Carcosa, pt. 2

[polymods]

✖ Carcosa

Ⅰ. CARCOSA
You Are Still Here.

Another month, and you’re still in the city of Carcosa! Isn’t that just wonderful?

You still have access to the city’s temple and the High Temple.

The side effects you may have suffered from throughout the month of May are now at an end - if you had a pesky mask glued to your face the whole time it will now fall off. You might need a little moisturizer, but otherwise you’ll be just fine.

You could sit around inside the relative safety of the temples, of course, but why not get out there and explore the city some more? Come on, grumpypants!

---

Ⅱ. SPEAK EASY
CW: Optional alcohol consumption.
What kind of pet shop is filled with rambunctious yahoos and hot jazz music at 1 AM? That's right - the best damn pet shop in town! Sidle up to the back door of Curly's Pet Shop and a panel will open enough to reveal a pair of eyes. "What's the password?" you'll be asked. Whatever word first comes to your mind, well, that apparently is correct because you're let in at once.

The front of the building definitely does indeed house fish and birds and kittens, but the back room is definitely not a good place to find a new animal companion; you find yourself in a crowded little room with low lighting and a small bar crammed into one corner. There's seats and some tables, and most importantly there's a band playing jazz music across from the bar.

Why not take a seat and have a drink? It's probably not paint thinner. Probably. Maybe you'll spot some of your fellow Travelers and you can sit and have a chat. Make a new friend who can hold your hair back if you party too hard.

And you better hope that the place doesn’t get raided!

Notes:
1. The drinks are all era-appropriate - you’re not getting Redbull with vodka here - and even if your character has non-human physiology they will work the same as they would on a baseline human. That’s right, your magic or your healing-factor or your vampire blood is no match for these Gin Rickeys!

2. If Curly’s does get raided while you’re there, you can run and hide or choose to engage with the police, who are armed and not too shy about opening fire if you go on the offensive. As with the rest of the regular residents of Carcosa, the officers are human and can be killed. Killing them may affect the colour grading of your Scrywatch depending on the situation. (Is it beneficial to personal growth to kill in order to save someone else, for example? You tell me!)

3. Did you want a pet from the front of the building? Well, just remember that baby turtles and alligators might SEEM like a good idea, but they grow up! Also any animal you take will not travel with you to the next island. So sorry.

---

Ⅲ. EXPRESSIONISM YOURSELF
CW: Optional paranoia, hallucinations.
If you wander the streets at night, you may find yourself getting turned around. You'll find that the streets have lost their many lights, and the beautiful and delicate art deco architecture has given way to something much more stark and heavy. The buildings are block-like, but they curve in exaggerated ways that hurt the eye if looked at too long. All are in blacks and whites and greys. Nothing looks quite real, but you can walk along just fine. Probably better not to go off alone, though.


Periodically you will encounter that pesky sign of some sort painted on the walls. If you follow the sigils, you will eventually be led to a long staircase that winds down and down until it finally terminates in a large white room lit by a few electric lanterns. There's black paint there, with brushes. Maybe you're feeling creative?

Notes:
1. You’re pretty sick of this stupid sigil, aren’t you? In fact, you consider yourself QUITE the detective and have been searching after its meaning! Or maybe you played Call of Cthulhu a lot in college, you nerd!

Painting the sigil on the wall will cause you to feel disoriented and paranoid until you leave the white room. From that point on you can discover a copy of a play entitled The King In Yellow anywhere in the city you choose. Reading the first act of the play has no effect on you, however if you choose to read beyond the first line of the second act you will spend the rest of the month suffering from periodic hallucinations, often of a tall man in a pallid mask.

2. While there is no compulsion to paint, choosing to work out any of your character’s issues through art therapy can be reflected in your Scrywatch colour if it is significant enough.

---

Ⅳ. AS FAR BACK AS I CAN REMEMBER, I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A GANGSTER
CW: Optional gun violence, injury.
Art? Theatre? Music? BAH! Boring!

Maybe your tastes are a little more on the dangerous side? Whatever this island may be, it seems to offer plenty of opportunities to get into the seedy underbelly. Maybe you feel the need to steal a car, rob a bank, transport some illegal hooch for a smiling fellow in a yellow fedora. Grab your tommy guns, kids, it's time to outrun the Feds!

Naturally, you could wind up injured having all of this fun, but surely you could get some help from your fellow Travelers, either directly or by having them haul you to some sort of underground doctor. These doctors do exist, although it might take a while to get referred to one by a local.

You might also find yourself under arrest and stuck in an old-timey jail cell for a month. What fun!

Notes:
1. As was stated in the first prompt, the regular residents of Carcosa are normal humans. Killing them is possible and may affect the colour grading of your Scrywatch depending on the situation. Any weapons you find are era-appropriate.

