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blood and whiny jesters
[Shiiiiiiit.
Shitshitfuckshit. Shit and then double fuck, and FUCK AGAIN.
How has this happened? This bullshit is why he never comes to the living world; he's a performer, an entertainer, not an action hero! Why did he ever let Blitzø talk him into coming to observe him at work, just so the asshole could show off?
"It's just one job, Fizz. You'll be nowhere near the guns and blood, Fizz. It's totally safe and I'll have you back to your big royal chicken in one piece, Fizz. Don't you want to see the living world at least once in your life, Fizz?"
He is going to punch that dickhead SO HARD when he gets home. Because it will be when, right? Not if. And then he will never ever set foot outside the Lust Ring again, let alone outside of Hell.
It had all happened in a flash of white hot pain and the smell of magic gone wrong, the pages of the Prince's tome fluttering and the spell going awry at the last moment. Instead of a nice safe portal opening from the offices of I.M.P. into whatever part of the living world Blitzø's contract was in, Fizz found himself tumbling through a nauseating vortex of images and sounds that make no sense.
And when it stops things don't get less confusing.
The light is fucking dim, and all he can see is stone before he has to fall to his knees and retch from the sensation of whatever the shit had gone wrong. Urgh. Shakily, he wipes a hand over the back of his mouth, unaware that he's crash-landed straight in front of someone like the weirdest multicoloured unwanted houseguest.]
...Blitzø? Fuck.
[His voice is harsh and raspy, as if he smokes about eighty a day, the bells on his hat jingling when he shifts a bit to try and look around.]
Shitshitfuckshit. Shit and then double fuck, and FUCK AGAIN.
How has this happened? This bullshit is why he never comes to the living world; he's a performer, an entertainer, not an action hero! Why did he ever let Blitzø talk him into coming to observe him at work, just so the asshole could show off?
"It's just one job, Fizz. You'll be nowhere near the guns and blood, Fizz. It's totally safe and I'll have you back to your big royal chicken in one piece, Fizz. Don't you want to see the living world at least once in your life, Fizz?"
He is going to punch that dickhead SO HARD when he gets home. Because it will be when, right? Not if. And then he will never ever set foot outside the Lust Ring again, let alone outside of Hell.
It had all happened in a flash of white hot pain and the smell of magic gone wrong, the pages of the Prince's tome fluttering and the spell going awry at the last moment. Instead of a nice safe portal opening from the offices of I.M.P. into whatever part of the living world Blitzø's contract was in, Fizz found himself tumbling through a nauseating vortex of images and sounds that make no sense.
And when it stops things don't get less confusing.
The light is fucking dim, and all he can see is stone before he has to fall to his knees and retch from the sensation of whatever the shit had gone wrong. Urgh. Shakily, he wipes a hand over the back of his mouth, unaware that he's crash-landed straight in front of someone like the weirdest multicoloured unwanted houseguest.]
...Blitzø? Fuck.
[His voice is harsh and raspy, as if he smokes about eighty a day, the bells on his hat jingling when he shifts a bit to try and look around.]
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Small mercies: of all the villages and hamlets and cities in this world bolstered by the weight of corpses and war, Mère-Lachaiselongue is built on deaths long past. Stones like dried skulls crowd the walls of the inner mausoleum, and the veinous cluster of roots running through hard-packed dirt are like the dried hands of something ancient and unbothered by the passage of time.
Regis, perched on the edge of a sprawling sarcophagus lining the far wall of his inner sanctum, is reading when his new houseguest arrives as a pile of color and bell-chime curses. It's startling in a way that not a lot of things are, lately; he supposes that he should have every inclination to hide, to vanish before this spontaneous crash-landing can threaten the tenuous equilibrium he's made for himself here.
Instead, Regis closes his book over his knee. Gets up with a soft sigh, and steps into flickering candlelight. ]
Mind the flasks, please. [ Gesturing to a little pile of decoctions just to the colorful stranger's left. ] I suppose asking you if you're quite alright will sound more facetious than well-meaning, so I'll rephrase: are you hurt?
