lostcarnival | [open] december will be magic again

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[open] december will be magic again

Who: everyone!
When: the evening of D15
Where: A small meeting hall on the moon, close to the portal to the carnival
What: a whole bunch of show-offs meet up to show off their magic, people interested in magic come to learn about said magic, and other people show up to see if something inevitably gets set on fire. (aka mage club)
Warnings: none so far, will edit if needed.

The meeting hall is a large open space, with hardwood floors and a rustic decor. A few chairs and tables are scattered around, though there aren't enough for the amount of people who'll hopefully show up. Some food has been set out: mostly finger foods (tiny sandwiches, fruit, veggies & dip) though there are some savory options and plenty of home-baked cookies, courtesy of Rin. Drink wise, there's water, hot chocolate, hot tea, and a few bottles of wine because tipsy magic sounds like an awesome idea and this is what happens when the alcoholic makes the dinner menu. Aside from the food table and the few tables, there's not much of anything in the room: plenty of open space for showing off or getting out of the way of someone who wants to show off.

One of the doors of the meeting hall leads to the outside. There's a wider, 'backyard' sort of area with plenty of room for people to cast magic as large and impressive as they want. A fire pit stands outside also for warming your hands and other fire-based magic. Please don't set the building on fire.

This is all very informal. If pressed for details, Strange would have told anyone to just come whenever, stay as long as you like, and so on and so forth. The emphasis is on learning about each other's magic, displaying one's skills and talents, and helping anyone who wished to learn magic decide on a path for them to take.

Showing off is just a given.

( ooc: This is an open mingle log! Feel free to make your own top-levels & tag around! )

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He's not entirely foreign to the concept of necromancy given the Earl often called back souls to inhabit mechanical and flesh covered bodies in order to do his bidding. While he was curious if anyone else could do it, he simply wanted to observe. Foster thankfully won't have to worry about him ever picking up this habit. It was too messy, too time consuming, and Tyki preferred more effective means of getting a job done then something like this.

He takes a seat in the snow, even with his somewhat casual yet crisp attire on, and will rest a cheek into one hand to watch. His eyes are ever attentive to the point where he reaches into the bucket and retrieves the poor mouse in question to when he holds it in that callous way with an intent fixed for something rotten. There's an odd yet satisfying grin on his face as he's in a cheerful mood like always, "Mmmhmm. Carry on."

Herbert doesn't particularly want to prompt Foster in public. He's developing methodology that he doesn't want to share for one. Also, he can't afford to lose his veneer of respectability in order to avoid losing Foster's respect. So he's been waiting for someone else to approach Foster and ask, pencil and notepad at the ready to remove from his overcoat, following the first person outside who looked inclined.

He's hovering a bit back, but not hiding, particularly. He wants to be close enough so as to not miss anything.

Foster doesn't notice Herbert immediately. He's making eye contact with the... whoever this is, smiling while he tightens his grip. The pressure between his claws crushes the mouse's neck and pushes its head forward, severing its cervical vertebrae. It's already dead, but it spasms for a couple of seconds, kicking and jerking in his palm.

He's not very strong, but he doesn't have to be.

Mice are not very sturdy.

He releases it, dumping it perfunctorily into the centre of the patterned circle he's carved in the snow and soil with his claws.

"Obviously... you need to start by having something dead."

Once upon a time, not all that long ago, he would have marked the points of the circle with candles and then lit them, but he has found the memento mori can be adjusted to his needs. Or whims. This time it's mostly whim. He has marked the circle out with candles, but he doesn't light them. They were already lit a few days ago and have now burnt out, their wicks black and charred. There are twelve of them, spaced perfectly around the inner border.

"But you don't need a circle. You don't need any... any shape. What you need is the ritual. What you need is your symbols. Your frame of reference."

He moves around the circle clockwise, spacing out his steps, pacing himself, counting. Numbers matter; meter can form its own symbology. And, as he paces, he recites a rhyme.

One that might or might not be familiar; it doesn't matter.

"Hickory dickory dock. The mouse ran up the clock. The clock struck one, the mouse ran down--"

On the number 'one,' he has paced himself precisely so that he his steps match the tempo of a clock; he has paced himself precisely so that he's at one 'one o'clock' position on his symbolic, circular clock. He has paced himself precisely so that on that syllable, he draws the blade of a cooking knife across his arm (it was stolen from the kitchen, again), a cut both deep and swift--

He didn't have to go so deep, before, but now if he's too cautious, it'll soak into his fur--

But this time it wells up quickly and bleeds well, splattering over the candle marking that spoken hour.

"--hickory, dickory, dock."

The candles' burnt-out, smoke-scented ends sputter and spark, lighting up anew even as the mouse itself spasms, its tiny legs jerking to kick again. Despite its dislocated skull, it finds its footing, and sits up before running to him.

He kneels, and it clambers over his claws and into his barely-steady palm. He's light-headed, fast-pulsed and bright-eyed, just shy of overstimulated and somewhere beyond merely aroused or awakened. Magic--his own magic--is always a a kind of rush, an experience he would gladly repeat, again and again, however many times his body can stand it.

