lostcarnival | if you ain't getting drunk, get the fuck out the trailer

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if you ain't getting drunk, get the fuck out the trailer

WHO: Strange & Lambert
WHEN: Day 77, after Moss and Shimmer's talk
WHERE: Lambert's trailer
WHAT: booze. and probably eventual talking of plot and maybe Strange'll actually tell Lambert about the deal with Ignatius. but mostly booze
WARNINGS: booooooze

Considering that Strange had already gotten sloppy drunk with Shimmer, he probably shouldn't be getting sloppy drunk with Lambert. But fuck it. The Ignatius thing had been weighing on his mind to the point where even after recovering from a hangover, Strange decided he wanted another drink. He should tell someone. But part of Strange doesn't want to tell anyone about it until Eden proper, just so the Ringmaster and himself can be spared a bit of yelling and spared people trying to persuade him otherwise.

Add in all that about the Huntsman...and yeah, Strange wants some booze. It'd be even better if he had the booze with Lambert. It's been far too long since the two of them just got drunk.

In true Strange fashion, he doesn't use the door to get into Lambert's trailer. This time he enters as smoke, slipping into the trailer through a crack underneath the doorjam. Strange resolidifies: even though they're off of camping time, he's still wearing a variation on his camping outfit of light cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up past the elbows, khaki trousers.

"I hope you summon your soul at some point during the evening," Strange calls out, as he starts to make his way to Lambert's kitchen area, walking in here like he owns the place. "I'm overdue a conversation with Celandine."

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In theory, getting blind drunk with Strange is an idea Lambert would be 100% behind. He’d said as much before, with that hideously awkward apology, but in everything else that followed, Lambert had honestly forgotten the matter had even come up.

Which means he’s looking up at Strange with mild confusion. He’s sitting on his couch, feet propped on the table as he consults a sheaf of papers; a couple of books are on the table, too, but pushed aside to one corner. The top few buttons of the witcher’s shirt are undone, but thankfully, at least, he’s clothed.

“Why my soul?” he calls, bemused. In the fridge, there’s not much of anything. The cupboards, though, will turn up at least a couple of bottles of wine and Lambert’s home brewed hooch.

"Because I like her," Strange points out, as if it's obvious. The first place Strange checks is the fridge: nothing there. And so, he moves to the cupboards. Thankfully, the first one he opens up is Lambert's disgusting home brewed hooch. And hey, at least that stuff is alcoholic. Strange starts to gingerly move the bottle out of the cabinet and places it on the counter-top.

Besides, if he does tell Lambert about this Ignatius thing, it would be good to have Celandine around to stop Lambert from doing something rash. It's so much easier to talk about important things when she's around.

"That and it's always amusing to see her drunk." Granted, he's only seen Celandine drunk once or twice, most notably on the moon. But tiny little polecat swaying around the room, hammered out of her mind? That's adorable!

"What, so you can gossip?" Lambert rolls his eyes. Celandine drunk usually means getting drunk himself, considering she doesn't have any actual organs, so he can already guess where the night is going to turn. Not that he necessarily minds, in this case. The occasion merits alcohol.

He's a lot better than he was, but he'll still turn himself gingerly to see where Strange is at, rather than twist around to see him like he normally would. He's confident his ribs are pretty well healed, between the medical team's efforts, but just in case...

"Bring the wine over too. There's some the next cabinet over."

"You say that like there's something wrong with gossiping!" Strange teases. He reaches over to grab the wine as well. Very carefully, Strange starts to carry the bottles over towards Lambert's couch area. He gently sets them down on the table, taking care not to set the wine or hooch on any of Lambert's papers.

"Besides, now that I know you're a taken man, we've got a whole new strain of gossip to chat about." Let's shittalk Childermass, Lambert. You know you want to.

"Gossiping with you is as good as making an announcement over the radio. If I wanted that, I might as well save myself the time talking to you," Lambert says direly. That's not entirely fair, though. Strange managed to keep his fucking mouth shut on the public channels, but now the nightrunners are well and filled in on the gossip, and Lambert's less than thrilled about it.

He reaches forward to snag one of the wine bottles -- are they just drinking directly from it? Apparently so -- and uses claws to deftly get it open. Might as well start with the easy stuff. Plenty of time to get fucked up later.