[ Barber-surgeon. His voice remains even, his concern wary but sincere. ]
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He had been hoping that wherever the fuck this is, he at least had managed to avoid notice when he crash landed. But suppose the universe has decided that it's his turn to be the bitch-boy for the day... wonderful. Just... wonderful.
Fizz scrambles back and away from the voice (thankfully not knocking any of the flasks over in the process) and blinks rapidly to adjust his eyes to the light. His tail, long and slender with a barbed spade on the end, whips up behind him in a defensive gesture and his sharp teeth bare, all in an attempt to hide how utterly terrified he is.
The man in front of him looks-- tall. Imposing. But that's about all Fizz can tell, and he doesn't have much experience with living humans (ha) to be able to tell anything about how dangerous he might be.]
What...?
[The question about his welfare takes the wind out of his sails somewhat, shifting some of that terror into confusion. He is a little hurt, he can feel the throbbing at his right shoulder where he landed, but why would he reveal that to this stranger?]
Who're you? Where the heaven am I?
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Oh well. The world will always find new and interesting ways to humble him; he smiles about it despite everything, and the expression warms further when the stranger says "where the heaven" instead of "where the hells". ]
We could add "how" and "why" to your queries, and complete the set.
[ More valuable questions to ask than who Regis is (no one, really), and where he lives (nowhere important, actually), he thinks. But being flippant about things won't help, and more essentially－
－his surprise guest looks terrified. The body language tugs at something in Regis, and prompts another slow, careful step forward. ]
At any rate, you're among friends. Or, mm. A friend. [ A soft smile, curling just the corner of his mouth. ] A humble recluse living with his herbs and books. You won't find much that could harm you here.
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But there's something about that expression that speaks of sincerity, it almost reminds him of Oz in a very roundabout way. Not that he wants to think of Ozzie right now, or he might just start to cry for how wrong all of this has gone, and how much he already wants to be home.]
A friend? You make a lot of friends with people who break into your home by accident?
[Fizz takes a careful step backwards to match the taller man's step forwards, the bells on the ends of his jester's hat jingling softly with the motion. Sharp hearing might note that any movement of his arms and legs is accompanied by a quiet mechanical whirring noise, and his footsteps clink on the floor loudly. He seems to be 'wearing' metal high heeled boots, with a bright blue heart glowing on the front of each foot.
A deep breath, but he needs help so he can't afford to spit in the face of someone apparently offering it. Though his guard remains completely up, that tail lashing behind him like a wary cat.]
You want to tell me where this is, friend?
[Don't think he hasn't noticed neither of his prior questions haven't actually been answered.]
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He puts his hands up, long fingers and long nails pointing towards the stone ceiling. Regis doesn't cut an impressive figure, by any means: tall but unremarkably dressed, toting a wine-red satchel across his chest with all the sartorial grace of a first-year university student who's afraid of pickpockets.
(The truth of the matter is that Regis' calmness stems from the immortal confidence that he can't be harmed by the creature in front of him; but even still, he's attempting to be more diplomatic than fascinated. The latter is probably too patronizing, if he spoke the opinion into reality.) ]
I try to assume the best in a given situation, lest I unwittingly invite the worst. [ Translation: "I don't want to antagonize people because I don't actually like getting into fights." ] But to answer your question, friend, my name is Emiel Regis, and this is Mère-Lachaiselongue Cemetary, just southeast of Beauclair Port in Toussaint.
Forgive me my forwardness, but I assume that my answer doesn't help your situation any.
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Not helpful.
And neither is the answer given. There's a name, which means nothing, and a place... which also means nothing. Shit. Fuck shit fuck. He had been hoping against hope that the portal had misfired so badly that he was somehow still somewhere in Hell, or at least somewhere in the living world close to where he was meant to end up. But he's never heard of literally any of those places-- Toussaint? Is that a city? A town? A country?
