Despite the supernatural conflict above them providing ample distraction, for the rest of the Carnival's more mortal members there are more pressing concerns to worry about. For whatever good it does, Lambert and Syrlya are moving through the gardens under stealth, attempting to dispatch Honorables armed with iron where they run across them, but otherwise searching for bigger game. If they can disable the Architects aligned with Lilith, Lambert theorizes, that will weaken the will of other Honorables to fight the Carnival, and they can devote the rest of their energy to actually helping the Ringmaster and finding their lost captives.

That plan, though, takes a hard derail when the scent of blood catches his nose. In itself, that isn't unusual, but it's laced with the scent of familiar magic, too, and his gaze swings sharply over to the underbrush.

It smells like a lot of blood.

"Stop," he commands Syrlya, a sudden urgency to his voice. "There's--" He doesn't finish what he's about to say -- he just leaps off Syrlya's shoulder and bolts, cat-quick, where the sound of faintly-labored breath comes from.

"John!" Syrlya should have no trouble following the sound of the witcher's voice, stealth be damned, and he'll find the witcher-turned-cat nudging at the magician with his head, hissing and spitting.

"Help me get him in the shade!" he snarls over his shoulder. "His wounds need to be bound -- John. Can you move?" A soft cat paw smacks at Childermass's face, calling for his attention.