"And if I want to stay a taken man, I shouldn't be gossiping with you about any of that." It's half-hearted teasing. Unsurprisingly, given their next prospective destination, the notes Lambert's perusing are his own briefer notes about the Athenaeum, and the Miracles. Today, he's begun to add a bit on the Hunstman based on what pathetically little Moss has told them -- Run if you can. Hunt with them if you're caught. Don't eat the meat.

The books on the table are one of the strategy book Strange's given him, and stacked under it are two more, harder to read at this angle. Vinculus is visible on one faded spine; Raven King on another. These probably aren't books Strange has seen before.

"I can keep secrets," Strange muses. There's a wry little smile on his face like he's privy to an inside joke Lambert isn't aware of. After all, he's keeping one right now: Lambert doesn't know about Ignatius yet.

Apparently they are drinking directly from the wine bottles, as Strange finagles the cork out of the other one with his claws. Nosy as he ever is, he can't help but glance over Lambert's notes. The Huntsman. Yet another threat they need to be aware of and another thing they need to worry about. But the books catch his eye. Strange has only heard the name Vinculus once or twice and doesn't really grasp his importance in the whole scenario of Strange's life. But the Raven King? Of course he's interested in that.

"What's this?" Strange muses, as he reaches over to grab the book about the Raven King.

The full title of the book, now that Strange is actually scrutinizing it, is apparently Two Times that the Raven King Appeared and One Where He Did Not. Lambert means to tease Strange about the secrets thing, but when he calls his attention to the books, Lambert looks up with a frown.

“Just a book from the Athenaeum. Almost forgot I had it, actually, after everything else that’s happened.” He looks unhappy, but the reason why isn’t apparent until he continues speaking.

“I think that’s one of the books we ended up in. But Childermass doesn’t remember.”

Strange takes the book and idly flips through it. The book opens to a random passage, coincidentally the passage written out, as Strange stops to read it. His expression shifts from interested to a bit concerned.

He's not an idiot. He can put together some details, especially with these context clues. Strange knew that Childermass had found the Book of the Raven King. Something was odd about the Book in the sense that it was mobile and drunk. Strange also knew that Childermass placed his loyalty in the Raven King, probably more than Strange himself did. And, considering that he had found a story of his own life in the Athenaeum, Strange has no reason to doubt this book's truthfulness. So this means that not only was the Book of the Raven King an actual person, but Childermass saw the Raven King himself...but Uskglass did something to make Childermass forget.

How cruel of him.

Strange, at least, is interpreting Lambert's statement as 'Childermass doesn't remember the events of the book.' He frowns, looking down at the book with a sigh. "He could have at least let Childermass remember," Strange mutters, as he fingers trace the words on the page. "After all, I remember."

“The Raven King. You said you’d seen him. Pale guy, black robes, hair down to here, right?” Lambert gestures vaguely, indicating a non inconsiderable length past his waist. He takes a swig from the wine bottle, leaning back against the couch.

“Childermass doesn’t remember running into him in the Athenaeum, either. Thinks I made up Vinculus being dead, a fourth guy being there, gets pissy when I keep asking. But I know what I saw.” This likely isn’t what Strange came to bitch about, but it’s as good a warmup as any.

Edited 2018-07-10 15:01 (UTC)

Strange nods at Lambert's description. He had only seen the Raven King for a second, but it's the Raven King. How could he forget what he looked like?

"I believe you," Strange responds. Partly because of the book in the Athenaeum, partly because why would Lambert lie about something like this? He doesn't give a shit about the Raven King, he won't make up someone seeing them.

"There's probably a spell of forgetfulness or something like that wrapped around the memories." And there's a small pause before Strange continues with, "My power isn't nearly as great as the Raven King's. But I can try and dispell it if you want."

Logically, this is a decision that Childermass should make himself. But how can you make a decision to remember something you can't remember?

Strange does have the right of it. Lambert truly doesn’t give much of a shit about the Raven King, and he only knows as much about him as he does because god, neither magician can shut up about him.

A spell of forgetfulness ... but he doesn’t understand why. Maybe there’s no real reason for it — it’s the Raven King, and from the stories, he’s as incomprehensible as any fae. He takes another, longer drink, then lets the bottle rest on the couch between his legs, one foot tapping restlessly against the floor.

“If if were just up to me, I’d want you to,” he says, finally. “But he’s built his life on this. I don’t know if he’d thank us for it.” It’s a weird position to be in, admitting that. If it was a threat to Childermass’s life, the decision would be easy. Making this decision for him when he can’t remember something, and the uneasy recognition that he’d tried to do something similar to Ignatius, drive doubt into the loyalty at his core...

