lostcarnival | [open] december will be magic again

Entry tags:

[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! )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

So, Foster was looking for protective magic. Well, that put Strange's line of magic right out. None of what he could do was remotely good at protecting, healing, or shielding people. And, come to think of it, most people of the carnival were the same. Strange frowns slightly, putting his hand to his chin in thought.

"I'm afraid I don't know any healing magic, nor anything involving shields. That might be a good place to start, though. I'm certain some of the principles of your necromancy could be reworked to be ones of healing."

After all, necromancy knit together wounds and helped 'facilitate one's return' just as much as actual physical healing could. Strange's idea isn't too far off.

Foster immediately makes a face of revulsion, like he's stepped in something disgusting--something like brain matter and pus on the floor, perhaps. Or just the suggestion that he, Foster van Denend, ever take up anything approaching the healing arts.

"I will not be a doctor," he declares venomously. "Of any kind."

The Ringmaster herself could order him to do it and still he would resist. While there's a healthy amount of overlap between his desire for and awareness of blood and that particular kind of magic, there is no person, no profession, no art as anathema to him as that one.

"If I do anything else with my blood, magical or otherwise... it will not be that." He pauses as though realising he may have come on rather strong, but he doesn't regret it. He does smile, however incongruously, glancing aside to direct it specifically at Strange.

"Besides, who would dare to trust me with their life?"

Whereas Strange just takes the logical assumption that Foster's got a thing about other people getting hurt or dealing with other people's wounds. After all, Strange has found it's easier to stomach patching yourself up and dealing with things as a result of your actions than it is with other people. So, he simply shrugs before continuing to talk.

"I said 'or involving shields,' you know. I know the theory of a barrier spell but I'm honestly not certain if it can be fitted to your magic." It's a barrier spell that Strange knew from Portland, the one that he taught Yuya. He's got theory upon theory of how that spell was able to easily fit into Yuya's magic but Strange has a sneaky suspicion Foster would have trouble with it.

"And you do know how strapped for healers the carnival is. Desperate times, desperate measures. In a crisis situation, people couldn't afford to turn you away." But in a non-crisis situation...Foster has a point.

"We have a medic." Foster is speaking specifically about Herbert, though for all he knows there may be others. He has gone to rather extreme lengths to avoid interacting with or even thinking about anyone that could be considered a 'healer.'

"But there has to be more. There has to be more than just.... the same two stock answers, more than just healing and shielding." Anyone can heal, but he can't. Anyone can shield, but he can't.

"I don't want to just... recreate spells that already exist. I don't care about what can already be done. That's not a solution. If you want to solve something, you have to create something new. Something different." He's gesturing with his claws, grasping at invisible concepts and digging his claws into his hairline with agitation.

"The ocean is vast. The problem, the idea... it's more than big enough. It has more than one--more than two solutions! It's there, somewhere. I know. I know there's something elsewhere. Mental magic, curses." He pauses, catching his breath--

"I just have to see it."

"We've only a few magical healers and one of them heals via spit." Herbert isn't even entering Strange's thoughts as he describes the medical team. Yes, he does appreciate the fact that there's someone who knows anatomy, but how useful could that be if there was something like the Hunt, where so many people ended up hurt at once?

Still, he listens to Foster's rambling with a little frown, putting a hand to his chin in thought. Strange's method of doing magic was 'make it all up and hope for the best.' This might not be applicable here.

"Well why not take something that's already done, copy it, then add a few revisions? You can go off of it from there, but at least you'll have a baseline that you know works."

...heals... via spit.

Foster is momentarily conflicted, unclear whether he's supposed to believe Strange is having him on, but there is nothing in Strange's expression that appears to be looking for a reaction. Which leads him to believe this is a serious suggestion.

And he's laughing, but in that particularly repulsive way, a string of spittle hanging--appropriately--from his lower lip.

"Are you trying to say something?"

Because if he is--

"Because it doesn't matter what I try. If I knew how to do it--" Foster starts suddenly, all aggression, all venom and salt, but then he just... trails off, frowning deeply.

