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
"Kicking righteous whimsy there, you up and are," He commends with a smirk. "NAW, BROTHER, THEY AIN'T DO SUCH DURING. Shit's gone all leading up to. SO AS A MOTHERFUCKER CAN'T RUN ALL WHILE AS THEY PICK YOU. They let you go all to dance."
He shrugs. "CAPITOL DOES TRY FOR THE FRESHLIKE. They may not do it again. OR PERHAPS THEY WILL. The wicked mysteries are so indeed elusive."
no subject
"Well, either way, they'll be disappointed and have a story about how that terrible tribute from District 3 kept stepping on their feet and wouldn't apologize." So there.
no subject
"But say true, motherfucker, they do get whatallever as they up and pay for. AS IS PAID IS SO THEN GIVEN HE DOES SAY." He teases and tuts. "However, to not apologize. AIN'T YOU A ROTTEN ONE."
no subject
Six months has seemed an eternity already.
no subject
He might get to nine sweeps at some point soon. At least in memory. He's always being set back when he dies, but he feels aged every other way but the physical. He sighs. "BEEN A BIT."
no subject
He motions to the rest of the room, covered in color and scuff marks from the rhythm making. "Ritual and familiarity?"
no subject
"... Truth told, motherfucker," He says, "It ain't so different from his home. JUST MOTHERFUCKING WIERD ON BITS. Confusing and shit, ain't nothing done made clearlike." But that was more because of little things. Like how everyone looked down and death and still venerated. Like how he was supposed to be one thing and then another. Like how everyone about here just got to lie and lie and lie. The lack of faith, that was fucked up.
He shakes his head. "NAW, MOTHERFUCKER. Work the wicked noise because it feels right on at being where this brother's heart's being about. BRINGS OF MIRTH. Ain't nothing worth nothing if you just bear shit. THEN YOU MIGHT AS WELL BE MOTEHRFUCKING BORED. And that, my brother, is sin most serious." He gives a solemn nod.
"WHAT OF YOU THEN?"
no subject
He closes his eyes for a moment, thinking hard about what makes him keep trying, but really he didn't have much to ruminate on. It's obvious. "My fiance."
No, wait, what word had he used before when explaining Troll romance?
"My matesprit."
no subject
"Heh. ROMANTIC AS ALL MOTHERFUCKING BITCHTITS, BROTHER," He says. He chuckles. "Fuckin adorable."
He ain't normally get to being paying attention to romance. But what's being legit is being real legit. He can appreciate suchlike.
no subject
"In any case, I should actually be getting back. He'll wonder where I've gone." He sets the spear back on its rack, but pauses before heading for the door. "I do want to thank you, though. For trying to help us in the ship."
no subject
"DON'T," He says, standing up straighter. "Don't be about bringing down that unrighteous noise on me, motherfucker, ain't want to hear it. OF NO DESIRE IN THIS CASING IS HE AT TO MOTHERFUCKING HAVE. Didn't do shit for shit. OF NAUGHT AND NIL DID THIS MOTHERFUCKER HELP. You can appreciate how all ever as you want on your ownself but at to him just... let it be, aight."
His eyes are down and he taps a few piteous beats.
"GO FIND YOUR MATESPRIT, BROTHER," He says with a jerk of his head, finally looking back. His smile is wry, not at all there, but close enough. "Don't be wasting such times precious on my ass, go and get your pitying up and on legit."
no subject
So though he feels badly for bringing it up, he understands and gives a small smile and a nod back to show it, to show that it's alright and they can leave things where they were before he ever brought it up. "I'll see you around."