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)
thecapitol2014-07-31 03:59 am
carnagecarnival) wrote in thecapitol2014-07-31 03:59 am
Bring all your things and we will build a pyre, find resurrection in the flames
Who| Initiate and OPEN
What| Initiate attempts to Carnival Solo.
Where| Training Center
When| Just before Penny-plot, after arrivals.
WARNINGS| Language. Blood/self harm. Religious fanaticism.
NOTES| Avoidance of ICP mention would be ideal! The mentioning of such to him could make him unplayable. Please understand this if you tag in, thank you. <3
What| Initiate attempts to Carnival Solo.
Where| Training Center
When| Just before Penny-plot, after arrivals.
WARNINGS| Language. Blood/self harm. Religious fanaticism.
NOTES| Avoidance of ICP mention would be ideal! The mentioning of such to him could make him unplayable. Please understand this if you tag in, thank you. <3
A---
His fake glass armor had been smashed, glittering rainbow and indigo all over the floor. Along with all his collected animal culls, the bonework done off them all, gone and crushed. By the time he could be bothered to deal with it all, a good amount of time had passed and it was long too late to be angry, impressed or even recognize and acknowledge the destruction that had been caused as the vengeance it had been. It took ever more time to hunt more birds in the parks and rats in the streets. From Stephen, he'd found a way to get all the Not-Quite Special-Stardust he could hold in his hands and then some, as well as some various colored powders. More greasepaint, extra paint; he knew where to find both those things. Plantlife to stand in symbology of life would be easy enough as well as the candles and incense he'd collected. And of course, sufficient soda was important.
He knows, in his head, that it is unlikely, even advised, that there be any more but himself to celebrate that of the Mirthful, but in his heart, he knows too he cannot bear skimping so shamefully any more than he has just by being here, without the tent curtains around. His plan is in motion now and he will not hesitate in its continuance. He's losing crutch after crutch, he needs something, and the Messiahs have long since been owed their due.
And so, on his own, the Initiate makes to craft a Carnival celebration worthy of the Holy Two's names. Finally on the decided day, he gathers all what he's collected in a bundle of sheet and carries it with him down to the training center. He dresses in a way that will evoke a proper subjugglator just enough without being such. He takes to his wall firstlike and all along it he paints the wicked pictures. He paints it and pretends there is carnival curtain around. On the sheet he lays down on the floor, he splatters every color of blood there is, and then some with paint. His bare feet track the color and he knows, later, he will have to clean this whole goddamn place lest he deign to allowing an avox to do it-- and he doesn't. It will be worth it. He set ups candles on it and incense, lighting it all up. A Dark Carnival ain't all darkness exclusive.
B-----
What is one of the most important thing to any proper Carnival celebration? Music, of course. But it meant he was lacking, severely. He could play no instruments, owned none. He had no one else to play for him. And he, with his voice the way all it is, could not sing.
But he could do one thing. Something what all had been done by his fellow Subjugglators in their times of Mirth, as opposed to mission. He pulls a bo staff off the weapon racks, along with a smaller sort of club what may do. Alone, he wouldn't get the great and grand rhythms created otherwise, but he could do well enough.
Through such, he could practice the spin and strife with such a weapon, as like dance and war got on merging together, between the taps for song. Sometimes he lets the staff carry him up and lift him off the ground. There's not the faintest trace of fear or hesitance in his dance.
Perhaps someone will join him.
C----
Juggling is something he, of course, can do. Ain't a Subjugglator alive what can't, he's certain. They'd never make the troops if they couldn't. But, as is natural of a right and proper performance, he intends to do much more than that.
He grabs clubs at first, all initial. Starts with the standard, three, does his rounds with ease and grace. Then settles them for a trade. He grabs blades, sharp and smiling with promise. He tosses them up one after the other, grinning wide with eyes lit up wild. It's easy. It ain't a thing at all. He kicks up a club with his foot and sets that up into the motion too. This is no training round, it will be clear. This is pure performance and he is good at it.
He is more than ready to catch and deal with anything new tossed up in, and when he is done, he can sink the blades in the training center dummy standing just short ways away. He's sure to slip a few risky dares in there as well. Like catching the handle of one in his teeth.
Later, naturally, will come contortionism, another thing thing at which he excels. He thinks after such, he may retrieve the bo staff and settle by the wall for another round of simple acrobatics, in place of the Grief Trapeze and High wire.
