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
"Reputation is whole and entire what'd you require," He assures. "REPUTATION IS ALL ANY MOTHERFUCKER COULD PRAY KNOWING. He promises, whatever you've heard, the rumor does not live up. ONE MADE CLEVER ILLUSTRIOUS. Made tell like all on the insides such a secret was written. LOOK CLOSE, LITTLE BROTHER. Perhaps you can spot it upon these walls." It's a burst of noise as laugh breaks out again, loud sincere cackles rolling on over his own joke. He seems not to care that Sam ain't joining him.
When his laughter stops, the remainder of his amusement finishes by a sigh. His arms rest on the the throne again and one hand lifts, so that he may lean and rest his head upon the knuckles.
"ALL THINGS ARE FOR SHOW," He says, briefly and lazily waving the other hand. "All things is for the Carnival. TELL HIM ABOUT THIS GHOST. Hauntings unholy when whole of husk. THIS HE IS CURIOUS ABOUT."
Written on the undersides of his words; best make it interesting.
no subject
He doesn't have a lot of patience for guys so convinced of their own superiority, trying to put everyone else in their place where they belong,
When the guy asks about the ghost, Sam's expression softens a little. He thinks about the time he met a shade of the Grand Highblood, after Kurloz found out what happened to Gamzee and tried to hide behind the title, tried to make himself not care, even though it didn't suit him and it took Sam all of five minutes to see beneath the cracks.
This is different. This is the real thing, there are no cracks for Sam to try to worm his way under here, and Sam doesn't think that this guy'd be pleased to know that it ended with Kurloz crying in his arms.
"He was a kid. And one of the best damn leaders I've met."
He's the reason why Sam now has a tattoo of a constellation down his right side, but this guy doesn't need to know that.
no subject
"Was" He repeats after Sam. "A WRIGGLER WHAT AIN'T NO MORE. Wrigglers get mowed down by the motherfucking millions, don't you know. ONLY THEM WHAT DISAVOW... can overcome. WHAT USE IS A WRIGGLER TO ANYONE? What use is a wriggler to you?"
It's hypothetical. Motherfucker's made tell what he thinks the kid to up and be. But it's all of provocation to what stirs in the thinkpan. Perhaps it might mean rethinking.
"A LEADER, SO A BROTHER TELLS. Heh. AND? Met a lot of motherfuckers what got thinking they could lead. TWO ALONE KNOWN WHAT COULD." A Highblood and an Empress, of course. As everyone knew.
He leans back in his throne, chin lifting up. His face is losing its mirth and his eyes are narrowing for it. "Making real elusive you are, boy. DON'T BE MOTHERFUCKING HOLDING OUT, LITTLE BROTHER."