thecapitol | Give thy thoughts no tongue

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Give thy thoughts no tongue

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.

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His back goes straight and stiff, the moment he's called on having been an avox. That wasn't at all what he meant by fluctuations vocal, but that hardly matters if someone can tell he was an avox just from his voice. The laughs doesn't put him any less on edge.

"I CONSIDERED CULLING A PEACEKEEPER WHILE I WAS BREAKING A SISTER UP OUT OF PRISON. Got talked the fuck out of it. THEY WASN'T NO KIND OF HAPPY ON ANYWAYS. You could say they was pissed," He explains, words gone tight and terse. The vacancy sign set on the outside of this motherfucker's eyes don't help him. He's had his share of drugs in his system, he gets it. But he doesn't know what the means for the motherfucker up underneath.

"I WAS AN AVOX," He affirms. "But my preach was being like this before then. THIS IS DIFFERENT." Linden Lockhearst, a mentor. "You must've heard news somehow then. SEEN IT UPON THE VIEWINGS AVAILABLE WHEN THEY LAST HAD ME UP IN ARENA. Ain't seen you around, Brother Linden."

Linden is a somewhat special case. He's been fascinated with Avoxes for a long time, since he found out that was his parents' fate, and one of the only hobbies he actually takes real pleasure in is hanging around the mute servants... or, in other cases, those who are finding a way back. The latter are his major focus, because when he does track down that dark-haired pair, you can bet he wants to fix them. With that, hopefully, everything that's been broken in his life so far will magically mend itself, too.

The abrupt fierceness of the tone doesn't seem to put Linden on edge. He doesn't flinch or draw back. His chemical relaxation is complete, and if he was thrown across the room at this point, he'd realize it only after landing like a ragdoll.

"Oh?" he asks conversationally, casually even in response to the reason it had happened in the first place. "I guess that would do it," he adds after some thought. "And... a lot of people brought here the way you were, they do speak differently. Don't worry, I wasn't trying to imply that it was obvious. I did see you..."

Researched you

"...but you wouldn't have seen me, no. I've been away. Special spa for Mentors."

It's victor-code for I OD'd at a party and those fuckers sent me to rehab. In a way, Linden only actually knows how to talk to Victors.

"What District are you? Not 6... or don't you have a District assignment anymore?" he asks uncertainly.

If he had any knowing of Linden's thoughts, he might say tough luck. Not for the changing. He knows from experienced being avoxed doesn't mean being gone or dead. It just means you wish you was gone. It just means the fear's swallowed whole.

No, the real issue being of it is that the Capitol cared not whether an Avox lived or died. Even in his short time, he's seen plenty be offed for no other reason than being in the way. Avoxes weren't people.

He'd been motherfucking lucky and he knows it.

"HAVE A DISTRICT. It's being five." They'd not gotten rid of that yet. When he'd been thrown into the arena. "CECIL'S WAS THREE. Starkiller is samelike. JUSTIN LAW'S WAS SEVEN." Just to make clear the other former-avoxes had their places too.

"Must've been real nice at that spa of yours. TO BE GONE ALL THIS MOTHERFUCKING TIME." He may not know what it means specifically in Victor code, but he knows what ain't true.

Unless this guy is really trying to suggest a half-sweep spa trip.

"You must be from six then. FRIENDS WITH THE OTHER VICTOR WHAT'S REPRESENTATIVE THERE. He won the eleventh arena official, as all I understand."

"5?" Linden asks, ragged thumbnail finding its way to his mouth where he tears at it absentmindedly, nodding along with the other listed names as if catching a rhythm there that made responding irresistible. Even if he doesn't know all of those names yet, it's useful information, and he'll make sure to remedy this as soon as possible.

"Nice..." the word sticks in his mouth, which is too dry; he's dehydrated, he forgets to drink water and often can't keep it down anyway. He swallows and tries again. "There's a lot of nice things in the Capitol, you know? But it's not home."

"Home", now, is a state of altered mind rather than a place. It can be anywhere, provided his vice is present. Rehab is not such a place; it's a stark reminder that he's destroyed his body and his life, and it's reality he wants to run from.

"Victors are friends," he says slowly, testing the sentiment to see if it's true. He decides that it is, close enough, anyway. "There's an understanding there. It's not like it was before the Quell, though. When are you eligible to win again?"

