⇨ WISMUTH

[ringleaders]

Who: Everyone!
When: S2:D6-D11
Where: Wismuth and the Carnival Grounds
What: The carnival enjoys a few days in Wismuth, a coastal city on this planet's version of the American east. However, there are a few things very unique about this version of the planet...
Warnings: The usual, wholesome fun.

PILLAR OF CREATION↴ Upon arriving, things in Wismuth will seem pretty peaceful. It's a massive city, with no shortage of things going on, but things like violent crime and homelessness are at an all time low. You can wander the streets without much scrutiny, presumed to just be tourists, and most people here come across as helpful and friendly. ► VIBRANCY: The main thing that sets this planet apart is its vibrancy - AKA, the raw creative energy its filled with, flowing from its status as a Pillar of Creation. There is no literal pillar, but Wismuth and its planet is a place where Creation's energy comes through strongest. As a result, everything here feels somehow more real, more intense in a way that's hard to put a finger on. Life is abundant, and its bleeds through in every sensation. ► ATTRACTIONS: There are plenty of things to see while going around the city. First and foremost, there is a lovely beach area bordering the ocean, and a number of tourist aimed attractions built around it. There are giant malls, movie theaters, live stage performances, museums and all kinds of other points of cultural interest. Anything you can do in a big city you can do here, but better. ► ALLOWANCES: The Ringmaster will be giving everyone a reasonable amount of local currency for a few days on the town. You can't make any massive acquisitions with it, but it's more than enough to eat out, see some shows, go to the beach, and whatever you like. You can feel free to pick up some casual supplies, like mundane clothing and souvenirs. There will be more given out later, after the performance week. ► PERFORMANCE: Performance week is starting early this time, after only a couple days of exploration. When the carnival has already been on vacation for a month, the Ringmaster figures they may as well get right to it, and then do more touring afterwards. Members of the local populace will find themselves in the carnival once performances begin, dazzled by the other worldly sights. Magic doesn't seem to exist here, despite the fact that it will flow easier for people bringing it from other worlds.

Comments

[criticallyfucked]

A. Beach Bummed

Foster loves the ocean. Not in the 'sand castles and shell collecting' kind of way, but in that magnetic sense, where he wants to be as close to it as possible, to feel the energy of it and the pull of the tides. The fact that walking on sand barefoot is one of the most pleasurable little experiences in his life is just a perk.

It's been such a long time since he was at the beach, it seems. No--that's not right.

The last time the Carnival was visiting a beach, it was Alola, and...

And there's a lot he doesn't want to think about in that sentence, honestly. So much of it; every part linked to another overwhelming. The vampirism (which had forced him to wear a ridiculous dragon costume to hide from the sun.) The shadow stalking him (don't think about it, don't think about Mimikyu at all any more--)

It turns out not to be possible not to think about Mimikyu, though. Or the vampirism, or the pits and the blood and. Or the ocean, and everything it holds. Depths and secrets; stillness, motion, powers, powers.

He's knee-deep in the water, the sea lapping up his legs. It doesn't matter. The water--it's not cold but it's sharp, the spray burning his eyes, the taste on his lips, in his nose. It hurts. He is aware of it, somewhere, in his chest.

His chest, yes, with the water now chest deep, and the sting of salt on his hip, somewhere that doesn't exist--behind him, where he isn't now; right here, where it's real. What does knee deep even mean now--he doesn't know, or maybe remember. Which chest, though? Below his chin? Below his navel? He doesn't know, doesn't think it matters. Like the inchoate pain, or the summons of a kind he feels to be rising from the sea itself.

If he just walks out a little more--

B. Anyway Here's Wonderwall

Foster's job now requires little contact with visitors to the carnival; he's part of the background, really, the secret machinery that keeps the carnival running. Shine-and-polish, fetch-and-carry. 'Mechanical' really is the right word for it. An automatic process, purely physical in nature--some decision making is required, maybe, but it's generally made by people who aren't him. He's realised by now that his mental faculties aren't really required for it.

It makes him wonder if he could just create the labour without performing it himself.

It's an uncharacteristic impulse--Foster prefers physical involvement in his reality, a literal investment of the self. But at this point, he has only one coworker whose presence he finds tolerable; if Papyrus is an affliction, the Psiionic is a plague. Which is--fine? It should be fine. Suffering is fine. He just... now that he's thought of it, he can't stop thinking about whether or not it would work.

Which is how he basically trips over an entire person.

Way to go, genius.

[OOC note: eh, person can be a patron or an employee, whatever's more fun for you!]

C. Wildcard

[AS USUAL. YOU KNOW HOW THESE WORK.]

