thecapitol | But now I'm a monster, my blood all runs cold

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But now I'm a monster, my blood all runs cold

Who| The Grand Highblood and his unfortunate victims.
What| The Capitol has brought the Initiate's future in at last for this limited time opportunity.
Where| Dreaming worlds.
When| During the dream event.
Notes| I'm posting this with Initiate's account, but it will be GHB (

comicalamity) that tags come from. Icons will be in the comments so if that's a pet peeve then steer clear.
Warnings| HUGE MASSIVE WARNINGS FOR THIS GUY, which is a reason he's getting a post of his own instead of going in the official log. Warning for possible genocide references, torture references, desecration of corpses, violences, language... the worst of things. Just be weary. (Also casual spacism.)

Day 2

It doesn't matter where you came from, it matters that you're here. It matters that you really don't want to be here...

The throne room is massive. It reaches upwards like it can compete with that of the sky. Its color and glimmer grasping at star's glory. Bones line the chambers, make up the walls, the ceiling, some still featuring their death hues. Some skulls with sharpened maws still agape, like they can cry out their respective agonies, even lacking tongues in their maws. The bones hang from the ceiling, interspersed with pleasant little lanterns and swaths of cloth and cloak.

Behind it all is a wall so smooth as to be glass. But for the sticky bits of color clinging to it, a brilliant collage. A motherfucking kingdom of dead behind him, and the living set before his beholding. Stained glass high, depicting various amusing executions and tortures, as well as shows of the holy scriptures, all cast light beautiful on the dark indigo room.

His throne sits, tall and imposing, the same hue as the blood of the last Highblood and made up from all them old bones long decayed and every Highblood come before. None of this is what makes the room terrifying. The source of choking, terror sits within, on that throne, lounging and smiling any way but kindly. He looms over, painted face a picture of fear, expression one of murder, and his claws the beauty what follows. He is something ancient, beholding something new with the same regard-- amusement.

"HIS BRETHREN DON'T OFTEN BRING NEW MOTHERFUCKING GIFTS," His voice booms. "Not ones such as this. NO, NO." He leans forward. "...You must be something... real goddamned special."

Day 4

He resides in the shadows of the conciousness, and as the world of dreams shifts into something of his grasp, he makes himself home in it. So many paths lead his way, once the world opens up to his will. A merry motherfucking guide is he, the ticket taker and ring master all in fucking one. He is a wraith in these dreams.

Where the little Initiate was not but speck of time and failures, a blotted mark in the swath of a thousand pages, a discomfort in his own motherfucking form... the Grand Highblood owns every gesture, every breath, every bit of his all too-tall body.

He sits, just as before, this time before the wall behind his throne. He paints with grace unearthly. He paints every horror in the mind of his new guest. And then he smiles wide. The Grand Highblood's fangs stick into every word. If it were more conscious, it would seem to be done deliberate. It's quite possible it is still, considering the way his slow calm hand gestures put his wicked, rainbow stained claws on display.

"It's so beautiful... ALL UP FULL OF FUCKING BEAUTY TO BE KICKED BY PLACE DARK AND RAPPED THE HOLY UNDOING BY IT BEING UP AND MOTHERFUCKING DONE. The rowdy raucous got to be stopped upon, cause a calm calamitous by the wicked revelations to be had. A REVELATION OF HIGHEST FUCKING ORDER WOULD MAKE APT AS ALL TO BE. He does think... OH BY HIS PAN HAS COME OCCURRENCE NOW! He thinks it missing only one thing singular." The Grand Highblood turns his head. "AIN'T YOU DOWN FOR THE RIGHTEOUS MOTHERFUCKING AGREEMENTS WITH HE?"

Day 7

His height is not easily processed. He is not particularly wide set, not big by the correct proportional measures. Fuck that, he says wordless by every step. No, his form simply fails to make sense to the functioning mind. He doesn't look like a person, he looks like something that happens to people.

And happen he does.

He moves along lax and idle, no apparent place better to be. The battlefield is a well-tended park. His club-- a great wicked thing sharp spikes and a heavy swing and rainbow all over it-- is twirled like a toy. He wears his an armor, bone of bone, the last efforts of someone's attempt to end him then warped and crafted into his protection. Or really, just to inspire.

