RP:Forging a Faux Pas
Part of the A Few Fox Tales Arc
This is a Mage's Guild RP.
This is a Rogue's Guild RP.
Synopsis: During a jewel heist, Lanlan was nearly killed by a guard and his commitment to his character. Afterward, he lets her know that it was all her fault. They nearly come to terms when a mimic made of nasty protoflesh comes to life and attempts to eat their beloved salamander, Lump. In the ensuing chaos, the alloy imbued with the spirit of a phoenix is unleashed on the mimic, but also on the archmage and his apprentice! After the chaos adds to the chaos, there is more chaos to follow. And then some experimental craftsmanship, resulting in a brand new dagger and several forgeries of the forsaken book of the dead. But most importantly, Lump survived.
Dilapidated Coral Castle
Coming in closer to this structure of substantial size, you observe that the stone of which it is made of is actually a form of coral matter, and would usually be found on the bottom of the oceans in lore, filled by colonies of mermaids and mermen wielding tridents. You're urged to nearly laugh at the thought of mermaids. There are multiple orifices throughout the structure vertically, like doorways designed as entry points. As you stand amongst the sand, you notice a trail coming from the base of this bastion of sea origin snaking along the ground; brilliant white and black sands inherently organized by natural forces. For something so simple really, looking like a giant multi-colored sand dollar, it's quite astonishingly beautiful.
After the heist, after Freckles was almost strangled by a putrid smelling sweaty dwarf, he detaches from the crew of robbers. If they were smart, they'd all disperse and lie low for a few days. The job was executed with such shock and awe that it would inevitably attract all sorts of attention. But being scarce was nothing when you could simply become someone else. Freckles was dismissed back into dreams, his aura of mundanity dispersed, and the physical accessories for deception vanished into his sleeves. As himself, Lanlan arrived home at One Reverie Court. Alone. After stomping into his study, Lump is waiting and greets Lanlan with hungry eyes. "You want to eat don't you? It's sad, but I think you're mommy forgot about you. Don't worry my son, I'll find you something." And the first place he looks is in whatever messy hovel Trish keeps her shiny things. She must have some right? Coins, gems, crystals, whatever he would find, he'd feed to the fattest salamander. Seeing him disappear her things isn't nearly as mollifying as it should be though. Being brushed with a humiliating death so soon after dying (and gleaning what was waiting for him) filled his chest with thunder and lightning and no outlet. So he would wait.
Ina's Journey was a but more circuitous, given that she'd been left holding the bag- and thus found herself required to deposit the whole of it somewhere safe. Safe, in this case, translated to the accumulated bag of loot and veggies being deposited at a certain cenrilese art gallery, if only so Meri can go about the process of fencing their haul once the heats died down. ...Or just to ensure proper distribution- if it was less a concern of guild funds, and more the matter of cutting their teeth on a proper job, and gathering some trophies.
It was honestly the latter idea that held the most appeal for her, ultimately- and part of why she'd oh-so-casually plucked a pair of items from admidst the many that had been accrued from her antics. One was a pair of ruby earrings, only slightly chipped from the travel- but ultimately a more than acceptable offering for the goodest of boys, Lump the Salamander. More importantly, however, was the prize she was now keeping stashed in currently chipmunk-shaped-cheeks- an Alexandrite ring that was intended for Lan. It seemed like the proper sort of trinket for a high ranking mage, and she only hoped it was received well. "'Less this doesn't go with any outfit he's got? I mean, he can just magic them- but tha' principle of the thing. . ."
And yet, that brief indecision can't keep the general air of giddiness from her step- even as she bounds into the keep, and begins weaving through it's death-curse laden corridors. "Llo? Helloooooo." There's no anwer- mostly because it's a castle, and she's not quite privvy to the fact that Lan's waiting for her in her room. But, that's why there's alternative solutions. Like shapeshifting into an even larger variant of a chipmunk, and just putting your expanded lung capacity to use. "HEEEEEY BOSSSSSSSSSSSSS!" The squeak echoes through the corridors, no doubt inspiring a fresh sense of dread in any student familiar with her potion making habits.
At first, Lanlan wills himself to wait. Trish will tire herself out when she doesn’t find him and then she’ll go to her room out of boredom. But every time he hears her howl and its following echo, his patience becomes eroded until its altogether dissolved. At last he targets her, and the entire room she’s in, with a potent illusion. It begins with smoky ember fluttering around in the open space before her, but the ember crackles and the smoke billows until it fills out a facsimile of Lanlan’s own face. But its acrid plumes and heat lightning that accompany his every word, threaten to make it more uncomfortable than an ordinary angry summons. There’s no real danger of course, unless she were to touch it and feel the heat (of his ire).“Go to your room Trish, there’s work to be done.” As usual, once he commits his magic to a purpose, he does feel relief. “There, Lump,” he says with a warm hand on his warmer pet. “She’ll be here soon.” Lump may or may not be smart enough to understand his language, but he knows when to expect a snack. Before Lanlan is a grisly looking treasure chest, seemingly made from a kind of leather skinned from a darkly magical creature and stretched over a frame of bones. The seam, that would normally be sealed shut by a lock, is connected by interlocking teeth of a creature Lanlan doesn’t recognize. Though its been a long time since he’d spent time with wild things, the hooked shape and serrated nature doesn’t seem remotely familiar to any fauna that are traditionally born.
Ina never really -tired-, per say. What she did, was begin to grow -louder-, using the combination of her know how, and the gradual pointers she's been receiving from Lanlan to artificially enhance the acoustics of the castle. And really, it could be considered a roaring success, given a smouldering simalacrum of his visage shimmers into existence, it's hot breath washing over the room as he makes his demands. "Sir, Yessir. Whateva' ya like, sir." ...Which, also echoes out into the castle, as does the sound of her humming and hopping along through the halls. She's a gal on a mission, and she's got a good idea of where she needs to be now. ..Also, she really needs to get out of that room, pronto, given the dismembered guard arm is -not- taking to the excess heat in a complimentary fashion.
