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)
thecapitol2015-07-27 08:03 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thecapitol2015-07-27 08:03 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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.
no subject
And here is this lowblood choosing to test him. They always got cocky in the face of punishment. They always go about figuring, what worse could be up at for the haps. They kicked it screaming so for when he showed them exactly what they ought fear.
But planting the seed through voodoo sometimes just isn't as fun as doing it by his ownself proper.
He scoffs. "NEVER SURRENDERED. Pan ain't proper sorting it? THOUGHTSPONGE TURNING REJECTIONS SHARP TO WHAT GOT DONE? Motherfucker, your leader renounced you. YOUR TREASONOUS FUCKVEINED WRETCH OF A HEAD TO THIS EMPIRICAL SCOURGE FINALLY DROPPED TRUTHS FROM HIS MENDACIOUS MAW! All fraudulence done and dusted, he came forth a traitor to you. HE CAME FORTH AS HAVING USED YOU FROM THE MOTHERFUCKING START, AIN'T YOU PUT IT TO YOUR PAN? He cursed all of Alternia, brother. YOUR CAUSE IS A SHAM. Your fucking purpose is phoney. YOU AIN'T CALL THAT APT TIME FOR SURRENDER?" It wasn't enough. This waste of a troll must recognize that. That troll screamed and screamed and it wasn't enough. He wants all the cult. He wants them all crushed under his club and their bones made to armory.
"Perhaps then he'll call upon recording," He sneers. "MEMORANDUM MEMORIAL. So you can see, when soon all he's done with the purge of your lot's motherfucking contamination, you can hear it all for your ownself their words. YOU CAN PUT AURAL SHELL TO THE RIGHTEOUS REVELATION THAT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING LOT AIN'T NONE MORE THAN A BUNCH OF SQUEALING DUPLICITOUS HEATHENS APT TO SELL OUT THE FIRST MOTHERFUCKER THEY SEE AS WOULD SAVE THEIR GODDAMN SKINS! It will come, brother. I UP AND ASSURE YOU THUS."
no subject
"Ith that what you call friendship? 'Uthing' people? He giveth—gave me a lot in return for my help. I could never fully pay him back for thaving me and being my friend. You wouldn't underthtand."
He stopped, voice too thick to speak. Signless was gone, really gone. He had to speak about him in the past tense. Psii's voice quavered, battered thin and reedy like him.
"I know what you'll drive hith followerth to do. I've done it mythelf. I did nothing and left people to die, which ith the thame ath culling them. It'th impothible to exthpect all of them to put their liveth on the line. What we wanted wath a plathe where we could be free, but altho thafe."
The Grand Highblood could show him whatever footage he wanted, but Signless taught Psii to forgive. Not everyone possessed Psii's paranoid yet at times reckless way of putting himself in harm's way, especially for friends. Fat load of good that did Signless. Psii might hate (platonically) these highbloods for executing him, but most of all he despised himself. He swore he'd protect Signless, and he failed.
"It'th pointleth. You've won. Thtop being a wiggler and acthept your victory with grathe. Altho fuck you."
no subject
Soft as a whisper, and all kinds solemn, he says, "He understands far more than you do." It could be lost in the ring his strike might provide, but then, maybe not. It doesn't really matter what he tells this one, does it? He could say anything. This troll is only barely a troll anymore for what he will be soon.
"YOU'RE A FOOL. If you ain't know of that up at least, you're a greater one. THE SIGNLESS," He spits the name like a curse, "PLAYED YOU. He used you, and you allowed it, which is why you will be used to further the empire now. HE SPEAKS AT TO YOU TROLLS. You fucking suckers, biting the bait worse than a bunch of gillfucks. PREACHES PARADISE AS WON'T NEVER BE REACHED. He fills you all the fuck with false hope and the moment he sees fit your purpose..." He grins. "...he rips it away. THE JOKEVIEN MAKES MIRTH. Plays, he does. MAKES MILENKO THE SOFT-HEARTED IMBECILE, SO BRIGHT THERE AIN'T NO LOOKING AWAY. But trolls are trolls are trolls ain't we ain't fit, ain't wothy of bright. SHANGRI-LA IS STILL YET AWAY. He knows these things, brother, these things he up and knows."