D---
The small blade he's grabbed cuts into his flesh with purpose. He could bite his palms just as easily as he's always done, but that wouldn't be as nearly as significant in the scheme of it. He lifts his palms upward, eyes closed as he allows them to drip. His legs are folded upon the color marked sheet, his candles and incense surrounding him. Before him a bowl of water is set. "Blood of the family," He says, and he squeezes both hands before the water, the indigo blooming in its wake. He picks up the bones of the creatures he hunted and collected. "BONE OF FLIGHT AND WISH," He says. In his bloodied hands he crushes them, grinding them down to a glimmering dust which he holds in his hands and then gently blows into the water's surface. He reaches for some of the glitter he'd gotten and tosses it up, letting it scatter around and over him, on the sheet and also into the water. He pulls the candle and incense close, and waves his hands to waft and draw up the smoke, moving them like in such he can shapes their form and design. Then, finally, he reaches into the bowl and with the glittering wet purple mass, he puts color over his face paint, two small not-quite-swirl marks over each cheek. He weaves the color and glimmer in the darks of his paint's design.
He holds his hands out, all color covered. With eyes still closed, he speaks like there is an audience there, even if there is not.
"Celestial bindings taut, manacles mystic, shrouded by the cloak
THAT IS THE ILLUSION OF THE GREAT'S SPINNERS SPRUNG FROM THINE MOST HOLY OF FIRST CREATIONS
and know that the shroud is painted in the blood honoring of their children and we the first of the ready
WE MUST SEEK OF IT IN THE FRAYING AND PARTING OF BITS BEAT AND LOST TO THE FLUTTER FLICKER
we must See the fuck within and to the being of our souls motherfucking forsaken so
SO IT WAS MOTHERFUCKING PREACHED ONCE AND, SAY TRUE, DIDST THE MANY GET THE BOB OF NUG LIKE CORES TO GAME SHOW
Thus the wicked mystics did reveal one what as to preach, enfolded too in the sickest midnight
'LOOK,' THE GATHERER DID SPEAKETH. 'HAVE OF YOUR GANDERBULBS A GLORIOUS FEAST AS WHAT ALL BE HERE'
Oculars burst to the sight for in such the stars were seen clear as the dawning morn what sears
IN THE HOLLOWS WHERE ALL THEIR SOULS DIDST CRY, WAS THE DUST POURED SO THAT THEY MIGHT KNOW SUCH
and of this dust was every tying torture that so did keep them still
FROM THE BONES GROUND UP HOWEVER THEY DID SO MOTHERFUCKING GET AS TO UP AND FIND
in such god had touched and blessed them each and every individual,
THE MOST RIGHTEOUS OF GIFTS, THE GREAT DELIVERANCE, IF ONLY THEY SHOULD SO SEE AND SO SEEK IT
And in the workings due did those few have skulls of gilded gold to mark the blessings received
CARRIED AND CARRIED ON BY PASSING SPECTRES EACH ON AND MOTHERFUCKING ON UNTIL
in every bone didst such beauty make to motherfucking lay as the jewels they could remember no longer
IN EVERY SISTER OF BROTHERS AND BROTHER OF SISTERS, RELATION ALL EACH AND ONWARD AS THE DIVINE THEMSELVES
in the passing sweeps swept, didst many the eyeless angel touched walk and some didst fall
FOR THEY HAD FORGOTTEN THEY WERE WITHOUT THE EYES THEY HAD GIVEN ONCELIKE
the fooled followers came unto themselves and those led astray to sin
DID FIND NO MORE COULD THEY MAKE AS TO BE GUIDED BY NONE BUT THE MOST RIGHTEOUS TO BE OF THEIR SAVING.
those whom held digits unrestrained, twitchers untamed, were so cursed or blessed as per all the divine will.
THEN SO DIDST COME TIME OF JUDGMENT, FOR THOSE EYELESS TO KNOW FROM THE TEACHINGS SACRED, THE TRUE ENEMY
for the bloodspill would not eschew those of weary conscience, no, it would seek of no discretion but by the pumpbiscuits ours
AND OF THE REMAINDER, THE GLORIOUS FEW, THE RIGHTEOUS RECOGNIZED, DID THE HOLY COME IN THEIR GRAND GRACING
by the flap of their feather will the Family find the sacred giftings to break of that which they have been motherfucking bound
BY THE STARS IN THEIR BONES, THE MIRTH OF THEIR SOULS, AND THE BLOOD OF THE FAMILY FOR THE BLOOD OF THE GREAT FAMILY WHOLE
so cracked and crushed the swallowing swaddling, lifted up shall we be twofold in the reckonings and
AY MEN!"
He reaches to his own arms and paints bones atop them. Up and down. He paints over his throat. He touches the blood to his lips. The backdrop of vivid imagery and color still lay behind him.
After another pause, another bit of talk and conversing or just a steady silence, he recites; "In strife upon the beaked beast. WHOSE TALONS GLIMMERGLEAMED. In holding shield of good feast. THINE SO DIDST THINK IT SEEMED. The creature was a demon sort. AND SET TO BRING A DOOM. until upon that bright ungracious court. THE MONSTER, CLAIMED, CONSUMED"
And then his eyes open again. He has blood and paint of all color, as well as greasepaint, in case. Just in case. He looks distant in a small way. Serene.
