lostcarnival | ⇨ FAERIE TALES

"I don't know," he says hollowly. Either he's resisting, or this is the result of a too-complicated answer trying to come out in as few words as possible.

Rita shoots Syrlya a questioning look. The Maidens wanted what? How does he... no, she'll have to ask later.

"What about Nightshade?" she instead asks Ignatius, her arms crossed as she considers what they know. "Sounds like she has a few complaints. What do you make of her, really?"

"I don't know," he says again. There is little life to the response at this point - maybe it's becoming a problem.

This time, Lambert speaks up. His voice is low, and thick with contempt, though he’s been listening this whole time.

“It doesn’t seem like you know much of anything at all,” he says, his gaze searching Ignatius, then lifting to Syrlya and Rita. He’s had some experience with Rita’s book, if purely functional. The transfer of information goes both ways.

“But that’s why it’s so easy for you to be sure, isn’t it? You say you know nothing but the life you’ve been given — fine. We’ll show you.” He holds a hand out to Rita. “Give me a page.”

Edited (typos everywhere sorry) 2018-06-05 10:12 (UTC)

The request is met with an uncertain look, but Rita complies. She flicks her wrist, and a blank page tears itself out of the book and floats over to Lambert, hovering just in reach.

“What are you going to do?” she asks, wary. One who touches that page may imprint it with information to be communicated to others. What could he want to share with Ignatius?

“I’m going to give him a gift,” Lambert says, simply. There isn’t so much cruelty in his voice as there is flat calmness. For a moment, those stories about witcher heartlessness almost seem like they might really hold water...

“Two, actually. The first is mortal pain. A taste of what it’s like, being on the receiving end of what the fae have done.”

He glances at Rita, brows raised. She might have something to add here of her own, if she’s so inclined, but he won’t compel her to if she doesn’t want to share.

Rita gives him a stare, then her gaze drifts to the page. Would that really work? Can the fae even empathize with mortals?

Screw it. She's doing it.

"With her amplified power, the Guardian of Knowledge was able to inspire not only factual knowledge, but also the knowledge of emotions, felt by the receiver as vividly as they were by the one imprinting the information." This time, she feels not just a surge of power, but a surge of pain, as well. She bears it, grimacing slightly. Seems like invoking the bloodstone over and over is starting to catch up with her. As her adrenaline wears off, she might not last much longer before needing rest.

So with no time to waste, Rita steps forward, places a hand on the page, and records some of her own experiences. There's the attack on the Sanctuary in Portland, when she helped a panicking kid escape through a window, then found herself grabbed, dragged, and trapped in a room full of vines, surrounding herself with fire and pushing through the panic and terror as she struggled to find another exit.

Also added is the memory of her meeting another changeling who'd escaped from Ignatius, a man with burns all over his arms. Someone who showed her kindness once, then was taken away by the Rose Queen and brainwashed into fighting his fellow changelings... fighting Rita, though it was the last thing either of them wanted to do.

With just her touch and those thoughts, words appear on the page, written in incomprehensible runes. "Should be enough room for yours," she tells Lambert before stepping back and letting him do his thing.

Syrlya watches them, sideways, before drawing his hand back and allowing the spell to dissipate. It was only to get him to talk, after all--that lacking ability to fight them comes from a lot of other causes.

He also has little to add about the suffering from the Fae... he knows they've received much worse, so he goes quiet to allow them the room to work.

Lambert can’t read what’s on the paper, but he’ll know what it is soon enough. With a breath, he presses his palm to the page, ink starts to fill it where Rita leaves off, wincing as her own memories hit him — but it gives him room to build on.

