Give thy thoughts no tongue

[carnagecarnival]

Who| Initiate and OPEN
What| Initiate got told to go to speech therapy lest he find himself avoxed again. His escort signed him up. He's not enjoying this.
Where| Around any lobby, lounge, cafe, library, or park -- you decide! 
When| Wibbly wobbly time -- various points before and after dying gruesomely in the children's arena
WARNINGS| Language. 

The books are piled high around him. There's enough he could build himself a small tower, or he could rearrange them into a wall what he could sit inside. Truthfully, he ain't above none of those things, but he's on business right this minute.

Some very frustrating, slightly painful business.

Normally, when he takes to reading-- which is often-- he keeps quiet, letting the words roll all into his skull of their own willing. Reading out-loud just drew attention on things he didn't need attention for. In this case, however, he ain't got a choice. Alex hadn't outfight said, get this done or you'll be made a mute again, but there was still the threat there, and if he had to talk with the motherfucker again, it might not go so well. But the other reason was that he hadn't actually signed up willing. It had been done for him, and it was awful, and he'd be happy to never ever motherfucking do for one of them sessions again, with the Capitolite "speech therapist" making like he was some kind of stupid and couldn't talk just as well as any.

Like he did the fluctuations deliberate. He didn't. Doesn't. But they happen, all scarred on him by the power of his voodoo, and he can't just make it stop. Voodoo scarring don't fade. This is a futile task.

Still, he's here, reading Shakespeare aloud and miserable. 

"WHAT-- gh-- what do you read my lord? WOR-- rrr-- FUCK!" His voice has never sounded quite so hoarse. His face is twisted up like he's in physical pain. He breathes deep through his fangs. "Words, words, words. WHAT IS THE M- OTHERFUCKING...! Whatisthematter,mylord, betweenwho!"

He drops the book and let his face fall in his hands. So what if everyone can hear him whine? They can hear him doing this shit, which is even worse. This is never going to work.

Comments

post mini-arena, library

[69problems]

Even though Karkat is gone and can no longer recommend things for him to read, the Signless hasn't fallen out of the habit of seeking out books. Any way to distract himself is one more way he'll take.

The time after any arena is always the worst -- hoping that those who died will come back, dreading that they won't, and so he's in need of new reading material. The fluctuations in the Initiate's voice might be causing him nothing but frustration right now, but when the Signless hears them all they prompt is a profound upwelling of relief. He's alive. He's alive and he's here and that's one less thing to worry about.

"Do you mind if I sit with you, Fraysong?"

He still isn't sure where they stand, not after the crowning. There's so much they need to talk through to get their relationship, whatever it is, onto solid ground instead of wobbling precariously on the edge of uncertainty. If they can do even a little of that now, he'd like to try.

Re: post mini-arena, library

[carnagecarnival]

Signless. The one and only person what's ever heard him speak without the fluctuations. The only one who knew him back when he was young and he'd not yet marked himself so.

Motherfucker watched him burn alive, but these days it's all par for course. No one gets surprised being seeing anyone get dying on all in the arenas.

Things between them are uncertain at best, he thinks, but he's just fine pretending such uncertainties ain't in existence. With his head lifted from his hands, he gestures one out to invite the Signless to seat himself. "SURE," He wheezes.

[69problems]

Just because it was par the course to see the people he care about die in horrible ways didn't make it any less hard-hitting, particularly when they died in ways so graphic. Stabbing, he could weather. Drowning, fine. Disintegration via acid was new enough to be a special kind of horrific and so it was that much more of a relief to see a whole and (relatively) unmarred troll instead of a pile of indistinct gore.

He settles himself in, careful not to jostle the Initiate's piles of books. He isn't sure if they're arranged in any particular order but he hardly wants to knock them over even if they aren't.

"I was going to ask if you wanted to talk, but you sound as though talking is the last thing you ought to be doing right now."

[metalicarus]

It was hard to miss Initiate, what with his size, but Jet didn't instantly notice anything going on except books--at least not until that loud 'FUCK' had echoed back to him. He stopped and took a better look at the troll. The frustration was clear as day and it only took a second longer to notice the pain. Considering their sheer number, he was going to guess the books had something to do with it.

