lostcarnival | [OPEN]

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[OPEN]

Who: Howard Link and you!
When: Days 42-45
Where: Various locations around the carnival
What: A newbie gets his feet wet
Warnings: None for now. Will update as needed o7

[ Day 42 - Newbie ]
One moment you're thinking things can't possibly get worse, and the next you're somehow surprised when they do.

It was his hurry to escape one situation that first brought him to this strange place, but now an entirely new development means to keep him here. What is 'here'? According to the Ringmaster, 'here' would be an interdimensional carnival traveling through the multiverse. Naturally there is no going back the way one came. The moment he was given his contract and trailer keys, he rushed off to check. The door he'd entered through is gone, and any others serve a practical use.

Had Link not pinched himself, he wouldn't have believed it. The shock of pain had assured he was indeed awake and in control of his own actions, but the presence of so many… oddities... now gives him reason to believe this could be some elaborate hallucination. Perhaps the Atuuda had drained him more than he'd thought. Whatever the case, his feet still work and he can't risk standing idle. Hallucination or not, Walker might very well be here, possibly drawn to the bright lights, sounds and scents of circus life, and it's in their best interests to find a way out together. Any moral dilemmas stemming from their last encounter (does it even count as theirs?) will simply need to wait.

But now he finds himself saddled with a new predicament. For reasons he can only fathom, he can no longer sense Walker's life force. In any other circumstances this might mean Walker is not here, but Link finds he cannot sense any. Regardless of how human his target appears, his attempts to read auras leave him with nothing but a throbbing temple and a twinge of pain in his chest. With time working against him, he resorts to the reliable method of skulking through shadows, stalking the unaware and sleuthing through carnival fliers.

Day or night, during your job or your spare time, you might feel as though you're being watched on the carnival grounds. It could be anywhere. Maybe you're watering your flower pots at your trailer or you're tending to a patient in the medical tent. He might even find himself spotted, and it never occurs to him to look into a mirror to discover ~~the bright, glowing dots on his forehead~~ why.

[ The Big Top - Day 43 and onwards, mostly around showtimes whenever those are… ]
When turning over stone after stone yields nothing, it may be more feasible to let your prey (should it even exist in this place) come to you. The bait might not be perfect but the ebb and flow of crowds provides excellent cover. Group after group make their way into the Big Top, taking in show after show. Link is usually among them, always in the very back where he has a good view of the rows ahead. The tent tends to be packed with performers, guests and athletes -- some of them several times his height, some of them several times his length -- and he often moves about to keep his sights clear.

The performances themselves are merely a distraction and you may find him sitting or standing next to you, looking way too stern and serious for somebody watching an amazing space show. He doesn't even clap for the acts or have popcorn.

[ The Cookhouse - Day 45 and onwards, any time ]
Well, this is it. This is where he's to labor away for the next year and a day.

The cookhouse is surreal but its atmosphere is as pleasant as it can be in these conditions. What conditions, you ask? When Link had first been thrust into this world and all of the antics accompanying the Space Olympics, he'd wondered that himself. An answer has yet to come to him.

Fortunately, enough people come and go to keep his hands busy, and if nothing else it's work he's familiar with. He supposes he ought to be grateful. Someone had enough consideration to assign him a job with an oven. And yet, despite the subtle familiarity of the kitchen, Link has never felt more out of place.

Lost, he manages the only way he knows how: by making himself useful. He can be found poking around in the kitchen, clearing tables and tidying the dining areas. Depending on the time of day, he may have already been working hard for a while and will have his sleeves pulled back to his forearms. May he take your empty plate? Should he? Maybe he'll just sweep again…

[ Wildcard! ]
Feel free to run into Link just about anywhere on carnival grounds. During the days leading up to off week, his snooping can take him pretty far but he'll be avoiding the Olympic fanfare whenever possible. If you'd like to work out something in particular, just hmu on Discord (Bans#5363) or PM this journal. I'm new here so don't hesitate to let me know if I get something wrong o7 I'll match prose or brackets.

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Link's day isn't about to get any less weird.

While he's tidying up in the kitchen, Syrlya peers in from across the main counter from the dining side, glancing around. He is coming at an odd hour, so it's no surprise the staff is mostly cleared out. But time got away from him and that makes him no less hungry now. He's uncertain until he spots Link, and then his expression lifts.

"Excuse me!" He brings a hand to his mouth to carry his voice. "Are you busy?"

Odd hours or not, Link is still here and he's hard at work. He perks at the sound of someone's voice and tosses a hurried glance over his shoulder. His guest had caught him toting clean dishes from the kitchen, but he's more than willing -- a little eager, perhaps -- to set them aside and offer assistance. The plates rattle as he places them on the nearest table.

"Good day," he calls back. "One moment, please. There is no need to shout. I will be right there."