But maybe that ain't proper illumination. Maybe that ain't so fucking clear. Yet. As a preacher, it is his duty to show the fucking way, ain't it?
"LIKE A BAEBEAST HERD YOUR LOT FOLLOWED HIM," He explains. "He promised a land sweet and green. HE ROUSED YOU FROM YOUR RESIGNATIONS, LIFTED YOUR HEADS HIGH, SHOWED YOU ALL THE GOOD IN THE FUCKING WORLD. It was beautiful, wasn't it? IT WAS SOMETHING BAABEASTS WOULD TURN TO BARKBEASTS FOR. In his honor they would fight and he would allow it even when forgot where to stay the slay. THE REST? Oh the motherfucking rest of you. HE LED YOU RIGHT OFF THE CLIFFSIDE AND USED YOUR HOPES TO MAKE TENDER THE MEAT."
There is no grin upon him now. There is no mirth. This is a finality and he revels most solemn. "There is no such thing as safe, brother. THERE AIN'T NO SUCH THING AS FREE. Any troll with sense knows this. THUSLY IT IS KNOWN BY EVERY TROLL. There are those what fight to get what they want and those what fall the fuck to wayside in failure. GUESS WHICH YOU ARE?"
Wow i thought i posted this already, good job self
"If there'th no thuch thing ath free, then you're a thlave too! I never underthtood how SS could thay that a highblood could be enthlaved, but now I think I do. You're the kind of thlave that refutheth to leave hith cage."
Psii used to be that guy. He used to be terrified of leaving, even though he could easily level the place to the ground. He had a block and quadrants and nutrition, shitty though it all was. His escape had been his first real test of not only his powers but also his resolve.
He had had a little bit of a death wish, too. No slave escaped without courting death. If Psii believed in religious bullshit, he supposed Death's Handmaid would like that sort of flirting. She always had a more personal, infamous touch than the amorphous Death, and some lowbloods prayed to her for release. Psii made fun of them. He had long since given up the hope of receiving release. Nothing happened until he heard Signless's message and made his own luck.
no subject
The execution should've been the end of things. There should've been none let to live, not the kitty bitch, the daywalker, and certainly not no fucking battery. The control's gone and slipped from him, when all was meant at to be his. Meenah ain't understand. The empress ain't got the nug to her to get it. This was his. supposed to be.
But then this fucker's gone all throwing it back to face, letting it mark upon him like paint only as to stain where the holy greys go to show.
"The fuck did you just call him?" He starts. His hand is around the Psiioniic's throat. "HE IS YOUR MOTHERFUCKING HIGHBLOOD, VOICE OF THE MESSIAHS, INHERITOR OF THE BLOOD AND HOLY SERVANT AS WHAT'S CLOSER THAN NO OTHER! You dare. YOU MOTHERFUCKING DARE CURSE UPON HIS BEING AS TO SAY HIM SLAVE? You are nothing! AND YOUR WORDS IS BEING LESS!" Slave who refuses to leave his cage. It stings. It burns more than it motherfucking ought and he ain't got knowing as to why but it does.
The ghostly image of the troll holding the slave up, as ain't really there anymore, says unto him in high voice, "Sire!" And the red eyes flare up.
no subject
"You won't kill me," he gasped. "I wish you would."
Psii's deadened voice petered out. Being held like this, he couldn't breathe. Stars danced at the corners of his vision, little silver pinpricks struggling against loss of blood flow. He almost didn't see the other troll's eyes flush with red-hot anger.
He wished his visions, or lack of them, weren't so accurate. He wished he could just die unexpectedly like all the other sorry fuckers on this planet. Hearing himself say so was like watching himself give up. How many times had Signless told him not to? Saying it made it real, and his eyes stung with tears he didn't know he had. He wished he could find the strength to keep fighting and carry on Signless's message. Maybe he could, if he could see a way to escape. But not now, not here.
no subject
But the Empress...The Empress awaits. She wants her sorry little goldblood like she can't get them by the dozens.
He leans in close and then hisses, "Not mother fucking yet."
He turns his back, walking to his throne. "TAKE THE SLAVE TO ITS MASTER!" He shouts and he tells nothing of the sure cull awaiting the delivery troll.