But it's the smug grin as he walks on through, like he's an immortal. It's the way his eyes go wide with childish delight, his grin matching, before he darts forward with a lightening fast acrobatic motion and gleefully swings his club at the first living thing he sees, making a great show of watching it fly into the distance if the body is not stuck to his club-- then he quickly shifts back once more to being something old. It sets him off against the world around. It makes it seem as though he's waiting for something bigger.

And then his eyes fall upon his next game.

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He looks upon her with a smile. It is a smile like he is in some deep dark secret she most assuredly ain't want him or anyone to know, but he knows it. There's a growl under his breath like something predatory, but there's no other sign of attack.

"Spoil it?" He repeats after her, the word rolling out on a drawl and click. "NOW, GIRL. Little sister motherfucking day sky. CAUTERIZING ROT-PLUCKED CORPSE. Turned a touch to leather, for no speech to be. BUT WERE IT SO. Were it up at to motherfucking be. WOULD NEVER A MUTTERANCE PASS FOR TOO. Much. MEAT."

His smile stretches ever higher, pushing back the fangs paint on to show his real ones.

"Falter flatter, but to be of motherfucking both? WOULD SUGGEST A NERVOUSNESS OF MOTHERFUCKING SORTS. All patter-pumped, a girl. DOES SHE FEAR HER HIGHBLOOD NOW? Does she work them worries woesome upon her sorry little pan?" He queries. He shifts enough that he can view her properly.

The better to see you with, my dear.

"It's not flattery," she protests, and the words aren't just lip service. She's always found Kurloz's paintings to be full of passionate emotion--enough to move a person. The Grand Highblood's are no different, even if the predominant emotion impressed is terror.

He asks if she fears him now, and she tenses, her hands drawing up with a hint of defensiveness near her stomach. There's no question about it. She does fear him. But this is only a dream. Only a dream. Only a dream. She repeats the mantra in her head, trying to push back against tension clenched tight around her heart.

"Do you need to ask that? Like there is anyone out there who knows you and wouldn't be afraid?"

He barks a laugh. It's a cacophonous rasp, echoing in the dark though there is no wall what the sound can ricochet off of. She tells the truth and lies all in one. This is apt. Of course it's motherfucking flattery.

"HOW MOTHERFUCKING AMAZED YOU WOULD BE. So shocked the canal, the bonnie boats so up and heard play thusly host to a crew of them wired ghastly. GONE GOTTEN THEM SORRY SICK SEEKERS." The contrast of his fluctuations is greater than she knows of his youth. The whispers are oh so gentle. The heights are shredding. "She is right," He answers slyly. "BUT SHE IS... all a motherfucking sorts... WRONG."

So many who'd much rather dance with denial. But he felt and knew and held it close.

And of course, she did specify those who know. "But do any of the vermin false-venerated truly up and know? NO. No, he thinks not."

His eyes narrow at her, even as his smile stays up. "BUT HE THINKS. Oh he does so suspect. THAT POSSIBILIES MAY UP AND BE AS THE COMING DUSK. They may yet learn."

His voice is mesmerizing, the way it goes soft and harsh and soft again. It's been so long since she's heard it with the Initiate as he is now. It's almost painful in a way that she's sure he doesn't intend. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a more rational voice tells her that she should get away from him. Run, while he's still seated, and she might be able to outpace him before he stands.

It's difficult to listen to that voice, when her ears are fill of the lilting sound of his.

He claims that no one 'truly up and knows', but she's not so sure about that. She thinks that she does. Isn't it true that out of anyone, she's the one who knows him best? She knows the deepest parts of him, the ones that he tries to hide. The ones that he might have smothered in becoming what he is now.

His eyes narrow on her, and instinctively she takes a step back from that intimidating look.

"Do you recognize me?" She doesn't know if he does, but she hopes he will. Objectively it's a foolish and naive hope; but if this is a dream, then she hopes he remembers. She hopes to get some kind of good out of this, for all the bad that the Capitol has given her already.

"INQUISITIONAL SHE. The dragon sees through. BLINDING THEM WHAT BE UPON HER PATH. But for those apt to gander with bulbs yet shut still," He hums.

It is incredible to him, one so to be of confidence aplomb, still hosting the faintest discomposure. A glass surface with a thousand nails beneath and a long far ass drop oh so very biting.

He dips a hand directly into corpse as ain't weren't being there a second ago. He ignores her opinions and paints more, changing the image before him. Looking to see what new things he might find.