Ah, well. Lambert never claimed not to be a hypocrite.

Strange listens, taking a sip from the bottle as Lambert speaks. The idea of rationalizing away not knowing something doesn't sit right with Strange. But then again, Childermass wouldn't be the sort to drive himself to extremes for the sake of knowledge like Strange arguably did.

"If it were up to me, I'd do it anyway. But as long as he doesn't believe it, there's no way he'll even consider it," Strange points out. And if they go ahead and restore his memory and it turns out that Childermass doesn't want it...well, Strange has had far too many conflicts with his friends already. And he's tired of casting magic and making decisions that end up with people yelling at him.

Says the person who knows he'll make a few more decisions that end up with people yelling at him when this Ignatius business comes to light. God, he needs more alcohol.

"I suppose there's no harm in asking," Strange sighs, before taking an impressively large drink from the bottle he's currently got.

“Suppose not,” Lambert sighs, too, taking another swig of his drink— because what else is there to do— and shakes his head.

“But he’s got enough on his plate right now. It’ll keep.” Like the matter of what to do about Lapis Lazuli, if any of the rest of their number have plans to defect, the Starlight’s unwanted, intrusive warning echoing in his head even if the paper’s long turned to ashes.

“So, what’s on your mind?” He really doubts this is a social call.

There's an awkward pause before Strange starts, "I've got something I need to tell you. But before I do, please summon Celandine."

Strange isn't an idiot. If they're going to talk about Ignatius, he wants the conflict resolution polecat out and about for this. Strange is only slightly hiding the worried expression on his face as he thinks about the many ways this conversation could go wrong. But, he's not Lambert: he tells people things. So he might as well live up to that.

Lambert gives Strange a long, suspicious look. With an introduction like that, it doesn't bode well -- and he doesn't need to be particularly intuitive to read the expression on Strange's face, either.

"I'm really going to hate this, aren't I?" he asks, rhetorically. Nonetheless, he'll do as asked, focusing on the small bit of magic it takes to summon his daemon. She'll manifest draped on his lap, looking at Strange as disapprovingly as a cute marble-patterned mustelid can manage, tail curling behind her.

"I shan't stop him from hitting you if you've done something to deserve it, you know," she warns Strange, the frown evident in her voice. She'll stop Lambert from saying hurtful things, perhaps, but she's just as inclined to violence as he is when she reckons it's necessary. But her voice is a little worried, too. It's a little sad there are so many possible topics Strange could bring up that could provoke that reaction, but, well. It's what it is.

As Celandine gets summoned, Strange gives her a little nod and a smile. He still suspects this conversation isn't going to go very well. But at least now he'll have Celandine to hopefully act as a voice of sanity or rational thought.

Now that she's here, Strange takes one swig of the bottle for courage, pauses, then continues talking, in a matter of fact voice.

"Ignatius is coming with us to Eden. And the Ringmaster charged me to look after him."

To his credit, Lambert doesn’t chuck the wine bottle right at Strange’s head or lunge to strangle him.

That does nothing to tamp down his reaction, namely:

“What the fuck?!” Lambert’s bellow, punctuated by a lick of flame around his words, doesn’t quite break the windows, thought for a moment it almost seems like it might. He shoves himself off the couch, to his feet, and just stands there staring at Strange, fingers curling and uncurling like strangling or punching the magician is still very much on his mind. Then he turns around, steps stiff and wooden, and walks into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him with a teeth-rattling noise. He takes the wine, too.

“Give him a minute,” Celandine says helpfully, from where she’s moved off Lambert to comfortably perch on the couch. She doesn’t offer anything else, even as sounds which seem suspiciously like someone screaming imprecations into a pillow become audible. It is, sadly, going to take more than a minute.

This, right here, this is why Strange wasn't going to say anything until Celandine was summoned. As Lambert stares at Strange, Strange just stares right back, trying to keep his expression neutral even as the tips of his hair start to burn a bit brighter. It's only when Lambert slams the door behind him that Strange deflates a little, like someone letting the air out of a balloon.

He stands up and walks over to where Celandine's sitting on the couch. Strange slumps into the couch next to her as he looks up at the ceiling.