Magical healing is fairly limited where he's from, but he's still just not interested in attempting it on any scale. Wards and shields are... a complicated matter, and he doesn't know the first fucking thing about how they're cast.

"...I don't know that what's already been done, let alone how to do it," he says, more slowly--a little like he's explaining this to a particularly dense child. "And what I do know, I can't perform. It's not... my frame or reference is too different." He's ...tired suddenly.

"I'm too... different."

Ha ha. This is defeat, right? It feels pretty bad.

But he's not defeated. Last time he was--last time he thought he was--he broke through, and broke the Hard Rule of necromancy. He just needs inspiration. He needs epiphany.

"So... so it's all the same effort." He pauses one last time.

"And I still don't know what to do."

Edited 2017-12-25 08:56 (UTC)

"Only that magic works in...unexpected ways," Strange answers. Because yeah. Healing spit is a thing.

As he's still not entirely sure what Foster wants, Strange isn't sure what kind of advice he can give the man. So, he's settling for something simple: advice that he hopes will be useful even though it isn't. Besides, he can at least answer one part. Foster doesn't know what to do? Simple, gather more information until he learns what to do.

"Well that's why you're here, isn't it. If you don't know what's been done, ask around. Everyone here will be happy to talk about their magic—they wouldn't have shown up if they didn't. At least then, you'll know what's been done even if you don't know how to do it."

Strange isn't sure this is good advice—the small little frown on his face tells that much. However, it still is advice.

"I'd be happy to talk about my magic, if you want, just to see if you can get any ideas of what's been done from that."

Masking his feelings is simultaneously Foster'ss specialty and his biggest weakness--it varies from moment to moment. Right now, it's coming easily to him. So he looks mostly indifferent as he lifts his gaze to watch the gently-falling flakes of snow, a feat Strange performed with practically no visible effort.

He's not allowed to be jealous. But he has to wonder.

".... is it? Your magic, I mean. But--haha! It doesn't matter. Go ahead! I can't stop you."

What he wants! What an obscene concept.

But that is why he's here.

Honestly, he doesn't know why he bothered.

No, that's not true. He does know why he bothered. And he knows what he was hoping for. It's just.... distressing, in the end, to feel so lost and frustrated. He knows he won't fail. He cannot fail. But not being able to see the connection between where he is and where--how, what--he needs to be is deeply unsettling. It's not a good feeling. He didn't miss it at all.

He just... he just doesn't have time--!

Even though there's some hesitation, Strange is taking that 'go ahead' comment and...well, going ahead. He gives Foster a bit of a proud smile before he just starts talking.

"My magic is based on a series of agreements and navigating those agreements. If I'm doing anything nature based, I ask the trees, rivers, et cetera to change or move for me. In England, I relied on connections that nature made with the Raven King, in the carnival I rely on the connections nature makes with the Ringmaster, and in other places I simply make those connections myself."

Strange looks like he could just keep talking for ages. He's perfectly content yammering on, talking about his magic as he assumes Foster's listening. After all, that's why he's here, isn't it? To learn about others magic.

"Reflection magic is something else entirely, that's working with the inherent mystical properties of a reflection."

At first, Strange's words are sort of like a casserole--a bunch of ingredients thrown together, supposedly with meaning, but the end result isn't passing much of it on to Foster. It's just an impenetrable scramble.

It's not until Strange reaches a point where he's talking about a Raven King, and the Ringmaster, that Foster begins to glean that maybe 'connection' is like a ritual, that a ritual is like a contract, that the Raven King sounds like a title and maybe it is, because he's been reading--

"So it's not your magic. It's a contract. It's a contract with the power that moves the world. A contract with power--a contract with power--" He can't keep still while he thinks; he can't keep eye contact, either. Instead of merely pacing, his claws are tangled in his hair--not with aggressive desperation as they usually are, but still digging their pointed tips too deep in his scalp, wrapping a stray coil of curls around one of them and nearly pulling it out while he ruminates both aloud and inside--what pieces he verbalises are repetitive and piecemeal.