Still, she does make sure to spin on her heels and give a wave to Lit-Lan, before finally remembering to dispel her magic mischief. Mostly so she can at least -pretend- that her arrival will be a surprise when by the time she gets there.
Though, to be fair- she's apt to be the surprised one, given that not only has Lanlan dissapeared some of her forging material and gamblnig earnings- she's also been cleaned out of an additional lump sum of her belongings. For instance, there's a very gorgeous platinum necklace, which is just barely protruding from that chest, the chain caught on one of it's 'teeth', in such a manner that the chest can't snap entirely closed. And within there lies the promise of glistening gold, shimmering silver, and gleaming gemstones - all seemingly shined to a mirror polish.
Lanlan’s giant smoldering facade rapidly burns out with a huff, as if to impart his annoyance even with the dispelling. Shouldn’t be long now, and he continues to lightly pat his fat friend, strangely with its own shed skin. Curiously, he notes the treasure chest has been opened. It definitely wasn’t before, he would’ve noticed. He didn’t open it. Did the fat salamander? It occurs to him that it was very likely a ghost. If what was contained inside was actually inside, it would make sense that ghosts would be trying to escape. Probably every single thing in there was corrupted in some way.
Finally, she arrives, interrupting his thoughts, and Lanlan leaves Lump with a pile of Ina’s stuff to continue chewing through while his parents discuss. It’ll be gone soon most likely. But besides that potentially antagonizing scene, Lanlan has something else to show Ina. He takes off his cloak and lets it levitate rather than landing somewhere Lump might get it, baring his neck. “Do you see this, Trish?” He’s striped with bruises caused by fat fingers. “You did this to me. I almost died.”
Ina would have likely been in the same boat, insofar as trying to figure out -what- the deal was with the chest- and then deciding not to. But Lump is a special breed of inquisitive- which is to say, almost mindlessly so - especially when the prospect of food is at hand. And So, the Salamander hustles over to the chest without a second thought (or even a first, really), and begins to poke it's nose at the crevice, in an effort to fit the entirety of it's head into the chest. That said, while Lump has no problem in getting it's head -into- the container, there's a distressing lack of traction when it tries to move it's head back. There is, in fact, a disquieting sort of suction, which is made worse by the fact that the chest has begun to discreetly shift into an armoire, and pull the Salamander into itself.
To the point that when Ina enters the room, there is no Lump in sight, just a very demonic looking wardrobe looming in a corner of the room, which occasionally shivers from side to side. "Oh- You should-" ...She was all prepared to gush about the eccentric gift, when she became acutely aware of both the lack of her things, as well as the shift in Lanlan's demeanour. The flourish and showmanship is still there, but there's a harsher edge to it. And he's...blaming her? Instinctively, a hand reaches out towards where he gestures- but she recoils just as quickly, equal parts from the sting of his accusation, and her own awareness of his aversion to touch. Her hand instead settling against her neck to mirror where his bruses are "When did that..happen? How?" It had all been fun and games, hadn't it? Her mind flicks over the normal array of cheery answers she'd provide, but her tongue feels numb to them. Those casual deflections feel alien, "Who could even do that to you?" The job was beneath them both, wasn't it? Was it one of the others on the job, looking for a bigger cut. She inhales sharply, trying to stop herself from flicking over the possibilities- trying to brace herself against the unexpected sense of guilt she's feeling. And failing every time, her ears drooping even as her expression teeters between being glad to see him, and the situation.
"It happened just then. At that botched 'heist'," Lanlan snarls, not letting his contempt for the lack of subtlety go unnoticed. "Someone missed their mark and a guard noticed me and..." A glittering ribbon grows out of the floor and wraps Lanlan up like a mummy until he's completely hidden, then it disappears. Instead of Lanlan there's a towering monster of a dwarf, veins bulging and pulsing out of it's grotesque rippling muscle. A mad look in his yellow eyes and a horrid stench of onions and garlic and something worse. Very slight resemblance to the original. He interlocks his gnarled fingers, stained by grime, and shakes violently to imitate the act of strangling someone. "And what could I do?" Lanlan demands, stepping out from behind this rabid mutant dwarf. "And don't say 'break character'. Everyone else was there, I had to keep being Freckles." The way he viciously pronounces the name coupled with the sneer, that's how she knows it's her fault. "Is this fun for you? Almost killing me? I give you a home and and, and anything you want! And you almost kill me." Poor Lanlan. He takes one shuddering breath and breathes it out as he buries his face in his hand and hides his eyes.
Ina can't help the way her mouth twitches, one fang overlapping her lip as he describes the heist for what it was. A botch. One marred by a lack of professionalism, and which now saw him. . . Intact. That was the important part. As much as it had gone to hell, he was still here. As he lets out the next accusation, that loaded accusation, she finds herself retorting in kind, "Ja know I wouldn't. Because of anyone there other 'an me, you're the only one who has a professional bone in their body." That attempt at getting ahold of the conversation, however, abruptly derails at the next accusation- because whether or not he actually means it, he's not -wrong-. Even as carefully laid plans, and the expectation of a well-oiled infiltration evaporated into smoke- she'd -thrilled- in the chaos. In the danger, even as it had consumed the entire situation. Things would always work out for her- that's simply how they panned out, but- that didn't necessarily mean they would for him.
