lostcarnival | ⇨ SHOW'S OVER

Entry tags:

⇨ SHOW'S OVER

Who: Everyone who DIDN’T get caught up in CY-Ren’s music, D13-D14.
When: D13-D15
Where: Wismuth, the Carnival
What: Recovering, taking stock, and trying to figure out where to go from here.
Warnings: ? ? ?

FALLEN STARS↴

► AFTERMATH: After the culmination of the confrontation between Noa and CY-Ren — as much as it can be called one, since it ends with the Guardian being flung off the stage — the arena returns to darkness. After a few seconds of silence, the backup lighting sputters on, but instead of music a loudspeaker begins to blare loudly:

ATTENTION, FANTASIA FESTIVAL ATTENDANTS. DUE TO AN EMERGENCY, WE WILL BE EVACUATING THE VENUE. PLEASE FOLLOW STAFF DIRECTIONS AND PROCEED TO THE NEAREST EXIT. THANK YOU.

The pleasant, automated woman’s voice begins to play on loop as the concertgoers, snapped out of their trance, look at each other in confusion. The Void creatures that had come out at CY-Ren’s command are nowhere to be seen now, and neither is the singer herself.

Wismuth police officers, though they look as uncertain and dazed as half the audience seems to be, break up the crowd and directing them to file out of the Fantasia Festival’s exits. It’s easy enough for Carnival members to slip away, though as they go through the crowd they’ll hear the festivalgoers discussing anything but the sight of Guardian and Harbinger in combat, much less people being dragged into shadows…

“Right in the middle of CY-Ren’s set, too! Aren’t they supposed to check the wiring on these things?”

“I paid to go to a concert, not a fire drill! I’d better get a refund!”

“They didn’t have to shut the whole place down—"

In the chaos and flow of people, it’ll be hard for Carnival workers to keep track of each other, but one thing is clear: they can’t stay here.

► HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN: The would-be saboteurs and those who’ve stayed behind have a chance to meet up again once they get back to the Carnival’s grounds. However, what exactly happened back there is unclear — and the one who might have answers is still unconscious from her brief altercation with the Harbinger. Still, there’s no shortage of things to do: after all, once they get back, it’s obvious there are more than a few missing faces.

► HEADLINES: Anyone who ventures to Wismuth in the days after the festival will find something peculiar: all news about the incident at the festival has been written off as a freak fire from some faulty wiring or a potential incendiary device, which reporters say police are ‘investigating the cause of’ and which some of the more sensational news sites are already having a field day with (based on rumors and hearsay the venue may have received a bomb threat). Most entertainment sites and social media coverage of the event only include blurry clips with captions like ‘tmw you fucked up the only vid you have of cy-ren’s concert 😭fml' and generally agree that it's a pity she never got past a second song.

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He makes a sound of acknowledgment. A headcount would be impossible until the situation settled. No one fighting would be in a position to stop all they were doing and check in over the radios. He makes a mental note to check a couple of radio frequencies himself once his hands are free.

"Relatively. I arrived amidst the solstice feasting," he answers though his gaze remains focused on the injury. The medical tent was far more equipped with items that he had ever had access to prior. He'd learned of some that would help before he began healing which meant good, old-fashioned disinfectant would be needed. His next words are the only warning he gives before starting in on it, "This will sting."

An understatement, but he gets the impression Lambert is no stranger to having his wounds tended to.

"My name is Solas."

No stranger to having wounds, but a bit of a stranger not having to do it himself, one-handed, with little more than alcohol to wash out wounds with. The only reason he hasn't had the opportunity to regret that is that witchers don't succumb to infection.

"Lambert," he offers back. He doesn't twitch at the sting, though he does wrinkle his nose -- mostly at the sharp, astringent smell, and his ears flick back and forth for a moment before he continues. "The Nightrider, not that it probably means much to you."

That made it easier. With the extent of the wounds, Lambert would need to be careful even with the aid of magic. He continues to clean, occasionally narrowing his eyes to peer at the gashes. Something felt... odd beneath the surface. Beyond the poison.

"A title you gained here or brought with you?" he asks, glancing up briefly from his work. "If I am to heal this, you should tell me all you know of this fae and their magic."

"Gained here," Lambert confirms, easily. Solas's next request for information prevents him from going into much more detail on that point, though he'd have been happy not to get into too much detail about the fae, it's unavoidable.