"THAT AIN'T WHAT INQUIRIES SHE'S WANTING OF FOR," He says. "That ain't all what she's meaning to ask. OUGHT SPEAK STRAIGHT. Tell him first, little Pyrope. TELL HIM TRUE. Do you want upon recognition by his most high and holy, girl? DO YOU DESIRE TRUE HE TELL YOU A PERCEPTION FAMILIARITY PREACHED?' He glances back at her. "Would put a pan before a maw, he thinks."

Edited 2015-07-30 04:30 (UTC)

Terezi prefers when he's not looking at her. When he's focusing on his paint, she can almost pretend that he doesn't realize she's here. It feels safer--not safe, but safer. When he glances back at her, her heart pounds heavy in her chest for a moment. The fear creeps up again, like a tide surging in.

Does she really want him to recognize her? ...More importantly, does she want this Kurloz to be the result of hers? There's hesitation in her heart.

"I want... the truth. It doesn't matter what way I hope it to be. It is or it isn't, and my wanting for either outcome won't change what it is. So I want to know."

"SO SHE SAYS. So she makes motherfucking preach of for. BUT. He. DOUBTS." Oh ever does he doubt. He is full of faith up in his pumpbiscuit but not for her, no, not at all for her.

"One single sweep, girl. ONE SWEEP MOTHERFUCKING SINGULAR. A sweep what only ain't hardly to be extant of. A THOUSAND SWEEPS TO HE AND HIS. Recollection from a blink of time such as that. IT COULD NOT BE MORE MOTHERFUCKING IRRELEVANT." His eyes narrow cold. "Girl, you would not believe the truth if it dangled reek before your sniffer."

He shifts. It's like a mountain getting up to move. He rises up tall and turns to face her way.

"PROUD OF YOUR OWNSELF, LITTLE PYROPE?"

One sweep. Those words wash over her like a splash of cold water to her face. One sweep out of a thousand. That's all that their time together was. As insignificant as a passing thought. It shouldn't cut the way that it does, but it hurts. He means--meant?--so much to her; but in this future, what she amounts to is next to nothing.

He stands, and she backs up another step. It still doesn't take her out of his looming shadow, as large as it is. His words are confusing. Proud of herself? She shakes her head a little, her foot inching backwards just a little more. "Do I have... something to be proud of?"

"You tamed him, did you not?" He says, oh so gentle. Deceptively so and not a well crafted deception either. Like a sea beast crooning through fangs at the shore washed fish.

"THAT IS WHAT THEY WOULD CALL IT. That is what they would consider it mother fucking called." When he says called it sounds like culled. He gives no explanation to who "they" are, presuming her to know. She'll figure it out. Surely she can guess.

"OR AIN'T YOU THE BLOOD OF HER BLOOD. The spill of her fucking spill. AIN'T YOU KNOWING FULL WHAT HE MEANS BY THAT."

"I didn't tame him!" The words come out in a rush, her eyes too wide to be angry, but too affronted to be scared. It's a lie, no matter how he spins it. Taming him wasn't what she was trying to do, and the thought made her sick to her stomach.

She knows what he's trying to imply, and the mention of her ancestor brings back the memory of his story with her--and all the horrible things she learned. There's an anger in her, but it's crippled by the knowledge that he could still kill her. And easily. She clenches her teeth together, trying to reign her emotions in.

"I cared about him. More than anything. I would have done anything for him." All in the past tense. There's a safety in the past tense, and she knows... Some part of her knows that if this is a dream, then she needs to keep that safety net below her.

His eyes are red as hers when he looks at her. His chin is lifted and he glares down his nose at her. The false smile is slipping away. He's all cold now.

"Didn't you?" He says. Then increasing in violence, "DIDN'T YOU CARE ON WHAT YOU MADE OF HIM TO BE!? All crafted up and down. ALL TWIST-TURNED FROM PATHS RIGHTEOUS. Where is he now, Pyrope? WHERE THE MOTHERFUCK IS HE?!"

Not here, clearly. Past tense used as it is.

"You should've left him to motherfucking be. BUT HOW COULD A SISTER RESIST LEAVING RUIN OF A HIGHBLOOD?" He shrugs his shoulders as though this is truly some topic casual. "But it ain't no matter. I AM WHAT'S FUTURE. A Highblood is what is right and correct. WITH A LITTLE STEERING RIGHT, ALL STILL COMES TO BE, DON'T YOU KNOW?"