Chews on his nails. Nervous habit. Yet the motherfuckers out of it, not appearing no kind of nervous now. Perhaps was the type what thought too much, made for distraction menial and physical to refocus what got going on. Or, motherfucker simply see that best for dealing with his nails.

"PRESUMING IT BE WHENEVER I TRY," He answers. "They ain't barred me outright from winning. LONG AS I AIN'T BEING AN AVOX, FIGURE IT FAIR GAME. Odds in favors and all that hoofbeastshit." But Linden wouldn't have to worry about that, if it was even anything close to a worry and not simple idle curiousity. He had grander intentions and more important businesses than to try and win.

"AIN'T HOME, YOU SAY. Why come here? GOT MORE MEANS OF CHOOSING. Don't you?" Capitol could've strong-armed him to coming, he knew, but there had to be reason why. Motherfucker must have some kind of use to them.

As for himself, he intended to make his own home.

Linden does a fair amount of self-soothing; when he's sober it's nervous as hell, but when he's happy it's just vestigial tics and habits that he engages in because he's so used to performing them unconsciously. If the Troll has pegged Linden as a neurotic, though, he's right on the mark.

"Fair game? Hardly..." more suppressed laughter, though he sounds tired now, as if forcing the air out is just too much of a tall order to continue for very long. "Not that I'd dream of saying anything against our President, our Capitol, our..." he bites too hard on his nail, pressing into the bed, drawing a small amount of blood. It seems to startle him into losing his train of thought; he reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief, wrapping it around his thumb and squeezing.

"I'm a Mentor," he says, automatically and hollowly. "So no, not much choice. Every year for the Games, and then again for Victory Tours, occasionally for bidding or reha-- spas. Forever and ever."

He pulls up a chair and folds himself up into it, clearly intending to stay awhile.

"Do you like these books? I like the ones with information that can be applied usefully, so not like... lord betweenwho." He hops lightly to his feet as though remembering something, returning in short order with a book plucked from the shelves, one he knew the precise location of.

"It's about a game called chess. It's my favorite game. The rules are in here, of course, but there's also theory and different strategies. I like this book a lot," he says, somewhat unnecessarily, still accenting the statement with a fervent nod to make it especially clear.

To be fair to Linden, most of the people what he's ever known and got to knowing have been some form and sort of crazy and neurotic. Them what wasn't just ain't met the things what get to them yet, but it all comes on down eventual.

Motherfucker up before him is on the tipping edge of a kind of fucking dangerous. He would be ten assi that this guy would ooze as in a way his chucklevoodoo would devour whole, if as he had it. Motherfucker keeps a handkerchief around in case he bleeds himself accidental. The Initiate, as someone who bled himself on purpose, has never known this need.

Oddly, it draws Linden away from seeming a threat. This could very well be a mistake-- that Katurian motherfucking was jittery ruin walking and he was a peacekeeper-- but still. Although he is slightly put out by the statement that Hamlet ain't proper useful.

"SHAKESPEARE IS A STAPLE OF LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE. His works are ones of excellent comedic and dramatic merit. RICH IS THE PROSE AND POEM. There are many lessons what all can be learned of them, he does so think." So comes the defense of lord betweenwho. "I DO LIKE BOOKS, YES," He answers. "And I know all of chess. IT'S ONE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING GAMES WHAT CAN MAKE ON TO BE PLAYED BY LONESOME. So long as one ain't mind trying to undermine their ownselves personal."

Edited 2014-11-18 01:30 (UTC)

Linden would take some sort of pleasure in knowing that, to at least one strange new Tribute, he doesn't come across as so terribly bizarre, even if it's only on a relative level. He's made a lot of people uneasy, alienated them, given them reasons to avoid him even if his status as a Victor demands respect and indulgence. As for dangerous... his eyes are black ice, his manner is volatile, but he hardly seems malicious, barefoot and turning anxiously to some of his favorite places in his book about chess. The way the spine opens to some of them, he's been there many times. He seems uncertain about Initiate's insistence that Shakespeare, something that is causing him so much present frustration, is so very important, troubled even. He makes a noncommittal sound, wary to say more about it, but when Initiate says he knows about chess, he latches right onto it, thrilled to change the subject to something he knows and cherishes.