As he approaches the counter, he lowers his eyes and dries his hands on an apron he'd found. Once there he looks up, ready to serve. That's when he pauses.

… And what a pause it is. For several long seconds, one can hear the bells and dings of various carnival games ringing in the distance. You know, he'd never thought this moment would come, but today a leafy, humanoid plant person ranks rather low on the strangeness scale. He isn't certain if he should be dismayed or grateful.

Regardless, he straightens himself up and squares his shoulders. When in doubt, channel fierce professionalism. "How may I help you?"

Ah-ha. It is someone new. Syrlya stares for a moment at the dots on his forehead, as if they're any indication if he's as human as he looks, before his gaze drops to meet Link's properly. He folds his hands on the counter with a polite smile.

He wonders, briefly, if the Ringmaster ever actually signs anyone up from the places they visit and not just wayward souls who slip in between the cracks.

"I was looking for something light to eat, but if you are busy I don't mind serving myself." And he really doesn't, but not being part of the kitchen staff means he's not always as welcome to get in the way of the backend of everything.

"Welcome, by the way, if no one has given you a proper greeting yet." And he doesn't doubt they have, either, but he'll defer on the side of 'polite'.

And so here they stand on their respective sides of the counter, finally finished ogling one another's eccentricities. The eye contact isn't as awkward as it could have been, and that's mostly due to this stranger's good manners. If nothing else, the politeness is refreshing. The accent is even somewhat familiar.

Just like that, some of the tension leaves Link's shoulders. The crease between his eyebrows softens a smidgen, and while he may not smile he gives a curt nod to show his appreciation. A guest wouldn't know to welcome him at all, so that means this young man (should he even say that? the voice is unmistakably male) must be an employee.

"Ah--Thank you. You're another worker, I presume? With so many coming and going, I often lose track. Really, you needn't worry about troubling me. This is, after all, my job."

Syrlya nods once. "I am, yes. My name is Syrlya--part of the carnival's security."

Just in case Link needs to know who to call if there's an issue. Granted, he's not patrol specifically, but there's enough overlap with all those departments the way things often go. But also, if he's just meeting everyone he could probably use with some names to go with some faces.

"For most of the places we visit, the difference between those in the carnival and guests on grounds is very obvious. I wouldn't worry about mistaking one for the other... besides, I am sure you will see everyone at least once if you work in the kitchen."

Security, you say? Link's eyebrows lift a fraction, just enough to be noticeable. Syrlya sounds like someone important, and thus he might be privy to information Link isn't. Though the urge is there, he realizes he can't simply ask question after question like he could back home. People here aren't obligated to indulge him, but perhaps if there is some give and take…

"Ah--yes, I'm certain you're right. My name is Howard Link. How do you do? I suppose I ought to assist you before I'm reported for dallying. You mentioned food. What is it you'd like?"

He pats his apron until he finds the pocket with a pen and pad of paper. Is he doing this right?

"Report you for..." Syrlya blinks slowly, and then snorts and bites his lip to stifle a stronger laugh. There's unmistakable amusement in his grin, however. This guy sure takes his job seriously, which isn't a bad thing at all. But in a place like the carnival...

He waves a hand dismissively. "I cannot think of anyone who would care to have this reported to them in the first place."

Not the least because there isn't actually a head of the kitchen right now, and the Ringmaster surely won't want to hear it. "What was for lunch?"

Work is serious business, all right?

"For lunch? We've only just finished clearing away leftovers." And then, thoughtfully, "Let me think. On today's menu, there was--"

Give him a moment and he'll start to list off various dishes that, as a newcomer, he probably had little part in making. Some recipes are simple enough as there are only so many ways one can bake or fry common potatoes, but others are so alien they contain ingredients he's never heard of. Though he may not recognize everything, it's easy enough to memorize the menu and where things go on the buffet line.

"Of course, if you are craving something light, we've a wide selection of salads."

... Wait. Should he be offering leafy greens to a...

No. He really shouldn't. Ahem.

"Pasta salad."

Syrlya listens with a passive expression as Link goes over the previous selection of what is most likely to be leftovers. At least, until he corrects himself, and then Syrlya's brows shoot up.

Now, there's no doubt there was probably regular salad as well, but the quick deflection makes Syrlya immediately aware of how Link is scrutinizing their differences. He's not offended by the presumption, exactly, so much as aware they're being made. He could just quickly correct Link, but...

Instead he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand as his grin gets a little more toothy and presents two rows of sharp fangs. "What was the meatiest option again?"

His eyes are drawn straight to those teeth but quickly flick back up to meet Syrlya's gaze. ~~Why is he reminded of one of those those deadly, meat-eating plants?~~ The meatiest option? Say no more.

"Perhaps it's best if I simply show you… A moment, please."

