been unforgiveable.

It burns, not just in his throat, but worse; he can feel it, can already feel it, the sour lurch, the hot violence of nausea, and the haze behind his mind ripples and oh God he's going to throw up. He's going to throw up he'sgoi ng to t hrow u p he'sgoingtothrowup--

He does not throw up, but he's heaving in a way that suggests he might. The good thing about his position on the floor is that Herbert cannot see how his eyes have welled with tears, how flushed and creased his face. How pathetic and disgusting a creature--but how obedient.

"I--" He chokes out, wishing deeply, fervidly, for... for more. For other pain, for that relief, a bracing blow or cruel word, anything--

"I hate it," he starts, a string of saliva hanging from his chin, but he cannot stop, repeating himself over and over as he toes the precipice of desperation. "I hate it, I hate it, I hate it, hahaha--!" He breaks off--coughing, not gagging but on the verge of retching instead.

Edited 2017-12-05 18:22 (UTC)

Not having thought to test for it and with a general unfamiliarity with a lot of the compounds used in the drink, Herbert doesn't like the thought of Foster potentially vomiting something useful up before it reaches his bloodstream.

"I trust," he begins, almost uncertain before he forces his voice to harden as much as it can, "that you're not about to, make more of a mess of yourself than you already are. You're pathetic--it was hardly a cup of liquid." He hopes that does it, but he steps to move his shoes out of the trajectory of Foster's mouth, just in case.

"Breathe slowly. Swallow." He bends slightly to grab Foster's bony shoulder, fingers digging in around it. "Get yourself onto your bed, I don't know how long I'll be forced to watch you but I'm not doing it standing in the middle of the room."

He almost misses that falter in Herbert's voice at the beginning--almost, but doesn't, and if Herbert himself hadn't caught it, Foster's laughter would have turned mocking. Instead, Herbert more than compensates, and quickly--merely calling Foster 'pathetic' wouldn't have done it, but the sentence preceding it, the double-insult, humiliation and accusation and censure all at once, the way he callously digs his fingers into Foster's bare shoulder--

"Ah--" Foster reacts as if Herbert's hand has burned him; he arches, tenses, but doesn't pull away. He's still coughing, laughing, alternating between the raw repulsion and repulsive turn of his stomach and the fact that, between his stress (and distress) and the way Herbert is handling him--but he does manage to rise up on his knees, the sour-sharp, alcohol-tasting trail of saliva wetting his chin.

Herbert looks sidelong at Foster for a moment, the return of the saliva reminding him almost of one of his experiments. It's fitting, but also puts Herbert very slightly on edge--moreso than Foster's other reactions. Those are as related to his brain damage as the drooling, he's aware, but there have been enough attacks from people dripping from the mouth on his person that it can't help but come to mind.

When it seems that Foster isn't going to stand, Herbert decides it will be best to deal with him on his knees anyway. He doesn't want to be caught by a flailing paw if Foster falls from drunken lack of balance. Instead, he starts to walk forward, still holding onto Foster's shoulder, intending to personally ferry him over to sit.

If he lets him, Herbert lets go once they reach the bed, propping a pillow if there's one there and stealing a pillow from whatever bed looks least like Reira's if it's not. Foster aspirating vomit into his trachea would completely defeat the purpose of being here to mind him.

"You're already losing fluids," he observes. "Get up. Back against the headboard. If you're, going to vomit do it over the edge of the bed." This is just validly Herbert's bedside manner. It's bad.

The alcohol content hasn't hit Foster full-bore yet, but it doesn't have to; the nausea, the loathing and revulsion and the quasi-hysteria more than make up for it. Still, if Foster were yet plantigrade, Herbert might have had a chance to get him upright. Unguligrade, however, even getting him on his feet is a hilarious improbability--his legs are too long, too jointed, the feet he has to stand on too fine, even three-toed and thick-hooved as they are.

No, Foster is best left on the ground where he belongs, alternating between being dragged and crawling on all fours like an animal.