"Look at this part..." he coaxes, turning the book to face the Troll and rattling off an excerpt from the page from memory. "A weak color complex usually occurs when the majority of a player's pawns are on one color of squares and the bishop that guards the other color is missing. This means that the player has limited control over that color of squares throughout the board - a factor which his opponent can use to invade.' I like that a lot, it's helped in many of my games. You'd be amazed at how easy it is to set that up..."

It's manic, one-sided and unbalanced. It counts as conversation in only the barest sense of the word. Linden has fallen out of the habit of speaking to others in a casual context, and the fact that he's discerned a shared interest is very exciting to him.

Initiate listens and listens well as Linden rattles off. Like a new engine on a motherfucking fleet ship, ready to go and fly and be among the stars but as of yet still groundbound. He's played a bit by himself, but he can't say he's an expert. Oftentimes, being alone as he was, he'd try to make up his own rules to play new games.

But Initiate appreciates learning, so long as it's something done by his discretion. This seems like something what would be interesting, and so his eyes trace-- with him leaning close to do so-- over the page even as Linden recites right off of it.

Manic one-sided conversation doesn't phase him. He's been on both ends. But still, he looks up, lifting a brow.

"YOU GOT THE GAME BEING AROUND?"

The request gets a quick, uncertain glance. Whatever rhythm Linden's been strung along by has been broken, and it takes him a second to regain his bearings. He manages, though; he always does.

"I don't need one..." he murmurs. "Most people do, and I forget... I apologize. I think the library has some board games, if you really do want to play..."

The hopefulness in his voice is unmistakable; it reveals that he's very aware that even as a Victor he can be rejected.

Edited 2014-11-19 04:07 (UTC)

He frowns in confusion, at first. He doesn’t need one? How all did he play if he had nothing what all to play with?

But then, he mostly motherfucking curious. As well as pushing aside that apology what he don’t all need.

He shrugs. “Sure Brother. I AIN’T NEVER PLAYED WITH NO ONE ELSE BEFORE. I’d be down.”

"Never...?" Linden echoes, seeming to find it both surprising and sad. "Then please excuse me, I'll be back momentarily, it sounds like this is something that must be fixed, because I think... I think I could really play right now and it's so hard to find someone when you most think you need them..."

He is on his feet again; for someone who looks like he can barely stand without swaying insubstantially, his movements are spry and energetic, and he's off toward the front of the library to root unapologetically through the section set aside for children. He returns with a small but complete chessboard that's seen some wear.

He takes a white and black pawn in his hands, closing his eyes and rolling them together in his palms behind his back before extending both closed hands toward Initiate.

"Choose, for your color. It's been awhile since I've played with a board but I don't mind it, at all."

Motherfucker makes it sound like dire tragedy. But then, who knew, maybe it really was more fun all getting the fuck on about it with someone else. Linden gets up and he waits just as he's told to-- and not just because he got told to.

Motherfucker's got an energy to him that surprises the Initiate. Sure, he'd had to have won his games somehow, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

He has to admit, the excitement is a little contagious. He's almost getting eager up for it all now too. A small grin tugs at one corner of his mouth.

"LEFT," He says, reaching to tap the top of Linden's hand ever so light with a claw. He waits and watches.

When a person's life contains so few pleasures that color practically drain out of the world's palette, moments of genuine happiness are startlingly vivid. Linden clings to them; there's a purity to his type of concentrated energy, and the fact that it's contagious to a certain kind of person isn't surprising. The fact that the Initiate is in fact this kind of person bodes well for both of them.

He opens his left palm, revealing a white palm. He places it on Initiate's side of the board, going about setting up his side since it's been decided that he is playing black.

"When we win the Games, Victors are supposed to choose something. A skill or talent to develop. Mine was chess, but it's a thinking man's game, and if you have spent any time at all in the Capitol... you know that it's not full of thinking men."

White. A sharp color, all evincing of light and dawn and things what burn hot. White like lusii, white like bone. It will work for him. And anyway, he's not truly so picky about color where choosing his own is not an option.

He mirrors the placing of Linden's side with his pieces. He sees to each pawn, king, queen, and bishop. He feels a soft buzz, like a calm, settle upon his mind with task.

"Spent time aplenty in dwelling of the Capitol. KNOW ON SUCH THINGS VERY MOTHERFUCKING WELL," He chuckles. "There are a few. SOME WHAT GOT PAN FUNCTIONING BENEATH THE SHELL OF NUGBONE. They were fun, where they made on sticking by. COULD PLAY GREAT GAMES WITH SOME OF THEM FUCKERS. I like the threat what hangs overhead when gone being done." It's mostly a joke. Partly.