"Raven--the Raven... Raven King." It's hard not to notice how titular that particular name is. Like the Rose Queen. Like the Prince. "Like the Ringmaster?" he asks, turning on Strange with a sudden ferocity. "Fae? It's fae, isn't it?" He throws his head back, erupting with laughter.

"Of course he's not fae," Strange remarks, with a bit of a scoff as if it's somehow Foster's fault that he didn't know who the Raven King was. "The Raven King is human. Stolen away to faerie as a child and raised in a faerie court, but human nonetheless."

And thus it becomes obvious why Strange throws himself head-first into whatever faerie nonsense pops up at the carnival. It's woven into the very backstory of his magic. Why wouldn't he want to learn more about it?

"I've written a whole book on the subject if you want to borrow it." It's dense and wordy and Strange doesn't know the meaning of 'summary.' There's a hint of a smug tone in his voice as he mentions his book: it's one of his greatest accomplishments and Strange knows it.

'Of course he's not fae,' says Strange... before proceeding to describe what sounds to Foster like a pretty fucking fae story. True, it's not exactly what he meant--the source of power isn't the fae themselves--but the fae are involved, and pretty thoroughly from the sound of it.

It also sounds like Strange is some kind of authority on magic where he's from, which... explains a lot. Unfortunately, Foster's reception to authority he doesn't personally recognise is pretty poor, and he suddenly thinks a lot less of Strange than he did when he believed Strange to be just a particularly creative mage.

"No thank you," Foster replies in surprisingly even tone; Strange's conceit has provoked in him an instinctive contentiousness, and his affection shifts from moodiness to a cooler mien. It's definitely colder somehow, and not in a way related to the weather, though his tail sweeps away the top layer of powder snow behind his ankles.

"I... uh, haha, I have a book I'm working on--reading, not writing." He stops for a moment, allowing himself a moment to reflect on what a disgusting trainwreck of a tome that would produce--

"... anyway, I found it in the Prince's study, back at the manor. We were there to steal from him anyway, so I didn't see a problem with taking it too."

Whether Strange is an actual authority on magic or not is debatable. He certainly thinks he is, so he is treating this conversation like he is ergo Foster gets ego for days. He (obviously) straight up ignores that colder tone as Foster continues talking.

A quick way to get Strange's attention is to mention the fae. Another quick way is to mention books. Mentioning a book stolen from a fae is enough that all conversation about the Raven King is ignored to talk about this new development.

"What does the book say?" Strange asks, downright interested. "And what is it about?"

"Reality," Foster quips; apparently it's his turn to make it sound like Strange should have found that obvious somehow, though it's less scofflike and more simply brisk.

"The sources of those things that are real, and constant, and those which have power." Typically, he's mixing the explicit with what he believes implicit--although he's doing it a lot less so than usual, honestly. There's so much in this book that feeds into his ideology, and vice versa.

It's also very nearly the first book Foster has read in years--aside from a few practical tomes on necromancy a few months ago, he's deliberately pruned the act of reading from his life out of a conviction that he's wasting his increasingly limited time--that their various merits are wasted on someone like him, and escapism is a luxury he doesn't have.

"It describes beings of power, and how they came to be--the origins of their forms, the patterns of their consistency. It's.... mmmm." He stops, trying to find a word that isn't 'powerful' to describe it. Or 'long.' Though it really is both.

"Fascinating." He's not even a little ashamed of how into this he is. "And dense." He says this in a way that implies he's attempting to warn Strange, though even Foster suspects that's exactly the kind of thing Strange would adore.

Strange just stares, taking in everything Foster is saying. A book about the fae, explaining just what they are and what they can do and so on and so forth.

He does adore this. Not even the admission that the book is dense is enough to shake that rapt expression off of Strange's face. Besides, his book is dense to begin with. Lengthy tomes are nothing for Strange.

"Let me read it when you're done," Strange pleads, looking over at Foster with a wild grin on his face. "This sounds exactly like what I'm looking for!"

"...."