She'd been careful around him. Always so cautious not to act on that impulse to reach oout and touch him, to act on whimsy, or more- and drag him down. And it still wasn't enough- her personal fortune always seeming to come at a cost. "I asked ya to be Freckles ta keep you safe. So you'd seem harmless, 'n you wouldn't have ta deal with being a target, or a potential 'Rival'." Her tails flick out behind her in agitation, her hands tightly clenched at her side as she tries to figure out what to do. What to even say. And so she simply blurts it out, "I asked ja ta be Freckles so you'd be around me." And instead, she'd nearly gotten him killed- while sh'd been was busy covering up the tracks of what had turned into an impromptu mass murder. "I'm sorry, Lan." A part of her wants to shfit forward and take that first step, but she simply bunches her hands against her side harder, holding her breath the whole while.
Lanlan pulls his hand away from his face when she calls herself a professional. “No Trish. No. Because professionals don’t work with idiots. We could’ve accomplished the same thing alone. And cleaner! A diamond? Why. But this, this silly game…” he doesn’t even know where he’s going with it and trails off. Then he’s pacing impatiently, just waiting for her to finish talking so he can fight more. But…it wasn’t a fight anymore. Because she confused him. Apologized. Isn’t that what he wanted? “What? Keep me safe..?” He looks at her, alternating between fury and worry. He was prepared for a battle, had his moves lined up. Then she just changed the whole game. “...I don’t want to talk about this anymore. We need to talk about your son. He…got into your stuff again.” He sighs dramatically, clearly exhausted by the child. “I know…I was supposed to be watching him so obviously I’ll replace whatever’s missing. Where did he go to now? I swear if he’s…What the heck is that?” He was looking at an armoire that he must not have noticed before, except it was impossible to overlook. Then its cabinet doors jiggled and he heard a muffled grunt of effort come from inside it. “Lump! Lumps in there!” He shoots Ina a furied look, “How could you bring something so dangerous into my home, my sanctuary! Without telling me!” He scans the room, looking for things to break it open with. Winding tendrils of energy colored like magenta explode out of his outstretched hands, and connect to various things around the foxkin’s workshop. A hammer comes to life, waking up in a rage and flinging itself at the evil-possessed furniture. Tiny splintery hands break off the handle and allow it to grip the thing while it smashes its hammerhead into it again and again. A pair of calipers attempt to wedge themselves into the door seam and pry it open. Even the anvil makes a laborious effort to lift itself off the ground, warping itself into a monster of sorts; stretching its waist up as if it was fluid, and dragging itself toward the wooden wardrobe by pulling itself with its wrought iron ‘beak’.
Ina isn't sure what to expect from Lanlan in the moment. She can feel the anger in his words, read the dissapointment on his expression at the perceived slight- but that wasn't the whole of it. Because though his rebukes were harsh, her own retorts hadn't fallen on deaf ears. He was still listening to her- something which saw his mercurial temperment flickering to the more pressing matter at hand.
Which is to say, the terrible state of her room. "Oh. I was wonderin' what happened. . ." Now that she actually has a chance to properly take in the sight of the room, she's actually at a bit of a loss for how many knicks, knacks, and materials were simply -gone-. Really, the only gain was the decidely devilishly detailed wardrobe that now existed within a corner of the room."That's. . ." The inventory of the room is brought to a prompt end, however, because Lanlan is directing her to -focus- her attention on the incredibly ominous armoire in the corner. More specifically on the fashion in which it jiggled and jostled as though possessed, it's already angular features growing more pronounced beneath their sustained scrutiny. A change that was accompanied by a series of sounds suspciously like Lumps grunts.
"Wait. What?!...Whatta ya mean, how could I?" There's a pause, as the armoire hops up in place, an octect of spindly wooden limbs growing out to give it a decidely arachnid aesthetic. "...So, what yer sayin' is this definitely wasn't a gift from you, right?"
As Lanlan begins to assail the animated Armoire beneath a barrage of be-witched tools, it begins to trundle forward on its' newly formed 'feet'- sending the workshop into further disarray as it seeks to bodily tackle Lanlan. What's worse, however- is that whilst both the hammer and calipers are beginning to make progress on peeling away bits on what is a 'fanged-and-fleshy' door- the anvil has significantly less luck. And that's because even in the midst of it's charge, it's able to form a viscous looking pseudopod to coil about the animated object, and then send it sailing towards Ina.
Or at least, it attempts to do so- given that the very moment the anvil is launched forth- Ina's position is vacated with such haste, that there may as well be a blinking dotted outline of the foxkin. Mostly, because she was already in the process of moving- having polymorphed into a badger in order to make it harder to hit her, before immediately scampering off towards the fireplace. "Stall it a sec. 'N make sure you're wearin' ja gloves."
Lanlan’s face twisted up in incredulity. “Does it seem like I wanted to buy you a gift today?” Worst of all, was that now he wondered if he should have, and was now being a neglectful ‘friend’ or whatever. He didn’t know the rules. But in reaction to the armoire’s complete animation, Lanlan responds, casting his hand out toward a pair of metal snips, and they’re bestowed with hunger and malice–for wardrobes! The cutting blades stretch and warp into serrated shark-like teeth, and the handles fit around his hands snugly. To his side, Ina’s being assaulted by his own creation, and for a moment she seems to disappear under the giant raging anvil. He sucks in his breath sharply and gasps, “No!”
But then she scurries away to safety under the guise of a small woodland critter, and he feels simultaneously relieved and annoyed. He grumbles and spins away from the charging piece of furniture, spinning so fast like a child’s toy. Pieces of him seem to get ejected at random intervals, and land in a pile of boiling goo. They quickly morph and grow into exact duplicates of Lanlan of a composition depending on what they land on. One lands in a pile of smoldering embers and grows into an angry Lan of burning coal. One lands on the cobblestone floor and rises with a stone cold look in its eye. The last clings to a bronze candlestick and glints to life, before they all seem to become flesh and clothes elves.