Fizz can feel his breathing coming in too short pants, his heart pounding a million miles a second, as anxiety floods him like a tidal wave. His tail stops even the pretence of threatening behaviour, instinct bringing it to wrap tightly around himself in a gesture of fear.]
Fuck.
[A succinct agreement to that supposition.
Shit. Shit. Breathe, Fizz, don't panic. Now is not the time for a panic attack, the situation is much too dangerous for that. Pretend this is a performance, this is a stage, and Mammon is watching-- time to pull on the game face and be perfect.
He swallows hard, struggling to maintain a neutral expression and keep his thoughts in order.]
Uh-- I mean, no. You're right, I don't know where that is.
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Regis' brows turn down, somewhat. Sympathy, empathy. His hands also lower with the rest of him, posture hunched, knees bent, folding into a half-kneel. The practiced movement of someone who has done this many times before in the past, but doesn't bear the marks of having been bitten or mauled for his trouble.
Poor thing is not a thing he cares to say; he has also been that poor thing far too many times to count. But he believes in the strength of someone's outreached hand. ]
Then we can try to see if we can't find someplace more familiar to you.
[ One thing at a time. Crouched low, still a safe few feet away from the newcomer, Regis breathes slowly and deliberately. ]
May I ask for your name? And what you are, if that question doesn't ring too gauche. I can assure you that there'll be no judgments made based on the answer to said question－ I simply dislike having to mentally catalogue you as an unknown. Seems rude, somehow.
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Fizz keeps his gaze locked onto Regis' eyes, looking for any flicker of a clue that this is a trap or anything about this is untrue. He learned a long time ago that the eyes were where to look for things like that, often speaking far more honestly than a wide smile or a jovial tone.
It's the crouch that finally convinces him. It's not a position a predator would take, it puts Regis too off-balance. If Fizz could actually fight worth shit, then he could take advantage of someone knelt like that.]
...Fizzarolli. My name, I mean, it's Fizzarolli.
[He hesitates on answering the other question, given how fucking illegal it is for him to even be in the living world. But fuck it... seriously, fuck it, he's not about to spit in the face of help when he's this lost. Though he does take another step backwards until he feels stone against his back, just in case.]
I'm-- uh, not human.
[Smooth, Fizz.
He shrugs as if to brush off what he actually is as unimportant, and then hisses slightly in pain as his shoulder reminds him of the rough landing he had here. Damn, he really hopes nothing is damaged.]
You know, you really are being fucking calm about this.
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Fizzarolli. What a lovely name.
[ Very musical! Things Regis appreciates, despite the predicament they're in. He remains where he's crouched, elbow to one hiked knee, before he decides that it's a pain to maintain that position. Down he goes onto dust-soaked stone, taking a perch with his legs neatly folded.
Fizz isn't wrong, by the way. Regis knows he really has no business being this calm, but one can't fight one's nature. ]
As for my being calm, why shouldn't I be? I know exactly where I am, what time of day it is outside, and the name of the Duchess currently occupying the royal city of Beauclair. It's any given Sunday for me, despite the sudden appearance of a rather－ forgive my saying so－ eccentric-looking guest.
[ A soft, thoughtful sound. ]
I'm certain that if you wanted trouble for me, you would have caused it by now.
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It's the odd little compliment to his name, and that Regis sits on the floor in front of him, that finally drains the worst of the anxious energy out of him. He's not feeling good about any of this, but at least he's not on the verge of a panic attack.]
No forgiveness needed, I've been called a lot worse than eccentric looking.
[Fizz sinks down against the wall to sit as well. He legs move a bit weirdly, as if he has multiple knee joints, or perhaps no bones at all, ending up with him sat cross-legged.]
So-- Emiel, wasn't it? You're right that I don't mean you any trouble, I don't mean you anything at all, this-- was a fucking mistake. I don't know how it happened or how to leave.