B

[sworntothesword]

Connie is easy to trip over, since she's tiny and also not really paying attention (great trait for someone doing Security). It's just that she'd just come back with a bag full of books from Wismuth and she had her nose buried in one.

She cries out when they collide, her bag flying off her hand and smashing to the ground, shooting tiny paperback books in every direction while she stumbles onto her butt. Ow.

What just happened?

[criticallyfucked]

What happened is that Connie just got run over by a horse. Mostly, anyway. They're both lucky he wasn't going fast-- as it is, he pitches forward and and stumbles, narrowly avoiding stepping on her more by chance than by skill as his long horselike legs stamp inches from her head.

He does step on one of her books, though, grinding dirt into the cover and tearing pages under his hoof-toes.

"Fuck, fuck--fuck--" He manages to sidestep enough that he's not practically on top of her--it's less of a sidestep and more of a sideways stagger, honestly, but he point is, he doesn't kick her in the head.

He doesn't even know who she is!

haha not sure if i'll ever get used to looking at peoples LC changes before i tag them

[sworntothesword]

Connie looks around to get the license plate of the bus that hit her, but she's astounded by what she sees. She just isn't going to get used to all the crazy people in this place, she's sure. Even after all the Gem stuff she's seen in the past months.

"Ow, sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going..." Foster reminds her of the Zoomorphs series; there was an alien species that had the lower body of a deer. Other details were very different, like Foster had a mostly human face and he didn't have a scorpion tail.

OH NO RIP Connie...... Foster only wishes he were an Andalite

[criticallyfucked]

This isn't Foster's first accidental collision--they've become more common since his transformation, an unfortunate trend made worse by (and not unrelated to) the challenging logistics of quadrupedal locomotion and a severely limited attention span.

He's always gone to deliberate lengths to avoid touching or being touched by people, though, even in the most benign of ways; it's this instinct alone that probably saved Connie's noggin from an extra knock.

"No, no, no, no." He backs away, weaving unsteadily as he... scolds her, practically, for apologising to him.

"I fucked up, I fucked up." One part desperation, one part anger.

next change: eating through your hooves

[sworntothesword]

"No, it's fine, see? I'm fine..." She's actually a little dizzy and bruised but she's more concerned about this obviously distressed taur.

"Are you okay? Do you need help?"

Maybe he'd actually have some body mass if he did.....

[criticallyfucked]

The absurdity of Connie asking the significantly-larger 'bus' that hit her if he's okay is not entirely lost on Foster, but neither is the crime of her having said it. Of asking, when the only part of this that matters is his transgression.

"I could have done much worse." Instead of relieved, though, he sounds angry. Threatening. "There's no helping me, no helping that. I shouldn't... shouldn't have been thinking about magic while walking. I shouldn't do anything while walking--it isn't my job to... to think. My rotted brain--"

He's burying his claws in his hair, sharp tips pressing into his scalp as he grips fistfuls of blond hair. He's barely looking at Connie, though--

And he's... still standing on one of Connie's books.

[sworntothesword]

Connie loves books, but it's just a book. A two dollar paperback she picked up in a thrift store. She can lament the loss later, this person is having a crisis now!

"But you didn't, so you don't have to worry about it!" She unsteadily got back onto her feet and slowly tried to approach him, worried if he started to move too erratically.

"You can do magic? What kind of magic can you do? I'd be thinking about magic all the time too, if I could do it... Steven has a scroll that lets you cast a spell to turn into a tree. I haven't tried it yet, because I'm nervous..."

[criticallyfucked]

Here's the thing: Connie is wrong. Connie is wrong, because he does have to 'worry' about it. He has to, he needs to, because otherwise he'll 'forget,' and when he forgets his defect, forgets himself, he forgets his place. And when that happens--

"Magic? Steven?" Connie is quick to latch onto what interests her, but Foster is not as quick to follow. Onto a topic that isn't Foster's transgression, but his recompense, his stay of execution, his stay of fate--he as to work backwards through it, wrapping his head around her words retroactively, repeatedly.

He backs away from her pretty much immediately--though with less weaving this time--buying himself time (and space) to flounder in it. He knows... he knows who Steven is, though they largely avoid each other for numerous reasons, but... a scroll? A tree? Why--

His next word is delivered flatly and without context.

"No."

A

[soft_focus]

Get ready for bluntness, Foster.

Reira is still in typical clothes-from the few articles she presently has (though chances are Nui is doing something about that whether she likes it or not)-namely threadbare shorts, and the sundress from the summerlands-but for the sake of the sandy beach, shoes were taken off, making for quiet, near silent steps. Steps across the sand, drowned out by the roaring waves of the tide, until she's close enough to realize something about the centaur.

.....something that's....not really been there before.

"...........why are you sad?"