Foster was not entirely prepared for that calibre of response. His head lifts and he turns his face aside, keeping his eyes on Strange in the process. Then a grin of his own crosses his face.

"I'll think about it," he says finally. He's not being coy--he does want to think about it before he makes any kind of verdict. Until now, he'd taken numerous pains to keep the book's contents to himself. Telling Strange the book was about fae at all was an impulsive decision, one predicated partially on a sudden, spiteful urge to 'overpower' the magician--and partially on the fact that Strange is, in Foster's distorted view, the only local expert on fae who isn't fae himself.

Now he's considering sharing it.

Maybe.

At least in Strange's mind, 'I'll think about it' is better than 'absolutely not.' At least this means he'll have a chance. Besides, he's confident in his ability to wear Foster down and prove that really, it'd be best for all involved if he just took a look at the book, read some of it, copy a few passages down for his own notes, nothing bad here.

So Strange's grin widens at Foster's response. "That's all I can ask for," he continues with a shrug, "though I will happily tell you more about my relations with the fae, if you wish."

Partly because Strange wants to prove to Foster that really, he should see that book, it would be a good idea if he did so, and partly because Strange honestly wants to gloat about how much he knows about the fae. Though really, it wasn't gloating, it was simply him presenting his case!

Strange's earnestness is still throwing Foster, but he's already starting to see his advantage it. After all--Strange really could have just told Foster he'd trade his experiences with and knowledge of the fae for a look at Foster's book and have secured himself some kind of deal... but if he wants to go to all the trouble of giving Foster that information for free, then Foster is all ears.

He doesn't actually give Strange the courtesy of facing the magician directly, but there is a light in his eyes, a barely lesser version of the the excitement Strange is emanating--the way the sun's light is reflected by the moon, perhaps.

With a sharp-toothed grin.

"Ha ha! If I wish?" His tail is the only part of him as energetic as his voice implies.

Oh, but please! By all means! Don't let him stop you...!

What Foster views as giving information for free, Strange views as buttering up his accomplishments and bragging. Of course he'd be happy to tell Foster the story of how he traveled to faerie and saved his wife from a member of the fae, he'd certainly like to explain to Foster how that fae kind of accidentally got dead.

"Why not!" Strange brightly responds. He takes a few steps closer to the man, attempting to face Foster head on, despite his attempts to not look Strange in the eyes. There's a glint of something in Strange's mirrored eyes: excitement, madness, bragging, it's hard to tell.

"If you're curious enough to be reading a book about them, then certainly you're curious enough to hear about what I have to tell you. After all, aside from the faerie I dealt with in my world, I've had dealings with fae from both courts in my time at the carnival."

Granted, both of those dealings ended up going south. But still, Strange is perfectly content smoothing over those details and just telling Foster about the fae and his interactions with them himself, not the other bits like 'being played for a chump' or 'outright getting tortured.' What Foster doesn't know won't hurt him.

"What do you want to hear about first?"

If Foster were hoping to avoid Strange's energy, to keep his own notoriously unreliable sanity in check, he's doing a terrible job. The truth is that Foster is often just escalation in human form--Strange's insistence on locking eyes with him is less "deer in the headlights" and more "setting the water to boil."

Or maybe more like setting the water back over the fire. Either way, he'll find that same kind of glint--just deeper in, and maybe a little bit darker. If it makes any sense at all for a light to be darker.

"Tell me about your world," Foster says--he's still holding his head up, as though attempting to look over and then down at Strange, instead of his usual worm's-eye angle. It's still eager, though, his eyes partially lidded but bright with unconcealed interest.

"Then the Carnival."

Strange has Foster's attention. So, Strange takes this as an opportunity to ramble. As he talks, he gestures with his hands, quick, sharp gestures full of excitement.

"In my world, magicians of old used to work hand in hand with faeries. The stories used to go that they were faerie servants, but having stayed at the carnival, I have a feeling the playing field was more equal than the magicians of old would admit. It was commonplace enough that a few hundred years later, after the revival of English magic was well underway, people would ask my friend and I if we had any faerie servants to begin with."