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He notes the curious expanding and contracting of the demon(?)'s extremities. Curiouser and curiouser. ]
Please, call me Regis. [ A tip of his head to the side, crow-like. Maybe Regis invokes some of the avian poise that Stolas has, with none of the horniness; he maintains the polite distance between them, but keeps his body angled towards Fizzarolli. Quietly attentive－
－and considering how best to level with this newcomer. How much of his cards should be played, and if they should be played at all. ]
From what you're saying, it seems you're not from this world at all. Not a difficult concept to grasp, as there are many precedents in our society that corroborate the possibility of "crossing over". [ His own kind included. ] But, ah.
Quite a predicament, if none of this was under your control. [ Sincerely: ] This does leave you quite buggered, doesn't it.
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[He would like to go back to his life with Oz where he could just be getting buggered in the fun way, please. He would like to see Blitzø and awkwardly talk about their reforming friendship. Heaven, he would even like to see Mammon coming towards him with a new contract for an extra line of Fizzies for people to fuck. Anything but being stuck here.
He rubs his hands over his face briefly, internally telling himself to get a grip. It's easier this time, with Regis having mostly proved (for now) that he's not a threat. He can do this. It's not in his usual wheelhouse, sure, but he can do anything he sets his mind to. He fucking learned how to walk again, how to talk again, how to juggle and sing and thrive long after most people would have given him up for dead. He became the most famous jester in all Seven Rings, worked for two Deadly Sins, and somehow stole the heart of one them.
Surviving a little accidental trip to somewhere unknown? Piece of fucking cake.
Looking much more determined when he lets his hands drop to his sides, Fizz pushes up to his feet with one graceful arch of his back and extension of his legs, finally starting to investigate his surroundings rather than keeping all of his focus on Regis.]
But fuck it, it could be worse. I've already found a friend, right? So that's one to Fizz.
[His grin is wide and shows too many teeth, but it's at least half genuine. He's mostly trying to lock Regis down on side, because this will be a lot easier with someone who knows this place and can wander around without a disguise.]
...okay, Regis, I'm an open book. If you'll help me get back to Hell, no secrets. Deal?
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―Anyway. Their surroundings are thus: a cavernous, two-story crypt with labyrinthine tunnels leading north and south from the main sarcophagus room. Regis is currently sat on the dirt-covered stone of said sarcophagus room, his back to the stairs leading up to a cozy alcove lined with fully-occupied bookshelves. Posters with hand-drawn anatomy studies are carefully pinned to crumbling mortar; there are dried herbs hanging from reinforced wooden scaffolding, casting strange shadows onto tables decorated with vials and glasses connected by tubes.
A library, a laboratory, a hideout. Regis lets Fizz look around with impunity, taking time with his own ascent back onto his feet. ]
Back to Hell, of all places?
[ A question delivered like a laugh. There's something funny about someone wanting to be sent to Hell without it being a self-destructive desire. ]
Well, I shall see what I can do. [ Very exciting! ] And yes, I think candor would help far more than hinder, in this case. We seem to be dealing with a great deal of unknowns.
[ Patting dirt off his pant leg: ] But before we get down to business－
－you can allow yourself your emotions. Break a glass or two, if need be. I've many to spare.
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Wild.
Imagine not believing in the Seven Rings?]
Yeah, well, I was born in Hell, and today's the first time I've ever left. I don't do the living world, this was supposed to be a one time tourist trip with a friend.
[It's a half distracted answer as he finally absorbs where he is. This-- this place is a shithole. Even his crummy apartment in Greed, back before he won the first pageant and met Oz, had been better than this. Why are there sarcophaguses in here? What-- wait, didn't Regis say this was a cemetery? Who the fuck lives in a cemetery?
Intrigued, Fizz suddenly becomes a whirl of motion, like a very energetic and flexible slinky. Using three of his extendable limbs to help (not the right arm in case he has damaged the port), he moves like some sort of whirring blur of tinkling bells around both floors of this place Regis calls home. He flips up onto shelves, he hangs from things by his tail and backflips down, he's up and down on both levels as quick as thought.
