⇨ CAMPING GROUNDS

[ringleaders]

Who: Everybody!
When: Day 64
Where: The Camping Grounds
What: While the Ringmaster attempts to purge the carnival of magical tracing spells and deal with the angry fire fae in her belly, everyone else is getting sent on an emergency camping trip with some unusual local fauna.
Warnings: Camping.

CRYPTIC CAMPGROUNDS↴ You're given about three hours to prepare, after the Ringmaster tells you her plans for the coming week. There is a vast selection of camping equipment at your disposal, and the means to take along enough food for the length of the stay. The wilderness of the planet you're left on is nearly idyllic, but some people just don't like the great outdoors. ► CRYPTOZOOLOGY: As it turns out, the carnival won't be alone here. There is a varied ecosystem of cryptids to be found as well, living in relative peace and mostly reacting to the newcomers with curiousity. More details can be found on the plotting post. You are free to NPC the cryptids as much as you need to, as long as you stick to the behaviours described. ► DREAMSHARING: There is a player plot going on which will allow characters to share dreams! These are specifically more dreams than nightmares, and the mushi-adept characters will be here to help. ► CHILLAX: There isn't any plot twist for this setting, so this is mostly an opportunity to decompress from the last plot and get ready for the future. The Ringmaster will show up occasionally to help with needed medical treatments and check on things, but won't stick around for long.

Comments

[whattaprick]

"You'd better not."

There's not much else to say, as they head back to the campsite Lambert and Childermass share, set away enough from the other tents for some mild semblance of privacy, even if it's mostly an illusion. Lambert gestures for Syrlya to have a seat on one of the rocks around the fire, while he goes to have a rummage around his tent for his alcohol supply.

Syrlya won't be alone there for long, though. There's a rustling in the underbrush ... and then Baker sticks his head out of the foliage, doggy tongue lolling. He'd been drawn by the sound familiar footsteps heading back to the tent, but on seeing Syrlya first instead of Lambert, that great fuzzy head tilts a little, confused.

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya seats himself where Lambert gestures, a healthy distance from the fire (he might be leaning back a little). He tilts his head back when he hears the rustling, staring blankly at Baker as he sticks his head out of the bushes. Syrlya, at least, recognizes him even if the name escapes his tongue right now.

"Hello there," he offers the dog a faint smile, raising his hand.

[whattaprick]

Baker still doesn't seem to quite know what to make of Syrlya, but he knows what an extended hand means and he barks once before he trots over, tail wagging, to give the Sylvari a good sniffing-over. In the way that dogs do, that also means sticking his nose in all sorts of places, and it's that which Lambert walks back in on, holding two bottles.

"Looks like you're getting along with Baker." t's not faerie ale, alas, but it is his own homebrewed hooch, and the witcher passes the bottle to Syrlya before settling down with a grimace.

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya tolerates the sniffing over for a moment before putting a hand to Baker's snout, mostly to make him stop by giving him the affection he hopefully wants, because Syrlya has nothing to feed him.

"They are... Childermass', correct?" He looks sideways to Lambert before taking the bottle in his free hand, raising a brow at that grimace.

[whattaprick]

Baker whuffs against Syrlya's hand, curiously, but he's too well-trained to actually chew on it. Syrlya's a bit too active to be thought of in the same terms as a stick, although it's close enough there's a lot in common...

"Baker? Yeah, he's Childermass's. Same world Pig comes from... Butcher's dad, actually." He'll ignore that raised brow in favor of expectantly watching for Syrlya's reaction. Most people have something to say about a dog and a horse having a donkey for a baby.

[chronosynthesis]

"Butcher--your young horse?" Because hell if Syrlya knows what a donkey is. He knows what it looks like, though, and he stares dumbly at Baker for a long minute before his attention slowly slides back to Lambert.

"But... how--no, wait, actually, I don't really want to know." It's clear Butcher only takes after his mother, anyway, which honestly just makes it more questionable but he is not remotely in a place where he wants to try and decipher foreign animal reproduction.

Instead, he takes a swing straight from the bottle in his hand--and his face immediately scrunches up in distaste as he swallows.