CALLIN YOU OUT ON YOUR SHIT FOSTER

[criticallyfucked]

It's not her voice but the sparrow's tug on his consciousness that pulls his attention back towards shore--but even hearing her speaking, he doesn't think he actually understands. What he's hearing. What she's saying. She's--said something, but--

The words don't make sense, the sounds don't make words. Disoriented, he's at least stopped his steady march into deeper waters, his head and shoulders still above the surface, waves breaking into his face and the taste of salt and seaweed in his mouth.

But he's sure he didn't hear her. Or if he did, he didn't understand. And it's Reira, so--

So he has to return to the beachhead, letting the forward motion of the rolling tide push him back to shore--and bracing himself against its pull as it tries to take him back to sea. The long fugue of melancholy clouds his features, but purpose sets his pace.

[soft_focus]

Reira is silent, studying the other as he finally comes a bit back. He's extremely far out into the water by her standards. She's certainly not going any farther to Him, so it's...good he's coming back. She's not sure what she would have done otherwise.

But now that he comes back, she's only left wondering what to do even more. He hasn't said anything. And he doesn't feel like his usual self at all-a haze of upset, distant yet there, which simply...floats. And keeps floating, leaving her to frown a little at him in silence.

Eventually she needs to break it though, and by the time he's closer in range again, she repeats herself. "....Hey," she says, clearly. "....You're sad. ...Why?" You're never...'sad'. At least not like this, not in the way that actually feels like 'real sadness'.

So why is it here now?

[criticallyfucked]

Foster blinks slowly, like he's not hearing her at all. Only he's pretty sure this time that he did hear her; he just doesn't understand or like what she's talking about. At all.

Once he's close enough, he's revealed to be wearing some particularly ridiculous swim trunks as he emerges from the ocean, simultaneously flicking out his hooves to shed water and sand and... kicking it off his human legs, leaving human footprints in the sand with his bare human feet. And he speaks.

"What could I possibly have to be sad about?" he asks, but so dismissively it's clearly not a question.

Objectively speaking--by any metric--he's in less position to complain now than he's ever been in his entire worthless life! How could he be sad! How dare he?! No--no, no, no, whatever Reira thinks she's seeing is... fake, false. A lie pulled out of the ocean, one he'd bathed in and dry himself of any moment--!

[soft_focus]

Those. Are definitely very strange, and very interesting shorts, and it's creating a rather bizarre visual image as the glamor clashes with the trunks. She has to blink multiple times to get over it, which gives Foster plenty of time to dismiss the idea of emotions. The idea of them being fake, empty, non-existent-

Except the fact that naturally, being so close means that she can just feel for certain what she Thought she felt, and what she Thought she felt is still there, only in more full force. It might be different-it might be 'hollow' and bleary and drab, but those are matters of a particular emotion all the same.

Not an emotion that 'isn't there'. So Reira merely stares at him, half a frown as she looks upward.

"I don't know. I just know you're feeling it." That's how it works, remember Foster. The emotions exist, and if she's there, she feels them.

And you feel 'many things' sometimes.

[criticallyfucked]

Sometimes, Foster doesn't like Reira at all.

When she reminds him of what she knows. When she forgets what they both know. Sometimes even when her orders skirt too close to something that might as well be caring, even without the sentiment attached.

This is one of those times. Not the last, but the first, and the moment of enmity flickers in and out of existence, to be replaced with the corrected state of shameful, exhilarated, endured humility, that she can see through him and put him in his place with such swiftness, lay bare his weaknesses and strip him to his defective core!

He has no tail with the glamour, so there is no physical sign of his mood that the layperson's eye could see; his face briefly projects dispassionate apathy, not the withering ache that's still clutching the space inside his rib cage.

But he laughs, because of course he does. "It's stupid," he informs her.

[soft_focus]

Yes of course he does. She sighs-perhaps a somewhat impatient sigh, it would certainly be easy to impose that kind of image on such a sigh, but regardless the point is that she's sighing. She'll probably have to find another way around Caring Orders one day but hopefully she can get away with that a little longer. But regardless, that isn't that time. There's a slight grimace as enmity comes and goes, before a raised eyebrow is brought forward in reply to..Everything else.

"..........Ok..." Ok. So it's 'stupid'. Well, that's one point about it, that she can log away then. But that's also only one point and not really one that works out the best. Mostly because her indicator of what's stupid is sort of 'anything that doesn't really make sense that people are still insisting on doing.'

That's a lot of things. "....That only tells me it's stupid though. ...What's the rest of it?"

Bad Fatigue Day.... if the tag doesn't make sense, I'll fix it later tonight.

[criticallyfucked]

"Over." Foster responds with full bluntness.