Finally he stops by the bookshelves up on the alcove.]
Do all people in Toussaint live with corpses? Or are you just special?
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Should he clap? It's not a show, surely. Still, he leans back and cranes his neck from the ground floor, his smile stretching further than it should. From this distance, it's probably impossible to tell that Regis' teeth are sharper than they should be, but hey. Who knows.
Speaking of: ] Oh, I wouldn't want to give myself too much credit. [ "But yes, I'm a vampire", he thinks to append, but he's still playing that card close to his chest. Even Geralt, bless his stubborn soul, took a bit to piece Regis' identity together. ]
An eccentric, perhaps. I live here because I enjoy the privacy. [ Which doesn't, like, explain why he chose a cemetery, but. Shh. ] Not the best place for tourism, but some of the tombstones outside are quite amusing.
[ "Partied so hard, they perished from exhaustion" is a fun one. He points behind him, where dark tunnels lead up outside. ]
Would you like some fresh air?
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He tilts his head towards Regis with a slightly flat look and a raised eyebrow, he's not quite buying that someone who wants privacy would jump straight to living among corpses. But... what the fuck does he know?]
Uh, not sure that's the best idea.
[He gestures down at himself.]
I don't have a human disguise, and we're not supposed to be seen. Bit fucking late with you, obviously, but...
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"We're not supposed to be seen" invokes, again, a tremor of sympathy. It's a pleasant novelty to be able to relate to someone so quickly, and it makes Regis review whether or not he can afford a premature reveal of his identity.
(He thinks of his first foray into Beauclair, of his rapport with a succubus "terrorizing" the city's inhabitants. Funny memory.) ]
I see, [ he acquiesces, moving towards the stairs leading to the alcove. ] From what I can gather, this was meant to be a clandestine trip in spite of the rules binding you to Hell. Something reckless young people would do to sate boredom or curiosity.
[ A smile, without judgment. Been there, done that. ]
You also mentioned a friend. The one that talked you into all of this, presumably. [ Again, no judgment. Fondly, even. Also been there, done that. ] How long, do you suppose, before he notices your absence and rallies the armies of Hell to find you?
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Fuck, he's tall.
The idea of Blitzø being able to rally the armies of Hell to find him is such a ridiculous thought that Fizz actually laughs to himself for a few moments, a deep raspy chuckle that echoes in the underground space.]
You don't need to worry about any armies. I mean-- shit. Oz. Uh, maybe armies might be a problem, after all.
[How many succubus and incubus demons does Asmodeus have? And all of them have legal access to cross between worlds. If only there was a way he could get in touch and at least let Ozzie know he was safe, and then...]
...fuck, I'm an idiot.
[Scrabbling in his pocket, he pulls out his cell phone. The case on the back is bright blue and says CUM FOR THE JOKES in a swirly font, with a little clown charm at the top. It's the most out of place thing to exist in this world of fantasy and monsters, not that Fizz realises that.]
Shit, no signal.
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Which isn't to say that Regis isn't curious, either. He paces carefully over to where the imp (?) is hunched over his strange-looking device, politely but obviously peering over Fizz's shoulder for his own benefit. ]
How fascinating.
[ No crystals, no blood magic, no giant diamond to set on a pedestal to send images to far-off places??? He really needs to reassess his knowledge of Hell and its denizens. An entirely new academic endeavor. ]
A magic communicator of sorts, I assume? I've never seen anything like it. One would never have guessed that Hell would be so...
[ A wave of his hands. ] ...Advanced.
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You don't have cell phones in the living world?
[Huh? He had no idea that sort of technology was Hell-specific, but he knows so very little about the differences between the two places. It's not like he had a formal education, unless it was in juggling and other objectively cool skills like that.]
I mean, uh-- yeah, it's a communicator. It can do long distance voice, picture, or text conversations. See?
[He pulls up his latest texts from Blitzø and holds the phone out.]
[Fizz can't help but look a bit guilty at those last messages, shoulders hunching slightly.]