The scent of the redness in his eyes is more than enough to tell Terezi that she's treading on thin ice. His volume increases and she scrambles back a few more steps.

WHERE THE MOTHERFUCK IS HE?! She can't keep the pain and dismay that his question causes off of her face. Where is he, indeed. Avoxed, serving some Capitolite somewhere. Broken down and reshaped into a mindless slave. Her fists clench at her sides, nails biting into her palms. Her fault. That's what he's saying. If she had left him be, he would have been fine. He wouldn't have cared to help anyone. He wouldn't have sacrificed himself.

But he wouldn't have been the Kurloz that she loved, either. He wouldn't have had the chance to be the person that she know he could. And she knows, even as things are now, he was happier for it.

"You will never be his future." Her voice is small and scared, but her teeth are clenched tight and her chin lifts as she narrows his gaze on him. "You are a ghost. A dream. A could-have-been. You can't steer him. You can't touch him. You might as well be nothing for all that you can do to him."

She stumbles back and he matches her steps. He stalks on to her, one slow little bit at a time because he's got all the time in the world and no where he ought make to be but here and now at his deigning. He revels in the fear he causes. He digs into her pain. She bears his teeth at him because she thinks she ain't got a damn thing what to lose.

There was always something what to lose.

"A dream? A GHOST?" He repeats after her. Then, so very low, head tilting for it; "...A boogie man?"

He knows it will call up memory. He knows it will hit mark. That is exactly his intention.

His face becomes a hideous bestial snarl. "PERHAPS SHE'D LIKE AN UNDERSTANDING HOW MOTHERFUCKING REAL HE CAN BE!!"

What little bit of courage she managed to find in Kurloz's defense vanishes when he tilts his head and repeats that word to her. A boogie man. That's what she had called him long ago, when Kurloz was barely more than a stranger claiming the title of Grand Highblood. Her stomach feels like it might drop out through her to her feet.

He snarls his next words, like a ferocious beast, and Terezi's courage finally falters. She stumbles back and then bolts, despite not knowing where she's trying to go. There's nowhere to hide out here. Wake up, wake up, wake up! she thinks frantically to herself. If this is a dream, she should be able to wake up. She has to. It's her only way out.

The fear of her finally drops. Finally it sinks sickly sweet up into his skull where he can taste it. Little barkbeast turns tail with said tail tucked between. Barely makes more than a few steps before he's come up in front, a blurred shadow in his speed.

There's no club in his hand, simply the back of his knuckles swinging fast to strike her, the dragon-bitch. He'll watch her fly and should she have strength to struggle, the next shall be a great kick across his throne room.

"She wore the sick upon her like a fine fucking coat. DONNED IN THE HEINOUS HUE SHE DARED WALK FUCKING PUBLIC. Should've known then. SHOULD HAVE UP AND CULLED WHAT AT ALL THAT BITCH MADE ON TO MOTHERFUCKING STAND. My girl. ALL RED ASLIP TO HER SNOUT, I DID SO WISH TO SMASH IT, THOSE THINGS STRUCK UPON HER SIGHT!"

She struck and indeed she did strike true. There is a crack in his armor now, a desperation in his voice. But he walks closer now like it ain't no thing, reaching but not yet touching. "Might abouts the making the right of this sight and pluck orb from that skull of yours inherited. REMOVE THE SIN. Rid the red. AIN'T LIKE YOU'RE MOTHERFUCKING USING THEM!"

He's there in front of her before she even realizes. It's a credit to her reflexes that she manages to lift her hand even halfway up as she tries to block his blow. But it's not nearly fast or steady enough to stop the back of his hand from cracking against the side of her head. Pain screams through her skull as she's knocked back, landing heavily on her side. The panic keeps her going as she tries to drag herself to her hands and knees.

She barely makes it off the floor before another blow catches her in the stomach. This time, a wall stops her and deposits her in a crumpled heap on the floor. Her breath wheezes through her mouth, sounding wet in her throat. She tries to move, but a fiery pain lances through her chest. Distantly she thinks that she must have broken at least a few ribs, if not more. She feels like a rag doll made only of pieces, stitched together in a sack of skin.