These days, L almost finds white too sharp and blinding when it's contrasted with the darker things in the world. But it represents balance, offsets black, and his favorite game is not possible without it. He smiles softly and places his own black pawn on his side of the board, hands drifting into place with each subsequent piece rather than moving with any real purpose. Most of his movements have a dreamlike quality; anything too sudden startles him, and certainly did not originate from his slow, soggy will.

The chuckle, like the color white, also serves to offset the severity of its opposite, which L figures to be the rough language. He chances his own answering laughter, but as usual, it sounds choked off and a touch broken.

"What kinds of games?"

Though the question seems innocent enough, there's a longing there, a kind of sadistic desire to hear that Initiate gave as good as he got to some of the people who made him suffer as an Avox.

Edited (Sorry for typos, mobile tagging is a bitch D:) 2014-12-02 19:02 (UTC)

Sharp and blinding, the Initiate could believe. He is a troll afterall. Dark was safety, sight, and salvation. But balance too was important to him.

He watches Linden as he goes. Those motions making him seem like they're underwater. It'd be apt.

"POLITIC," He answers. "The cruelty up in it. GET REVEAL ON OF WHAT'S DONE LEGIT. Finding that perfect poetry. SEEING THE RIDDLES TO SAYING IT. Playing the cards properlike elusive. AND SEEING HOW IT MAKES MOTHERFUCKERS SQUIRM." A grin dances upon his lips. Oh the nostalgia. It used to be his favorite part to play. Those hard choices and revelations. He worked for a cruel world and so he was cruel.

But he is not that person anymore and the grin is chased away. For more reasons than one, he is far from all that. He moves his first piece.

"I ain't play it none no more."

Though Linden wouldn't ever think to put it in those words, he feels much the same. The hollowness that sets into his eyes when he is silent or not immediately occupied is indicative enough of the fact that darkness represents a sanctuary and light exposes everything he would rather keep safe, close and covered. Balance is important, yes... but he has been beyond any hope for balance for years. Except, of course, within the neat confines of his chess boards.

Initiate speaks so strangely. Linden has a difficult time following conversations spoken plainly when he's in this sleepy state of mind; he has to work harder simply to comprehend that bizarre cadence and choice of words, but he thinks he catches the troll's drift. Manipulation, politics, playing cards covertly and taking pleasure in outcomes that inconvenience and harm others. He laughs, a sudden clear sound, breaking his glazed countenance for just a second.

"Lucky for me, isn't it? Not that I think you'll find me much of a threat..."

He moves fluidly, following Initiate's opening near-instantly. His piece glides forward, guided by a hand that's scarcely touching it.

Edited (Tablet = typos, also Homestuck mixups gaaaaah) 2014-12-10 17:01 (UTC)

After linden's moves, his eyes follow, tracing maps and plays in a way it seems Linden does not.

"YOU'RE INTELLIGENT." Proven by the game they play, in which he moves his own piece in counter. "And thus far unmotherfuckingpredictable. CAPRICIOUS AS ALL LIKE IS CALLED UNTO ME." Not so much now maybe, but back in the subjugglators. "And you're a stranger," He adds.

He shrugs his shoulders, looking up at linden. "YOU NEVER MOTHERFUCKING KNOW WHAT ALL COULD GO THE FUCK DOWN. Could make you a little threatening. LEAST UP 'TILL YOU WASN'T BEING A STRANGER NO MORE."

The fact of the matter was simple; he hadn't decided yet.

But for all that, he doesn't seem any less comfortable with the game they're playing now, or the company of which it consists. His voice is not accusing, but thoughtful.

"I..."

He seems startled, and shortly afterward in a hurry to deny Initiate's observation about his intelligence. It's true, of course, but dangerous; he got points and sponsors for being identified as clever, but in the post-arena, the minefield of navigating the Capitol while coping with the fact that one's life is an open book... it's wiser to seem unthreatening, and Linden's had to learn this the hard way.

He bites his lip, saying nothing further, his chess moves taking a turn for the defensive as he's called, correctly and unsettlingly, unpredictable. If anyone is overhearing this, there could be trouble, but he tries not to dwell overly on it; what's already been said can hardly be helped.