The disjointed memories colored by Lambert’s emotions as an observer, but it’s what he knows. The witcher pours in the memory of seeing the scars on Strange’s arms after Portland, and the understanding of the kind of agony that must have put them there, the fear that it might happen again and he’ll be helpless to stop it — it has happened again, and now Strange is dead. He calls up the memory of Childermass telling him about being raised in the Winter Court — ”Who would even notice one less crow around?" the changeling asks, and it bleeds into the heart pounding terror of a dark night, fleeing from the Rose Queen’s gardens after an attempt to retrieve some stranger’s family and get some answers, only to have Childermass ripped right from his hands. In reality, Steven’s agony from the Rose had only hurt Lambert so much, but memory sharpens and magnifies it, and he remembers much more clearly the anger he felt at himself while Steven sobbed into his shirt after the Rose changed him, because of the blood binding him to a being he should never had to call mother. It isn't fair. He can't outrun what's in his veins, what he never asked for.

Look. Fae did this, and thought nothing of it. It’s a litany of accusation, colored by Lambert’s own feelings of helplessness and anger. Of course they’d defend themselves — of course they’d grasp for every advantage they could have. Because it’s all they have as mortals.

There’s still a bit on the page left —

“The second thing I’m giving you is the truth: your Queen is wrong, but she’s too busy moping to see it,” Lambert tells him. “The greatest enemy she has isn’t the Beast, it’s the bitch who cheated her way onto Winter’s throne. The one who hates the Carnival so much she sent demons to do her dirty work for her.”

Lambert’s been to Hell for the Carnival. Literally. This set of memories is less emotional: he imprints the page with that helter skelter rescue, the ravaged forms of the Supervisors and carnival workers they’d pulled from the Carnival, and ties it back to the memory of a protection spell that should have concealed them — but for a vampire reeling on the ground, forced to recite her secrets for Childermass and Lambert under the compulsion of silver and magic.

The most beautiful woman, the one with white hair ... she had it out for you disgusting fools too. The Ringmaster had called it no proof. It wouldn’t hold up in the eyes of any law. But with Ignatius has just told them about where Frost was this whole time, the pieces line up too neatly, don’t they? If either Rita or Syrlya touches the page now, they’ll get those memories too, Lambert’s suspicion and the Ringmaster’s weary resignation. Even if it was true, would it make a difference? And yet if it was true...

With the instantaneous way that knowledge pours onto the page, what should have taken hours to explain only takes moments. Lambert blinks, shaking his head.

“... As soon as the witcher and the guardian had filled the page with their memories, they granted it to the fae by touching it to his flesh.”

Lambert reaches out and slaps the page onto Ignatius’s forehead ... right about when the Ringmaster’s voice echoes tersely into the abyss of the sea.

”Lambert, where are you? Zangetsu returned with Strange and we have to leave immediately.”

Edited (wording) 2018-06-05 16:41 (UTC)

Whatever ends up going through Ignatius's mind, he doesn't make a big show of it - no screaming or whingeing or an emotional show of tears. It's not in his nature to give his enemies satisfaction, or to show everything that he feels on the inside. It's none of their concern, and every piece of information you have that the enemy doesn't is an asset.

Except, perhaps, when they are torturing you with spite built on things they don't know. That's something he'll have to think about later, if they don't kill him. There will be a lot of things to think about, it seems.

As it is, he shuts his eyes tight, bowing forward in psychological agony until the butt of the sword in his chest has almost touched the ground. He's shaking at the shoulders, a visceral and physical reaction that can't be helped. His breath is catching as nausea rolls over him in waves and his consciousness wavers on the edge of oblivion.

He only faintly recognizes the Great Beast's voice, at the end.

It seems to have worked, after a fashion. Whether it'll turn out to be something they regret or not ... Lambert doesn't have the ability to see that far in the future.

But for now, he has other problems. He steps back from the fae on his knees to wrestle with whatever the spell's done to him, but it's really more of a stagger, as he fumbles for his radio and pushes the button.

"Are the rest back already?" he asks, his voice hoarse from exertion, panting for breath. Turns out trying to consciously pour memories into someone else is kind of mentally taxing. No longer held in place by his hand, the paper drifts up again and away from Ignatius, swaying gently.