The wardrobe is only befuddled for an instant, before resolving to have enough bloodthirst for each of them–and more! Intrepid Lanlans grapple its spindly limbs, intending to snap them or burn them away, while the real one, at the end of his pirouette, seems to collapse and slither underneath the flailing pseudopod with a fluid crab walk offering a quick snap with his enchanted scissors to it in passing. “You know,” says one of the Lanlans as it’s battered against a wall by a tendril. “I brought that ugly looking chest in here a little while ago,” says another of the quartet as it bounces off the ceiling, shedding blackened coal and embers like dandruff. “I don’t see it anymore, but it seems to be a similar make to that twisted ugly thing.”
That might be the closest Ina gets to an apology, as he changes the subject. “Anyway, I think its time we opened up, don’t you?” Hopefully she was getting around to whatever she wanted him to stall it for.
Ina, despite her earlier claim of consummate professionalism, is in her element- the discord of the workshop igniting a panicked sense of joy, that helps to stave off the more common considerations. This inclination towards insanity and inanity is also why she can glance back over her shoulder at the anvil shaped hole in the wall without a single thought for her own brush with death- instead weirdly appreciative for the convenience it would provide given the rooms penchant for overheating.
The armoire, on the other hand, has no such appreciation for aesthetics- it's attention focused upon generating a seemingly endlessly proliferating slew of appendages for the Lanlan's to contend with. As one spindly limb is snipped, a bulging tendril, a gnashing beak, and a grasping arm all take it's place- writhing and reaching. It's an inelegant design at it's core, and one that seems to dimish the size of the armoire at it's center- but it certainly does provide a rather distinct problem. It's reach, both figurative and literal, is growing by the moment.
It's bulk looms forward, it's very weight seeming poised to capsize it, threatening to spill wood and flesh in a terrifyin fray of limbs, and then a solid chunk of embers smacks against the back of it. ". . ." It might be difficult to see the source, but if one were to glance past the chaotic mass within the room, they could see Ina, still as a badger- having scampered up on top of the fireplace. Beneath her, a firepoker has been wedged beneath a stone box that had been cleared out from the embers. A currently -lidless- and angrily glowing box.
Whilst far from the most threatening sight in the world, some bestial intuition stirs within the creature, enough for it to spare a spindly limb for Ina. Yet, it's too little, too late- as Ina initiates the most graceless badger bellyflop possible, slamming into the improvised lever she'd made in order to catapult the boxes contents straight at their adversary.
Whilst the box harmessly bounces off the creature in an anticlimatic rustle of stone, it's contents are far more prodigious in their efforts- as the raging mass of Phoenix steel is sent splashing across the armoire in a display that is both glorious and terrifying.
Mostly terrifying, really, since that metal isn't particularily fond of -anyone- currently present. And yet, it's the creature which suffers the brunt of it- as limbs find themselves severed by suddenly sharpened edges, the stumps then cauterized. All across it's folk, patches of wood begin to smoulder and catch fire- and within it, a desperate shudder begins to emanate.
"Anyways, " Pipes up Ina, "Gifts are a great way to make out. Up. With someone. Ch'yeah."
Lanlan seems undaunted by the ever-replicating limbs, in fact, it leads to his new strategy. The real Lanlan stands back, and organizes the fakes to a more defensive arrangement that leads to them guiding the limbs away from Lanlan, for the most part, and he’s protected by the sheer number of options the monster has to choose from. As he holds his hands in front of him, a spherical orb of smoke filled glass is conjured, and then offered to the creature. As limbs flail, the orbs path abruptly changes to dodge them, carving a path of sharp angles and edges, until it crashes into the creature moments after being created. Suddenly it appears to lose control of itself. The chaos inflicted upon it by this spell, has caused it to forget how to move its own body essentially. Try to move a leg, it moves an arm. Try to swing its pseudopod, a leg flails under itself. Abruptly, the cabinet door opens, voluntarily apparently, but held such by the calipers and the hammer. Within, its maw is visible. A horrid mess of sharp fangs and a slobbering tongue, and a chubby orange salamander, weakly gazing to Lanlan and Ina as the vitality is drained from it. As the monster’s flailing continues, its heavy upper half tilts and tips over, allowing Lump the chance to run free. If only he wasn’t so weakened by the creature. The extra Lanlans forego their missions for now, and leave the limbs to flail wildly as they try to rescue the fat salamander, but they’re too clumsy, and Lump is still being constricted by the monster’s tongue, wrapped around his abdomen and squeezing like a boa constrictor. Lanlan himself has to navigate the tornado of flailing nightmare furniture, and he manages. Through feats of seemingly impossible physiology, he throws out his hands, and protrudes his posterior. A limb of wooden necrosis narrowly penetrates the air in front of where his hip just was. He clips it with his hungering scissors and barrel rolls deeper into the mess, staying in midair for an impossible amount of time. The creatures movements only grow wilder as he gets nearer, but the other Lans intercept the blows that might harm him, until Lanlan can almost safely kneel near Lump, and sever the vile tongue that still wraps him up. Then, with decapitated or dented or paraplegic Lan clones’ help, he’s able to rescue the chubby amphibian. As the phoenix’s spirit descends upon the aberration in its blind fury, Lanlan and Lump seem to be swallowed by a tornado of old ashes and dust from the forge. And then? They’re gone. Eventually, the monstrosity stops moving. Most of it has been utterly disintegrated and the limbs have all been severed from their host. Though they still seem to ‘live’, they don’t pose as much threat without guidance from its main body. There was still the problem of wrangling the phoenix once again though. “Where’s the jello Ina? We need this thing contained.” From his invisible hiding place, Lanlan eventually spotted a leaky barrel. It was well crafted at one time, but whatever was contained within was saturating its planks at an impossible rate, and a viscous fluid was seeping out of it. Then that was the bathwater elemental, Lanlan determined. Or hoped. Lanlan suddenly seemed to appear again, sitting on that barrel and wielding a dilapidated umbrella and holding a pixie-powered lantern. His countenance was menacing and maniacal and taunting all at once. “Aww did the phoenix get killed again? How many times is that? A dozen? More?” Hopefully it would quench itself in the squelching slime contained just under the illusion, and chill out.
