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.
Re: B
It's with disbelief that he looks up at the one who gets their vocalising slung and strewn in rhythm-rhyme preciselike upon the song. It's one thing to have drawn one into it all with voice. It's another that...
Well, that it be him.
A song about the cycles, life and death. It's no proper hymn but it's fitting all the same. It flows well up in it all. He's a little breathless to find he recognizes it. He could mouth each lyric without fail, if he tried. It reaches on through to things thought long gone.
He starts back in slow, ignoring the hollowed feeling in him, catching his steps again and starting all the fuck over. Soon enough the beat has returned, a melody now to the rhythm he's made, all blending together. His eyes close as he listens to it all and fosters its growth. If he thinks too hard about it-- that the cult would deem this heresy, his own feelings toward this fucker-- it'll ruin it all, and so he doesn't think about it as much as he can. He just plays.
no subject
Signless and Fraysong. She's not quite sure that she's smelling this correctly. They're alone here, and... making music together? She didn't know that Fraysong took to music at all. She didn't know that Signless could sing. And she certainly didn't know that either of them could be in a room together...
There is clearly something Carnival going down in this room, but as much as she wants to leave, she doesn't. She's their auspistice, and if they're going to do this, then she owes it to them to stick around. So she lingers awkwardly by the door for a minute or so before gradually moving closer and closer to the two.
Despite her initial misgivings, the beat is... nice. It's certainly something she could enjoy, as crazy as that seems given the circumstances. But it's a little weak with one percussion and one singer. The large room that lets the sounds echo around doesn't help the matter. Almost subconsciously, she finds herself tapping her heel to the beat. She could add to it... Maybe.
It's just a flair at the end of the rhythm, a clap here and there, a snap, a stomp. Little things to flesh out the beat. But it's hard for her not to move once she's found the music. So she keeps going, adding more, until she's adding a strange little rhythm dance to the beat.
no subject
It occurs to him that this is the first time their entire quadrant has been in one place together despite being together for as long as they have. It feels somehow right that this is the situation that would happen in, despite it not at all being the situation he expected.
He gives her a nod. Hello. You're welcome here, into whatever the hell this even is.
no subject
It's a shock to see any Teal at all getting linger on around the edges of a Carnival. Stone cold atheists, the lot of them, like the direct anti-thesis to all his indigo. Terezi ain't no exception to such, and he knows her feelings on the Church.
It's more a shock, for one to straight up motherfucking engage. Between the Signless and her, this was some right unprecedented whimsy done all here. His eyes widen at her. Then his mouth pulls up in awkward crooked grin to say 'I ain't having the faintest fucking idea as to what all be of happenstance beyond miracle but I am all being about this'. He laughs in some disbelief but he doesn't dare question and he sure as shit don't stop.
He moves closer by Terezi stomping and snapping his own sound, weaving dance all in where he can and moving around her, spinning, as all he does. And then, though he shall never sing, he hums in time to the song. He hums like he knows the song. Not forgotten.
His pusher is light and racing with all the energy built.
no subject
The song isn't a familiar one to her, but she keeps up the beat regardless. It's hard to tell if she's enjoying herself or not--at least until Fraysong makes his way over to her, engaging her in her silly dance. She laughs a little at his efforts and does a little spin of her own. The song doesn't sound like a difficult one to pick up. She finds the repeating melody easy enough. Though she doesn't know the words, she can hum along just fine, adding her voice to the mix.
no subject
It doesn't feel right to stand still and straight with the two of them moving. He can't dance but he finds himself swaying to that harmony, clapping on the beat because he can follow it with his hands even if he can't with his feet. He can add even more to the swell of sound that way.
This feels weirdly... right.
no subject
"AND HERE YOU FUCKERS GOT AS LIKE TO BE ON HAVING NO MIRTH IN YOUR BONES! Liars you up and are both," He laughs. And then he's diving, move quicker than any clown has right to move to scoop up some of the Not-Stardust, spinning back around, his braid flying and swinging, as a mischievous grin stretches across.
There, in the middle of their not-quite circle of three, he blows stardust off his palm, letting the glitter fly into the air in a puff. The laughter and tapping returns again.
no subject
She's barely gotten the chance to open her mouth, when he's ducking down to grab... is that glitter? Whatever it is, that is clearly a substance that every good troll should know is the black plague of craft supplies. You do not tamper with glitter.