Syrlya moves to brace his hand on Lambert's shoulder as he sways, though he doesn't try to hold him up as long as he still stays on his feet.

He reaches up to snatch the paper as it floats away, jerking and tightening his grip as he's promptly flooded with those memories. Which was partly the point, as Lambert obviously put some key information he's missing in there... but ow. He hisses, crumpling the sheet as he pulls it closer.

"Yes," the Ringmaster answers tersely, mostly because she was left hanging there for a moment. "What are you doing?"

Even with his flagging energy, Lambert's perfectly aware that 'we're torturing a fae' isn't going to go over well, in any shape or form.

So what he says next, he says entirely without thinking.

"We've captured Ignatius." He's staying on his feet, with Syrlya to steady him -- in all the pain the rest of his body is in, the fresh agony from from the mesmer's fingers barely registers. As soon as the words are out of his mouth, though, the idea solidifies in his mind, and he realizes it's true. They have captured a fae. Their only problem is bringing him back.

"He said ... he said Frost's been tracking the Carnival for a while, and that's how they knew how to find us," he goes on. "He might know more, but he's unconscious now."

Well. He looks unconscious, or was heading there fast. Lambert's not sure how you judge fae vital signs.

"You WHAT?"

Her response is so loud it will probably sting Lambert's ears. Not only does she sound angry and confused, she sounds horrified. What's worse is putting together what must have happened to have Ignatius tell them anything, and also to be unconscious.

"What did you do to him?! I swear to the Void, Lambert... if you've ignored everything I told you..."

She's honestly at a loss. She has no words.

Rita watches Ignatius, but he doesn't seem to give much response. It's hard to say whether it's because he's unaffected by their experiences, or if he's unwilling or unable to show it. In any case, it seems they've reached the limits of what they can do to him, and with the Ringmaster calling, it looks like their time is up, too.

Seeing Syrlya flinch at the page draws Rita's attention, and she can't help but wonder what he saw. She draws closer to him, and reaches out to touch the paper. The moment the memories flood into her mind, she gasps. Adding the transmission of emotion is a double-edged blade, it turns out... but she'd still rather know these things than not.

She takes a moment to breathe, then waves the paper back to her book, where it joins the others. The book closes itself and floats behind her and out of the way, its duty fulfilled for now.

As for the Ringmaster, Rita lets Lambert handle the talking for now, her brow furrowing at the fae's reaction just now. What did she tell Lambert?

What did they do to him? Lambert feels his ire rising at the question, and fresh off the memories he just shared, some of that anger is audible in his voice.

"No worse than they've done to us before," he snarls back. What exactly that consists of, he won't bother to detail -- though the Ringmaster's imagination can probably entertainingly fill that in with horrible images before he answers what he guesses is her main concern. "No iron. Just stories, like the Scribe and Curator told us to."

He breathes, and launches into another question. "But it's not enough to kill him. The Summer Court's going to be after our asses no matter what -- you want to leave another fae with a grudge on the loose?"

The Ringmaster is just sounding more and more distressed and desperate, yelling into the radio as she is apparently one step away from a mental breakdown.

"What are you suggesting? Lambert?"

Why won't any of them listen to her? This is insane. Why could't they have bound Ignatius and fled, like everyone else did?

"Let's take him with us," Lambert says, simply. "Or come here and kill him yourself."

Witchers are supposed to be neutral. Neutrality didn't keep them from getting half wiped out. It obviously isn't enough.

"You said it yourself: they'll never give up chasing you, and now you're sending us after weapons of war. Maybe you should start treating this like one."

Edited 2018-06-05 18:31 (UTC)

Lambert better be careful, because he's about to get what he wished for. The Ringmaster can access the Athenaeum too, after all. Combined with her existing power... well, she wouldn't want to be someone on her bad side, she thinks as she narrates herself a short cut straight to the arena.