Ina was so enthralled at the sight of a freshly rescued Lump, that she actually doesn't -hear- Lanlan at first when he calls out to her. That said, it's hard to miss the rampage of the proverbial genie she let out of it's bottle. "Oh. Oooooh. You want to... to put it back? Right." That said, a certain voice at the back of her head (in a suitably squeaky voice to befit her statue), cautions her against approaching recklessly- the wisdom of which is made abundantly clear almost immediately, as a lance of Molten metal erupts from the dismantled armoire- probing the room for signs of it's mutual antagonists.
Thankfully, lanlan manages to improvise a suitably swift solution -before- Ina has to recollect whether or not she made miniature forge mittens- given that the moment Lanlan's simulacrum begins it's vicious taunts, a rather terrible transformation occurs. Specifically, the Protoflesh Mimic is 'chest' burst with such horrific violence, it's apt to provide inspiration for a novel and a suitably trite series of sequels. That said, as quick as the ideas come, they pale in comparison to the viper-like swiftness that sees the molten magma slither across the floor and surge murderously towards the Illusiary Lan's chest.
It's body begins to tip forward as the effigy of a beak tears into the Phantom's chest- Until it doesn't. Until it fails to feel fresh kindling, it's mass beginning to swivel in some effort to gauge where it's prey actually lurks in the room.
And that's about the point that Ina's indecision comes to an end, as she goes from diminuitive forest creature to full-size, all so she can take hold of a cauldron lid and promptly finish the job. "Aha-aaaaaaaaah~!" Convection is, in fact, a bitch- given that whilst she does manage to plunge the sentient steel into the barrel of bathwater elemental, it wastes absolutely no time in putting the water to a proper boil, and heating the lid to an intolerable degree. One that has Ina letting out a slew of curses better written elsewhere. Frankly, the occurence leaves her fumbling around for the Salamander cloak in the forge, in the desperate hope that it'd somehow serve to allay some of the pain. At the very least, it'd provide some degree of modesty, given rapid fire shapechanging doesn't do much for clothing. "Gawd- That. It got me. Tha' stupid thing got me. Can ja be a dear and throw in some of tha' Mithril Nuggets inta' tha mix? They're in a a bag by the desk." Hopefully. Unless Lump got to them. And hopefully the phoenix's temper will keep it hot enough for it to get melted in, given that they've apparently started up the final touches of the damn thing sooner, rather than later.
Really, the only silver lining in this whole episode, was that lump was safe- if not entirely sound. Clearly, being nearly eaten had played havoc on the poor thing, given it was making unpleasent horking noises, and was apparently getting ready to stress vomit it's recent meals on the floor.
“We have to put it in something!” He shouts from Lump’s side as he attempts to soothe the ailing salamander with tender belly rubs. Something’s roiling in there, causing him to strain even as his strength wanes. But as she slams the lid down over the barrel of goo and furious hellfire, Lanlan’s struck with indecision. Lump was helpless, but Trish needed help too. Though contained, the living metal wasn’t restrained. And being trapped only made its fire burn hotter with rage.
His clones scurry back and forth between him and her reflecting his indecision, while Lanlan bends over Lump’s mouth. “Help her!” He shouts at them at last, and despite their failing composition, they do run over, crowding her and lending their weight toward keeping the tantrum in check. But they’re deteriorating too rapidly, and he can see them begin to deteriorate, falling away into parts. There was no time. He lifts the top of Lump’s mouth open and peers inside the gaping maw, before grimacing and shoving his arm down his throat. Lump struggles only weakly at the intrusion, and Lanlan pulls a wet slobbery mass of many things. He gags and shakes in revulsion, backing away from the tired boy and his newly birthed pile of bilious objects. “Be okay,” he tells Lump, and he dashes over to her, pushing her out of the way and slamming his salamander skin gloves onto the lid. “You get them,” he commands her in regards to the mithril nuggets, and his cape unclasps from his shoulders and loosely wraps around her, as his doubles fall into nothing. Steam billows out from seams and cracks between the lid or the warping planks of the barrel, creating a harsh whistle-almost like the phoenix or the gel, or both are screaming. The horror of being forcibly conjoined in such a way. Lanlan isn’t a strong man. But he knows that he can’t lose his grip, he can’t fail. Yet some amalgamation of the various parts now contained in the barrel begin to sputter from within, and a white-hot liquid begins to dribble out from various places out of the top of the barrel. With desperation in mind, he transmutes his Xalious-wood staff once more into a flexible impossibility, and it circles itself around the lid like a gasket, and hardens again.
Despite its brilliant enchantments, its durability to conducting all things magical, it begins to burn. The circle of magic wood smokes. Tiny sparks glow in the mist created by so much steam. “I thought the water was going to calm it down!?”