The only thing that stops him, really, is a want of purpose. And the fact that he only has so much blood.

He doesn't bother looking back up at Tyki here; the spell is done.

He doesn't notice Herbert either if only for the vast amount of souls lingering around him and not to mention he isn't really pinpointing right now who is going in and out. Were it something private in a more secure location either he would've mentioned the wandering soul or his Tease would've alerted him to the presence of someone else.

It's with renewed pleasure that he watches this ritual from someone who looks like they are clearly enjoying themselves. He himself loved to indulge others to enjoy the pleasures of life and any rush or thrill that came with anything he didn't mind watching.

He listens like a good student even if he's not hear to learn. He understands, more than Foster might anticipate, what he is referring to. With the Earl's technique there were ever changing variables but there were some things that never changed. There was always the metal frame of the construct the soul would be housed in. There was always the exchange of life from one to another and the call of a loved one, from those mourning the lost person, was necessary to complete it. The location mattered little nor did any precious item need to be required.

He's no analyzer but he's watching steps and the pacing with a raised brow. He's waiting for the 'exchange' and when blood is drawn the recognizes it as such. Messy and not as instantaneous as the Earl's but it gets the job done. Plus, no one has to die to revive something.

"Not what I'm use to seeing but still handy," he says a little passively. It was entertaining at least.

Foster would have been pretty surprised if that ritual was what Tyki was used to seeing. Barriers between worlds aside, the ritual he'd just demonstrated wouldn't have animated so much as a tadpole if it had been performed by anyone else from his world, let alone raised something with a soul. That's why he'd done it: to turn people away.

"It gets more useful," Foster replies lazily, closing the mouse into his hands--he doesn't crush the little creature, but there's a distinct air of threat to it nonetheless.

Then again, maybe it's just the size of his paws; he's all bright smile, radiating a kind of happiness with himself that's rare to see.

Then he spots Herbert.

The world tilts, dilates. Fear freezes him. His heart stops, his stomach turns to ice. But he is silent only for a moment. And his smile falters even less.

"--Herbert."

Herbert is currently in something of a note taking fugue state, so it takes him a moment to respond to his name and properly look up instead of up and down between his notebook.

"Mm?" Foster has stopped the procedure, which is honestly what makes him attend the most. "Oh....no, don't mind my being here, I'm only...writing a few things down?" He gestures forward with the hand holding the pencil. "Continue." And then he goes back to finishing off writing down his last few observations.

Already he can tell there was something off about the other but he makes no real note of it in his facial features. He himself was just really good at not showing his true colors when it came to his darker pleasures. It's why he didn't back out of the first questioning of being sure he wanted this. The distinct threat when those paws close around the mouse doesn't make him shy away either.

"Does it now?" he questions with his tone full of curiosity and a small urge to continue. He's even leaning forward until a small blink from him shows on his face at the change in body language. Ecstatic doesn't fade away that easily unless something stronger replaces it.

His hand lifts from his cheek and slaps down to his knee intentionally to create a loud sound. He even tilts his head back over his shoulder towards the other just taking notes?? "Well, that's one way to ruin a good mood..." Note taking seemed so dull.

Tyki might be concerned about hiding his affinity for darker pleasures, but Foster barely has any pleasures; he'll take what he can get.

Things between Foster and Herbert are really best described as 'it's complicated.' Everything about Herbert is anathema to Foster--his profession, his ideals, his methodology. The only reason Herbert doesn't cause him to shut down completely (or quickly leave) is Herbert himself.

The man has a way of consistently baiting Foster, of cutting open the abscess of thought and draining the foul discharge--leaving behind a painful, gaping cavity not cleansed and ready for healing, but leaking and primed for reinfection.

Or so it seems. Then again, it's not like he can see it, glistening and raw, nestled deep within his brain. Maybe there's something about the heady cocktail of pain and pain and pain relief that has him addicted. Or maybe it really will heal.

Time will tell.

".... continue?" he echoes, sounding dazed. "Haha! Continue... is that what you want?"

It's not clear if he's talking to Tyki or Herbert, honestly; he's letting the mouse run treadmill from paw to paw, or rather has compelled it to, the endless loop of its trajectory giving him plenty of compulsive outlet for his unsteady paws.

"...yes," says Herbert, sounding impatient. He gestures vaguely forward with his pencil. "Theeere's no need to ruin anything...aside from the mouse I assume." He chuckles slightly, high in his throat and nearly silent. "You've started. Don't stop now, certainly not on my account when I want to see what happens next."

He's being fairly forward but perhaps not as forthright as he'd be if Tyki wasn't there. Tyki, if his drunk self is any indication, is the type to sink his fingers into any weakness and pull apart to see what would happen. Herbert doesn't want to give away his project.

"Continue," he repeats, more forcibly, prompting this time.

"Actually," he starts off with a low tone and a smooth sound of laziness, "If you could wait a minute, I am kind of thirsty."