Jet closed the distance between them and hesitated a moment once he'd reached the troll, weighing his options before deciding on simply sitting with him to start. "Hey." Concern was there in his voice as he bent over a bit and tried to look up into Initiate's face, a silent 'are you okay?' there behind his slightly hushed greeting.

[carnagecarnival]

He hears the approach and feels the eyes on him. His head lifts to meet the eyes of Jet, just as Jet angles himself to peer at him. He looks worn, but he sounds worse. His voice comes out not at all unlike he's gargled copious amounts of nails and glass.

"HEY," He grinds out. He can feel the question laying silent in the air. He lets his own answer ring silent. No, but I'm not dying or none.

"'Sup motherfucker."

[silberfuchs]

"'I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.'" Albert's accented English takes on a mildly pompous tone as he adds Polonius' next line, leaning over a stack of books behind Initiate, who'd been so engrossed he apparently hadn't heard Albert approach. "I read Hamlet again after our talk about it and I'm pretty certain Shakespeare never used 'fuck' in any of his works."

It's meant as a joke, but with Initiate's bowed head and clear frustration, Albert sobers up and walks around the pile of books to have a proper conversation. "What are you doing?"

[carnagecarnival]

Any other time, hearing the returned reciting of Shakespeare would bring him delight. Not this time. It brings a pang of jealousy-- something he's never thought to have felt before over this all. He lifts his head up, looking utterly miserable.

"ALL FOR THE MOTHERFUCKING SIGNING UP DID MY OWNSELF GET TO BEING FOR SUCH THINGS CORRECTIONAL. Motherfuckers getting up on my shit as like I do this purposeful. FOR THE MOTHERFUCKING KICKING OF IT. 'Be at controlling your volume!' 'DON'T BE SO GODDAMN AGGRESSIVE!' Show them aggressive what I up and ought..." He grumbles. Except no, he won't, because if he does show them all such things, then he'll really be in the shit.

He explains, "FLUCTUATIONS VOCULAR BEEN CALLED ON FOR CHANGING. Lest I want at the cease of speech. BUT THIS ALL?" He touches his throat. "It ain't being something what I can help. VOODOO SCARRING CAN-- nn-- can't be ssstopped." He winces.

post-arena

[sizeofyourbaggage]

The first time Sam passes through, he's quiet, leaving Initiate at his work like he hadn't even noticed him.

But he'd sure as hell noticed him, and what he'd sounded like, and so fifteen minutes later Sam's back. This time with a glass of water and a bag of cookies. He nudges aside some of the books so he can drop down to sit next to him, offering over the glass of water as he does.

"Sounded like you could use this."

post-arena

[carnagecarnival]

By the time, Sam's returned, he's already given it another shot. And failed at it. Badly. Right as he gets on near, he's clearing his throat, wincing.

His head lifts as Sam nears, then drops to the gifts. Confectionaries and water. Sweet beautiful motherfucking water. The Initiate looks touched outright to Sam.

"MOTHERFUCKER, YOU'S LIKE A MIRACLE HAND DELIVERED BY MESSIAHS THEM MOTHERFUCKING SELVES," He says, shaking his head like he just can't believe in the existance of such a motherfucker.

a week-ish after the mini-arena, main commons

[pythianjudgment]

It's been a hard week for Terezi. Not because she's had a hole in her, not because she almost died, and not because of all the doctors and nurses poking at her and assuring her that she would live.

No, this week has been a hard week for Terezi Pyrope because bed-ridden is not a thing that she has ever had to do. This was the extent of pure torture, being trapped by her own injuries and incapable of moving around on her own. She spent most of the week in her bed--or propped up on the couch if someone was kind enough to help her move.

But no more! Terezi hobbles off the elevator while leaning heavily on her cane. She's finally been allowed to have it under the stipulation that if she hits one single thing or person, all cane-privileges would be revoked. Which is fine by her, since she's pretty sure she doesn't have the strength to drub anyone as it is.

The noise catches her attention first, followed by the tall troll with his head in his hands. Kurloz, of course. Who spent so much time at her bedside, driving away the boredom. She grins to smell him, hurrying as quickly as she dares over to his location.