"I was against the idea at the start," Strange clarifies, as (without thinking) he reaches over to try and give Celandine a few scratches behind the neck. He's not angry at Lambert, just annoyed that this situation is going exactly as he thought it would. "And even though I suspect most of this is because of me, I never expected the Ringmaster to give me that responsibility."

Not that Strange is complaining, of course. It's nice to be trusted like this, even if he wishes it were under different circumstances.

Celandine doesn’t let Strange touch her, deftly eeling away across the cushions with a shake of her head. Touching is a bad idea right now, she’s aware of that much instinctively. With the mood Lambert’s in, she can guarantee they’ll respond well.

“What happened? Last we heard, the Ringmaster wasn’t even letting you see him.”

Something changed, obviously. Or a lot.

Rude, Celandine. He just wants pets!

"She changed her mind," Strange simply explains. "I had a meeting with Ignatius on his island—and before you ask, I didn't record it." Yet another thing for Lambert to yell at Strange about. He continues talking, though, like this isn't a problem.

"We got on the conversation of my serving him and I asked how I could break it. He said he wanted to go Eden, and that I should convince the Ringmaster to let him. If I did so, he'd break my contract. Well, I doubted she'd sign off on that, but there's no harm in asking so that's what I did. And she was fine with it."

He pauses for a moment, to take a breath. "There's terms and conditions, of course. Our agreement won't be broken until after Eden. As for Ignatius, he cannot interfere with us trying to obtain the Mirror, nor can he try and obtain the Mirror for himself."

She’s still Lambert’s soul, Strange!

Celandine studies the magician for a long moment. She knows Strange as well as Lambert does. There’s no doubt in her mind that conversation hardly went as clinically as all that, given how he’s been talking about him, but she’s also aware giving him shit about it isn’t at all going to be productive. It’s not the end result that would have gotten him yelled at, but probably how he said it that would have rankled.

“You broke your promise,” is all she’s going to say on the matter of not recording the conversation. Her gentle disappointment speaks for itself, but she shakes her head and is quick to move on.

“So in exchange for letting him come to Eden, he said he’d release you from his service?” she clarifies, just to be sure she has that right. “That almost seems too easy ... and fae aren’t known for making generous bargains. Still, if the Ringmaster already agreed, that’s the end of it.”

Yeah, he kind of did break his promise. Part of Strange just wants to snap back and complain that really, that's the thing they're focusing on? But instead he keeps quiet, only nodding once Celandine finishes her clarification.

"It does seem too easy," Strange admits. "But I'm glad she agreed on it. We can't keep Ignatius trapped in the carnival forever. And when he's eventually freed, I'd rather he look on us with something closer to mixed feelings instead of outright disdain."

Ignatius is never going to fully like the carnival, Strange is pretty certain of that. After all, he has his Heart taken away. But if they end up with Ignatius liking some aspects of the carnival or at least looking at everyone here with a nuanced glance, Strange will consider that a win.

‘Eventually freed.’ Celandine remains quiet, tail flicking slowly, considering what to say. The muttered swearing from beyond the door continues; Lambert can hear every word.

“Fae don’t change easily, or quickly,” is what she settles on instead, curling up on the couch. “I hope it makes a difference. But getting his word he wouldn’t harm the Carnival would be more reassuring, to be honest. If it comes down to the Summer Queen’s orders or feeling sorry for us, you know what he’d have to pick every time... and he wouldn’t be any more likely to give the Court up than you would give up England.”

"Or Childermass and the Raven King," Strange responds, with a nod. He knows that Ignatius is going to pick the Summer Court every time. Why wouldn't he? And he knows it's futile to try and convince Ignatius otherwise. And yet here comes Strange trying and hoping that he can at least get Ignatius to pause and think for a moment before blasting them all to hell on the Summer Queen's orders.

"Still, I managed to win you over to my side," said as he gives Celandine a smile. By the 'you', of course, he means her and Lambert as well. "I can at least try with him."

He can at least try and not give up. After all, Jonathan Strange is a man who tried dozens of occupations to try and find one that would fit him and please Arabella: he is too damn stubborn for his own good.

Celandine shakes her head. “You see the world differently from us. Maybe you can see something we can’t ... and we already trusted you. But does he? He knows you’d choose the Carnival over him, too.”

At least, her long look says, he’d better damn well choose the Carnival over Ignatius. After a moment, the polecat sighs, lowering her head to the cushions. “That contract didn’t do us much good in the end, did it?”

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