just gotta ignite the light and let it shine

[whattaprick]

Who: Everyone who's stupid enough to show up for this, because legal drinking ages are for people from a different century/planet.
When: Afternoon/Evening, Day 30
Where: Lakeshore
What: Local Carnival workers get wasted and set off fireworks by the lake.
Warnings: Carnival shenanigans, ie. booze, drugs, and people getting set on fire probably. Put any tag-specific warnings in your headers!

So, Wismuth happened.

Lambert's pretty willing to bet a good chunk of the Carnival is pretty happy to act like Wismuth didn't happen, but he also doesn't really care about what sorrows people are drowning or not tonight: he knows he needed this drink, and after he'd slept off the immediate exhaustion that came with running around Wismuth for nearly two weeks with the power of Creation more or less constantly burning through him, he's ready to something, anything to feel like himself again.

Fast-forward to the lakeshore. There's a huge bonfire going, a box of assorted fireworks that's been 'liberated' from wherever the hell engineering keeps their supplies, and probably a crate of wine that's going to disappear sooner rather than later. Anything else, someone's going to have to bring themselves.

[ ooc: This is a mingle log! Bring your own entertainment, food, questionable substances etc. ]

Comments

[whattaprick]

"Or an egg," Lambert offers. Not that he knows if Scout has signed up for one of the Ringmaster's little favors, but things would have been a lot grimmer without it for Sans, at least. Although he blinks, backtracking a bit.

"Literally gold? Like Zecora's blood used to be silver?"

[stillwinningthehardway]

"No, no egg for me." It still seems kind of unnatural, but it makes sense, Scout supposes. When she dies her individual personality and thoughts will stop being bounded and dissolve back out into the Force. If the Ringmaster has prepared for this then she can seize that bit of self before it's gone and preserve it and press it into a developing partial clone. This is admittedly creepy. "Still a one-shot life here, so it's a good thing Creation picked me, I guess."

She shakes her head again. "Just gold-colored, partly. Tastes like normal blood and everything. I think it's still red when it's not exposed to air, but when it is it looks like that Dust from Greysol, as sort of a suspension in clear fluid. Maybe it's because I went and tried to keep my dæmon." She hasn't summoned him since Creation left her. It'll sting to see him and know he's lesser now, because she's lesser now.

[whattaprick]

Lambert considers that, then shrugs. "Not the worst change that could have happened." Worse like the Manor. For all the inconvenient -- if sometimes inconvenient -- alterations the Ringmaster's magic has wrought on them, at least that's never happened to him. Although since they're both Wyld Fae, he wonders if that's just a matter of time and sufficient exposure before they could end up like one of the Prince's more unfortunate servants.

Though speaking of Creation, he can't help but scowl faintly. That's an experience he doesn't care to repeat, overall. While it hadn't been as rough on his body as the Earth Spirit ... it's still bigger than what he usually likes getting involved in. Also, far more singing and dancing than he ever wants to be involved in.

"Anyway, I'm just glad that's over with."

[stillwinningthehardway]

She wonders a little at his interest in metal blood, and then what had happened to hers, who had cleaned it up. It seems to dry to a fine goldish powder instead of a rusty crust, so that was probably more convenient. Hopefully contact with it didn't infect anyone. She doesn't think midichlorians survive long outside of a living being.

"Tell me about it," Scout says with a snort. She's not thinking of the Manor. "The things I saw on my last contract... there was a man who had some bizarre tradition of wearing a horse skull mask and knocking on trailers while singing. Guess what happened to him and why he ended up only able to drink through a straw."

"I could've stood with it lasting longer." It comes out more wistful than she intended; the tip of her tail curling and flicking straight again she adds in a firmer tone, "I mean, I was too busy being skewered and blown up to dance and that's a shame. I'm a great dancer."

[whattaprick]

"I'm surprised he got to do it long enough to become a tradition." The Carnival's workers have never been known for their patience, that much is for sure.

Her next statement, though, catches him a bit off guard, though she tries to deflect the sentiment it immediately after. He supposes not everyone saw the experience the same way he did. Which means he just ends up raising a brow at her.

"You miss it, huh?"

[stillwinningthehardway]

"No, it was one he brought from before, from wherever he lived. ...Wasn't that bad a singer, either," she admits thoughtfully. "We've had worse."

There had been fewer particularly violent individuals among the staff at the time, she doesn't mean he'd been harmed. Scout's never been clear on just what causes the changes and if the Ringmaster thinks of them or they develop spontaneously, but they are sometimes related to things people have been doing. She vaguely recalls that most of the people with feathers, feathered wings, or similar features back at the start of her last contract had picked them up during a stop at a world where all the local people were avians.

Scout hitches a shoulder. "You don't, obviously."

[whattaprick]

“Nope,” Lambert responds cheerfully. “And that isn’t really an answer to the question. You don’t seem like you’re that into costumes or sparkles, so that can’t be it.”

[stillwinningthehardway]

"I really wasn't. Why did I have extra hair braided in, again? Otherwise my costume wasn't even that bad, but just..." She wrinkles her nose. "Just too showy and colorful. And abbreviated."

Scout's not actually body shy, like at all, but she still tends towards concealing, multilayered clothing and all in just one of two styles and the same handful of colors. Her Star Guardian uniform had been cut and layered similarly to the robes she sometimes wears, with less and lighter fabric.

She doesn't want to tell him very much because she knows him well enough to expect mockery if she digs deeply enough into any of it, like if I could've done that maybe I wouldn't have had to run while everyone I love died. So Scout says "It was a rush. All that power."

[whattaprick]

On the topic of outfits and odd choices thereof, the witcher just shrugs. If their sparks are meant to be derived from their souls, Lambert's soul apparently wants to see him way too exposed in glitter and gold ... which isn't wrong, really. It's not like Lambert is all that easy to shame that way.

"It was something," he'll agree, at least, frowning a little. Similar to an experience he's had before, but with less internal organ failure, which he supposes should be considered an improvement. "Can't believe that Guardian really put up with it for two years..."

[stillwinningthehardway]

It had been so easy. Reaching for what Creation gave her and using it. Keeping herself together when that spear hit, yes, okay, that had been hard, but the Force had never consistently responded with such readiness, such eager joy, as that had.

"Is that what it's like to be strong? Like everything you need is laid out inside your grasp?" She's using a metaphor that would be most familiar to someone working in Repair, where laying out all the most likely tools within arm's reach, or tail's reach these days, can help save time. Scout lets out a breath and shakes her head. "I guess I should say it was wonderful, but it wasn't me."