"She's from the Summer Court -- fae that favor fire and plants, can make 'em grow at will. Nightshade likes poison, likes brainwashing people, serves a more powerful fae called the Rose Queen, who probably has a bone to pick with us." Is this actually helpful for a medical diagnosis? Probably not. "She attacked me with vines and threw me off a building, but not before they got under my skin first."

Another pause. "Not too long ago, we ran into a fae whose poison could affect souls. Doesn't feel the same as this, though."

Edited 2018-02-17 22:32 (UTC)

Not helpful for a medical diagnosis, but exposition Solas more than welcomes. The powerful fae he had heard of so far reminded him far too much of the mage-rulers of his time. The cruelty and harm done to others, even those of their kind, gave them far too many similarities. Was the Ringmaster acting against them? Or simply dealing with them as she encountered them in the carnival's travels?

"More than the vines appear to have gotten beneath your skin." His hand hovers over one that is buried inside one of Lambert's many wounds. "The Ringmaster has not cared to elaborate on her dealings with other fae?"

From what Cole has said before, this is not their first run-in. No wonder the Ringmaster was signing on so many from all over with irresistible promises. He considers the wound for a moment before he takes up a pair of sterilized forceps.

"Hold steady." Because unfortunately, they needed to find out what else had gotten inside Lambert.

"Not really, but she's a Wyld Fae. Far as I know, that means Summer and Winter think that means she's fit to be ordered around to do whatever they want, whatever that is. Take over worlds, that kind of thing. So she mostly seems interested in not being anywhere near them."

At Solas's diagnosis, Lambert grunts and nods, bracing himself. With an introduction like that, he already knows this experience is going to be anything but pleasant.

Well, that's an attitude he can respect about the Ringmaster then. He takes Lambert's words into consideration as he focuses on finding the source of the magic seeping out of Lambert's arm. When he finds his mark, he pulls out a--seed?

His brows furrow in confusion as he holds it up for them both to see. Maybe Lambert recognized it given his previous run-ins with the fae. Solas can feel the magic of it, but he's not certain of its nature.

"There are more hidden throughout your arm."

"Wait-- what?"

Lambert's expression of brief disgust when Solas draws the seed out, looking at him in confusion, then anger. That bitch. Of course she'd do something like this.

"How many?" he demands. And then: "Can you get them all out?"

"An attempt to poison more than your blood?" he muses, ignoring Lambert's angry inquiries for a moment. He peers closer at the seed before setting it in a tray on the end table. "There are enough to keep me busy and not all can be reached easily from your current wounds."

Which did not bode well if Lambert was hoping to be in and out quickly. Even Solas finds himself eager to seek out whether Lavellan is among those missing or not, but his contract and the reminder of how they last parted keeps him at his task.

Lambert's not a squeamish guy, for the most part, but the implication behind those words still makes him grimace. Yeah, he knows what that means: getting his arm sliced up like a pig for slaughter.

"You can sew me back together afterwards, right?" he asks, plaintively. He knows there isn't really a choice. If he has to, he'd burn his own arm to clear the seeds out of his flesh, but...

"If it's going to take a while, I need to see the Ringmaster first. She needs to know what happened."

"Yes, and mend with magic where I can." Though the extent of that would be limited with what Lambert faced up against. His contract was for him to perform healing and refusing to do the one task he was needed for would draw far more attention to himself than he wants.

"If you must. I will not be responsible for your condition worsening once you leave," he states bluntly. The seeds held a purpose and if Lambert wanted to risk it by leaving them there longer than necessary, that was his choice.

"I've had worse," Lambert says, with a shrug. Not fae worse, admittedly, but it is what it is. "Just make sure you're actually still around when I get back."

Since he's at least familiar with where the medical supplies are, he doesn't ask permission before beelining for a drawer, tugging it open to pull out a roll of gauze and start wrapping it around his arm just so his arm isn't a sopping mess of blood. Not that he'd normally care about appearances or whatever, but...

"I'll be back." With that, he ducks out of the medical tent to head for the Ringmaster. It's perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes before he returns, the corners of his mouth tight, but not because of pain.

"Let's get this over with," he says, shortly, in lieu of any greeting. "I'm ready when you are."