And he wheezes in Herbert's grasp, coughing and laughing again--but even incoherently reeling, he is frighteningly obedient, and he makes it onto the bed where commanded. His only independent action comes when he raises one paw, apparently in anticipation of some act--wiping his chin, maybe--but forgets immediately what it is and just leaves it hovering there instead, his paw bent at the wrist, claws hanging, curving inches from his own face.

With one final, "Stay there," Herbert walks swiftly back into the main area, getting a mug of water from the sink and a wooden chair. He walks back in with the chair hooked under one arm and the mug held carefully in the opposite hand. Setting it nearby on a side table, within Foster's grasp and the chair beside the bed, he reaches into his suit pocket and.

Takes out a bread roll and shoves it into Foster's dangling hand, curving the claws around it with a grip from the outside.

"Eat that," he demands. "Slowly, small bites--you'd probably choke on it, given the chance. I brought, water. As well. These are all things you could have done for yourself if you'd bothered to, push yourself with the medicine." Turning the chair where he wants it he sits two feet away from the head of the bed. Close enough to get to Foster if necessary but hopefully far enough away to continue to avoid vomit.

'Stay there.'

If it were anyone else, that order would have been pretty unnecessary: where was Foster going to go, Herbert?

But in reality, it's not a bad precaution to take. There is a great deal of opportunity in what people forget to say, and it's the kind of opportunity Foster is most inclined to exploit. With no room for deniability, disobedience is a much bigger commitment--one Foster is particularly adverse to making.

Which is saying something, as Foster is fundamentally adverse to commitment itself. The only one he was ever promised is the eventuality of his own death.

And in the end, that is the only one will ever keep.

Which is hard for him to even think about right now.

He can feel the oncoming haze behind his mind, shrouding him, like a buzzing, or a tidal froth. It's stronger, deeper now--the disparate pull. His thoughts have been coming unglued, individual parts drifting away from each other, disappearing under the surface of inebriation. When Herbert closes his paw over the bread forcefully, he does not resist, but he remembers that he has a paw.

What is Herbert, his nurse?

"I... will vomit if I. If I do."

And that would be disgusting! He laughs.

It's a little slurry--well, more slurry than usual. Coupled with his already challenging accent, it's... well, Herbert is excused if he can't follow that.

He's his medic, thanks, he hates this! And he doesn't trust Foster to do or not do anything at this point, which is why he's trying to remember to cover all his bases. It's like a shitty genie where the only reward he gets is the genie not actively harming themself.

"You can't even control yourself that much," he remarks, voice a disappointed groan. He follows. Look, he understands several languages ~~that he can't speak appropriately, but, shut up~~, an oddly accented version of English is no trouble. "Can you even, handle the water?"

"I can handle your cock," Foster supplies without missing a beat. He is not drunk yet, but the only inhibitions Foster has are delusional in form, because that's effectively the only way he ever stops himself. Normally, his lower status and inherent worthlessness are sufficiently prohibitive, but--

But it's still possible this is a joke; he is, after all, forbidden to want anything for himself, especially from other people. On the other hand, he's rarely allowed to joke at anyone's expense but his own. So it depends entirely on who the butt of the joke is.

Those social restraints aren't the only thing lost; his delusions are also slipping their leash--whatever leash they might have had. But then, they've never been bound by anything.

"If you want me under control, then control me!"

He gestures abruptly, passionately, with the bread roll--before thoughtlessly crushing it in his claws in a moment of vehemence.

"Own me, master me, bring me under control yourself!!"

"No, you can't," is Herbert's equally immediate, dry response.

But then Foster starts getting worked up and Herbert almost starts to doubt his ability here. Drunken Foster is an unknown quantity to everyone except him right now. This is new territory: experimental Foster.

"Control you," he says, and stands up from the chair. "Because you're unable to control yourself? Are you asking for more?" His eyes flicker down to the ruined bread roll and back up to look at Foster. "If you'd prefer to wallow in your own filth go, ahead, but as I've told you I require you alive. I'm not interested in owning you. I need your brain for my reagent, nothing more."