Unless you are Kurloz Makara, apparently. That fucker.
She's in too good of a mood to be legitimately mad, but she can exaggerate her reaction to her heart's content. After giving him an affronted look, she grabs the closest weapon on hand to return fire: A small container of paint. Which is summarily emptied by tossing it's contents onto the clown in question.
no subject
Regardless of whether it's strictly mirth or not, between the glitter in his mouth and Terezi throwing the paint, what's going on here is unquestionably funny. It honestly just feels good to be able to laugh, really honestly laugh, especially around these two trolls. Like some of the weight on their relationship has lifted.
no subject
The point is that his front is now a nicely off-lime color, almost soporesque.
And all the same, the Signless is choking and coughing and laughing. So to the both of them the Initiate shouts, "HA, THE CARNAPOCALYPSE COME! You best ready..."
Because the next moment he's reaching for paint of his own. He launches green from a bottle at the Signless. And then Terezi too. And then he soaks his hand in indigo and readies to smack whoever gets near enough.
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There's no love lost as Terezi basically abandons Signless to fend for himself. He'll be fine...probably. Once he stops choking on the glitter dust. Okay, let's be honest here, she's almost hoping that clown mischief will focus on the one crippled with choking and laughter as she dives behind one of the training center barriers.
This is war.
She uses the barrier as cover as she grabs more paint to arm herself. A nice vibrant orange is launched over the barrier at the two on the other side. There's no such thing as friendly fire here.
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He ducks down to grab weaponry for himself, just in time to dodge most of the orange paint. Thank goodness for good timing, or maybe just dumb luck. The violet he scoops up is flung the Initiate's way -- he knows better than to engage in close combat in this situation.
And anyway, he and Terezi put together basically make up one indigo, size-wise. Them both ganging up on him is completely fair and reasonable.
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No matter what violet, orange, or otherwise splatters up as to cover his front and a third of his face.
Wow. Wow, fuckers. You're both dead. He reaches down and he scoops up real deliberate as much as it is feasibly possible to scoop. The equivalent of using ones arms to make and enormous snowball. Great blobs of color spilling over both hands and making him look like a horror show legit.
He is lightening. He a motherfucking apocolypse. And he moves like such to rain the color down on both. Signless first-- a great splatter launched at him, with no mercy. Then, he's running on at to Terezi, moving fast, and he tries on getting around and over that barrier for her doom.
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She is apparently not above using him as a living shield.
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Well, fine. He reaches back with the hand still covered in paint and smears it all down whatever part of Terezi is easiest to reach. He's going to take whatever retribution the Initiate is about to dish out but at least he'll get revenge for being used as a shield.
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Half the paint he threw splatters on the Signless's shirt. But the other half? The other half is slapped on his own knee as he cackles helplessly.
If there ain't no sides no more than he can hardly be blamed if his hand lifts for a... could it be... a high five?
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"Hey!" Terezi shouts when that glob of paint is smeared down her arm. It is wet and gross and she makes a face that shows just how displeased she is with this development. If Signless is going to be that way, she's going to helpfully try to rub most of it off on his back.
And then she's going to shove Signless towards Initiate. Honestly, what good is shield if it's just going to backfire on you???
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If they were back in their actual universe instead of in Panem this moment would be lovingly illustrated as a shitty pixelated mspaint doodle, probably with an amusing sound effect (BONP???). Unfortunately they're stuck in Panem until further notice so the moment just drags awkwardly.
This is stupid.
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And the Initate is losing. He's laughing so hard by now his breath is a wheezing gasp between hysterics. His shoulders shake and his head bows. The hand raised for the most piteous high five ever to be falls to his knee, same with the other.
This is it. This is what slays the Highblood.
Laughing to death.
He lands with a fwump upon the floor, knees still up as he cackles himself stupid. "AIGHT! Aight!" He gasps. "LET HIM BREATHE! Oh laughing lauded..."
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She grabs another bottle of paint--a bright blue this time--and uncaps it just to dump the contents on Fraysong's crumpled form. The floor is slick with paint by this point. She tops off her masterpiece by hooking the bottle over the top of his horn, so it covers the upper part.