2. You can break out of jail if you’re resourceful enough.

3. The underground doctors aren’t working in a real hospital for a reason. In fact, some of them might be less doctors and more, well. Vets.

You still jamming to that Carcosa playlist?

Network · Logs · OOC · Memes · Plurk

Comments

Booker | OTA

[bookerlesigh]

Ⅱ. SPEAK EASY

Booker's not sure why, but the booze here hits him faster and harder than anything he can remember having. Logically, he's sure that this was how alcohol hit him before his first death, but he remembers the blackouts more than he remembers this sensation.

This isn't drowning, it's floating, and he sits at the counter of the bar and drinks, eyes glazed and easy to smile.

There's freedom in this, and he's here to indulge as thoroughly as he can.

"Can I grab you anything?"

Ⅳ. AS FAR BACK AS I CAN REMEMBER, I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A GANGSTER

It isn't surprising, really, that after so much time spent in that bar, he'd get picked up. Better him than the poor woman he'd mentioned her children, and he doesn't regret shoving her into the streets and occupying the officer in her stead.

Imprisonment should trigger a thread of panic but he's heard the coppers talking, and there's no worry of being trapped here forever, or of a death sentence that they won't be able to impose. No, just standard slap on the wrist stuff, and therefore he finds the four walls and their containment somewhat reassuring.

It's harder, to feel listless, when there's no where to go, and he eyes the people he sees with lazy intrigue, wondering what's brought them to this place. One can't struggle with obligation and purpose when they have no means to act on it.

iv

[mewnifestos]

Ah, isn't this familiar? A dreary cell, the dull throb of a bruised temple and a split lip, and nothing but the company of listless, passed out drunks. Well - all right. That last one, not so much. In his last cell, there wasn't any company, and he certainly didn't have half the view. Those bars look practically wide enough for him to slip through, though he hasn't tried, yet. That could be foolish without a plan, first.

Though what, exactly, he's waiting for he couldn't say, until he happens to catch the wandering eye of the stranger across the little block of cells. Not passed out, maybe even sober - he might even be up for a chat.

"Come here often?" Anders asks, a cheerful sally, though the grin that tugs at his busted lip stings, as he lifts his head from where he was resting it against the blessedly cool wall.

[bookerlesigh]

Perhaps his eye lingers a little too long - the question is targeted at him, and there's no one else in his cell to imply otherwise. Booker bites back the sigh, pressing his lips together instead.

Well, it might not hurt, to fill the time a bit. He shifts slightly, leaning back against the wall and tucking a leg up against him. The stranger looks worse for wear than Booker is, and he glances for a shadow along the hall before he answers,

"First time." For now. "You good?" he asks, pointing to his own lips to indicate what's brought the question on.

[mewnifestos]

Anders shrugs, gesturing broadly to his momentarily slightly less handsome than usual face, as he steps up to the door to his cell, leaning on the crossbar.

"This is nothing. You should have seen the other guy. ...Not that he got hurt, unless he sprained a toe kicking me. But he wasn't even wearing armor. Once you've been kicked around by a Templar in full plate, most everything else feels like a playful pillow fight, by comparison."

[bookerlesigh]

Oh no, the man is standing now. Booker glances away for a moment, to see if there's any easy out; idle engagement is a worthy pastime, but he has no intentions of getting up during this conversation, or putting much effort into it.

Ah well. It's not like they can go anywhere.

"Templar?" Booker asks, curiously - he's familiar enough with them thanks to Joe and Nicky, though it is quite before his time. There's a lot of strange people around here, but he definitely doesn't recognize this guy.

[mewnifestos]

That's fine, really - Anders is more than happy to put in all the effort. He'd talk to a wall, if it looked like it had a face. (And sometimes they start to, when you're alone for long enough.)

"Yeah, a real stodgy git wearing a bucket on his head and a sword on his chest. The type to beat up on a mage just for opening his mouth - so, you know, like pretty much all of them."

[bookerlesigh]

To be fair, Booker can see Nicky in full Templar armor beating up someone who claimed to be a mage and had the stereotypical appearance of once. Stick on a floppy pointy hat and a robe on this guy, and the fisticuffs were easy to imagine.

"This was real times Templar?" Booker asks, and then, almost despite himself, adds, "Like a magic mage?"

Was mages talking a lot supposed to be common knowledge? He seems to remember most people persecuted for magic not having talking a lot highlighted in the cliffnotes but... he's no historian. Or knower of mage things.

[mewnifestos]

"Is there any other kind?" On both counts. Pretend Templars and mages - well. Maybe they do exist, but that thought leads down an even ruder logical path, and he's clearly already on thin ice.