Because you're unable to control yourself?

Foster has never felt in control, never felt 'controlled' in any fashion at all. He only ever feels the lack of it--there is no power, no force great enough to curb him, he is always spiralling wider and wilder out of control. The dizzying ascent, the infinite descent: a precipice on which he stands with one foot already over the ledge--daring someone, anyone, to stop him, catch him, push him over to his final inevitability...!

And Herbert has miscalculated by engaging him, by seizing him on that edge and then letting go. Because Foster moves to seize him--dropping the roll of bread, eyes bright, claws spread to catch Herbert by the black of his tie--!

Ok well that didn't work WHOOPS--experiment going wrong, as per usual, variables not accounted for, this is BAD, abort? Abort being right there in the danger zone first and then try and handle it?

The usual.

Herbert backs hurriedly away from Foster and stumbles onto and then sideways around the chair. "Thiiiii-his solves nothing!" he announces with equal speed, holding up a hand, eyes already wild.

Normally, Herbert would have been in no danger. Normally, Foster is subservient by default--by force of his own will, he remains in his place even despite the foolishness and negligence of those around him. Normally, he never would have dared to touch another person. Or their tie.

But the tie slips between his claws, and he has to catch himself--in more ways than one, because the dizziness and nausea rise swiftly, lurching up in him as he grabs the edge of the bed instead, eyes on Herbert until the last second, when he narrowly avoids throwing up right onto the floor.

Even with disaster (or at least regurgitation) avoided, though, the inside of his head is ringing. No, screaming, a wailing unitone like a siren, growing higher and higher and louder and more distant, and he briefly feels an increased density inside of his skull, which subsides only partway in the next second, leaving him feeling... stranger, but somehow more present.

"You need... you need my brain," he manages, and in speaking, he opens his mouth; in opening his mouth, saliva stretches between his upper teeth and his bottom lip, hanging in a string from that latter same.

"My brain, without me? The brain... the brain is rot, the brain is rot and you want the rot without the rotting?" It's kind of impressive that he hasn't fallen off the bed, because he's looking strangely drawn and pale. He sucks some of that spittle back into his mouth, but it just makes his words... wetter. "I am my disease," he spits. "I am my disease, I am my disease, there is no brain, no brain without disease, no brain without rot--"

Another ragged breath--

"I am the rot!!"

Edited 2017-12-12 08:48 (UTC)

Herbert is still standing beyond the chair, wary, but his hand slowly lowers. He's feeling abruptly very worked up about this. It may be the adrenaline, certainly, but he wants to put words to what he's thinking all the same.

"Then you will be nothing." He's still a bit breathless but his voice is usually soft anyway, at least, so that comes out low, and shaking. "I will make you nothing and rebuild you into something new, with my science." Stopping to properly catch his breath he gestures forward at Foster, fingers spindling through and clutching at the air. "Better! I...will remake you as my creation!"

Foster already is nothing--the roiling, sucking nothing of a vaccum; the crushing, absolute black nothing of oceanic depths; the vast, utter nothing of the Void itself. He was nothing when he was born and he will be nothing when he expires. In between, he is contagion, infectious affliction of the mind, a waste of his body--an insult to the very act of being alive.

And from this, from the defiling of hope, Herbert plans to make anew? To make his--?

The idea of being a construct, a product of one's achievement, the culmination of design, the firmament on which something is to be created anew inspires a terrible excitement in Foster. In this way, he's finally starting to feel that intoxication. In more ways than one.

"You will unmake me," Foster responds--not an exultation, but an accusation. "You will destroy the purpose of my only fate."

When Foster spits the words, he does so... pretty literally.

So, good thing Herbert put space between them.

He sounds increasingly desperate--not a lament, not a plea.

Hope is antithetical to him, belief being a form of certainty beyond mere aspiration or dreams. And he knows what is and isn't meant to be.