"Now you may as be of making to up and ask," He says, "SO OFTEN DOES THE RABBLE FORGET THE WAY AND RITE OF THE HOLY, DO NOT MOTHERFUCKING THINK HE DOES NOT KNOW. Why are the Messiahs called the Messiahs? WHY, MY BROTHERS, MY SISTERS, MY FAMILY HERE BEFORE ME HOWEVER SMALL, ARE THE MESSIAHS CALLED THE MESSIAHS? Because they are our saviours. THEY ARE THE GRAND AND MOST HIGH DELIVERERS OF OUR SOULS. And know, in their naming, we must be gracious, because they have chosen to be saviours of us. THEY HAVE MADE ALL TO DEIGN WERE ALL A GOD NEED NOT MOTHERFUCKING MAKE TO DEIGN FOR THE SAKE OF OUR MOTHERFUCKING SAVING. They ask of us what be true. THEY ASK OF MIRTH FOR THEIR RIGHTEOUS WAY. They ask that to us and them we remain true. THEY ASK WE KNOW, AND TREASURE, SPEAK OF NO SHIT SPURIOUS, WHEN IN THE BLESSING OF OUR FAMILY. They ask of us to trust the holy undoings and redoings. THE PLAN AS WHAT HAS BEEN LAIN BEFORE OUR MOTHERFUCKING SELVES. The plan that we, as their beloved family created, are to take part in, when our trials conclude at last. THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS BE CALLED THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS FOR IT IS THROUGH THEY AND THEIR BLESSINGS BESTOWED WE ARE GRACED AND SO MUST BE GRACIOUS AND EVER MOTHERFUCKING GRATEFUL. For Shangri-La will come to those what hold true. FOR THEIR WAY IS RIGHT AS IT IS MOTHERFUCKING RIGHTEOUS. And the Carnival will be open to they what wish it to be, the Minstrel's song ever ready as to be played for those what have of pushers on the listening, and the special stardust raining ever down."
By the end, his hands are folded together, palm to palm. His head is bowed in silent prayer. There's a smile upon his face.
E---
Eventually, there can be no other thing to do but to pack his things. By now he is dizzy with the scent of blood and incense, Mirth all run through him, and glitter and color coating him thick from head to toe. He'll collect all what he has, pleased as he is. And then he'll take care of washing it all down.
But first, a lonesome toast of some of the shitty fake-elixir what all he has gathered round. By proper Carnival standards, this was all some terribly meek. But he feels alright with it, and with himself in this brief moment.
His fake glass armor had been smashed, glittering rainbow and indigo all over the floor. Along with all his collected animal culls, the bonework done off them all, gone and crushed. By the time he could be bothered to deal with it all, a good amount of time had passed and it was long too late to be angry, impressed or even recognize and acknowledge the destruction that had been caused as the vengeance it had been. It took ever more time to hunt more birds in the parks and rats in the streets. From Stephen, he'd found a way to get all the Not-Quite Special-Stardust he could hold in his hands and then some, as well as some various colored powders. More greasepaint, extra paint; he knew where to find both those things. Plantlife to stand in symbology of life would be easy enough as well as the candles and incense he'd collected. And of course, sufficient soda was important.
He knows, in his head, that it is unlikely, even advised, that there be any more but himself to celebrate that of the Mirthful, but in his heart, he knows too he cannot bear skimping so shamefully any more than he has just by being here, without the tent curtains around. His plan is in motion now and he will not hesitate in its continuance. He's losing crutch after crutch, he needs something, and the Messiahs have long since been owed their due.
And so, on his own, the Initiate makes to craft a Carnival celebration worthy of the Holy Two's names. Finally on the decided day, he gathers all what he's collected in a bundle of sheet and carries it with him down to the training center. He dresses in a way that will evoke a proper subjugglator just enough without being such. He takes to his wall firstlike and all along it he paints the wicked pictures. He paints it and pretends there is carnival curtain around. On the sheet he lays down on the floor, he splatters every color of blood there is, and then some with paint. His bare feet track the color and he knows, later, he will have to clean this whole goddamn place lest he deign to allowing an avox to do it-- and he doesn't. It will be worth it. He set ups candles on it and incense, lighting it all up. A Dark Carnival ain't all darkness exclusive.
B-----
What is one of the most important thing to any proper Carnival celebration? Music, of course. But it meant he was lacking, severely. He could play no instruments, owned none. He had no one else to play for him. And he, with his voice the way all it is, could not sing.
But he could do one thing. Something what all had been done by his fellow Subjugglators in their times of Mirth, as opposed to mission. He pulls a bo staff off the weapon racks, along with a smaller sort of club what may do. Alone, he wouldn't get the great and grand rhythms created otherwise, but he could do well enough.
