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)
thecapitol2014-11-04 10:11 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thecapitol2014-11-04 10:11 pm
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.
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.
no subject
"Is that the truth? Your people are the..." He loses his breath to the concept. He tries to gesture to convey his excitement, but it becomes akin to exasperated flailing. He composes himself and starts again, forcing his hands onto his lap as he fidgets in his seat: "Kurloz... I have known for the majority of my life that there was an order of intelligence higher than ours. Very few do. For most humans, I compare it to a termite navigating the mound they have built and never knowing the scale or meaning of what they have helped to construct - you mean to say that trolls are the ones who can observe the work of humans?" There was more to it - much more, including what the espers could summon - but it was based on the idea that all creation was the work of gods and not another set of worlds entirely. He stares hopefully at the other, putting the breaks on his theory long enough to listen. The trolls' cultural gift could wait another moment. "Why?"
no subject
Rapture absolute. For once in his motherfucking life, he's not all sure what to do with it.
"...It's ain't exactly about all like that." He doesn't wish to tear this hope apart-- because that's what faith is, most surely, the last line of hope among all else. "MY SPECIES DIED, SIGMA. Everyone got to dying but for my descendant and other eleven chosen. THERE WEREN'T NO WATCHING. They was meant to inherit, but they didn't. THEY IS CREATORS, ITS INSPIRATIONALS. But they were not its keepers. NONE OF US WAS BEING ITS MOTHERFUCKING KEEPERS. Not me or mine. WAS A MOTHERFUCKIN DEMON WHAT PREVENTED THAT. A flaw. FROM WHAT THINGS I'VE GATHERED, AIN'T EVEN THE ELEVEN STILL BEING TO LIVE. Just a small handful up of that. THE TWENTY MOTHERFUCKING FOUR OF US WAS MESSIAH MADE TO BE OF REACHING THIS END. But we ain't gods. LEAST, NOT THAT I'M OF KNOWING. If there was being any watching up at all it was from far the fuck away and well beyond reaching."
They were Messiah made. Twenty four gifted trolls, blessed. Twenty four done over twofold as for forty eight, souls split. They were made for glory and it is that glory he still believes. It is simply not quite so simple as Sigma imagines.
"WHY..." He hums, repeating Sigma. "Cause it was our fate. WAS THE DESTINY OF MY KIND. To watch the end, my past chosen to try, to fail, to begin the motherfuck anew. WE WAS FATED TO BE OF PAST, AND OUR ANCESTORS PAST TO BECOME OUR DESCENDED. It was fated that what harsh noise got to be of Alternia would strengthen them by the deal what was struck, and so on allow our descendants to get of success most righteous, where mine own had motherfucking failed. BY DOING SO, FROM THE ASH OF MY WORLD, THEY WOULD WEAVE ABOUT THE SPECIAL STARDUST OF YOURS."
He looks to Sigma, holding gaze utmost serious, willing all the secrets what he can never speak and has never spoken to be communicated somehow. Secrets of the universe entire. Secrets like as what drove him, in a life past, to mute himself that they may never be spilled. Secrets like what had, back then, changed the very core of his being, and what inspired him now.
"There is a great plan in motion, Father Sigma," He says in a voice that sounds all too normal for its words. If it were possible, they'd be soaked with voodoo. Not by his doing, but by fault of the Messiahs in his ears putting the words in his maw. "A GREAT PLAN AS BY MESSIAHS DEEMING. The creation of your world was pivotal to that what is to come and must make to motherfucking be."
So spoke Sigma's god-touched boy.