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The last jump from the fairgrounds to Schörl's place took a large chunk of Cinnabar's energy with it and she groaned as she stretched her arms up over her head. Body arching up onto her toes, she winced at the gross feeling of her hair when she ran her fingers through it. Stupid magic apples... the gunk was gone by now, but it still felt gross.

Fluffing the fur around her neck, Cinnabar slid the heavy leather coat off her shoulders and tossed it onto one of Schörl's fancy chairs with a heavy thump and rattle of chains. First order of business, bath. One of the benefits of access to the General's space... access to hot, running water. Granted, she could freshen up with a little concentration, the same way she called up her uniform, but that was no substitute for a luxurious shower with real water.

As the Captain paced towards the bathroom, her fingers were hard at work on her corset and soon enough that was free too and she took the last few feet gloriously bare, scales glittering down the length of her spine.

"I'm taking a shower!" She tossed over her shoulder. "But company is always welcome..."

A laugh trailed behind her as she shoved the door closed with a heel.

Schörl had clean up to deal with- ensuring lieutenants with no better way made it out cleanly, as well as errant prizes to be delivered. Other hands had already appointed and organized the final holdings for the prisoners to spend their first unconscious hours. There was no point to sticking around and staring at the battered and sleeping when there was comfort, rest, and healing to be seen to in better surroundings.

She appeared outside her home, noting the presence of other auras already near. Powering down to take the elevator up, the sound of water confirmed the suspicions. Fancy that- company.

Stroud entered, coming out from the designed foyer and on to the living space. "As with your own comforts, so partake of mine. Be at ease, Captain Zircon."

"Let me tend you, all your small mischances to magic and mayhem," long arm motioned to a plush, Louis XV style, painted bergere next to the one occupied by Cinnabar's uniform, and then to the low table over the plush rug surrounded by cushions and backrolls for lounging with the waterpipe. "Wherever you like."

A tone louder to relate the information to Cinnabar as well as the artist moved to samovar to set fresh coffee on, then to the wine cabinet to draw out the first bottle in readiness to present to Lazarus as reward. "Wine, coffee, turkish coffee, tea, and some local microbrews are what are on offer for thirst. And I have a full kit of bandages, antiseptics, anti-inflammatories and ice packs."

"All our caches are brimming." The words came out in provocative tones- all pleasure and anticipation of all the more.

******** this. ******** this, ******** that, and also ******** everything.

Midnight had come and gone long ago, leaving the new year hollow around them. Two thousand fifteen, the year in which he kidnapped a child, threw another one through a window, and barricaded doors with human bodies. What a start.

He wanted to go to sleep. He could maybe find a rock to bash his head in with repeatedly or something, and that would put him under nicely enough -- let Stroud try to wake him from that one -- but this proved, of course, a flight of fantasy in many respects. Returning to Stroud's flat revealed a deeply unwanted handful of houseguests that ensured sleep was not yet on the menu.

Lazarus dropped into a chair at the first opportunity and started divesting himself of his party clothes. The spats and shoes went first, with all their rows of laces; after that, it was the hooded coat and the head-sock, and he started unwinding his french braid to shake out his hair. He left the pants, which were comfortable enough.

On his shoulders and down his back, fading and fresh marks from Stroud's teeth, or nails, or displeasure offered a dull, achy protest to all this movement -- but he'd grown accustomed, at least, to being in some perpetual state of correction, and had already accepted the likely possibility that at some point in the evening, he would've been expected to remove the dubiously modest coat and wear his stripes visibly. He had wanted the chance to leave the apartment badly enough not to care, at the time, and had assumed that would be the sort of challenge their little outing would hold in store.

Hilarious. What a ******** idiot he was.

He accepted his Australian Shiraz with all the good grace of a man who had thrown a child through a window and sent another off to his probable death to earn it -- with a cold, dead feeling inside that said he should not touch this sick reward by any means, but was going to anyway because he cared more about becoming deeply insensate than about feeling his deserved guilt. He was weak, and Carnival of Love promised the exact sort of escapism he wanted.

Lazarus fetched the corkscrew from its place and worked the bottle open without any particular delay. His first swig was straight from the bottle, testing -- only when he was satisfied that it deserved the effort did he bother dignifying it with a glass. Then glass and bottle and worthless a*****e made their way back over toward the abandoned chair, where the journey to drunken stupor could commence --

His progression was interrupted by the sudden interposition of a dark-haired woman of average proportions and above-average temper in his immediate personal space.

Accustomed to Stroud, whose theoretical temper Lazarus had literally never succeeded in visibly rousing, his immediate reaction to Elle was a feeling of vague bafflement, having forgotten what a stormy confrontation was even like.

He blinked.

Lazarus did not remember throwing a cat-girl at Elle. He remembered throwing a cat-girl -- it was one of those occasions that sort of stuck in the mind -- but he hadn't exactly been aiming for anything more specific than 'away' at the time.

The fact that, of everything he'd done this evening, this was what someone was expecting him to feel remorse over struck him as wildly absurd.

"Did I. Interesting," he said in a tone that conveyed anything but. His concession to politeness was in standing there in front of her, waiting to see what she expected him to do about it now, rather than simply stepping around her and finishing his journey back to his chair.

Zircon let out a soft exhale as Stroud entered the room, and as she lowered her shoulders she let go of her Chaos mantle, leaving behind the trimly-dressed Suri in her place. Compared to the utilitarian design of her powered self, the fine drapery of the dress Stroud had chosen for her seemed more like the magic-driven side, but Suri had never felt more vulnerable, the fabric silken and diaphanous against her pale skin. She made no illusions to the fact that she sat in a room full of predators, thieves, and murderers, herself included, but without Metallia's armor wrapped warmly around her she felt more the role of the victim.

