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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one: inside
Some of those savory options are eggs. Strange has left some of the more elaborate egg dishes alone but he's inhaled at least a third of any hard-boiled eggs that were brought and, unless stopped, will probably eat the rest of the dish. So, he's got a peeled egg in his hand as he wanders around the room, checking to see who's here, making conversation with practically anyone, and chatting up magic to whoever'll let him.

To his credit, Strange is an attentive listener whenever someone starts talking about their magic. He's just not so much an attentive listener when the conversation shifts somewhere else.

As people enter the room, Strange descends upon them with the practiced smile of someone accustomed to hob-nobbing. "I'm glad you could make it. We've coat racks in the corners, drinks on that table in the back. Feel free to stay as long as you like!"

two: outside
Strange isn't drunk drunk yet, but he is on his second glass of wine. Now that everything's (hopefully) running smoothly, he feels comfortable enough to relax and have a drink or so. He's going to moderate himself tonight: half a bottle at most.

He's outside near the fire pit, warming himself, as he looks out onto the snow. Undoubtedly some of it's been trampled down by people running about, doing fun snow magic, doing fun fire magic, and so on and so forth. As such, the area looks a little sad right now.

"I can put down a new layer of fresh snow if you think it'd be best," he says to whoever else is outside by the fire pit. This is simply Strange trying to be helpful! Not him blatantly showing off at all! "It would certainly make the space look more scenic."

[INSIDE]

Carly, partial hummingbird that she is, is doing what she normally does when free food is involved these days. Hovering at a minimum of three inches from the ground at all times, she zips back and forth along the various places where food has been laid out, stacking snack upon snack onto her plate. She only occasionally munches on something....but she's definitely stock piling for one reason or another, and eventually she can be seen sitting at the side carefully bundling her plate within a scrap of fabric.

....What.

[OUTSIDE]

Out in the relative darkness, it's even easier than ever to see Carly's extreme changes. It is as if a rainbow streams and flows from her body, filling out where feathers would have been on her wings and tail, flitting out in small streams from the various 'holes' formed between fae marks in otherwise marble-like feathers and skin....Even her hair moves from black to 'light', and in the darkness? That stands out a lot.

So does her fire. Right now, she sticks with her 'Demon Fire'; a solid violet, with a core of orange at the center, she holds a small ball of it on her hand and nods to whoever might be watching.

"Okay... I'm all ready, and I've got my snacks for after~! Who wants to see a show!~"

Oh so that's what the food was for.....

[Inside]

It's a loose affair, which suits Syrlya just fine for initial introductions. Perhaps if enough of them were dedicated to make it a formal gathering they could, but this is a vacation.

He doesn't stick to one side of the area if he's not engaged in conversation, although he's also not helping himself to much food. He's more interesting in half-eavesdropping and magic theorizing. At one point, though, he stops at one of the festive bouquets at the end of the table that's looking droopy. A few of the blooms are withering, and a couple others have yet to open.

There's a moment of pause before Syrlya moves to gently touch his fingers to the stems. The flowers perk up quickly, standing straighter and blooming wide open again. He doesn't make the dying blooms ones any less wilted, but they stand up stronger than before for what life is left in them.

[Outside]

For most of the evening, Syrlya hangs to the side and watches all the other demonstrations with full attention. Some of them he's already seen, but there are many more magic users than there are nightrunners, and seeing what is all very different forms of magic with very similar results is interesting. And when there's something completely different, he leans forward with particular interest.

He'll still demonstrate what he's capable of, but only once asked. Otherwise, he's content to be the spectator.

Syr attracts Foster's attention specifically, one of the few who actually does. For the most part, he's been... lurking, lingering around the edges of demonstrations, face impassive and mouth shut.

But Syr...

Syr did not actually make an immensely good impression on Foster, back at the manor. It's nothing he specifically did or didn't do--even with brain damage, Foster is capable of assuming that if Syr had known that box was filled with an infinite supply of magically venomous spiders, he wouldn't have opened it. But the end result of that misadventure meant that Syr held them up, and Foster has very little patience at the best of times, so waiting while everyone else worried about the plant man's survival, or whether or not to amputate his arm, was... a distinct mark against him.