She appeals as a massive silhouette, her front claws coming to rest on the walls of the structure as if it were a knee-high fence. He feathered wings could blot out the sun as they stretch to her sides, her eyes a cutting orange as she glares down at the assembled carnival workers... and Ignatius. She is in her full dragon form, and yet she's arrived without a sound.

One massive foot settles into the arena, followed by another. She curls her lip, revealing a snarl of sharp teeth, seeing what's going on in the water below. Finally, her eyes settle on Lambert.

Lifting a foot, she swings it towards him and smacks him across the arena.

"Unfortunately," she rumbles in narration before he's managed to hit the ground. "The Nightrider didn't die from his injuries. That would be too easy."

Then, she turns to look at the others.

Bye, Lambert. He has just long enough to bare his teeth at the Ringmaster's dragon form before he's torn from Syrlya and punted straight across the Coliseum, into the stands.

Unfortunately, while the Ringmaster might have narrated him out of death, she also hasn't narrated him out of injury or unconsciousness. There's a distinctly unpleasant sound as Lambert's body impacts the stone 'seats,' and then he mercifully blacks out.

Rita's mouth opens when Lambert's sent flying across the arena, but she soon shuts it, instead meeting the Ringmaster's gaze. She's not about to make any excuses; Lambert just about covered it over the radio.

What she will do, however, is deactivate her Guardian powers, beckoning her book back to her and willing it to dissolve into light and return to her chest, causing her clothes to also return to normal. The sword in Ignatius' chest vanishes, the magic composing it dissipating.

"I assume you've got something to say?" she says, regarding the Ringmaster with a wary look. She's never seen her like this before, and while she can make some guesses at why she's so furious, the fact is that she doesn't know enough about the Ringmaster to be sure of what's going on in her head. "Or are you going to smack us around, too?"

As the sword disappears, Ignatius chokes out a gasp, his shoulders jerking with the sudden change in sensation. Flickers of flame and heat bleed from the open wound, making the water bubble and sizzle around it. He barely looks like himself, after all of this, with his flames drowned, his body held down in chains.

He doesn't look up from the ground, still bent over his knees. He's pretty sure he knows what's coming next, and he isn't going to fight it. He's done.

Syrlya's hand is quickly empty as Lambert is smacked right out of his reach. He just stares at him getting beat across the floor before snapping his attention up to the Ringmaster in anticipation for getting swatted about next.

Rita's antagonism isn't helping, and Syrlya cringes. "If the Ringmaster intends to do either, it is likely best saved after we return to the carnival." With or without Ignatius. Who he spares a look to, glancing over the damage done. It isn't a wound that will kill him like the Prince, but...

The Ringmaster looks at Rita and Syrlya as they speak, but she doesn't actually say anything in return. Instead, she just stares and bears her teeth more widely, her dragonish face far more difficult to read than her humanoid one. Her eyes are narrowed, like she's thinking.

Then, she takes a step closer to Ignatius, looming over him. Seeing this makes her very uncomfortable, but that doesn't change what she's going to do next.

"Ignatius," she says. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry about this."

Then, she opens her jaws and grabs him up into her mouth, ripping the chains free from the ground as he goes. She swallows him whole. He doesn't even get the chance to fight back.

She tilts her head back as she makes sure to keep him down, and then lifts her body, looking back to the two of them. She really doesn't seem happy.

"In her haste to flee, the Ringmaster moved the portal to the very edge of the coliseum, bidding her followers to leave while there was still time. They took the Nightrider's unconscious body with them, and made it back to the carnival grounds before she lost her patience."

Then, she growls, speaking plainly.

"If you want to fight this like a war, you should consider what the cost of insubordination is."

She turns and leaps for the newly opened portal, disappearing inside.

Edited 2018-06-05 20:05 (UTC)

⇨ FAERIE TALES

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this is the longest tag i’ve ever written in this game goodbye

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