"You sound ridiculous," she chimes in greeting once she reaches him, leaning on her cane. "What are you reading?"

a week-ish after the mini-arena, main commons

[carnagecarnival]

It's been a long week for him also. Waiting for her, worrying something might happen, something might go wrong. He'd stuck by her side any chance he got, but such chances didn't include his speech changing or curfew.

He didn't expect to hear her now, and his head immediately lifts from his hands. His frustration slips away, his worry, all of it. It's immediately replaced with immediate relief and a happiness to see her fit to make him burst.

A smile stretches across his face. "TEREZI!" He starts, and he shoots up to standing, the book tumbling out from his fingers and lap. He almost runs to her, almost picks her up and twirls her, but he remembers her injury and holds himself back.

"They've let you out. ALL BETTER IS SHE? I've been reading Hamlet some. ARE YOU OKAY? Did they say you to be healed?"

Pre-Arena

[dead_black_eyes]

Though he'd vowed to stay sober throughout the games to better help his Tributes, the former Victor has relapsed rather spectacularly; his feet scarcely seem to touch the ground as he drifts into the lobby, the corners of his vision glimmering and contributing to an overall feeling of calm euphoria. Morphling soothes every harsh edge and word, and it might very well be his only real reason to exist anymore. He's had lots of practice wandering through life in a haze over the last odd-decade, and so casual passerby are unlikely to realize just how high he is. This is fortunate, considering Linden just came from rehab and it's a pretty inconvenient time to go back.

The sound of labored reading catches his ears; he always looks forward to that, the way his senses are simultaneously dulled and sharpened. It's a bizarre and fascinating paradox. He approaches the sound, eyes wide as he takes in its source. A young man who looks a bit like Terezi is reading words that sound almost foreign to Linden's District 6-raised ears. He'd tried to become well-read after winning his games, haunting libraries in the Capitol, but the Old Works were quickly abandoned. Men like Shakespeare had lived in a world very different from Panem.

As the book drops, seemingly in slow motion, Linden kneels to retrieve it. "You sound like you're having trouble," he observes, almost apologetically. "It's kind of normal, if it makes you feel better? No one in Panem talks like this, even the people in the Capitol who try to affect it."

It's probably fortunate that they're meeting like this. Sober, Linden is very tetchy and very impatient, but he has far more patience when he's high as a kite.

Re: Pre-Arena

[carnagecarnival]

"WHAT?" He starts, lifting his head to the arrival of someone new. A motherfucker with eyes dark as void and a general look like he just got dumped out somewhere, disheveled as all he's like to be. But he's less than concerned with appearances, truly.

He shakes his head. "Ain't the preach and prose. KNOW FOR ALL SUCH OF THIS. It is of a thing what all he holds praise for. IT AIN'T THE READING." He's not indignant. Yet. But he does feel somewhat defensive to hear someone suspect him incapable of the old plays. He doesn't want such thing mistaken.

"It be the speak unaltering. YOU HEAR IT DON'T YOU? Can't speak as all you do. YOUR MOTHERFUCKING LOT." Which, speaking of. He tilts his head. "You a Tribute new?"

Lounge

[yourmove]

It's only a matter of time before the silence is broken up by the sound of something large and mechanical coming the Initiate's way - a whirring followed by a heavy thud, methodical, always the same pace. Alex rounds the corner of the lounge to see a fortress of books that pose a safety hazard if they fall. He should put those away so Capitolites, Tributes, Escorts or Avoxes don't get injured.

Approaching, it takes a few more feet before Alex spots the Initiate, the top of his horns barely visible over the books. Decibel levels seems as if they're still in need of correction. Still some cursing. But it's clear what the troll is trying to do and Alex decides that he can take some time out of his patrol of this area to personally sit down with him. Being a cyborg doesn't mean he can't service the community.

Alex looms over the Great Wall of Shakespeare (and Assorted Reading Material), his face tilting down.

"I can help you with your corrections, Initiate." Alex doesn't ask if he wants the help. "In what way can I best assist you?"

Saying get lost, you fucker might not be the best approach.

yesss

[carnagecarnival]

He hears that unmistakable mechanical whirr immediately. Before now, he'd kept to his own goddamn self with this motherfucker. He'd had no trouble, no qualm. Now, every step brings a wince.