Ina goes from clothing-impaired to doubly swathed in cloaks, a fashion statement that would normally have her seeking out a mirror- were it not for the pressing nature of their situation. Namely, the fact that she'd been summarily ordered to retrieve those mithril ingots. Without pause, she makers her way over to a nearby table, her non scaled hand sweeping over the surface in search of the package containing her prize. Only, it's not there. In fact, there's a general lack of shinies. "Waitaminnit." Something Lanlan said clicks in her mind, and it's with a look of dread that she stares first at Lump, and then at the glistening pile of freshly heaved up detritus- as well as the fresh wave of liquid and items dribbling out from the salamanders maw. "...Which god am I Supposed ta' be prayin' fer strength right now? ...Cripes." Instead, the foxkin shakes her fist at the ceiling, her expression equally sour, "Loda, You're a cow fer lettin' my workshop get like this." She stomps over to the pile of gunk, and begins to sift through it with an appraising eye- doing her best to keep the expressions of revulsion to, well- a manageable amount as she plunks out lumps and bars of metal from the mess. In the meanwhile, it also means she can reply to Lanlans complaint. " Maybe this -is- it's calm state. "" There's a pause, as a dull whistle of steam escaping from the barrel catches her attention, before her focus snaps right back to lanlan, "Or maybe it just needs a bit more time in there. A good vigorous shake so it can properly mix? We're breakin' new ground here." There's a moment where she tries to wrap the mithril-turned-meal into the illusiary cloak, only to realize her err a moment later. Which leaves her mucking up -her- cloak, if only so she can drag over the accumulated metal over to the edge of the barrel. "Gonna need ta crack that open a second-" Which, is about all the warning he gets before she takes a little hop to the side, spins in place a few times, and uses that ensuing centrifugal force to heave the improvised heap of metal up into the air- and on a collision course with the top of the barrel. The bright side to this set up, is that at least her cloak has 0 chance of catching fire, what with it being made out of one of Lumps siblings. The downside, at least currently, is the fact that it puts all the pressure of making this actually work on Lanlan. "Ch'yeah- just reseal, N' shake vigorously. Maybe if you can make it float like you occasionally do- it'll be a bit too disoriented to tantrum."
As for what Ina's up to? Well, at this point, she's already been rather literally up to her arms in Lump bile- so there's really new reason for her -not- to step back over to Lump and poke around in his mouth for anything else pertinent he may have scarfed down. ...Such as a really gnarly looking book that's just sort of ..lodged in there. Or at least, was lodged, until her prodding coaxes forward a dryer horking heave, and sends it tumbling into the rest of the mess. "...Tch. I think he's allergic to paper." Or the palpable evil radiating off the book. Whichever. In any case, he's finally stopped heaving- even if he still looks absolutely miserable. "Drink one of these and call me in tha' morning." It's a bottle of mint extract. It's not even medecine. It's just a very hackneyed attempt at using some left over baking ingredients to fix the smell, before her attention finally drifts back to the chaos of the room.
"H'okay. Well- I guess now's as good a time as any to actually get everythin' down." Ah yes, when it's a disaster. Though, given the first ingredient she tosses up onto her decidely crooked work surface is the dismembered arm of a guardsmen- maybe it's fitting.
Lanlan is more than a little hesitant to open the ‘crucible’ even a crack, but he does so. His cracked and abused xalious-wood staff uncurls from the barrel’s seal, and instantly the monstrous alloy fights to get out. A tendril of superheated plasma stretches out wildly and catches naught but mithril nuggets. As they watch, the ore is melted and consumed, almost instantly! Though they cannot see it, this was their clue as to the violent nature contained within, it was a maelstrom in a barrel, instantly dispersing the newly introduced metal throughout its body.
As expected, getting it back in was more of a task. But directing the flow of magic was something Lanlan was well versed in, and when it came to something that was very nearly an incarnation of magical parts, he found he had enough metaphysical muscle to twist it back in on itself. Back into the barrel it goes. But not for long. Heat expands, and does so continually, perhaps infinitely. Lanlan does as is recommended, and levitates the entire mass, but what that ultimately does is free it from the confines of gravity. Once that last limit is removed, the flailing tantrum finally ruins the integrity of the soggy barrel’s boards, and the metallic core of plasma sheds them like ice shelves off a glacier. They slap on the ground and the nebulous swirling plasma is like a star in their forge.
But now he could focus on this directly, and found that even with his eyes closed, he could feel its powerful magical presence. Though its eminent desire was to spread into a massive web of burning fingers that would strangle and burn everything in sight, Lanlan managed to keep it contained in the shape of a sphere. A burning sphere that would suddenly explode like thunder in its attempts to overwhelm the forces containing it. A lunging tendril lurches out of its containment, arcing in random directions yet always strangled by an invisible force and redirected back into the central mass. Yet this isn’t sustainable. Lanlan was a mortal, and this was a tireless entity, an incarnation of rage and fire and water.
It seems plausible to Lanlan at this moment that perhaps combining two opposing elements like this did nothing to create a calmer, more manageable alloy. But did the exact opposite, and created a substance whose prime attribute was instability. A thrilling notion to some part of him that wasn’t struggling. He had to make all sides of them rest. The only way he could think to do this was by eliminating every avenue for its rage. From his chest came an indescribable blackness, the kind of dark that seems to end existence with everything it touches. And the fathomless abyss comes out of him and wraps itself around the spinning plasma. It seems to entirely disappear. For a few brief moments it fights back. The darkness expanding with the plasma to stop it from escaping its new psychic prison. It fights back, only until it realizes there’s nothing to fight. As far as it can tell, nothing exists except the plasma in an endless void. Now it rests. Ina is able to to reach into the void, past the illusion, and pull out manageable pieces of the metallic plasma, and seal it into its new form.
