The Initiate Fraysong ♑ (Young GHB) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
carnagecarnival) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thecapitol2014-06-26 05:06 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thecapitol2014-06-26 05:06 pm
Entry tags:
Everybody knows I'm a motherfucking monster
Who| Initiate and Eddie (Feel free to have your character to have seen this assuming they were around at the time!)
What| Initiate's lost his moirail and possibly his mind. Eddie has a replacement (and a way for this guy not to get dragged off and executed by peacekeepers).
Where| Around (D2 and D5 and other places) and finally at the central commons.
When| Late week 5, after his death in arena.
WARNINGS| Violence? Furniture breaking, really bad mental states, and rampage-y behaviour. Drugs.
Notes!| People are welcome to have had their character witness this scene go down, at any part of it, assuming they were around at the time to see it.
There are a lot of things trolls got their assumptions about. For a lot of motherfucking things do trolls presume. And of those things, he knows, knew even then, a good deal of them are stupid as all motherfuck. He served the empire with his life, with his whole being once. But even then he didn't drink nearly enough of the Kool-Aid to not be getting on dead-eyeing some of the things what got spewed. Shit so wrong and skewed, things what trolls got their chuckles up over, but all what he could think was that the one saying it was too damn dumb to live and that's the only reason it gave any humors. He's seen the typical, sure, and yeah he fucking hates them all collective, but's he's seen pan-crazed-rampaging yellows, pompous maroons, violets what got pleading mercy for the saving of others, an indigo what lived like fucking cullbait trash until he got off a shore. He's seen outliers enough to know what ain't really outlier. But. In all everything, there are still things what stand true.
And one of those things, is blood-rage. Highbloods are more prone to rage than the lower castes, the higher up one went, the worse it got. That's the official statement, not that it really mattered for the blood when it got started. Nobody really talks about it but everyone knows it's true. Everyone got angry but a blood-rage, a real one, where the berserker inside showed face, that was different. One would get the fucker's moirail, or if they couldn't, if they didn't have one, then it got time to get the fuck out of the way. Trolls got their own asses culled in those things. Just lose control too hard. Good thing there were always more trolls to replace the old. He's seen his share. He's felt his share. When they said it was common in highbloods, often what they really thought was "indigos". He knew it. Everyone knew it. It wasn't really surprising all things up and considered.
The weird thing is where he hasn't had so much here. He's not free of them but they're short. Or he can breathe still. He finds Mituna, remembers him, holds him in his mind, and it clears. He thinks back and he can't pinpoint none, not really; maybe when the Signless killed Mituna, but he still remembers being some kind of there for that, for all it burned him up alive. He's been angry other times and he's culled for it, but it ain't quite the same. Truth is, he's been kept afloat this whole time, for the first time in his life. He's been safe inside his own head. He's slept without waking up gasping and screaming at threat what ain't there. He hasn't lost himself so much that he can't reason, can't come back, even if it takes a while. If he fucks up, he's had a place to fall, arms what'd wrap around, hands to steady him, the soft ssshhh to quiet the noise. It's been so motherfucking quiet up in his head. He's been safe. That ain't a thing what many trolls get to be. That isn't a thing what he gets to be.
But for some reason, some reason unfathomable, the Messiahs blessed him. They gave him a gift what he knew deep down he didn't deserve and knows he don't deserve now but he can't be nothing but grateful, can't help hanging on with his sinner's hands even when he knows it's his hands what stain and taint and break. And he searches for that gift now. His leg is healed, he can see again, he doesn't feel like he's turning into something else. He thumbs the gold skull what he wears on the chain holding his makeup and the ashrings. He woke to a room trashed, everything broken, things gone, but he didn't see none of it, just walked right on out like a troll possessed. His eyes glaze over the District five commons, finding not what he's looking for and he's moving on. Up the elevator onto the District two floor, where all they probably got real familiar with him by now. He passes them by, going straight to Mituna's door.
Only it's not Mituna's. Not anymore.