Guess he realised something went wrong, but I can't reply. So...
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Anyway. Fizz is stuck with just Regis for now, unless at some point Geralt decides to come NPC for Regis' adventures for once; the vampire in question takes a glance at the screen and the back-and-forth, and
thinks that maybe Fizz's friend isn't, uh. The smartest person in Hell. A snap judgment is made here, about Fizz's good heart and dishing it out to people who might be careless with it.
Regis keeps it to himself. This is all a lot to take in. ]
It does seem that you're very much missed. It might be that all that needs doing is keeping you safe and hidden until your companion figures out how to reverse the process that brought you here.
[ Gently, hovering beside Fizzarolli like a well-meaning ghost. ]
You didn't intend for this to happen, this much is clear. You're blameless.
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Or... guess he was.
But hearing that reassurance come from this outside source is oddly comforting, it adds another layer to the probability he won't be attacked for this. It's another kindness, one of several that are already stacking up.]
...yeah, thanks.
[It's a soft and slightly awkward response, accompanied by a smile that's much more genuine than the performer's mask he has been trying to hold onto after the initial panic abated.]
I don't know how much help I'm going to be on any of those counts, if I'm being honest. I'm not a fighter to keep myself safe, I'm a performer, and I've never even been to the living world before. I don't know how to fit in, even if I had a disguise. You've been-- really fucking kind so far, but letting me stick around is probably going to be a real pain in your ass.
[That doesn't stop the small flare of hope that he might be allowed to stick around all the same, rather than have to find a way to survive here alone.]
You sure you want that hassle, Regis?
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Right now, he pulls up a chair. Sits, and listens. Still calm as anything, but with the barest lowering of his brows to indicate sympathy. The expression is involuntary, but honest. ]
Thank you for the warning, however unnecessary it may be.
[ One day, he'll tell Geralt that honesty is a virtue that only the bravest possess; perhaps he'll think of Fizzarolli when he says so. ]
It requires courage to bare yourself as you've done, even to your own detriment. I'm certain it will be no trouble at all to be in the company of someone with such integrity.
[ A soft laugh, followed by a low, thoughtful hum. ]
There's another reason why I think this arrangement won't be a hassle at all. I believe it's something I should tell you in advance, since you've been so forthright with me.
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He's not entirely sure that spouting off about his own ineptitude regarding combat and the living world is brave-- it sure might be stupid-- and he doesn't think anyone has ever referred to him as someone of integrity. It nearly makes him laugh, but he restrains himself to a small twitch of his lips, far more focused on that fact that Regis is agreeing to help him.
Relief.
Relief is so strong that is nearly knocks him off his feet, and it's quickly followed by a gratitude that he opens his mouth to express, but is forestalled in doing so by that rather cryptic finisher.]
Yeah?
[He's all ears.
Not exactly wary or afraid, but definitely curious as to what sort of information could make this less of a hassle for Regis to have to deal with.]
Unless you're about to tell me that you're an expert at making portals, not sure how I won't be a hassle to you. But go on, I'm listening.
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He turns in his chair, folded knees facing Fizzarolli. One hand lifts from resting position, fingers splayed. ]
It's the nature of my identity. [ Cryptic. Holding his hand to candlelight, he gives his companion a better look at its shape, innocuous save for the slightly-overlong nails; a strange demonstration, its intent unclear, until－
－the nails elongate in a whip-crack instant, too long and too sharp, curled like foot-long scimitars. The transition is quick, but slightly grotesque; the kind of wrongness that feels starkly at odds with how normal Regis seems at first glance.
He smiles about the anomaly, though, and flexes his unnatural fingers. ] I'm not human at all, you see.
[ As if he's speaking about the weather. ] Are there higher vampires in hell?
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try not to judge me
LISTEN i love this!!!!!
too kind <3 writing songs is HARD
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i thought i replied to this weeks ago and i hadNT HIT SEND
MY TURN TO CURSE DW FOR EATING A TAG ):
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