Through such, he could practice the spin and strife with such a weapon, as like dance and war got on merging together, between the taps for song. Sometimes he lets the staff carry him up and lift him off the ground. There's not the faintest trace of fear or hesitance in his dance.
Perhaps someone will join him.
C----
Juggling is something he, of course, can do. Ain't a Subjugglator alive what can't, he's certain. They'd never make the troops if they couldn't. But, as is natural of a right and proper performance, he intends to do much more than that.
He grabs clubs at first, all initial. Starts with the standard, three, does his rounds with ease and grace. Then settles them for a trade. He grabs blades, sharp and smiling with promise. He tosses them up one after the other, grinning wide with eyes lit up wild. It's easy. It ain't a thing at all. He kicks up a club with his foot and sets that up into the motion too. This is no training round, it will be clear. This is pure performance and he is good at it.
He is more than ready to catch and deal with anything new tossed up in, and when he is done, he can sink the blades in the training center dummy standing just short ways away. He's sure to slip a few risky dares in there as well. Like catching the handle of one in his teeth.
Later, naturally, will come contortionism, another thing thing at which he excels. He thinks after such, he may retrieve the bo staff and settle by the wall for another round of simple acrobatics, in place of the Grief Trapeze and High wire.
D---
The small blade he's grabbed cuts into his flesh with purpose. He could bite his palms just as easily as he's always done, but that wouldn't be as nearly as significant in the scheme of it. He lifts his palms upward, eyes closed as he allows them to drip. His legs are folded upon the color marked sheet, his candles and incense surrounding him. Before him a bowl of water is set. "Blood of the family," He says, and he squeezes both hands before the water, the indigo blooming in its wake. He picks up the bones of the creatures he hunted and collected. "BONE OF FLIGHT AND WISH," He says. In his bloodied hands he crushes them, grinding them down to a glimmering dust which he holds in his hands and then gently blows into the water's surface. He reaches for some of the glitter he'd gotten and tosses it up, letting it scatter around and over him, on the sheet and also into the water. He pulls the candle and incense close, and waves his hands to waft and draw up the smoke, moving them like in such he can shapes their form and design. Then, finally, he reaches into the bowl and with the glittering wet purple mass, he puts color over his face paint, two small not-quite-swirl marks over each cheek. He weaves the color and glimmer in the darks of his paint's design.
He holds his hands out, all color covered. With eyes still closed, he speaks like there is an audience there, even if there is not.
"Celestial bindings taut, manacles mystic, shrouded by the cloak
THAT IS THE ILLUSION OF THE GREAT'S SPINNERS SPRUNG FROM THINE MOST HOLY OF FIRST CREATIONS
and know that the shroud is painted in the blood honoring of their children and we the first of the ready
WE MUST SEEK OF IT IN THE FRAYING AND PARTING OF BITS BEAT AND LOST TO THE FLUTTER FLICKER
we must See the fuck within and to the being of our souls motherfucking forsaken so
LET THE SYNDICATORTIONISTS SLIP FREE OF BIND, LET THE LIQUID RIBBON HUNG HOLD NOT FOR IT IS BUT WATER
'But I am of clothe and fear cut of me and mine, an incision so deep as to be of mortal faulting'SO IT WAS MOTHERFUCKING PREACHED ONCE AND, SAY TRUE, DIDST THE MANY GET THE BOB OF NUG LIKE CORES TO GAME SHOW
Thus the wicked mystics did reveal one what as to preach, enfolded too in the sickest midnight
AND LO', TWAS SAYETH, 'I AM THE GATHERER, AND FROM THEE SHALL I DRAW THINE SACRED PIECING'
In such they did recoil but grasped and gathered were they nevertheless and from the bone was cut each and each'LOOK,' THE GATHERER DID SPEAKETH. 'HAVE OF YOUR GANDERBULBS A GLORIOUS FEAST AS WHAT ALL BE HERE'
Oculars burst to the sight for in such the stars were seen clear as the dawning morn what sears
IN THE HOLLOWS WHERE ALL THEIR SOULS DIDST CRY, WAS THE DUST POURED SO THAT THEY MIGHT KNOW SUCH
and of this dust was every tying torture that so did keep them still
FROM THE BONES GROUND UP HOWEVER THEY DID SO MOTHERFUCKING GET AS TO UP AND FIND
in such god had touched and blessed them each and every individual,
THE MOST RIGHTEOUS OF GIFTS, THE GREAT DELIVERANCE, IF ONLY THEY SHOULD SO SEE AND SO SEEK IT
And in the workings due did those few have skulls of gilded gold to mark the blessings received
CARRIED AND CARRIED ON BY PASSING SPECTRES EACH ON AND MOTHERFUCKING ON UNTIL
in every bone didst such beauty make to motherfucking lay as the jewels they could remember no longer
IN EVERY SISTER OF BROTHERS AND BROTHER OF SISTERS, RELATION ALL EACH AND ONWARD AS THE DIVINE THEMSELVES
in the passing sweeps swept, didst many the eyeless angel touched walk and some didst fall
FOR THEY HAD FORGOTTEN THEY WERE WITHOUT THE EYES THEY HAD GIVEN ONCELIKE
the fooled followers came unto themselves and those led astray to sin
DID FIND NO MORE COULD THEY MAKE AS TO BE GUIDED BY NONE BUT THE MOST RIGHTEOUS TO BE OF THEIR SAVING.