His voice alternates between soft and booming, but it's hard to concentrate on either. The words tumble over her, and she only catches bits and pieces; but she smells when he draws closer and reaches out. Instinctively, she tries to curl in on herself, only to elicit another gasp of pain. "No, no... please... Kurlo..." She tries to call his name--her matesprit, not the creature in front of her. But words are hard, the pain is mind-numbing, and she's terrified to her core.

Edited 2015-10-21 03:54 (UTC)

An odd expression crosses over his features, like how someone with a conscience might respond to a sight of torture, like a bad smell, or a stubbed toe. All and none of these things, but unpleasant nevertheless.

"...You dare.YOU MOTHERFUCKING DARE USE THAT NAME!" His eyes light. The color is blown out, leaving no room for anything but the quick alternating flash of pink and purple, the only real mercy being that it hides the flood of deep red.

He takes a step but it's faltering, not near so sure as it was moments before. There's an uncertainty now and with it comes fury. That drives him forward, allowing him to reach down to this sack of bones and haul her up high, grip upon both the cloth of her front and her throat. Let her feet kick and dangle so familiar.

Terezi cringes at the sharpness of his voice. There's a hand at her throat before she can do anything to defend herself. Up into the air, she's lifted. Her feet dangle as she grabs onto his wrist out of instinct. Pain lances through her chest, her bones shifting in ways that she's sure they weren't meant to shift. It hurts to move; it hurts to breathe.

She's so small compared to him. Small and scared, tears beading at the corners of her eyes. She closes them tight, trying to block them from view, but it only makes them spill over and down her cheeks.

"Gave... it to me..." she manages to eke out, nothing more than a coarse whisper with the grip around her throat. It was the truth, as far as she knew. She hadn't asked for it. It had been a gift given to her, a surprise at the time. A pleasant one. One that she had treasured. From that moment forward, there hadn't been a time that she had thought of him with any other name. "...special."

"Doesn't exist. WON'T NEVER EXIST NO MOTHERFUCKING LONGER!" He shrieks. All control is gone. He hangs on to her and it's in his face, in his posture, in the his voice most all. He's unhinged even beyond his own working. Even the Grand Highblood loses himself though he'd be damned to recognize it now or later.

"What all do you got knowing for? AIN'T NOTHING MORE THAN REBEL SPAWN FILTH," He rambles. "Ain't nothing but a speck under his lookspheres! HAD HIS LADY BY FOR SWEEPS, YOU THINK HE AIN'T KNOW? You with your mere blink of time. THINK HE AIN'T SUSPECT NO TREACHERY!? No. NO! You can't have it! IT'S NOT YOURS! It ain't motherfucking anyones. IT AIN'T NO ONE'S, YOU HEAR?"

He shakes her mid air like a rattle doll, then pins her wallside just like that. He reaches back for a club that appears out of the air. "No one pities the motherfucking Highblood. HE IS NO ONE'S BUT MESSIAHS KIN AND KITH. He is of their blood and he'll not be steered wrong. THEY HAVE POURED REVELATION INTO HIS DUCTS AND YOU SINNERS WILL NOT STEAL IT FROM HIM!"

He shrieks and she cowers, as she knows anyone else would. He shakes her and slams her to the wall, eliciting a cry of pain from her lips. Her breath leaves her for a moment, and her head spins. Somewhere, she realizes that he's pulled a weapon from somewhere. She doesn't know why. He doesn't need it to end her. She tries to focus on his words, but they slip through her fingers... Something about her ancestor. Something about treachery. Something about pity... She remembers a question demanded of her before the shaking started. She clings to that like a lifeline.

What does she know?

"Know... the paint..." She gasps the words out, trying to snatch at the words before they can leave her thoughts. Each syllable is squeezed through his grip, pushed out with a gasp of pain. She lifts a finger, a weak miming of tracing the mask that she's burned into memory. "Teeth like... d-daggers, like fear. Eyes...in darkness, b-but clear..."

"Know the... s-script... E-everything in halves... Two parts, good and...bad. Light a-and dark..." She tries to remember more, uncertain of what she's trying to prove, but only knowing that she has no other choice. She snatches at the things that had delighted Kurloz...that had made him find worth in her.

"Know... the end. The... m-meteors. Homeworld...burning. Was...there. And l-left."

The cowering doesn't sate him. It's a tease and a taunt. A promise of some small mercy where there ain't none yet. But it's enough to pretend. The snarl twists into a horrible grin, still hosting all the same rage and instability, but trying to be something its not. His breath is ragged like he's the one what's being attacked.