Lanlan meanwhile, addresses Lump. He’s feeling much better, Lump is, but hides under the workbench and falls asleep to the sound of hammering. Lanlan notes that when they found him, he would simply walk under and lay down. Now, the fatty had to belly crawl and scrape his back ridges under the roof just to fit. It was possibly going to be a problem. And what made him so sick? Eating an entire book of course. But right away Lanlan knew it was more than just a book; the oppressive omen of death still lingered in this room, even with the protoflesh mimic truly dead. It was only shrunk, and barely. The source of Lump’s sickness and their collective unease, was most assuredly this book. “I know what this is,” says Lanlan, cleaning it up with a cantrip before gripping it with his glove. The cover of it moved with his touch, flinching as if it was tickled. Its living skin carved into with seemingly fresh wounds that would never heal, perhaps in the form of some kind of seal. Yet he couldn’t open it. There seemed to be no seam in the flesh now that he held it in his hands, as if the skin had grown over the pages to resist him. “Fine, I didn’t want anything kept within your disgusting pages anyway. Ina, I’ll be back.”
This nasty book wasn’t for him. It was for his colleagues at the necromancer’s guild, who would no doubt owe him a great debt for giving it to them. But it was also for the high elves, whose people supposedly created it. And for the drow. But to give it to everyone he wanted to, he needed his forgery supplies. Magical tools and implements that when combined with his attention to detail, could create believable replicas; going so far as to imitate the aura and trick scrying attempts if he cared to devote enough effort. Which for this, he did. What else would he do? He couldn’t leave Ina, what if that ball of plasma broke through his mind prison?
Ina's wastes no time in getting down to business, doing her best to tune out the shadows which dance across her desk in response to Lanlan's duties. Instead, her focus is on the limb she'd procured- peeling away the arms fleshy bits with the sort of vigor that might be expected of a goblin. Which is apt- given that she surreptitiously steals a slice for herself due to peckishness. Pretty good, too- given the guard died vis a vis being cooked. Still, there's only so much she can -discreetly- snack on, which leaves her hucking the rest into the fireplace- seemingly oblivious to the scent of sizzling fat that puffs up in the aftermath.
After all, there's business at hand- which, in this case, involves literally bludgeoning the remaining bones into manageable pieces, and then tossing -that- mess of fragments into a small metal box that's to be placed in the fireplace. That out of the way, this leaves her to marvel at the floating blob of steel in the room- and the fact that it's seemingly furious rampage has finally started to settle down. "Well. That works. " Probably. Enough so, at least, that she's willing to get grab some tongs, take hold of a small reinforced cauldron, and dunk it straight into the midst of that mass of molten metal. There's an uncomfortable moment where she's almost certain she's going to lose hold of it, some odd tension rippling through the floating orb, but it passes soon enough- and though the pot glows brightly, it maintains it's integrity, allowing her to bring it over to a mold she'd prepared for the blade.
With a surprising degree of care (and a few quietly muttered entreaties to the metal itself), the foxkin slowly pours in the blazing concoction- her lips pursed as she waits for some sign that the mold might fail, or the liquid might rebel. And yet, seperate from it's raging nucleus- it seems placid. Enough so, in fact, that not only is she able to pour in the vial of powder Lita had handed over to her- she's feeling gutsy enought to go back for seconds- setting aside a larger, secondary cast for future experimentation.
Plus, it provides a means of passing the time as she waits for the ash to be properly formed, and for Lanlan to fiddle with his project. "So, whatcha doin' there with tha' book. Sssss. Plural. But mostly tha' one I purloined. I need that, for uh, business." a pause, and she casually leans against a table, and makes some rather exagerrated air quotes, "Professional bidness." She grins for a moment, before she takes note of the repeated copies he's making of the thing, which has her expression turning suspicious, "Don't tell ma ja already sold it after I sold it." He totally did, too. "...Fine, I got dibs on..." She grabby hands at one of the books at random, a mimicry, in fact- and gives it a possessive bap, meant at once to claim ownership of it for her dealings, as well. That, and because ever since that horrible mimic in the middle of the room had given up the ghost, she'd been feeling the nasty residue of it's essence lingering in her person- and this book seemed like as good a place as any to dump it off. Which is how this one earns a gnarly book mark ribbon made out of proto-flesh mimic tongue. "This one. I need it. Honest." That interruption aside- the Foxkin isn't actually all that disruptive to the rest of Lanlan's his book binding activities.
Mostly because, while she still needs to wait on the blade itself to cool down- she's got alchemy to do. Which mostly entails making a mixture of freshly scorched bone ash, and clay- whose proportions could have been used to make something akin to bone china- were it not for the fact that she decides to mix in some of her 'Literal Jawbreaker' solution into the mix. Whilst it may complicate any ornate detailing meant for the grip, itll at least reinforce it as a whole. ...Which is nice, and all- but does nothing to allay the impatience she's feeling while watching the molds.
Lanlan reenters the smithy as Ina is chucking the used up arm into the fire. “Ah ah ah! Waste not…” It halts in midair as he catches it using some unseen tether at the end of his staff. Then he drags it back to another table for him to work on. “It’s been a while,” he says brandishing a razor. “Let’s see if I still know how.” There was a time when he needed to know what people looked like under their skin, so he could convince the next person that what he was doing to them was real. Grisly stuff, but necessary during those desperate and dangerous times in the Underdark. Besides, relativity existed in a different state down below. With a delicate touch, he separates the already charred flesh from muscle. Every time it begins to split and separate in a direction disadvantageous, he stops, makes an appraisal, and starts again. The result is far from ideal. There are numerous strips and patches of different shapes and sizes, but he stays committed. The stitchwork isn’t much better. There’s not enough moisture, no tensile strength to this flesh any longer. It wouldn’t survive being opened and closed more than a few times before crumbling.