Not that he expects this conversation to lead much of anywhere, but it's still more entertaining than simply waiting in silence for a good time to slip out of here unnoticed.

[bookerlesigh]

There are the kind that only exist in the imaginations of people a little off their rocker, but Booker avoids mentioning that in case this man is of that sort. Not that Booker minds much even if he is, though he reserves the right to change his mind, depending on how this conversation progresses.

"So how'd you end up here, from way back then?"

[mewnifestos]

"Way back what?" Anders' brow furrows - turning his expression pinched in a mild wince. He reaches up to touch that deepening bruise, momentarily distracted.

"You mean a month or so ago? Because I got here the same way as all the rest of the displaced among us." He brandishes his wrist briefly, the scrywatch still obvious, even though he's taken pains to cover it somewhat, with a loose, torn strip of fabric. "Woke up on a rickety boat, cheerful fellow in a shiny cloak at the helm?"

[bookerlesigh]

"Yeah, the boat, the captain, doom and gloom - but it brought you here from the 1200s?"

Though. That wouldn't necessarily be weird, given this place.

Ah, the damn watches. They're good for a night light, if you needed that sort of thing.

[mewnifestos]

"Uh, no. It brought me here from Ferelden. Amaranthine, to be exact." And while he may have to think a little harder to recall the exact year (not a high priority, as important matters of mind go), the 1200s are certainly nowhere near the mark.

"Not that I expect that to ring any bells, here. I haven't met a single other soul who's come from Thedas, let alone even heard of it."

[bookerlesigh]

Even with his rather more extensive-than-most knowledge of geography, Anders is right - Booker has no idea where it is. "Ah," he says, because what else is there to say? Of course the ship would be bringing people from all sorts of places and all sorts of land.

"So they had templars, in Ferelden. But you're not one of them?"

[mewnifestos]

For the first time, Anders seems genuinely offended, expression a harsh mask of distaste. "Of course not.

"I'm a mage. The two are rather incompatible."

[bookerlesigh]

Oh dear. He's gone and said something terrible - a mage doesn't seem too different than a templar, but Booker knows so little about both those things (at least in the light that Anders presents), that he's neither surprised, nor sure exactly where the offense is rooted.

"Sworn enemies?" he asks, hoping to find some clarity and maybe also redeem himself.

[mewnifestos]

Terrible, yes, but not unforgivable. Anders shrugs, leaning on the bars of his cell again. The frown remains, but the brief fire of his offense doesn't linger. Not like he would know, so no real reason to hold it against him.

"It's roughly the same relationship I'm sure you briefly shared with the men who threw you in that cage, over there. Only the accommodations at the Templars' hands are a lot less pleasant, and you never get out."

[bookerlesigh]

"Ah," Booker acknowledges; law and order, more perceived hierarchy than good and evil. It never sits well with him, to hear of entrapment and unsavory accommodations. He's been around enough to know that there's usually two sides to those stories, though he won't bring that up explicitly now.

"And what do mages do to Templars, when they get their hands on them?"

Ⅱ. SPEAK EASY

[medeiun]

At the last little event Maleficent found herself, she'd tasted human alcohol with the assistance of another — cautious, but assured by someone she would claim to trust here that it would not harm her. It had no effect on the fae then.

This.... is different. She's chosen a cocktail of some kind, a bright orange as though to match the hue of the bracelet attached to her wrist. But as Maleficent sips on the drink, she realises she's being affected by it, her head feeling a bit lighter, movements slower. She doesn't care for that at all, and is almost alarmed, though hides it well behind her calm exterior.

She's moving down the bar, drink held tightly in a slender hand, trying to find someone to ask about this, when a man sitting there asks her a question first. The dark fairy slowly comes to a halt, gazing cooly at him. She recognises him; a human she'd been trapped in the theatre with overnight. She'd left him while he slept, slipping out the front doors as soon as they were opened again. His fate was left ambiguous; would the doors lock again, trapping him once more inside? Would he have woken up soon and found his own way out? She'd hardly been concerned. Well, it seems he escaped after all.

"Tell me. What are the effects of alcohol?" Ignoring his question, she asks one of her own, staring at him. She looks a bit different now: long hair swept up into a headpiece that wraps over her horns, adorned in black leather instead of the meager robe from before.

[bookerlesigh]

Booker's well and drunk; more drunk than he's used to getting, after what can't be more than half a dozen glasses of hard liquor. And he likely shouldn't slowed down at some point, can feel the alcohol roiling in his stomach, making his mind muzzy and his vision blurred.