Since it won't do to stand here and stare, he excuses himself to the kitchen. He returns a beat later with a modest bowl in his hands. It's been wrapped with a bizarre film (someone had called it plastic?) for storage, which always seems to give him trouble when he tries to peel it open. As he'd cleared the buffet not long before Syrlya arrived, the food is still hot and steam has gathered on the inside of the plastic wrap. He places it on the counter for inspection.

As for what it is, he can only guess. To him, it looks similar to bite-sized strips of beef glazed in sauces and spices, with various vegetables for color. The meat itself, however, is… a deep shade of purple. Whoever made it has outdone themselves, though, as it smells delicious enough.

"I believe this was a temporary special. It was made with meat stocked during the previous festivities and was quite popular. Your thoughts?"

Oh, he's taking it seriously. Syrlya's expression brightens in blatant amusement as Link turns back to the kitchen.

The color of the meat doesn't turn him off as he looks down at bowl, having grown accustomed to some of the strange flavors they pick up from stop to stop. He puts his hands against the side of the bowl and gives Link a grateful look. "This will be just fine, thank you."

He drags the bowl closer. "For the record, I am not closely related to lettuce if that is what you were worried about." Probably, despite his appearance.

Link sputters. He actually stumbles over his words, and while his stammering is quiet and reserved he clearly has trouble finding the correct response to that. He notices a bit of heat creeping up from beneath the collar of his shirt.

"Ah--I would never assume--"

Only he had. Flustered, he begins to pat his apron pockets for a roll of silverware. Forks, spoons, knives and more can be found near the plates but, seeing how he's brought some from the kitchen, the distraction is a welcome one.

"What I mean is, I did not think you related so much as… I wasn't certain if there was some principle based on ethics…"

Such as whether or not one is allowed (or would even want) to eat fellow plant bros.

Edited 2018-04-25 04:35 (UTC)

Syrlya chuckles from behind his hand briefly, before he reigns it in and instead holds it out in acceptance of the silverware.

"If you are ever unsure, I promise I won't be offended if you ask." He has a feeling Link's world doesn't have anyone who looks quite like him. He tends to expect that, though, and there's no use getting riled up about innocent ignorance. "It is little different than races like yours eating meat."

Well, cows and chickens aren't people... but then neither are fruit or salads, so he supposes he sees where Syrlya is coming from.

As Link clears his throat, a fork, knife and spoon, all wrapped neatly in a cloth napkin, are placed into that waiting hand. Should he offer to show his guest to a seat at this point? Probably not. He isn't a waiter and, despite the care that's gone into rolling the napkin and cutlery, this isn't the fanciest restaurant. Still, so little makes sense here so he can't be certain. It's a learning process...

"Perhaps you're right," he says. "Nevertheless, I'm relieved to know I haven't insulted you. I would hate to start off on bad terms."

"Thank you--I have certainly started off on worse terms." But not at the carnival, thankfully. He supposes being more open minded comes with the territory of rapid transformation and a lot of weird places.

He carefully lifts the bowl between his hands, leaning back slightly from the counter. "Are you familiar with your radio, yet?"

Thank goodness for the change of subject. Perhaps things can return to some semblance of normalcy.

"Ah--no. Not quite," he muses. Glad to be moving away from his faux pas, Link plucks a tall glass from a stack beneath the counter and settles it in Syrlya's reach.

"I don't much care for it so I tend to leave it in the kitchen."

One of those strange, non-paper drinking straws is fished from his apron and slid next to the glass. With that, his service is complete. Link hesitates.

"... Should I?"

Syrlya carefully balances the bowl and utensils in one hand as he takes the glass and straw in the other.

"It is the best way to reach anyone in the carnival from a long distance. Especially if you need any assistance." Especially when the carnival gets tangled up in shenanigans. Which is often.

"And sometimes you'll find some very interesting conversation in the public channel."

He's had enough shenanigans already, thanks…

"Ah, I've no interest in idle chatter. However..."

Truthfully, he'd rather not feel tracked. But then he pauses for a short moment, pondering, his eyes on Syrlya's full hands. What if he does need assistance? Unless it's a carnival-wide emergency, he can't exactly abandon the kitchen. And he supposes it might be good to know about another one of those 'invasions' before they arrive. Then there's also the chance of hearing a familiar voice…

Mind made up, he bobs his head.

"Should an oven break, I suppose I would be out of luck. Why don't I go fetch the radio and then carry some of this to your table? You can show me how to adjust the dial. All of that static is starting to become bothersome."

"Of course." Syrlya's concern is more on making sure that everyone is prepared and coordinated for carnival-wide emergencies. Though it's true, engineering would probably appreciate being called over chased around the carnival for assistance.

"I have this, so you can meet me--" He jerks his head to the nearest table. "Over there. Thankfully, the technology of the radio is very simple."

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[OPEN]

Cookhouse

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