those whom held digits unrestrained, twitchers untamed, were so cursed or blessed as per all the divine will.
THEN SO DIDST COME TIME OF JUDGMENT, FOR THOSE EYELESS TO KNOW FROM THE TEACHINGS SACRED, THE TRUE ENEMY
for the bloodspill would not eschew those of weary conscience, no, it would seek of no discretion but by the pumpbiscuits ours
AND OF THE REMAINDER, THE GLORIOUS FEW, THE RIGHTEOUS RECOGNIZED, DID THE HOLY COME IN THEIR GRAND GRACING
by the flap of their feather will the Family find the sacred giftings to break of that which they have been motherfucking bound
BY THE STARS IN THEIR BONES, THE MIRTH OF THEIR SOULS, AND THE BLOOD OF THE FAMILY FOR THE BLOOD OF THE GREAT FAMILY WHOLE
so cracked and crushed the swallowing swaddling, lifted up shall we be twofold in the reckonings and
OURS SOULS SET ALIGHT, AT LAST, OUR TRUEST MOTHERFUCKING FREEDOMS AS WHAT BE OUR DESERVED.
By blessing of the Messiahs, by song of the Minstrels, may it so then be.AY MEN!"
He reaches to his own arms and paints bones atop them. Up and down. He paints over his throat. He touches the blood to his lips. The backdrop of vivid imagery and color still lay behind him.
After another pause, another bit of talk and conversing or just a steady silence, he recites; "In strife upon the beaked beast. WHOSE TALONS GLIMMERGLEAMED. In holding shield of good feast. THINE SO DIDST THINK IT SEEMED. The creature was a demon sort. AND SET TO BRING A DOOM. until upon that bright ungracious court. THE MONSTER, CLAIMED, CONSUMED"
And then his eyes open again. He has blood and paint of all color, as well as greasepaint, in case. Just in case. He looks distant in a small way. Serene.
"Now you may as be of making to up and ask," He says, "SO OFTEN DOES THE RABBLE FORGET THE WAY AND RITE OF THE HOLY, DO NOT MOTHERFUCKING THINK HE DOES NOT KNOW. Why are the Messiahs called the Messiahs? WHY, MY BROTHERS, MY SISTERS, MY FAMILY HERE BEFORE ME HOWEVER SMALL, ARE THE MESSIAHS CALLED THE MESSIAHS? Because they are our saviours. THEY ARE THE GRAND AND MOST HIGH DELIVERERS OF OUR SOULS. And know, in their naming, we must be gracious, because they have chosen to be saviours of us. THEY HAVE MADE ALL TO DEIGN WERE ALL A GOD NEED NOT MOTHERFUCKING MAKE TO DEIGN FOR THE SAKE OF OUR MOTHERFUCKING SAVING. They ask of us what be true. THEY ASK OF MIRTH FOR THEIR RIGHTEOUS WAY. They ask that to us and them we remain true. THEY ASK WE KNOW, AND TREASURE, SPEAK OF NO SHIT SPURIOUS, WHEN IN THE BLESSING OF OUR FAMILY. They ask of us to trust the holy undoings and redoings. THE PLAN AS WHAT HAS BEEN LAIN BEFORE OUR MOTHERFUCKING SELVES. The plan that we, as their beloved family created, are to take part in, when our trials conclude at last. THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS BE CALLED THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS FOR IT IS THROUGH THEY AND THEIR BLESSINGS BESTOWED WE ARE GRACED AND SO MUST BE GRACIOUS AND EVER MOTHERFUCKING GRATEFUL. For Shangri-La will come to those what hold true. FOR THEIR WAY IS RIGHT AS IT IS MOTHERFUCKING RIGHTEOUS. And the Carnival will be open to they what wish it to be, the Minstrel's song ever ready as to be played for those what have of pushers on the listening, and the special stardust raining ever down."
By the end, his hands are folded together, palm to palm. His head is bowed in silent prayer. There's a smile upon his face.