His blood already runs cold, its hard to go colder. But he does. He stares like he doesn't quite believe it. He is bitter wind over water. He is ice. He turns real stiff-like and slow and goes to the first person recognizes to be either a stylist or a mentor or an escort or a peacekeeper, whatever the fuck he doesn't give a damn, and he says, "Where is he?" They give a look of confusion, not even alarm, the stupid fucker, and they say 'excuse me?' His volume fluctuates as it always does, but his voice is still cold and empty. "WHERE IS HE?" They say some dumb shit like they don't know what he's talking about. Something real boring and annoying. Lightening quick, he grabs them by their shirt and hauls them off their feet. He says, all sweetlike, "Where the motherfuck is he?" And suddenly their memory starts working fast ain't that just a miracle how it up and goes? They scramble fast and in there he finds an 'I don't know, he's not here'. So he drops them, smiles so wide and fucking pleasant for them, and he leaves. He ain't touching the golden goat skull at his neck no more, his fists are clenched at his sides. He searches the training center, he searches the roof. He searches every face what he passes and every damn corner and hall there is. He searches to the VERY last SHRED of what all he's got in him to keep searching.
And then he's there in the commons and the next thing what he knows is he's slamming some other person what he don't even know, what he's too blind to see face of. He's growling from deep within and his teeth are bared and he snarls this time, "WHERE THE MOTHERFUCK IS THE HELMSMAN! Where is he... WHERE IS THE PSIIONIIC! Where the fuck is my motherfucking moirail- I NEED MY MOIRAIL, TELL ME WHERE HE IS, NOW!" They squirm and scream and possibly piss their goddamn britches but he keeps holding them up against that wall until in a mess of pleading the truth comes out;
He's gone. He didn't come back. He's gone.
One thing what people get wrong about blood-rages is that they're not actually that easy to incite. It takes something hard, sharp, and absolutely unfuckingbearable. It takes something really worth losing one's mind for.
It's a miracle, a true, honest to gods motherfucking miracle that all he doesn't take the person's head off like a daisy right then and motherfucking there and only because the moment he dropped them they crawled up and ran off like they actually managed to find faintest drop of smarts in their sorry damaged pan. Because the next moment, the very next second, a noise rises up within him unlike any other. It ain't just animal, it's unearthly. It's the kind shit found in the hardest voodoo induced nightmare. The kind of thing what makes people slam hands over their ears simply out of fear. With eyes turned to fire around the cold indigo, the dilated pupil, he howls in fury and agony. His jaw splits and every single damn fang shows needle-sharp. He picks up the closet thing-- a chair-- and he smashes it to bits against the wall, smashing the wall in too. He tears his claws down the fancy-ass capitol shit stuck to it. He makes pulp of the table he finds. He tosses a whole lounge piece across the place for it to shatter on the wall opposite. He shatters glass and wood but it ain't enough, it ain't enough, he feels like he's gonna die, he's gonna die in this.
Everyone has to die in this.
Every.
Single.
Motherfucking.
Person.
CULL THEM ALL.
They let his moirail die, they let Mituna die, they're all at fault, they're all sinners, heathens, their blood must spill, it must flow and from it he will make the beacon for his brother to find him again it will shine up in space for he will coat every last surface with the sick hue and upon him shall
GOSPELEVITY THE FIFTH, PENTRI 88, VERSE 2: THE RECKONING WILL COME AND IT'S NAME SHALL BE WE, AND OUR DIGITS WILL STRIKE IN MULTITUDE TO SCOUR OF THE FORSAKEN. WE SHALL WRING THE DYING SYMPHONY FROM MANIPPENDAGED ELDEBHORRENCE, SO DROWN THE UNDROWNABLE AND DOWN THOSE WHAT THOUGHT UNDOWNED AS THE FOREORDAINED DEAFENED TO THE VAST HONK. AND ONWARD REACH FOR THE RISE, THE RISE, O GENESIS ARISEN WITH THE DAWNING DEATH. FOURTY EIGHT AND NINE AND SO BLINDED ARE WE WHO RESIST- WE WHO RE- WE...
He turns on the first living person he finds, starting forward with horns lowered in threat, breathing Rage and looking like Death and calling for Doom. His fingers spread out for his claws, eager and ready to spill. There's no question, not a thought of it; the moment he reaches anyone he's gonna cull them. He'll tear them apart with his motherfucking teeth.
What| Initiate's lost his moirail and possibly his mind. Eddie has a replacement (and a way for this guy not to get dragged off and executed by peacekeepers).
Where| Around (D2 and D5 and other places) and finally at the central commons.
When| Late week 5, after his death in arena.
WARNINGS| Violence? Furniture breaking, really bad mental states, and rampage-y behaviour. Drugs.
Notes!| People are welcome to have had their character witness this scene go down, at any part of it, assuming they were around at the time to see it.