And yet.

It was Syr who traversed the rosethorns to coax the artefact itself to his withered arm. And it was Syr's magic, not Taako's, that helped maintain their invisibility. In more ways than one, Syr's magic had seemed to functionally mirror Childermass', but with the added advantage of... Syr not being Childermass.

Which means that at some point, when Syr is attempting to move away from some mage or other, he'll turn around and find Foster directly in his shadow, blue eyes fixed on him unblinkingly.

"Hello."

Syrlya is, in fact, surprised to turn around and see Foster right up in his face. He takes a step back to put space between them before he registers who it is.

"Oh--Foster, isn't it?" They never had formal introductions, but Syrlya remembers the name to match the description. He certainly remembers him being part of their trip for the rose, and that familiarity means that he greets Foster with a smile once his nerves settle.

"Hello! You are a mage as well, or only learning?" He never did see much... if any of Foster's skillset during that whole ordeal, and then the chaos tore them in different directions.

Inside

Foster is here to learn, not to.... to advertise, or show off. He avoids the food, all of it, very pointedly, but hovers around conversations and watches demonstrations with a kind of bright-eyed intensity that's always paired with an uncanny smile, or else manages to be accompanied by absolutely no facial expression at all.

His preferences are pretty obvious--flashy offensively oriented magics lose his interest immediately; long preparations or potion-making processes similarly disinterest him. If your form of magic is instantaneous in process, though or you're taking a really long time to explain something...

Foster really only has two things he likes in this world.

Instant gratification and excruciating puzzles.

Which one are you?

Outside

As per Strange's request, Foster has exiled his magic to the outdoors, where his blood will be absorbed into the snow and moon soil. He is actually reluctant to explain much, but will at least demonstrate the basics if asked. He's brought with him a lidded bucket, with mice in it.

His reluctance has multiple layers to it--some of it is simply an unwillingness to reveal the particulars of what he views as his magic, the one skill or knowledge that gives him any distinctive use, especially in light of the Carnival's surprisingly competitive magical environment. He doesn't like to reveal secrets under the best of conditions. It's the one thing he can generally be relied upon to do. Or not do, really. So asking about his magic will prompt him to open the bucket's top, making eye contact with whoever inquired about it as he reaches inside, swiftly trapping a little fawn-furred barn mouse in his curved ursine claws. He'll hold it like that, its tiny head pressed between the flatter sides of two black claws.

"Are you sure?"

[OOC Note: Whichever prompt you pick, he'll be wearing this with no jacket.

His arms are furry, it's fine.]

Edited 2017-12-08 21:32 (UTC)

"A necromancer," Foster replies, bluntly. His callous tone in this is somewhat intended to unsettle, but is also just a side effect of his temperament. Foster is rarely anything except infuriatingly evasive or openly frightening.

"But... looking to--"

It occurs to him at the last second that his original word choice, 'branch out', will almost definitely be considered either insensitive (which is fine) or previous (which is not.)

"Mmmm. Learn."

And that's how his sentence came out even creepier than it would have originally.

Syrlya's reaction to Foster's admittance of Necromancy is completely passive. As if he told him he was a baker or something. Incidentally, it also puts his behavior into perspective as just a thing, so despite the creepy tone Syrlya doesn't even blink twice. Necromancers were weird and unsettling sometimes, it comes with the territory.

"That seems to be the goal of much of the carnival's mages, isn't it? I'm afraid I don't have near enough experience with necromancy to be helpful, however."

Not that he felt it was expected, but he figures he should establish that before the questions can even start.

(a - showing off with a fire dragon)

"All right, listen up. I'm going to demonstrate some blastia magic." Rita stands outside in a nice open space near the hut, perfect for destructive magic. She points to the red-jeweled choker she's wearing. "This here is a blastia. It's a device that converts aer into magic energy. By applying a formula and activating it with a chant, an ordinary human with the right knowledge can use magic... like so."