If he were possessed of you know, some goddamn common sense and the ability to predict people, he would have stopped there. But he doesn't--he barely has the tattered shreds of his own inhibition left to him, and from his vantage, what he says next is a necessary reminder of his fault here, a public confession of shameful choices.

"It was.... a mistake."

Not what he did to Ginko, no, nor his use of Mimikyu to pull it off. That feat would have been impossible without it. He doesn't regret telling Sans to do what he wished with Mimikyu either. He regrets failing, and he regrets discovering he'd gotten somehow attached to the creature--something he only learned in its absence. Of course.

He'd almost grown to believe that it was a mistake meant to spur him to greater effort, as his necromancy would not have grown without its motivation, and his still-uninformed service to Reira and his writ path in the manor both took root from that error.

But the fact that it's resurfaced to haunt him... is proof of what depths in him his mistake still lies fallow.

A pre-discussed wildcard!

[tacosgay]

Taako is feeling particularly proud of himself right now, but he really, objectively, knows that he shouldn't. That's never stopped him before, of course, and it's definitely not stopping him now.

He carefully unwraps his purchase, turning it in his hands to admire its sheer shittiness once more; he has no idea why a pink and blue striped dick bong exists, only that he's very, very happy that it does. He has literally no idea how Foster will feel about the purchase; it's impossible to ever predict Foster, he's learned, and he's essentially given up on trying.

For the moment, however, he does entertain himself with attempting to guess in his head as he sets the item out on the small table in their trailer, and then he moves to shed his shoes and hat to make himself comfortable. Foster should be home before long.

[criticallyfucked]

Foster isn't a real huge fan of being in Wismuth except for the opportunity to visit the ocean--and even that is something of a minefield, really. But that's where he's coming from, and it's for that reason that he comes back to the trailer still damp and dishevelled, his furry ears and arms a patchwork of wet clumps, what hair has escaped its butterfly clip now plastered to his face with seawater. There's sand sticking to his ankles.

It's only thanks to Taako's magic that he doesn't have to duck to fit himself through the trailer door, but even then it's something of a squeeze once he's inside.

Foster has a hard time recognising changes to their living quarters--it's the brain damage, you know--but some shapes and colours just stand out, even to him.

Also, Taako wasn't very subtle about its placement.

"So is that for sex or drugs?"

[tacosgay]

Taako glances from the bong, to Foster, and then back again; a grin creeps across his face, and he shrugs his shoulders, going over to where it's sitting on the table to pick it up and turn it in his hands.

"I mean, the night is young, my dude," he says. "Why not have it both ways?"

... he looks it over a bit longer before adding, "But, seriously, uh, the glass is a little bit thin, so there's probably a pretty big risk of ending up with glass all up in your, uh, situation."

[criticallyfucked]

Foster watches Taako carefully--speculatively--but rather than relaxing with Taako's reply, his shoulders tense slightly.

"I think I'm a little big for it," he deadpans, adding a thin smile, but cocks one back leg, scuffing the kitchen floor with his hoof. When he's not sublimating his opinions or hiding them to the point of fermentation, Foster swaps erratically between either passive aggressive or extremely direct about his disapproval.

And mind-altering drugs are something he has very little patience with.

[tacosgay]

Taako catches that tension; as oblivious and aloof as he may seem, he's not stupid. Actually, he's pretty damned perceptive. Which is why, in response to that gesture, he sets the goofy thing back down, and he shrugs, catching his hair to begin idly twisting it into a braid.

"I mean, if I'm honest, I mostly got it for laughs, because... well, uh, look at it. I mean... seriously. Humans are fucking wild."

[criticallyfucked]

That cracks a smile across Foster's face--one less intended to disguise, and his tail flicks loosely at his ankles.

It also flicks saltwater and sand at Taako, so that's a thing.

"Are you telling me elves don't make themselves cotton candy dong bongs?"

[tacosgay]

Taako opens his mouth to respond, but ends up stopped short by Foster flicking sand and water at him. He pulls away, but it's a half-beat late-- he ends up with a line of droplets and dirt across his front. He frowns, trying to brush himself off, turning his front away from Foster as he speaks.

"Listen, if I'd had the idea before seeing this thing on the store shelf, our trailer would be fuckin' swimming with dong bongs. Every surface of this stupid place would be covered with the things."

This got nsfw but like.... art history. (I checked.)

[criticallyfucked]

"That's what I mean," Foster is aware that soiling Taako's clothing is a Mistake, but it's not the kind of mistake that comes with consequences, or really any kind of interesting result at all, so he just... makes no comment on it.

"Dicks are like... basically the go-to craft for humans. There are hundreds of billion year old sculptures of little people with huge cocks, penises painted on cave walls and so on. Ancient stone dildos. You know."