The Initiate finds himself wishing he weren't so damn tall and he attempts to sink down into his fortress, bringing the book up to hide his face. He may not tell him to get lost but he can certainly think it.

But of course, it doesn't help or do anything save him. With a defeated sigh, he looks up at Alex, trying to keep the immense frustration from his face.

"NNN-- none... that- I... KNO-know, Sir," He struggles out. "CAN'T- C-can't parti...cularly think as how you would."

post arena, lounge!

[iflipmyhair]

"Initiate?"

Down in the lounge, Homura found him; the sound of his voice was certainly troubling to her. Also not hard to find, given it was Initiate.

"What...what are you doing?"

Re: post arena, lounge!

[carnagecarnival]

He really ought to be more embarrassed than he is. This all appears something incredibly stupid to them what ain't in knowing.

"HOMURA," He greats in hoarse tones. "Making change upon mine own manners of speaking. MOTHERFUCKING MAKING ATTEMPT FOR ANYWAY."

post-arena! lobby

[reassures]

Having the first thing you hear after getting off the elevator being someone yelling, Nill jumps a little, but the source is easy enough to find - and for as easy as it was, The Initiate looks equally miserable. She doesn't entirely understand what she's seeing, or why he's trying to recite from something that sounds really old, but the discomfort it's causing him is pretty obvious. She's quick to wander over, and she stops by a pile of books with a hardcover on the top, using her knuckles to knock on it twice so he'll actually see her.

Her wings flutter, and though she doesn't sign anything or go to write on her notepad, she obviously looks a little concerned about him.

Re: post-arena! lobby

[carnagecarnival]

He lifts his head at the knock, looking like he'd rather have stayed down. But then a smile spreads-- though tired and weary, it is still a smile.

"SISTER NILL," He wheezes. "Hey..." Even his breath manages to sound hoarse, but it doesn't change nothing. He's still pleased to see his sweet sister what's being gifted angelic.

He takes in her concern, and decides not to force her into asking. He'll simply explain. "BEEN ASKED CORRECTIONAL OF MINE OWN SPEECH FLUCTUATING. Scar done in by voodoo, that. AIN'T NATURAL TO SPEAK IN TONES UNALTERING. Yet they wish it and so he must try." He winces. "JUST A BIT OF CHALLENGE AT TO IT."

lobby, after the arena

[shenunigans]

Now that curfew is in place, Dave takes the time to leave the tower during the day a little more often. Being cooped up forever really isn't his jam, even if he'd been starting to shift into nocturnal sleeping habits before it was put in place. Besides, he figures it's good for his bird to get fresh air. His actual bird, of course. Not Davesprite who probably gets fresh whatever the hell he wants when he wants nowadays.

He returns from his jaunt around outside with the intention of going upstairs to huddle in his room and return The Mayor to his perch, but the allure of Initiate doing what seems to be a one man show is too strong to resist. He hasn't talked to him much since the Arena, he'd been swamped and then he'd just had no idea what to say. He and Terezi were around each other a lot and Dave didn't want to be that kid who tries to jam a piece of sky colored puzzle into an inappropriate place. It's no big, though. Seeing him alone means Dave is content to amble up to the troll with his bird perched on his head.

On closer inspection, it looks like speech therapy. Which is the strangest damn thing to witness. Dave is about to ask about it, but the Mayor cuts in for him. "MOTHERFUCK" It squawks, probably thinking it's being helpful. "Sorry." Dave finally says. "I think he has tourettes." He almost adds too but thinks better of it.

Re: lobby, after the arena

[carnagecarnival]

The forced habit of keeping track of who comes and goes and who makes to show the motherfuck when is one he broke a long time ago. If someone doesn't talk to him for a few days or a few weeks, it's not something what all he thinks on too much. That someone might be standing off to the side as awkwardly as all Dave apparently was, like a wriggler who got missed on schoolfeeding handouts and didn't want to get noticed on by calling back the drone, isn't something what registers.

He's lifting his head as Dave approaches. There's a comment to come inevitable, he knows it, but he wonders if it will be one what pisses him off or one what he can actually make response on proper to. It's not Dave what speaks first.