[whattaprick]

"You don't," Lambert says with a sort of cheerful, vicious menace. "Especially not the part where he came out of an egg."

It's not the good stuff, but witcher alcohol is ranked more in potency than flavor. Drink enough of it and Syrlya, too, will probably find the taste less important -- or maybe that's just the steady death of his taste buds. Who knows? In any case, with no food or pettings forthcoming from the Sylvari, Baker detaches from his side and trundles over to Lambert instead.

"I don't have any food for you, you bottomless pit," the witcher says, fondly, but he does reach up to scratch the dog companionably, which seems to be as good a compromise as any. It sets that great big tail wagging, anyway, and Baker props his head in Lambert's lap to let him continue giving him his attention while the rest of him flops out on the ground like a great orange carpet.

"But you didn't come here to talk dogs." That's directed at Syrlya, again. "So, what happened to you?"

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya looks at Lambert. Then up at the sky, in silence. Then Lambert again. The sky.

Then he proceeds to knock the bottle back, chugging the alcohol for a second until the burn almost makes him choke and he's forced to stop with a gasp.

"I don't even know where to begin," he groans, staring into the fire. "The whole situation has grown wildly out of control, and we are running out of time."

[whattaprick]

"Well," Lambert says dryly, gesturing around them. "We obviously aren't going anywhere, so take your time."

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya's expression twists, and he narrows his eyes a little at Lambert before sighing and leaning over with his arms rested against his knees. He's sideways, a little, so he's still not leaning too close to the fire.

"Before I arrived at the carnival, I learned the the ex-Human God Balthazar was planning to contest the dragons himself. Of course, we cannot kill the dragons until we have another way to stabilize the magic of Tyria without them, but he didn't care about that." Syrlya looks sullenly down at the bottle. "So we had to stop him."

[whattaprick]

"Gods don't tend to care a lot about anyone," Lambert points out. "That's kind of the entire point of being a god, isn't it?"

Still, if he's understanding what Syrlya's telling him correctly here...

"So, you fought a god." Or former god, it's not exactly clear. "How much did that suck for you?"

Because if it had gone well, he doesn't think Syrlya would be chugging alcohol like this.

[chronosynthesis]

"A former god, technically, so I hate to think what would have happened were he not stripped of his power," he mumbles into the mouth of the bubble, not terribly assuaged himself.

"But his death still released a significant amount of magic that the elder dragon he was trying to kill consumed, so either way we are dealing with a powerful entity bent on destroying us that is now more powerful." He takes another drink and waves the bottle for emphasis. "And the other gods just left Tyria entirely! I did not wish to say it in front of Kasmeer, but I do not understand what humanity worshipped them for."

[whattaprick]

“Hm,” Lambert says, noncommittally. Syrlya is talking like Strange sometimes does, like he’s supposed to know or care who these people or places are, but this isn’t really the time to ask clarifying questions — it’s the time to just steadily feed him alcohol until he’s too drunk to walk or think in straight line. It won’t, however, save Syr from a bit of ribbing.

“So, you decided to come back to the Carnival for a vacation after all that, huh?”

He’s joking, mostly. His impression is that people who leave the Carnival with incomplete contracts don’t recall much of any of the Carnival back home, but he’s not sure how the Ringmaster works out the pickup point either. It’s all firmly in the realm of magic bullshit.

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlys remains blissfully unaware of Lambert's intention to get him too drunk to function, taking another swig of the bottle. He pauses after that, running his fingers around the neck of the bottle.

"I left to have a refreshed perspective of things here, upon returning. And I supposes I got what I wanted." He purses his lips. "At least I know that so long as I am here, Tyria is not falling further into turmoil. Yet."

[whattaprick]

It's just what you do when someone's clearly trying to drown their misery. Lambert may have a limited grasp of proper social interaction, but he's got an handle on that one just fine.

"Guess that's better than nothing," Lambert shrugs. He can't really relate to the scale of the problem Syrlya's talking about, but he can't help but quirk a brow at him, tail swaying lazily behind him.