There are a lot of things trolls got their assumptions about. For a lot of motherfucking things do trolls presume. And of those things, he knows, knew even then, a good deal of them are stupid as all motherfuck. He served the empire with his life, with his whole being once. But even then he didn't drink nearly enough of the Kool-Aid to not be getting on dead-eyeing some of the things what got spewed. Shit so wrong and skewed, things what trolls got their chuckles up over, but all what he could think was that the one saying it was too damn dumb to live and that's the only reason it gave any humors. He's seen the typical, sure, and yeah he fucking hates them all collective, but's he's seen pan-crazed-rampaging yellows, pompous maroons, violets what got pleading mercy for the saving of others, an indigo what lived like fucking cullbait trash until he got off a shore. He's seen outliers enough to know what ain't really outlier. But. In all everything, there are still things what stand true.
And one of those things, is blood-rage. Highbloods are more prone to rage than the lower castes, the higher up one went, the worse it got. That's the official statement, not that it really mattered for the blood when it got started. Nobody really talks about it but everyone knows it's true. Everyone got angry but a blood-rage, a real one, where the berserker inside showed face, that was different. One would get the fucker's moirail, or if they couldn't, if they didn't have one, then it got time to get the fuck out of the way. Trolls got their own asses culled in those things. Just lose control too hard. Good thing there were always more trolls to replace the old. He's seen his share. He's felt his share. When they said it was common in highbloods, often what they really thought was "indigos". He knew it. Everyone knew it. It wasn't really surprising all things up and considered.
The weird thing is where he hasn't had so much here. He's not free of them but they're short. Or he can breathe still. He finds Mituna, remembers him, holds him in his mind, and it clears. He thinks back and he can't pinpoint none, not really; maybe when the Signless killed Mituna, but he still remembers being some kind of there for that, for all it burned him up alive. He's been angry other times and he's culled for it, but it ain't quite the same. Truth is, he's been kept afloat this whole time, for the first time in his life. He's been safe inside his own head. He's slept without waking up gasping and screaming at threat what ain't there. He hasn't lost himself so much that he can't reason, can't come back, even if it takes a while. If he fucks up, he's had a place to fall, arms what'd wrap around, hands to steady him, the soft ssshhh to quiet the noise. It's been so motherfucking quiet up in his head. He's been safe. That ain't a thing what many trolls get to be. That isn't a thing what he gets to be.
But for some reason, some reason unfathomable, the Messiahs blessed him. They gave him a gift what he knew deep down he didn't deserve and knows he don't deserve now but he can't be nothing but grateful, can't help hanging on with his sinner's hands even when he knows it's his hands what stain and taint and break. And he searches for that gift now. His leg is healed, he can see again, he doesn't feel like he's turning into something else. He thumbs the gold skull what he wears on the chain holding his makeup and the ashrings. He woke to a room trashed, everything broken, things gone, but he didn't see none of it, just walked right on out like a troll possessed. His eyes glaze over the District five commons, finding not what he's looking for and he's moving on. Up the elevator onto the District two floor, where all they probably got real familiar with him by now. He passes them by, going straight to Mituna's door.
Only it's not Mituna's. Not anymore.
His blood already runs cold, its hard to go colder. But he does. He stares like he doesn't quite believe it. He is bitter wind over water. He is ice. He turns real stiff-like and slow and goes to the first person recognizes to be either a stylist or a mentor or an escort or a peacekeeper, whatever the fuck he doesn't give a damn, and he says, "Where is he?" They give a look of confusion, not even alarm, the stupid fucker, and they say 'excuse me?' His volume fluctuates as it always does, but his voice is still cold and empty. "WHERE IS HE?" They say some dumb shit like they don't know what he's talking about. Something real boring and annoying. Lightening quick, he grabs them by their shirt and hauls them off their feet. He says, all sweetlike, "Where the motherfuck is he?" And suddenly their memory starts working fast ain't that just a miracle how it up and goes? They scramble fast and in there he finds an 'I don't know, he's not here'. So he drops them, smiles so wide and fucking pleasant for them, and he leaves. He ain't touching the golden goat skull at his neck no more, his fists are clenched at his sides. He searches the training center, he searches the roof. He searches every face what he passes and every damn corner and hall there is. He searches to the VERY last SHRED of what all he's got in him to keep searching.