"And how will you have me, then--!?"

Not having actually thought that far, Herbert pauses a moment, blinking.

"Weh-hell, being a triumph of science is purpose enough in itself," he says, and he believes that but he can tell it won't be enough.

"I require assistance in my work," he says abruptly, "and you...are a necromancer--unreliable now, in your...rot, as you say." Control is nothing. He has to ferry Dan along constantly as he listens to his damned girlfriend and other limited, simple obstacles to scientific progress. He steps closer again, hand on the chair's back as he moves around it.

"My usual...collaborator did not accompany me here, my work progresses faster with. Assistance. Your knowledge of death made more effective by my reconstructed serum would make you a valuable colleague--if. You allow yourself to be remade."

Foster is starting to feel his intoxication. In more ways than one, actually. What Herbert means, he realises with the kind of hazy, thick-fought feeling of brilliance that comes from alcohol, is that he wants to craft Foster into a tool, an opportunity, a resource. This is all he's waited for--no, all he is. A lower being whose feelings, wants, needs, and thoughts do not matter. His sole purpose is to suffer and die, and to be of use. Is it any surprise that when it finally appeared, it took the form of that which he most abhors--?

He regards Herbert in a way that's almost animal, his eyes glistening, his head tilted just so.

"Yeees," says Herbert, on a roll now. He didn't come into this thinking of this at all, but he knows he's right, now, he doesn't even need Foster's input. It's irrelevant right now, before he's been made into what Herbert requires through his own science, still unfinished.

"The serum will not only, in its new form, rejuvenate your brain, but in addition will sharpen your mind like my own diluted formula." An ideal assistant: one raised forcibly to be closer to his own level. "With you at a level you could never have achieved on your own: what advancements in necromantic science might we make? What new discoveries?--I will shape you, your course." It's strange, he realises, he'd thought before that to work with someone properly he'd need to respect them. It turns out all he needs is an assurance they can be controlled enough to trust.

If he manages this correctly, he'll have an colleague he never needs to worry about.

Foster doesn't look away from Herbert, doesn't dare break his gaze, but he feels inside of him an energy or nausea, barely notices his own shiver. A shiver, yes--of what, he doesn't know. It doesn't matter.

Good feelings. Bad feelings. It's feeling. And there it is, that feeling, that craving and cure he missed so deeply that he betrayed himself and his god(?) searching for it in all the wrong places, taking the raw flesh, the bared meat of his rotten purpose and sculpting it over and over, only for it to turn to ash in his ~~hands~~ claws. Again and again, by himself, trying to force the blood to the surface, but no stone large enough, no fragment of earth thrown uselessly into the ocean, rock after pebble after boulder after ruin. Alone on the precipice, screaming pointlessly back into the waves and wind as it crumbles beneath him, and ever but taking up the pieces of its ledge and casting them out ever further--

What a fool!

Because of course his design was never meant to succeed itself, but was meant to serve--

Even (or perhaps especially) in his compromised state, Foster is aware that he may never get another chance. Probably will never get this chance. He's waited--searched, tried to create this chance his whole wretched, pathetic, desperate life.

And now in this man, in this form, anathema--

He laughs, and briefly shudders in laughing, as though shaking out a chill of cold, or euphoria, or something--a feeling of visceral intensity so bordering on the obscene that it forces a physical response.

"You'll only ever get one chance," he slurs it a bit, but it's also not really clear if he's addressing himself or Herbert. It probably doesn't matter.

"Who--who am I to deny? That design... the deepest of devotions to your God, to my purpose, pour it out of me, into me. Fill me with your serum! Do it! Do it. I don't exist yet, but I can! I don't exist yet--" He makes another effort to rise off the bed, like an idiot-by all appearances, he might be trying to walk to Herbert. He hangs onto the bed post instead, staring into Herbert's eyes with what is either the intensity of a threat or the excitement of a promise.

"But I can."

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⇨ THE LUNAR SOLSTICE

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