E---
Eventually, there can be no other thing to do but to pack his things. By now he is dizzy with the scent of blood and incense, Mirth all run through him, and glitter and color coating him thick from head to toe. He'll collect all what he has, pleased as he is. And then he'll take care of washing it all down.
But first, a lonesome toast of some of the shitty fake-elixir what all he has gathered round. By proper Carnival standards, this was all some terribly meek. But he feels alright with it, and with himself in this brief moment.
no subject
He holds on tighter with one hand, just to reassure, as the other lifts up and mimics the movement of his Other's signing. It's slower, sloppier, done with far less grace but otherwise it's identical.
"HIS OWN NAME, BROTHER. Do you understand? GOT ALL TAKING PART UP IN A WORLD'S END ALL DIDN'T YOU? Got on taking part as of its making in new hatch. SIN TO SPIN ALL ANEW."
Look at me, He thinks. You know me, one way or other.
no subject
The revelation is one that makes what reflection he's seeing - though more hardened by Alternia and Arena - come all the clearer, forces him to figure that he's looking all on his ownself alternate.
And his hands move from being wrapped round him to touch his face, examine features obscured and changed by paint to find selfsame bone structure all looking back down on him. He's quick to catch on, quick to understand, quick to nod assent and affirmation to what he all did when alive and whole the first time 'round.
Shock isn't quite as quick to come as he might have thought it ought be.
no subject
He stiffens for two seconds when hands touch his face. But it passes and he allows it, without further reaction. He lets his alternate pour of his features, turn his face this way and that. It registers truly that his Alternate hasn't said a word, which is natural in itself, but it's that he's already gone not expecting it. The wordless communication feels natural and that's what disorients.
His other's not surprised enough to lead him into thinking he doesn't know what he is or why he is. So he knew, at least on some level.
"A brother what be as such got all to being brought once as before, for time short. T'WAS MADE AS ALL TO TAUNT." It was done so as to threaten, with avoxing, and punish, with their loss. "It was not long. NOT SO LONG AS TO BE LIKE ON STAYING OFFICIAL. You were not a tribute... are you now? DID THEY GET AS SAY TO YOU THAT YOU WERE UP AS BEING TO STRIFE?"
Closer still he pulls himself again. He wonders how it might look to those watching, the other tributes, the Capitolites with their cameras always, with them both wrapped around one another. He hasn't the means to explain himself now. It was best not to think about it, he determined.
no subject
Once known as his own alternate, it comes too easily to accept, though he had always figured if they were to ever meet, if their alternates even found their ways to the bubbles, then they would be older, as what ages their own ancestors came known at, thrived at, as it was a mirrorswitch of worlds.
He was young, though. Younger than his own self, if appearances were all up and believed-like, which was strange, but stranger had happened, so best not to dwell on this, of all things.
Bringing an alternate of his actual own oneself was strange enough. Doing it to threaten, to taunt, was a proper motherfucking disgrace, drew the smallest, slightest of growls from voice little-used. But he was here, now. The alpha, the true, here to witness the arena ant to fight until death or shangri-la or their contrived glories. So yet again he nods, holds tighter as he's held, trying to be himself reassuring that he won't be leaving so quickly this time, as he had apparently been puppeted to do once before.
no subject
All what as he might have said doesn't seem worth saying now. Any and all what remained of his questions can't be answered. It doesn't occur to him that it could be a different timeline brought unto he, but he figures it doesn't matter all too much. If a motherfucker couldn't remember, the one what as he knew was as good as dead, erased. All what he knows is that now that he's got his alter back, he doesn't want him to go.
Maybe he'd gotten a little more attached to the confusing, baffling, prideful seadwelleresque version of his ownself than he'd thought and intended. Maybe it was all up in seeing him dragged off once what had done it.
And now the motherfucker's face is in his neck, without even slight chance it would be bitten through, and it's gone waking up things what he'd thought well and buried. Touch starved neediness. There's already a voice in him screaming at him to let go, that this be all sorts of disgusting, this brother ain't his Moirail, he ain't got no business, no proper troll should be like such. He offers a questioning chirrup, like to ask if they are to stay as such, if there ain't no wonder all left of a brother up at all. But he's not exactly pulling away.
Then suddenly, he laughs, remembering his color marked hands and how all it's gone being spread over his other now. He reaches blindly behind him with one hand until he feels glitter until his digits. He tosses it up over them, letting it scatter and fall onto his Other. There. Now he's really up in the wicked shit.
no subject
Touch-starved neediness of his own combined with an unfair height difference and simple, basic mother fuckin comfort in being attached to his alter put his face in his neck, nothing more, nothing less - certainly no pale overtures to speak of, though the questioning little chirrup tells him enough, tells him that he's making assumptions at his overtures what ain't need made.