"Does your world depend on you that much?" He means it to be teasing, but then again, now Syrlya has him wondering.

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya stops before he's going to take another drink. That's not a question he's been asked before, and he slowly lowers the bottle as he stares blankly at the fire.

"I suppose it does," He says with a shrug, straightening up--only for a moment before the alcohol weighs him back down and he slumps again. "My Wyld Hunt was to combat the Elder Dragons. We all simply... underestimated the complexity of the issue."

"But I have already started it." He glances sideways to Lambert. "Of course, every race must deal with this. It threatens the entire world." Syrlya is just the one they expect to have the answers for it.

Too many people died for Syrlya to lead this cause. He can't be the guiding figure they want to see him as, but he can at least finish what he started.

[whattaprick]

"This is why destiny's bullshit," Lambert says, matter-of-fact. "The whole world gets boned just because you weren't in the right place at the right time? Kind of shitty for the people who don't even know who you are."

Though he remembers enough of what Syrlya said, and he raises a brow, smirking.

"So, where does the resurrection come in?"

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya snorts. Yeah, it's not always great to be on the recieving end of destiny. "It is my Wyld Hint because I am capable of fulfilling it. The Dream does not choose Valiants lightly."

That doesn't make it any less of a gargantuan task, but rather than argue out (and have to try to prove) he's not totally a failure, he latches onto the next topic.

"Balthazar killed me." That's the short, simple answer. There's a pause as Syrlya's expression twists. "It was a trap. I underestimated him, in that regard."

[whattaprick]

Seems like an ass-backwards way to do things, in Lambert's opinion -- what the hell would this 'dream' know about someone who hasn't even come to life yet? -- but

"Looks like he underestimated you too," Lambert points out. "What's the story behind that?"

You know, the whole 'hey I'm still alive' thing.

[chronosynthesis]

Most Valiants don't even get Hunts until after they awake, Syr is just a special protagonist.

A brief, crooked smirk reaches Syrlya's face at Lambert's assertion, and he sits up a little. "Using a lot of his magic against him. He was using souls of the dead to fuel his army, so when I died it was a way back out."

By killing a monster, but the alcohol is starting to muddle Syr's focus at an increasing rate and he figures trying to explain the traumatizing amnesia and soul searching and the technicalities of resurrection... well, that's too much of an explanation for right now.

"It isn't possible, normally. Were he not abusing the realm of the dead..." Well, Syrlya wouldn't still be standing here.

[whattaprick]

Between Syrlya and Geralt's shit-dipped lives, Lambert's starting to rethink his desire to ever remotely become anything resembling a protagonist again. Sure, the recognition would be nice, but it sounds like it comes with a whole lot of crap.

Syrlya's explanation has some noticeable missing pieces in it, but Lambert isn't sure he wants a whole technical explanation of it. Still, he has to point out:

"There's a whole lot of holes in that story, you know that? Good thing you're not a bard."

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya laughs, waving the bottle. "I will leave that to real storytellers and skaalds. Truthfully, it was a strange circumstance even in Tyria." Although that's about the description of his life. Syrlya stalls before taking another swig and sways back a little.

"He's the one who's dead now, anyway. Now we have to clean up the mess he left behind. And still find a solution to the dragons."

[whattaprick]

"Hmm. If I didn't know any better," Lambert says, slyly, "You're almost starting to sound like some kind of hero."

Something which Lambert is adamant about not being of course, and he holds the almost-serious expression for only a moment before he laughs, waving a hand.

"Please, at least tell me someone paid you for that. Or that you got a drink out of it."

[chronosynthesis]

Syrlya snorts, looking down at the ground pensively. "Some would call me that."

He's made enough waves in the world, most of them for the good of it. But he's not sure he can call it justified until he cleans up his hand in making it worse and actually solves the dragon threat.

He pauses, then shakes his head. "Not having the world destroyed will be a priceless reward. But they threw a party," he respond dourly. A celebration he hadn't wanted to be the center of attention for, but there was never a choice. He has to be a beacon of hope after all.

He bungled that speech though.