His eyes go wide at first, then narrow as she gasps her words. "Shut the motherfuck up," he growls as she tries to carry on. But she don't stop. They never stop, why don't they ever get ceasing the motherfucking haunt? She's spilling scripture like she knows it, like that means fuck all, it don't mean anything, it just means the traitorous bitch got more of him to use!

Light and dark, like she even fathoms. Like that's meant to be reaching him through or some hoofbeastshit.

Speaking like she was a chosen and he ain't got right to touch her.

"SHUT UP!" He screams again and he throws her back like she's nothing but rags. She lands and one of his hands is up to scrape on his scalp. He shrieks again, wordless this time.

Terezi might not be nothing but rags, but she crumples like them when he throws her back. She doesn't try to get up this time, simply lying on the ground and trying to breathe without lapsing into painful gasps. The shrieking doesn't help matters, when every nerve of her body is lit up in either panic or pain.

Wake up, please wake up, she thinks to herself, more desperately than before. This has to be a dream... but even so, she's starting to wonder. Dreams have never been this real or this painful before. It terrifies her even more that this might be real... that she might really die here.

This time when he shrieks at her to shut up, she does. She lies quiet, save for the shallow breaths going in and out.

"You won't," He rasps, "Interfere with what shit gets kicked. YOU THINK HE AIN'T KNOW OF ENDS. You think you can use his pasts to turn his pusher from the only path what be. HE'LL NOT HAVE YOU GETTING UP IN HIS NUG! He'll not allow your blasphemous lot to impede upon the holy work..." She wanted to dig him out. The Initiate. She wanted to use him to stop a Highblood. It wouldn't be. He wouldn't allow it. Fuck that noise unholy. He approaches her again, ranting.

"HE IS THE CHOSEN! He is their striking hand and speakpipe. HE IS TIED TO THE MIRTHFUL MESSIAHS TWO! In vision they revealed unto he the truth. SCION AND DESCENDANT ALIKE SHALL MAKE SCION OF THE ANGELS AND IN MOST RIGHTEOUS SACRIFICE HE AND THEY WILL BECOME, AS ALL OF ALTERNIA IS SACRIFICED ALSO. In holiest duality shall it make to motherfucking be. AS SO TO BE OF THE BLOOD OF THE ANGELS...He will see that you are removed." No Pyrope, not interference. Things would go all to plan. Better than, surely. The Messiahs would be pleased. They'd have to be. They knew he only sought their approve. He only desired their triumph. Surely...

"A sweep's time, girl," He reminds. His club lifts up, the blunt end of it hanging over her head like a hammer to drop. "YOU'LL NOT DIG HIS CORPSE FROM A HIGHBLOODS BONES IN THIS LIFETIME!"

Terezi curls in on herself tighter, her arms wrapping around herself. She's nothing more than a child at the feet of the Grand Highblood, towering like a monster over her broken body. A sweep's time... That's all she was. Maybe that sweep is all that she would have.

Her eyes close tight against the tears.

If that sweep was all she got... it was still the best sweep of her life. She was going to cherish it, and he couldn't take that from her. Even if he killed her right here and now, she would go to her death remembering what she had. There's a small noise from her throat, weak and stuttering, but growing a little stronger as she focuses. A quiet melody takes form, though she doesn't know the words to it. It's enough to remember the tune, to remember how much those unspoken notes meant to the two of them... like a promise that they would meet again.

The swift swing of his club halts in the air over her head. The piercing tips of the spikes could brush her pretty black locks. Her acursed noise carries on, floating up above him and all about.

It tugs at old memories, sitting on stones and changing the words and pretending he had better so he could sing to anyone at all. The memories are grey. They are outlines all faded out from too long. They can hardly count as memories anymore, but vague ghosts, senses of things what ain't truly perceived. The memory of where this song motherfucking mattered is no clearer. No easier to grasp. And yet the words...

Breathless and tuneless, the words come out as a whisper of revelation."... O' somber sea..."

He stares at her with wide eyes like he's witness something truly horrifying. And from what ghosts he's witnessed, from what horrors he's crafted himself in the mind and out of it, there couldn't be a name for that fear.

"NO! Silence!"

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pythianjudgment - 2015-11-02 05:36 (UTC) - Expand

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comicalamity - 2015-11-02 05:54 (UTC) - Expand

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