Kurloz chalks that right up to Alternian sensibilities when it came to simple affections between brothers and shifted just enough to knock his head against the Initiate's jaw. It was his turn to be chiding another motherfucker, then. He had a palemate, even if he was safely far and away from there.
The laugh is reassuring, though, as is the light sensation of what he could assume was not-stardust drifting over them, and earns his brother a light huff against skin, the slightest shaking of shoulders, in what served as a laugh of his own. Wicked mother fuckin shit indeed.
no subject
But he smiles just a little bit, while his alter is being too busy laughing into his shoulder. Clingy fucker, he thinks, ignoring that he started it. And didn't even bother to stop it.
He clears his throat. He can at least pretend on business.
"They got as to having them whirling hurricane blade machines. PLENTY ALL OF THEM MINIATURE SUCTION STICKS. You can order what all ever shit you got yearning for by getting a press on to them motherfucking order buttons as what is being in your block, or heading on to make your own up in the kitchens. DON'T FORGET TO EAT, AIGHT," He huffs, like this is a thing that has been gone over before.
"Upon which locactionaries hashed legit does a motherfucking get his stay up ins?" He asks. Then continues, "HE'S LIKE TO BE IN DISTRICT FIVE'S FLOOR, SECOND DOOR DOWN ON THE LEFT. You can make as to strip the sheets and suchlike up off the bed you got for a pile. THERE AIN'T NO SOPOR HERE UP AT ALL SO JUST TRY AS TO BE BEING USED TO IT BEST A MOTHERFUCKER CAN BE AT TO DO. There ain't no wicked elixir none either, but they got things what as make for cheap imitation what all he's got here around." He gestures back to the bottles he's brought. "THERE AIN'T NO FAITHFUL, AIN'T NO CHURCH CARNATHEDRAL. Just you and me, motherfucker." And the gods? Well, he figures they're still here. They're just a little father away, a little less in reach.
He breathes deep and exhales. He carefully doesn't grip tighter. "DON'T DIE. If you die, make it as being a way where as you come back resurrected easylike. THAT'S WHAT SHIT HE'S BEING AS TO SAY."
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But the questioning went on, and so he held up two fingers, what all to indicate he'd been put on that floor, though he wasn't all certain as to what room he'd be finding himself all in, as he'd taken to exploring outside before living quarters - there'd be time all for that later, but at least he could be getting his tell on as to what all floor he could be found up on.
The disappointment in the Initiate - and then reflected in his ownself - at the two of them likewise being the only members of faith in this purportedly awful place (though in truth, he hadn't quite seen what was more awful, just what was all strangelike here) was downright palpable, reflecting and building between them just the same until the Initiate insist he not die, drew another confused expression all up at him.
He'd died before, and been fine, who was to say dying here wouldn't just send him back to the dream bubbles? And what allbusiness was he on about what with being resurrected?
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He doesn't know Kurloz was already dead. He doesn't know he's been dead for a long, long time. By timelines alone, of course he is, he's dead too by Terezi's time. But he was taken alive and, well, he assumes naturally that Kurloz was too.
So what he thinks, instead of a nonchalance because of having been dead, that it's a lack of care for some other reason. "Just try, aight? AIN'T NEAR ENOUGH MIRTHFUL 'ROUND WHAT TO HAVE ANYTHING GONE DONE PROPERLIKE. It's better with more."
Because yeah, so what if he's clinging tight to this motherfucker right in public? It ain't mean shit. Doesn't mean his other should try and live to stay for some reason as stupid as 'I want you to'. So, yeah, he's going with that. Better Carnival is a reason perfectly legit.
Then to explain, "UP IN ARENAS WE GET OUR MOTHERFUCKING KICKING OF THE WICKED SHIT. They bring us back up each time, all like we ain't never died up at all. BUT A MEMORY FOR IT ANYWAY. A motherfucking memory clear where we make as to die, but with none all of afters' grace."
Then his frown changes in this miniscule way, and he's looking at Kurloz anew. "YOU'RE IN TWO." Of course. Of course they put him there.
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And could be slaughtered in this supposed "deathmatch" from inexperience in fight and inexperience in voodoos and inexperience in seeing a motherfucker's life all up and leave out his peep nuggets.
So he'll take being rent from death into life and thrust headlong into the arms of a motherfucker's alternate self, who ain't done quite mastered getting a proper half-truth done convincing yet. He wanted him to live, and to stay, and he wanted a better carnival done proper, so what done got dropped was a wriggler's idea of the less embarrassing admission. Cute.
Still, he was left to cling and get his listen on of what explanation of these arenas he'd done tell, what all that these deathmatches ain't all proper real like deathmatches at all if they was done bringing back brothers and sisters all whole right after. It suddenly became a little... underwhelming, all of it. Death was sacred made unsacred and neverending what by the bubbles, done wrought the same here all now.