He's even getting up with a hand on the ground and a rise to his feet. Herbert seems so impatient and he's ruining the feel good mood that they had just a moment. He holds up a hand with a reassuring smile and pats the air gently with a dust of his pants.

That's right, he's stalling on purpose just to drag things out and he'll point towards the mage club where it is currently being held and starts to stroll his way over there. "No really. I'll be right back. Please wait. I really want to see."

Don't mind if he just walks in that direction now and take exactly six minutes to find a water bottle, two minutes to get there and two minutes to get back. He's wasting ten minutes of Herbert's time on purpose.

Foster grows visibly less uncertain as Herbert speaks--apprehensive, maybe, wary, even, but no longer uncertain. It's a kind of internal transformation: from an aimless, reckless collection of impulses to something more purposeful, something approaching a cohesive action if not an actual person.

He holds eye contact with Herbert--very long eye contact, too long, even, and all but unblinking--while he's given his directives, but by the time Hebert has issued his final command, he's settled into something like resolve and he's already steering the dead mouse (invisibly, by will alone) up his arm so he can instead begin work on a new one.

Then Tyki tells him to wait.

He almost doesn't. It's a near thing, in part because at first he doesn't really parse what's being said after Herbert's final word--but Tyki continues to insist and he glances at Herbert, once again unsure. His face is ostensibly impassive but his eyes... are clear enough.

Edited 2018-01-18 09:32 (UTC)

Herbert stares ahead with dead eyes for a moment before rolling his eyes upwards. Of course Tyki would do this. Of course. He can't be less than a nuisance for a damned moment. It's incredibly tempting to just say to hell with Tyki and get Foster to continue with his show, as he clearly wants to now that Herbert's demanded it.

But fine. He'll be reasonable. He'll be more polite than Tyki, that fool. Call it good will. Call it, more accurately, Herbert still with a lookout for his reputation, such as it might be in these early days.

"You may as well wait," he says, irritation plain in his voice. "Mikk prompted it in the first place, after all, I'll give him that much."

He returns at exactly the ten minute mark and eases himself into a sit all over again right where he was before. It was enough distance to given Foster room to play and get an up and close look. He knows he kept Foster waiting and he's reading his body language with a bit of a light regret over the matter. Still, there were consequences for ever action and he notes to not stretch the patience of the one performing too far.

"Thanks for waiting," he says dryly. He does glance over his shoulder at Herbert with a short stare in his direction. His eyes lower for a moment as if scanning him over before he just turns his head back towards Foster.

His elbow will hit his knee and he'll rest his cheek there into his raised hand with a cheerful expression, "Please continue with the same vigor you had before Herb arrived."

Well...

Foster shifts his weight slightly to rest further back on his heels, glancing at Herbert sidelong--he doesn't say anything, just watches the scientist closely. The only clue to his tension is the fact that he's fairly straight-backed for once, and the way the already-raised mouse scurries around his body.

He doesn't really have the ability to attend for ten solid minutes, though.

So by the time Tyki returns, he's completely distracted, and jerks in surprise.

"Oh! Haha!" Right. Magic.

"Mmmm." He makes a low pensive sound as he struggles to regain the scattered pieces of his--his self, more than his mere thoughts or intentions. t least under Herbert's unwavering scrutiny... under that, he is actually more whole. Even as he feels like his entire body will light on fire, even as he fears and mistrusts and hates Herbert, he can perform like this.

And perform he will.

While he waits, Herbert keeps eye contact a moment longer before returning to observing the raised mouse and taking notes on its movement. He even takes Tyki's absence as an excuse to advance briefly and take better notes on the positioning of the candles before he heads back to his lurking spot before.

He's already regretting his politeness by the time Tyki returns, even if it's given him time to process some hypotheses it was still an unnecessary pause, expressly for the purpose of ticking him off.

"Before you left," he says, correcting what he sees as Tyki's mistaken assumption. Foster was, after all, completely eager to continue before Tyki's interruption. He gives Foster a nod, though. Do continue.

He could mention that Foster was acting a little different compared to the energy he had put forward before hand. He could specific and argue that it was Herbert's fault in general for showing up in the first place. Tyki was the one that prompted his excitement and now it seemed like a lack luster reason to perform than please the general audience.

What little politeness might've coerced Tyki to behave was gone. Had Herbet kept his trap shut he would've found that Tyki significantly would've calmed his unnecessary trolling. Well then, in that case.

His free hand slides off his leg and into the air. A single, solitary Tease emerges from it with a twirling flit into the air. He taps his own nose before he thumbs backwards towards Herbert and with a snap of his fingers it gently flits in the air towards the buzz killer. Don't worry. It's not out to attack. It's just going to keep trying to land on his face for the remainder of the 'performance'.

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[open] december will be magic again

Outside

HI SORRY ABOUT THIS, DESH.

CW animal death, self-injury and blood. It's necromancy, okay.

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Cw for... gross?

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Gives you two a chance to snipe at each other before the text wall

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