She takes a spellcasting stance, a magic circle drawn in red light appearing at her feet. "O seething fire, be as a holy beast to devour the wicked...! Flame Dragon!"

A large ball of fire forms in the air, growing larger until something bursts out of it: a serpentine dragon made of pure fire, wriggling in the air, fangs flashing. Though it never touches the ground, the snow beneath its path melts from the sheer heat coming off of its body. It flies in a circle to show the observers, then turns upward, soaring up toward the sky and dissipating into smoke.

Rita dusts her hands off in a self-congratulating gesture. "If anyone wants to know more about blastia magic, I'll have a book on the subject finished soon. Or you can ask me." As the onlookers start to wander off, Rita lingers, standing with her arms folded. Now might be a good time to talk to her.

(b - being nosy)

Naturally, Rita's here to see what others can do as much as she is to talk about her own knowledge. She gravitates to as many demonstrations as she can catch, notebook in hand, making notes and sketches... some might even catch her whipping out a video camera and filming.

But sometimes, she seems to take interest in people who aren't showing off... or at least, not at the moment. With her third eye, she notices something magical about the other person... perhaps it's some kind of energy within them, an aura, or a sense of something magical in an object they're carrying. Whatever it is, Rita will stare very pointedly. However gifted she is with magic, she has no such gift for social graces.

(c - wildcard)

I'm open to other scenarios! Rita will be around, watching other people's demonstrations intently, sometimes with a video camera in hand, sometimes with a notebook. Occasionally, she can be found lingering by the refreshment table or sitting by the fire pit holding a hot chocolate with both hands.

That's... odd. Then again, Childermass also had a distinct non-reaction to his magic. He doesn't really require any kind of negativity (for once), but he's come to somewhat expect it...

Mmmm.

"... no one... has experience with necromancy," he says very slowly. "Besides me."

He'd been under the impression that Strange did--the man had actually more or less said as much--but if so, it's such a rudimentary grasp that he was trying to kill an undead construct with a plain knife.

So the only necromancer here is Foster. And he's not looking to learn more necromancy, he's looking to learn... whatever else might exist, and prove useful to ~~Lambert~~ him.

It's as Rita's staring at someone else that Strange appears, glass of wine in hand, walking up to Rita with a little smile before he just obliviously busts in on her creepy staring. He doesn't make any small talk: no hello, how are you, and so on, but just starts talking about magic then and there.

"I believe you have a new spell to show me." And Strange's tone of voice is just excited as hell. Out of all the magicians at the carnival, Rita's one of the more skilled in his eyes. If she's pieced out a new spell or gotten a new type of magic to work then no matter what, it was going to be impressive.

Dammit Strange, Rita was looking at something interesting there... but she did agree to show him her technique, so she can't be too mad. Besides, this is absolutely worth getting excited over.

Running a hand through her hair, she turns and answers, "Yeah. You got something I can demonstrate on?"

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."

"I will in a moment." Which probably isn't the answer that Rita's looking for, but Strange just continues talking like this isn't a problem or a bit of a minor inconvenience.

"All I know of this technique of yours is that it interacts with other magic. Well, what sort of magic would you like to interact with? Would an elemental spell suffice or would you like me to try and manipulate an object directly?"

It's slightly nitpicky and slightly Strange being specific for the sake of being specific, but he wants to see what exactly Rita can do. Slightly nitpicky is the best way to go about that.

"I noticed elemental magic appears to be the most common." He's curious why--is that just a coincidence for what people have joined the carnival, or is it more common across worlds than any other form of it?

Well, given the various ways magic itself takes form, rocks and rivers are probably the most consistent from place to place. "Have you seen anything interesting?"

"Also the most boring," Foster responds with a little more acridity than is polite. "Any child can learn to make an ice cube, light a candle."

This is actually true, where he's from. Freezing water is a literal grade-school spell. Fire isn't allowed until middle school, but it's hardly any different. If he had any brain at all left from those days, he'd probably still know how to do it himself. But the Ringmaster's punishment of memory couldn't come with any perks, so he just remembers how exciting it was, to be in fifth grade and draw his own ritual circle around his own little clay bowl of water.