She bit down her apprehension like a bitter pill. Tonight was a success, and she would celebrate, no matter her feelings of insecurity. Suri did not need Zircon to belong here--there were other ways to simulate warmth.

"Wine, thank you," she nodded, crossing the room for something to cure her ills. Her expression puckered as she moved past Lazarus and the bottle cradled in his arms--was the little princeling too good for a glass?--but she otherwise paid him little mind, reaching for a bottle of something full-bodied and a deep dark red. The time had passed for flutes of champagne, Suri wanted something to make her forget the scratches and dings on her skin, left behind by that Dark Mirror traitor.

Was that worth mentioning to Stroud? Perhaps, but another time. She would not dampen the night's festivities.

She held her glass close to her chest, swirling its contents once before returning to the plush couch. She took extra care to go around the brewing squabble between the lieutenants, watching Galena with a curious spark in her eye. Had the girl been confronting anyone else Suri would have been eager to break it up for the sake of keeping tensions low, but as it stood she was far more interested in watching Stroud's new favorite dig himself into a deeper hole. Petty? Perhaps, but so was his strutting around like a finely-groomed pet.

Suri watched with cautious eyes as Cinnabar re-entered the parlor, trying her best to keep her flustering to a minimum. What she'd done to herself was monstrous, yes, but there was power in her movements, a strength that she hadn't seen in the languishing Bischofite. Perhaps, then, he'd been wrong about the whole process. Surely, then, he'd been wrong about her.

"There are cats for that," she offered, shrinking away almost as soon as she'd spoken. It was harder to make her voice known when she felt so weak and bare in comparison. "One should be enough to keep the White Moon off your tail..." Suri paused, her mind rolling over the particulars of what she'd said, and then stared down into her glass, biting her lip. Pun not intended, pun, definitely not intended.

The little blonde spoke and it drew Cinnabar's attention, her red eyes brightening as she looked the woman over, sweeping from head to toe to take in her done hair and fancy dress. It had a flavor to it and she wondered if Stroud had picked it out for her. She wouldn't be surprised.

"But using a cat right now would require Stroud to go out and get one." She said, her lips curling in a playful smile. "I'm afraid I'm tapped out on teleportations at the moment..."

When the woman in question came with coffee, Cinnabar's smile was turned on her and the stroke of fingers brought heat into her eyes. Shame there were so many people around... celebrating with Stroud with the adrenaline of battle still high would have been enjoyable, but they would undoubtedly shock someone's sensibilities now. It was unlikely any of them would want to join the fun, let alone watch.

"Then I will stay and play temptation, if you would enjoy it." She rumbled, something of the beast slipping into her voice with her attention more on bedroom matters than on pretending to be human for the group's comfort. Cup was lifted to her lips, sipped and set aside as hands took up working the tangles out of her waterfall of black hair again. Thick as it was, with its hint of wave, it took some bit of work to set to rights. When Stroud joined the stranger, Cin's head tilted curiously.

"You should introduce your friend, Stroud. I've never met this one before." Her power had suggested she was a captain like Cinnabar and earned her a smidgen of respect, though her nervous sort of manner undid it at the same time.

Even with Elle evidently leaving, there were still three other people in the room with Lazarus. Logically, this obliged him to socialize with at least one of them -- however, considering that one of the three was Stroud, and the other two were Stroud's friends, Lazarus found that his preference was not to do any more socializing than he was called upon to. Being led to water and being made to drink were, after all, two separate beasts.

And he had drink enough in hand, after all. More than enough, for the moment. Lazarus returned to the chair he'd vacated earlier and collapsed into it with just enough care not to spill his wine.

He drank and quietly observed the others.

Watch and learn. These three are stronger than you, but they'll have weaknesses it's good to know about, and if they feel safe with Stroud, they'll start to show them. Pay attention to the details.

Fine, careful scrutiny was something Stroud encouraged. Privately, Lazarus agreed with those lessons: it benefited him to know as much as possible about events around him. Anything could be an advantage, if you understood it well enough. Any oyster that was patient enough with a fleck of dust could cultivate a pearl from it.

Dark blue eyes studied the others over the rim of his wineglass.

The taller one was Ariel, he remembered that much. She was some kind of half-woman-half-beast creature, which had surprised and horrified Quartz initially, and turned out to be no less horrific after a slightly more prolonged exposure. I'll ask Stroud to explain it to me later, Lazarus decided. For now, he focused on the more mundane facts: her attitude, her social personality. Pushy. Abrasive. Probably something to prove to the world. Well combatted, he suspected, with a watery cool front. Bland words and reactions, always slippery, always dim. Nothing for a promisingly fiery personality to gain traction on. With Ariel, he decided he should try to be easy and malleable.

The other one was different. No less of an open book, as far as he could tell -- every ounce of her posture advertised her vulnerability to Stroud's attentions, not to mention the way she clung to her wineglass like a life buoy. But different, certainly. There was none of Ariel's animal confidence, her burning energy; the smaller woman under Stroud's lulling hands radiated inwards instead, and she was all cold fusion. Are you one of her gullible fools, then? he wondered. A slavering fan who's hanging onto the hope that someone like Stroud is capable of love?

Or are you just desperate to be noticed? Desperate to be used? When Stroud looks at you, what tool does she see?

He wondered. She was small and mousy, and didn't look like much of a fighter. It was anyone's guess, in his estimation, whether she or Elle was less cut out for the job, in fact.

Staring idly at the pale-haired little woman Stroud was massaging, Lazarus settled farther back into his chair -- then started humming Auld Lang Syne, mainly to see how she'd react.