It only takes him a second to place her - he might be nondescript compared to the other middle-age white men around, but it was hard to forget those horns. They almost look tamer, with her hair up and fancy. Or maybe he's more used to them now. ( he wasn't that used to them yet, but there's something compelling about it all, and for a moment he wonders about reaching up to touch them - )

he's drunker than he ought to be, and he leans back, his head following a second too late.

"Easier to forget," he answers; well enough she ignores his question, he can't remember asking it anymore. "Some people feel good. Some people cry. Sometimes both. How much have you had?"

[medeiun]

She can't be sure how the man will receive her now, after she'd left him. Perhaps unfavourably. She is prepared for it, but what she gets instead is a lulling creature, eyes glazy, movements betraying an odd lethargy. Perhaps he doesn't remember her thanks to his state; she can't be certain.

What she can be certain of is that he's clearly drunk more than she has. The fae blinks at him; she has seen men in this state before, but never up close. Tipping her head back a little disdainfully at him, she considers his answer. She can learn from him, even in this state. He has use for her.

"Not as much as you, it would seem," is her (of course) cryptic response. "...But enough to feel it, a little," she adds a breath later. She doesn't seem thrilled, nostrils flaring slightly.

"It's distasteful. Why should anyone choose to consume such a thing?"

[bookerlesigh]

The details of her expressions blend into the feature of her face - striking cheekbones, sure, but her nose blurs and he smiles at the momentary image of the resulting line across her face.

But that's neither here nor there. Nor where or bare.

And he laughs at her comment; a lot of people haven't drunk as much as him, he's sure, and it's a little funny, given that usually drinking this much wouldn't normally affect him so.

Yet he does pick up on the fact that she doesn't like it, and he straightens slightly. "Don't have anything you're running away from?" It's bold, but his mind isn't quite keeping up with his tongue. "Ways to fix it a bit, if you're not a fan."

[medeiun]

The question surprises her, a little. Thanks to the influence of her own drink, slight though it may be, Maleficent doesn't conceal her surprise quickly enough. It flutters across her face, catches there for a moment or two before her cold features can suppress it.

"No." But the answer is too much a contrast to that surprise, too quickly said. It irritates her, and she scowls then, eyes cutting into a bit of a glare at him. Defaulting into Bossy Bitch Mode is familiar, and it's what she does now, jutting her chin at the man as though giving him an order.

"Go on. Fix it, then." Clearly he knows more about alcohol than she ever could.

[bookerlesigh]

Drunk as he is, he still catches that - the hesitation, the surprise, a sentiment that resonates with him. Not one of them is perfect, all of them live in regret, whether you have horns, or just a life that doesn't end. Or even a life that does, every one of them is too fallible.

But if she doesn't want to admit it, that's not his problem, and grins back at the severity of her look, too jovial to take any sharpness to heart. He doesn't fear physical hurt, and the wound on his heart is too severe to be matched by near strangers.

The demand doesn't ruffle him, and he nods amicably. "Sure." He downs the rest of his drink and slips off his stool, still fairly coordinated for all the fuzziness of what he sees. "Come on," he says, and he holds out his hand for her to take.

There's two ways of doing this, and she doesn't seem the type to be content to throwing it all back up. So dinner it will be, and they won't find the likes of heavy, alcohol seeping food here.

[medeiun]

Maleficent doesn't know what she's expecting, but it certainly isn't that. She blinks as the man slides from his perch, and holds out his hand to her. For a long moment she just stares down at it, more bewildered than she'd care to admit. She still isn't used to how the humans here are so.... accepting of her, far more than any where she comes from. (Of course, he's had drink and is clearly not his usual self; for all she knows, he may be seeing her as something else altogether).

There's another glower, and she looks around for a moment, almost as though to check and make sure there are no other options instead of this one. But she has asked (...demanded) for his assistance, and she's becoming painfully aware that her own strange state is not relenting. She's feeling a tad more light-headed, even.

"....All right," she drawls with displeasure, but she lifts her hand and slips it into the man's, eyes sharp and watching him carefully. "Where are we going?"

[bookerlesigh]

There's something weird going on here, but there's also a chance that his own inebriation is warping his perception of time. Does she really stare at his hand that long like she has no idea what he's put it there for? Maybe, but there's a small chance that it's just his head playing tricks on him so he stays still and waits with practiced patience.

Not like they're in a rush to get... anywhere important.

Finally, though, she takes his hand, and he's warm from the drink and the bar, and the skin on his hand is smooth and unmarred. Gripping it confidently (how many thousands of hands has he held, over the years, that little bit of connection that always makes him feel more human. even if the other has horns and may not be entirely human-)

He talks as he leads her out of the bar, onto the street, steady and sure on his feet, "To find the best remedy out there, that there is for it. I know just the place. Not the fanciest place, but if you're willing to mingle with the every-man, we should get you feeling better soon."