He also remembers how much longer it took him, staying after school week after week to relearn the first steps, long after everyone else was moving on. The deteriorating ball of bat and electricity in his head was turning to rot faster than he could learn.

Not that anyone knew. He thought he was just stupid.

Self-fulfilling prophecy!

"I was going to ask you that. Invisibility isn't an elemental magic."

What else do you know?

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.

That catches Syrlya's attention, and he's surprised to hear Foster not only refer to lighting a candle with magic but calling it easy. Of course, before he can ask he's turned the conversation back around. Oh, he'll get to it after.

"No, it isn't. I am a Mesmer, and my specialty is in illusions." He can't say he's completely alone in his abilities, either--Childermass has some similar functionality with shadow magic, and Taako has similar spells. "But I would not be here if I cared only about my specialty. I'm interested in everyone's magic, especially how it functions between our homes."

"Illusions?" Foster repeats; he's already forgotten about the other topic. Illusions. Seen, but not real. He knows this one.

"Illusions?" he says again. He's got brain damage, that's gonna happen. But he's rolling ahead now, hasty as he catches the coattails of the thought, the knowledge that almost escaped him, that's already escaping, so he has to say it, quick, before the memory is lost again--

"Green--green magic. Like a glamour."

"Glamours, precisely!" He points for emphasis, smiling. "But it isn't green. Chaos magic is purple."

This is a world difference. Syrlya is aware of that, but he can only describe his side of the color-coded magic experience. "Necromancy is the green one."

"Necromancy is red," Foster counters immediately. "Drawing on white or black."

Never mind that Lambert has already informed Foster that where he's from, magic doesn't have any colours at all. Foster just hates contradictions that aren't part of a pattern. But that's not the real issue; he won't remember what he was just told about Syr's arbitrary colours one hour from now, let alone one day or one week.

"Chaos. Explain." It's an outright demand. Because as far as Foster is concerned, magic is also patterned. Chaos has nothing to do with it.

But the word has power to it.

And that's a contradiction that merits his attention.

Syrlya's not sure if 'sickly green' or 'red' is a more appealing appearance of necromatic magic. But all right. In Tyria it's green, in Foster's world it's red. They call it the same thing, anyway.

"I manipulate chaos energy. It--" He circles his hand vaguely in the air, trying to remember how he explained this before. "Magic in Tyria is a tangible force. Almost an element itself. It has different aspects that are the basis of different professions of magic."

A demonstration is probably the easiest to get the point across, so Syrlya holds his hand out with the palm face up. His fingers twitch, and then what look like translucent glass shards, in different shades of purple, start to materialize and concentrate towards his palm.

And then he releases the magic before it forms anything, and they pop back out of place. "Chaos magic interacts with reality. It is the aspect Mesmers draw on to cast our spells."

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.

"Hmm..." Rita cups her chin with one hand, a small grin emerging as she thinks. There are a lot of things she'd like to try analyzing with this technique. "Ideally, it should be something static. A magic object or a long-lasting enchantment of some kind, maybe. Something that won't move away or change shape while I analyze it."

In truth, Rita doesn't know what sort of enchantments Strange is capable of... except, perhaps, for his recent mention of transformation magic. But he said he could do it, so she's sure he'll come up with something.

Strange may not be drunk drunk, but here's an asshole who's about to remedy that.

"No thanks," Lambert answers, amiably. "I've had plenty of 'scenic.'" He may no longer be half rock, but he's still bundled up against the cold, though he looks to be in a less sorry state than he was when his soul was poisoned and all he literally did was hang around in his cabin breathing fumes.

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Page 1 of 25

[open] december will be magic again

Jonathan Strange | ota!

CARLY NAGISA | OTA

Syrlya | OTA

OUTSIDE

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Foster van Denend | OTA! (CW: Necromancy)

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Rita Mordio | OTA, will match formats

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b!

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Outside

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HI SORRY ABOUT THIS, DESH.

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

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