He's heard it possible some trolls being able to commune with types of beasts, but he's pretty sure that is not what happened. He did not just suddenly develop new psionic ability for the sole purpose to be echoed by a bird. Probably some capitol shit. Or miracles, he decides.

He shakes his head of all that and says, "THE FUCK IS TOURETTES?" Or, more aptly, he makes a growling noise what attempts to be words and not just a mere expression of pain. Question ain't important enough what to repeat. Instead he says, "What's being the motherfuck up?"

library, after the arena

[earthborn]

It's frustrating, how obvious it is, in hindsight. She'd seen what she'd wanted to see, when she looked at him. She'd done what she did best, which was ignore reality and strive for-- for what, exactly? Look at him, struggling through his letters like a gradeschooler.

Come to think of it, he'd probably take a comment to that effect as encouragement. This was going to be harder than she'd thought.

"Back to school?" There's no smiles for this, "Take a break. We need to talk."

Warning: discussion of underage relationships/relationships with age difference

[carnagecarnival]

She manages to be both the most aggravating of options among those who could come to him now, and yet not the last person he'd wish to see. He's got a frustration pent up she's an addition to that, as well as means of letting it out.

He's all rearing and ready to hear her snarky as commentationaries upon his speakings and what as he's doing now. Such things don't come.

She's terse, to the point. It's not even worth saying that makes no fucking sense, this ain't schoolfeeding. It unsettles. He finds himself frowning and eyeing her like she might suddenly unveil a weapon of some kind.

"WAS ALREADY TAKING BREAK," He croaks in his broken voice. "Let's talk then."

After the mini Arena, central commons

[futilecycle]

As he made his way through the ground floor of the Tribute Tower, Sigma cradled his wound like a dog dragging a useless foot. Justine's invasive surgery had concluded hours ago, and Sigma had spent the time that followed in his room, clinging into his pillow as his body shook with tremors. If it were possible for hair to go white from stress, it would have done so in those few hours: he felt as though he were losing his mind. But his breakdown eventually passed, and when Sigma found his feet, he was stuck with such a fear of confinement that it drove him from his bed and into the common room, sweating and pale. He did not wish to endure the rest of the day locked inside his suite.

His steps from there are automatic, shadowing the path he took in his morning walk. He answers to no one, head down, destination decided - before he hears familiar cursing and is pulled from his fog. His heart responds with an instinctive, paternal concern that felt as familiar and intimate as his magic. Kurloz! Though he could not articulate a reason, he instantly decides he must pay him a visit, in spite of his condition. Sigma dresses himself in his best composed expression before turning around.

Zero's voice is uncharacteristically weak as he approaches his son, stopping several paces away. "...What are-" He clears his throat when the sound barely escapes his lips, and his conversational tone is restored. "What on earth are you doing?" It was a rather antiquated expression, perhaps, but Sigma absolutely could not fathom why the Initiate might be pouring over the collected works of William Shakespeare. It appeared to be giving him physical pain and Sigma could empathize; he'd flunked out of that unit in high school. "...Are you alright?" He may be projecting his own pain onto the boy (and he was, Sigma now knew, just a boy) when his expression twists with worry.

Re: After the mini Arena, central commons

[carnagecarnival]

Sigma was not and would not be the only to presume his struggle was over Shakespeare. Had he known of these presumptions, he might be put out. The truth was, he was a Shakespeare fan-troll through and through. He'd hoped choosing to read out his favorite might make this somehow enjoyable. He was wrong.

Seeing Sigma would normally have brightened his mood, and truth told, it does still. But he sees that way Sigma appears almost ill, the way his voice falters and...

"MIGHT ASK YOU THE SAME, FATHER SIGMA," He says in a horrible rasping tone. He drops the book down, caring no more of it, to walk over to Sigma. Concern is all upon his features as he searches Sigma's on approach. He offers the gentlest bump of his forehead in greeting, something small that Sigma could easily play off if he needed.

"Was asked by Capitol for the fixing of mine tones. AIN'T LIKE THE FLUCTUATIONALS, THEY. Can't help them though. AIN'T BEING FEASIBLE. Trying all anymotherfuckingways but it ain't thus far made nothing done." Except shredding his throat and frustrating him with the effort. "YOU ALRIGHT, FATHER?"