And he was in two. This was significant somehow, though the expression all up on his face would tell he didn't know what that significance might even begin to be.
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But he knows not.
All what he's got know of him is how Kurloz looks at him upon the last note. And how his own eyes dart down.
"He heard you was being to give diamond and blessed shoosh and pap on at to... Mituna Captor-" Saying the name, the proper name, hurts some. Hits close to his wounds. Makes of a guilt in his ownself to have done on it. But it's the only what he figures Kurloz will know on for. "-that being right?" He doesn't hardly wait for an answer. "DIDN'T CHANGE SO MUCH, THAT. I met a motherfucker here. WAS BEING ALL ALTERNATE TO YOURS LIKE I'M BEING IS AT TO YOU. Was my moirail..."
There's a pause, all of silence, where he ain't want to talk no more. He start getting the mind to wiggle away and walk right off, leave this fucker be. But he doesn't.
"MY PALEST BROTHER AIN'T HERE NO MOTHERFUCKING MORE. But a motherfucker's diamond beloved used to be as where you be." Which is all like to meaning they used you to replace him. He'd be more angry if he didn't know about his other's own relations past.
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But that ain't no argument what needs to be happening, nor one that needs to get its happen on anytime soonlike as explanations are all about what to be dropped.
And what explanations.
He ain't got his know on how his alternate done knew his own self about his situation all with his quadrants, but stranger things were happening such that it is just a fact what can be accepted - his alternate knows, simple as that.
What isn't so simple is his alternate done got his mirroring on of at least one right all proper. He didn't know how common that was, but from initial impressions, it didn't seem to be, which made it all the stranger that it'd happened to them.
His expression soured at the fact that a motherfucker's pale brother was all done gone, replaced by his ownself. Replacement done true, even if done all on accidental. He had his know on what for that a motherfucker often needed a well-placed pap, or a shooshing done proper, so to have a palemate ripped away was just all cruel-like.
But patting him in consolation in any capacity seemed... downright untoward, now, so he all reached up and ruffled some of the imitation special stardust right out of the Initiate's mane.
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It's perhaps a twist of facts to say nothing changed, that they found each other near immediate. It's true in the sense of himself. He'd never known Mituna until he'd shown up here. They talked, they got close.
But in terms of truths without no intervening, he knows they'd have never been otherwise. He'd done terrible things to his moirail in his future. And Mituna came from that same future to pity him as he was. It was cruel.
He's taken from his reverie by the hair ruffling. It makes his expression screw up, one eye squinting. And then when it stops, he's blinking at Kurloz like he's not sure what all just up and happened. Except stardust is shimmering down free from his hair and it sure was a thing what just happened.
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Cruelties done levied seemed par for the course in Alternian culture, though the depths with which this alternate diamond of his had done proper suffered through was something he didn't know about, though he was fairly certain that someone would tell him of someday - if not the Initiate, than another.
For the moment, though, it was a carnageval, and this motherfucker was all right gettin his sadness up and about and so the hair ruffling was what first done came to mind to break his reveries.
The confused expression only really gets what could have become a grin, if not for stitching, and another fluffling, another freeing of stardust what to make a cloud about his head.
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Oh, motherfucker. It's war.
He reaches back, not for stardust this time, oh no.
It's paint. Colorful paint. And it is getting smacked right on this motherfucker's face.
Take that.
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A completely dignified flail to dislodge the hand preceded him actually smearing whatever it was onto his fingers to check...
A beat.
Paint. Bright ass mother fuckin paint what hadn't done all yet been provided him.
It's on, motherfucker.
He moves to reach around a mirthful brother to be all gettin' some for his ownself, thank you very much.
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The Initiate grins wide, waiting for that moment of realisation as his alternate's fingers rise up.
And then he cackles loud, scrambling up to run for it, being sure to dip his fingers into more paint as he does. To fling back of course.
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He has all of a few seconds to be upset before he realizes what his brother all up and mother fuckin did done.
He left him with the paint.
All of the paint, save what all he managed to snag on his fingers in his retreat.
This all up and done became a war, and he had all the supplies.
So the Initiate is treated to a most wicked of mother fuckin smiles as Kurloz doesn't even bother to give chase. He'll come back eventually, he figures, and then...
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But this will not be stopped. And he most motherfucking certainly will not be beaten. The show must go on. Even if he's gone fooled himself into disadvantage.
He stops and turns around, ready to face his alternate. "DOWN WITH THE MOTHRFUCKING FEARBLISS, MOTHERFUCKER?! Come now. TAKE A SHOT, STEP RIGHT THE FUCK UP, AND BEHOLD AND SO BE BEHELD IN THE LAUGHING LAUDED'S MOST UNDENIABLE JUDGEMENT DONE TRUE!"
He grins wide. Bring it, fucker. Work for it.