Something which Strange finds intensely amusing: a wry smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

"I briefly worked with one fae myself. I don't know his exact name or what he wanted to be called by—the master of Lost Hope, perhaps? He was a tall man, with hair the color of thistledown." He says, like of course Foster knows what the hell color thistledown is to begin with (fun fact: it's pale white). Said fae also hated Strange and tried to fuck him over so oddly enough, that part of the story is briefly getting skipped over.

"To the best of my knowledge, there isn't as stratified a court system in my world as we have come up against. The realm that my world calls faerie is, I believe, a series of interconnected kingdoms, some ruled by John Uskglass, some ruled by other fae, all connected by either the king's roads or aspects of faerie itself."

Foster is rapt. The odds that he'll remember most of this are abysmal, but he wants it. He wants as much of this story as he can get, and more.

The idea of faeries servant to humans is so intrinsically comical that he can't not bark a laugh at it--he doesn't interrupt any more, though, because this is informative... somewhat in ways he wasn't expecting.

He's especially interested in the fact that Strange worked (closely?) with a member of the fae before--Strange may want to skip on those details, but Foster isn't here for the LedgePad version of Strange's valuable first-hand experiences.

"The king's roads? J--no, wait, fuck." He almost asks who John UskGlass is, but realises after opening his mouth that Strange basically just said he(?)'s another fae. He's getting scrambled already, waving his claws sharply by the sides of his head with increasing vehemence, as though he's hoping to herd his thoughts--Strange's words, himself. He hates this. He hates how hard it is to simply listen--

"Wait. Wait." He has to take a second--just give him a second.

A second to recover from the excitement of actually learning something he wants to.

The fact that Strange is just throwing term after term with little to no explanation at Foster certainly isn't helping matters. Even now, after months at the carnival, Strange still has the annoying little habit of assuming that everybody knows the same things that he does.

Thankfully, as Foster gestures for him to slow down, Strange does so. He pauses for a moment, before Strange starts talking again. Some times it seems this man is allergic to silence.

"I'm waiting," he simply responds. "What do I need to clarify?"

Because Strange has a feeling that's what the problem is. Has he even told Foster about the king's roads before? Maybe? He honestly can't remember.

It is not helping, and neither is Strange's refusal to stop talking, even if that speech isn't strictly more information--it still takes brainpower for Foster to process what it isn't, and he's starting to lose the last vestiges of control over his reactions. His paws clench fitfully, 3-inch claws curling inwards at the sound of Strange's continued voice. It's not just pressure; it's disorder, it's desperation, it's the half second from eruption, either at himself or at Strange. He wants his focus back, his thought, not--not this, and--

Thankfully, he gets that half a second (maybe even a whole second, or two!) to reclaim himself, or at least force words out, though he feels alarmingly disconnected from them now.

"The... the king's roads," Foster starts, but waves a paw rapidly to ward him off of speech yet--Strange having gotten closer, this swipes those ursine claws mere inches from the magician's face.

"The mmmm...." He takes an impatient breath. "M-master of lost hope." His eyes are bright-shining, a blue glint in stark contrast with the volatile tension of his body. It's like he's compressing, really. "That... that first."

Edited 2018-01-06 06:17 (UTC)

"In my world, faerie realms have names. Lost Hope was one of them—well, Lost Hope was possibly one of them. I do not know if it's the name of the castle or the name of the realm itself, but it's important enough for that fae to identify himself as the master." There's a pause while Strange mulls it over, thinking of another way to describe it.

"It's like the carnival. The Ringmaster is, well, master of the carnival which is the name of her realm."

He doesn't go ahead into explaining other terms. Strange waits, watching Foster, and looking over the man for any point of clarification or spark of insight or any part that obviously confused him.

[open] december will be magic again

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I'M gonna erupt with laughter if he's wrong tbh

he wrong. c:

NOT... WRONG ENOUGH....... but hey the book came up!

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Tag written pre-coffee. Hopefully it parses.

lmao don't worry, I understood it

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