And then he's there in the commons and the next thing what he knows is he's slamming some other person what he don't even know, what he's too blind to see face of. He's growling from deep within and his teeth are bared and he snarls this time, "WHERE THE MOTHERFUCK IS THE HELMSMAN! Where is he... WHERE IS THE PSIIONIIC! Where the fuck is my motherfucking moirail- I NEED MY MOIRAIL, TELL ME WHERE HE IS, NOW!" They squirm and scream and possibly piss their goddamn britches but he keeps holding them up against that wall until in a mess of pleading the truth comes out;
He's gone. He didn't come back. He's gone.
One thing what people get wrong about blood-rages is that they're not actually that easy to incite. It takes something hard, sharp, and absolutely unfuckingbearable. It takes something really worth losing one's mind for.
It's a miracle, a true, honest to gods motherfucking miracle that all he doesn't take the person's head off like a daisy right then and motherfucking there and only because the moment he dropped them they crawled up and ran off like they actually managed to find faintest drop of smarts in their sorry damaged pan. Because the next moment, the very next second, a noise rises up within him unlike any other. It ain't just animal, it's unearthly. It's the kind shit found in the hardest voodoo induced nightmare. The kind of thing what makes people slam hands over their ears simply out of fear. With eyes turned to fire around the cold indigo, the dilated pupil, he howls in fury and agony. His jaw splits and every single damn fang shows needle-sharp. He picks up the closet thing-- a chair-- and he smashes it to bits against the wall, smashing the wall in too. He tears his claws down the fancy-ass capitol shit stuck to it. He makes pulp of the table he finds. He tosses a whole lounge piece across the place for it to shatter on the wall opposite. He shatters glass and wood but it ain't enough, it ain't enough, he feels like he's gonna die, he's gonna die in this.
Everyone has to die in this.
Every.
Single.
Motherfucking.
Person.
CULL THEM ALL.
They let his moirail die, they let Mituna die, they're all at fault, they're all sinners, heathens, their blood must spill, it must flow and from it he will make the beacon for his brother to find him again it will shine up in space for he will coat every last surface with the sick hue and upon him shall
GOSPELEVITY THE FIFTH, PENTRI 88, VERSE 2: THE RECKONING WILL COME AND IT'S NAME SHALL BE WE, AND OUR DIGITS WILL STRIKE IN MULTITUDE TO SCOUR OF THE FORSAKEN. WE SHALL WRING THE DYING SYMPHONY FROM MANIPPENDAGED ELDEBHORRENCE, SO DROWN THE UNDROWNABLE AND DOWN THOSE WHAT THOUGHT UNDOWNED AS THE FOREORDAINED DEAFENED TO THE VAST HONK. AND ONWARD REACH FOR THE RISE, THE RISE, O GENESIS ARISEN WITH THE DAWNING DEATH. FOURTY EIGHT AND NINE AND SO BLINDED ARE WE WHO RESIST- WE WHO RE- WE...
He turns on the first living person he finds, starting forward with horns lowered in threat, breathing Rage and looking like Death and calling for Doom. His fingers spread out for his claws, eager and ready to spill. There's no question, not a thought of it; the moment he reaches anyone he's gonna cull them. He'll tear them apart with his motherfucking teeth.
no subject
But when he heard the disruption, he also knew this wasn't anything ordinary. Jumping to his feet, he rushed out to see what was going on.
And wasn't it a lot.
None of the more useful mentors were around. An avox was trying hard not to flee from him, fighting hard between training and self preservation. Eddie could see that, right now, he was about the only thing between the Initiate and the firing squad.
And thought he could not relate to this outburst, it wasn't in his nature to express things this way...he sure as hell could relate to the pain.
"Hey, hey man...breath. Calm down." He said low, firm, hands up and out.
no subject
His advance speeds up. His claws swing out and he roars again.
Somewhere deep inside the word's Calm Down flutter over the wound, tearing between riling and stopping. But it ain't enough. Not now. Eddie's upheld hands mean nothing and his words may well be gibberish.
no subject
Luckily he hadn't won his arena for nothing, and he managed to duck out of the way before the Intiate could take him out.
"Seriously man. They're gonna hurt you." He grabbed for anything, searching his mind. "I can help."
no subject
He starts on a low whine, a wail turning to a scream then a snarl again. There's clearish purple run from his eyes now, but its clearness succeeds in nothing for not making it seem like the red of his eyes is melting the indigo irises down right out of his sockets.
He takes another step forward, gaze set on Eddie. He doesn't swing again. Yet.