Edited ( ) 2018-03-13 23:27 (UTC)

Worse or not, Solas' doubts they've been of an unknown magical nature. Still, that was Lambert's problem. He waves the man off as Lambert decides to bandage his own wounds in a rush. There were far too many unknowns in this--how many of those from the Carnival were missing? Were they injured or dying elsewhere? The Inquisitor had a habit of being in the middle of all that happened, and it would not surprise him to find out she was involved in what had transpired at the concert.

It takes great self-control on his part not to rush off to find out. He wanted to know what the Ringmaster had to say about this and if it would be of use. He's counting the seconds until Lambert returns.

"And? What did the Ringmaster determine?" Asked as he slowly prepares his station for seed removal. He will move at his own pace.

Lambert, in contrast, is all restless energy, though he does force himself to take his seat up again. He's a little more feverish, a little more wild-eyed even in the short time he's been gone -- poison setting in, his body fighting harder against it.

"The nightrunners are getting sent out to bring them back," he says, dropping heavily into the seat he occupied before, grimacing. "The ones who are still around, anyway. Pretty sure we lost Lavellan at the concert."

If anything got Solas' attention, it's that name. His hand stills in its movements for a moment and he grows more alert. So she had been among those lost. He takes a deep, careful breath before he brings his magic forth to help stave back the poison. At least long enough to make it easier for seed removal.

"Lavellan was lost? Are you certain?" Was she answering her radio? Perhaps she had chased after those who started the commotion.

"I'm sure," Lambert confirms. "They took her before I could reach her ... and she wasn't the only one."

He looks grim at that, though he'll glance down at the inevitable ruin his arm's likely to become and then back up at the elf.

"She a friend?" Not that he was going to assume all elves were friends, but...

"She is someone I knew before I came here," which is the most he is willing to answer. He punctuates the statement with an incision to remove yet another seed from the man's arm.

"Do you know how many were taken in total?"

That’s not a real answer, but Lambert isn’t inclined to press the guy slicing him open and patching him up again after.

“Not yet,” he says, sucking a breath in between his teeth. “We probably won’t, until Strange is done scrying for everyone.”

"So the man does have his uses," he says with a shake of his head. Solas had made his acquaintance with Strange and while the man had good magical potential, Solas wasn't impressed.

And because Solas doesn't trust Strange to actually complete his task, "Does he require assistance to quicken his process?"

"If you can scry, sure." Lambert answers, shrugging -- only remembering to keep that to one shoulder and not the arm Solas is working on at the last minute.

It doesn't occur to him Strange might take offense to this, but as far as Lambert's concerned, having more eyes and more magic on the job can't hurt.

"Though if you could do that in the first place, why'd you end up a medic instead of a scout?"

"Because the Ringmaster has a sense of humor," he returns dryly. It has nothing to do with his bedside manner, that's for sure. He pauses as he reaches for gauze to clean Lambert's arm. As much as it can be cleaned, anyway, and for him to continue working.

"From what I have heard, there has been a need for more healers." And from what he's heard of the Carnival's travels, he wonders how they made do. "It is fortunate healing is an art I am practiced at."

"She does," Lambert affirms, offhanded. "She made me a nurse." For all of two weeks, then he became the Nightrider. But that much might explain why he's familiar enough with the place ... that, or he sees the inside of the medical tent a lot. Either or, really.

"Our old doctor used to be a zebra. Good enough at her job... considering she had hooves."

"You, a nurse?" The question is accompanied by a long stare and the image almost gets a huff of amusement from him. Almost. From the little he knows of Lambert, the man would get more killed than he would aid.

"Perhaps they are not in such a dire need if they were willing to relinquish you from such duties," he muses with a shake of his head. As for their old doctor, well. "A shapeshifter?"

"What, don't I look like I've got a tender touch?" Despite the situation and the scent of his own blood in the air -- hardly the first time he's had to deal with it -- Lambert manages a crooked little smirk.

"The Ringmaster decided I was better off put to work stabbing things. Or telling people to stab things." He shakes his head. "She was a zebra."

If Solas even knows what that is.

The mention of 'hooves' gives him enough of an impression. A zebra must be similar to a horse or a halla. Trying to imagine either acting as a healer in any capacity is... impossible, to say the least.

"You have certainly found your calling," he says beneath his breath though he makes no attempt to hide his words. ANd because he's curious, he goes against his better judgment to ask, "How did a hooved creature manage?"

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