"A stranger?" he queries, dark eyes lingering on Initiate during what quickly becomes a lull in the game. "In my District, we make vehicles... mostly trains and hovercrafts. Though most of us can tell you in theory all the required steps and materials, no one in 6 can build a train or hovercraft alone; it would take too much time, some of the pieces are far too large for two human hands to lift and put together... even with the help of machines it's simply not possible. So a sense of community is important, in my District, and we have this saying about strangers. It goes 'a stranger is just a friend you have yet to get to know.' I never had many friends, but I think I believe that you are, in fact, one I just don't know very well yet."

He realises he's fucked up the moment Linden gets all of being startled and fearful. HE probably should've known better, former avox he is. He could offer apology but Linden's been given enough attention on the topic as it is.

If it was really something worth getting fearful up over, better to appear fearful. Let the Capitol think they won. He's just a former avox and Linden's just fucked up former tribute.

Linden takes on a new topic, and the Initiate has to say, at first, he's confused. It shows. He lifts a brow and tilts his head, even has to pause the game because he's parsing out Linden over pieces on the board. He doesn't give much thought to the jobs of the districts, truth told. Especially not ones what ain't his own. He's got no fathom for what it means or consists of. Entirely new is it.

But... "I like that," He says, sounding appreciative genuine. "ME, I GET MY BELIEVINGS ON IN FAMILY BY MY FAITH. Family in the motherfucking Carnival. WE ALL GET OUR BUSINESS OWN TOGETHERLIKE. All get being destined for kicking the shit up in the rowdy raucous. SOUNDS AS ALMOST SIMILAR, YO. Maybe you's on to something."

The new topic is no accident; it's a segue, but it's also a way to try to pull them both away from what's dangerous and difficult.

"Carnival?" he asks; the word still exists in Panem, but it's something that's mostly relegated to the Capitol. Some Districts have it, 1 and sometimes 2. His confusion's apparent, because he's certainly never associated it with family or faith... just a lot of light and noise. "What do you mean, 'carnival?' You have family there? Faith?"

He moves another piece, waking up to the game again even while he waits for Initiate to elaborate.

Motherfucker wants to talk on of the Carnival. Well, ain't that just being a thing he can offer up fine fucking served.

"THEY'RE ONE AND THE SAME MY BROTHER! The Carnival is family. THE CARNIVAL IS THAT OF THE FAITH. The Carnival is gospelevity of the Mirthful Messiahs. THE CELEBRATION GREAT AND GRAND OF THE ROWDY AND CAPRICIOUS MINSTRELS AND PARADISE AT TO RISE!"

He speaks in rapture of it all. His mind is caught in the memory like a motherfucker caught in the grief trapeze.

"Church of the Mithful Messiahs. WE OF FAITH ARE THE CARNIVAL. And by the carnival, we are family, brother and sister. YOU KNOW WHAT ALL FAITH BE, MOST SURELY?"

Linden does not fail to recognize the way the subject animates Initiate, lighting him up with a fervor that... well, it is religious. Linden has only seen this kind of devotion a few times, and it's usually unnerved him thoroughly.

I watched your Games every day. That moment when he held you for the first time... my heart stopped!

Do you like the scar across my neck? I got it because yours is so on point! It's my favorite new trend!

I bid on you because I want to be Scorpii for you tonight. If being yourself is difficult... I came with Morphling to make it easier. Your escort said it would help.

He rubs at his bone thin arm through his sleeve, as if trying to rub out a brisk, imaginary chill.

"Faith is being sure of something, to the point where you trust it above all else," he says slowly. "...right? Like trust but... absolute."

He's lived sensing fear too long to miss the signs. Even for all the topic animates him, brings him to fucking life with joy and rapture, he can't possibly miss such things as that, as what he sees.

It takes some of the energy out, seeing that. He doesn't know what passed just now in Linden's head, what with his voodoo being cut off to him hear like a blindfold over his eyes, but he doubts it was something nice.

"Yeah. THAT'S RIGHT," He says, just a bit more somber than before. "Trust absomotherfuckinglute. AIN'T NEVER BEEN SHAKEN BY WAYS OF MESSIAHS."

Truth was, even if he doesn't all know it, he'd have to break irreparable to be shaken that hard.

Give thy thoughts no tongue

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The mun on the other hand does NOT play chess, so you’ll have to forgive me if I vague this out

No worries at all!

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so sorry for this late tag :c

s'all good!

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This feels like a good end. c: Thank ye.