And there was the matter of enchanting it, of giving it the horrible aura. Sure, he could simply smother it and that would last for long enough to convince someone. But it needed to have some permanence. He had to use runes. Ink was the best to use on skin. But what about charred skin? He experimented with scraping off some outer layers to see the raw flesh beneath, but the lines couldn’t be clean enough to create a stable matrix. He tried to use ink and silver so it would contrast enough. They needed to be visible, even if they couldn’t be seen. It flaked off his patch of scrap flesh. Smudged. But it did give him another idea. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to do it today. He didn’t have the necessary supplies. He’d have to wait until Trish was done. What an infuriating thought, to arrive at the answer and be unable to act on it. The thing she pulled matter from was unpredictable, and he needed to wait to see if it would ever grow bored of its peace, and lash out against its illusive prison. It was kept subdued only by a fragile trick.But he knew it felt. Anger at least, and if he could just reach out and grab hold of it maybe he could make the prison something deeper than a ruse. For a while he just stares at it, knowing what it is under the veil of infinite nothing that was draped over it. His eyes close, and for a moment he seems to sleep. And then the occasional pulsations and nearly habitual movements of the plasma slows. A small piece of it droops out of cohesion and then…it escapes its prison. Just a flash, like a shooting star in the imaginary abyss covering it. And suddenly its alive with fury again, sensing what’s beyond. Lanlan too comes back to life with a jolt. And he thrusts his hands forward toward the roiling plasma to reassert control of it, the invisible force bending the magic alloy back into its sphere, back under his spell. With mild embarrassment, he diverts a short glance toward Trish to see if she noticed his error. Then he settles with waiting, and he does patiently until she's finally finished with her projects.
Ina is sweltering. All this time spent between presses of contained molten metal, and the fireplace..and the forge which she kept stoked for unimaginable reasons- it left her somewhat grateful that her garb was mostly illusiary by this point, given she'd otherwise have it -glued- to her person in a series of uncomfortable layers. Still, the work doesn't end. Even as Lanlan fusses with her leftovers, she's taking a pair of tongs and picking up teh mold containing the blade of Lita's dagger-more or less conunting on the peculiar properties of both metal and quenching water to ensure the proportions of metal turn out how she wanted.
The bathwater elemental had, after all, been concerned with removing impurities- a quality she was counting on for it's part in the blade- to ensure that what was left was a beautiful little novelty. It's with that bit of musing that she finally douses the cast into a bucket of more mundane water, stepping back as the heat still emanating off the thnig turns it into an angrily hissing box. "...S'fine." It'll do, at least. Really, with the handle mostly done beyond fitting it, and the blade currently cooling down to a part where she can sharpen it and hopefully remove whatever impurties came to the surface- the only thing she'd have left to do is. "..Right, a sheathe, what'd I?"
The mass of horrible corrupted flesh sitting in the middle of the room is given the side eye- and whilst vast portions are scorched, there's certainly an ample amount of the tissue that looks like it could be used for her purposes. Namely, making a sufficiently ominous feeling sheathe, that'll make this whole shtick look a bit more 'assassin-y' and imposing.
Is it going to be amazing? ...No, she's definitely cutting a few corners here with some alchemical solutions meant to speedrun the process of curing flesh. But, it'll definitely suffice. And with a subject as malleable as this one, she doesn't even have to fuss too much with the act of stitching. Frankly, when made to sheathe an approximation of the daggers blade- it just sort of ...fits, with a disquieting slurp. Like some small vestige of the creature was still kicking, and looking for a meal. "..." That earns it a solid minute of being hit with a hammer. A process which is so involving, that she somehow fails to notice the gleaming blade of phoenix metal that emerges from the orb in the center of the room, and just barrowly misses lancing through her head, as she heaves forward to cudgel the thing an extra time. It's only when she's done her impromptu hammmering that she finally sets everything aside- retrieves the barely sputtering container from the severely depleted water, and finally cracks open the mold.
And honestly? She's pretty impressed with herself. The metal gleams wickedly, A dark alloy layered with sworls reminiscent of oil on water. What made those striations especially eye-catching, however, was the faintest hint of heat that still lay festering within the weapon- some irrepressible elemet that seemed to react to her handling it. It'd do. And thus, she sets to the task of sharpening and fitting it, and wondering just how long Lanlan was going to sit there eyeing her. Was he checking her out, "D'ya like what ja see, or jus' killin' time?" ...Wait, how's she noticed that he's watching her, and not busy with his own projects. For that matter, why is she fundamentally aware of the rest of the forge while she's-? She pauses, sets the blade down, and that sense of awareness dims and dissapears. "..Oh." Yeah, no, that was definitely intended. It'll be fine. And it'll definitely help to counteract any future complaints about any unforseen properties the weapon may still contain or develop. "Okay. I think-" Actually, it might be a little bit tricky to figure out what she thinks, because exhautions starting to catch up to her quick enough that the floor is looking mighty comfortable.
Lanlan hadn’t actually noticed he’d been staring until she called him out on it, and had no idea how long it was going on for. There was something thrilling about watching this months long project come to fruition. A sense of pride. Of fulfillment. She was hard to parse, but he trusted anyway that the result she was sweating for was going to be something magnificent. Though in what way? Sure to be anyone’s guess. “Yes! Actually I do,” he says as he rises out of his seat. He looks at her and then to the blade she whipped up. “That was a messy, messy thing wasn’t it? Who could’ve known it could be so pretty, too.” She was finished. He could see it in her eyes and hear it in her voice. Then he is too. “I need a couple things to finish my project,” he says as he moves toward the door. “Tidy this place up a little before…?” She was already going to sleep, right there in a pile of ash and dusted metal. He sighs and looks out the window. At some point it had turned into night, but there were still clouds. With a little coaxing, he seems to bring one down from the sky. It billows under her, floating her off the dusty ground. Wordlessly he starts the cleaning on his own.