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
"Little brother, he ain't never ceasing to be painting. AIN'T NEVER SEEN A DAY AS THE PAINT UNAPPEASED. Now is of no matter. BUT YOU ARE CORRECT ENOUGH. He ain't care for pedantics. NOT A CARE IN HIM. Except..."
The Messiahs were all and everything. Their word, law. Their act, fate. The Messiahs have paved the way for his whole life. Everything was going exactly as it ought to on the path to shangri-la. And so a divergent path...
"THAT FUTURE? Pray tell, what the motherfuck is a little brother making to mean by that?"
A divergent path is a failure, or a blasphemy, or both.
no subject
It's a smooth enough backpedal he doesn't believe the old Troll will deem it so. Its true enough, at any rate. A future of blood does await them once the Rebellion succeeds in inciting an actual war instead of going about this cloak and dagger leading up to it.
"Please, tell me for I am uninitiated, but what lies ahead after the blood is spilled and the vast painting complete?" He's morbidly curious where the Highblood's beliefs send him at their completion. What is the finale of the Trollish Revelations?
no subject
He grunts. He decides to forgive as he is pleaded to. The church could be magnanimous. He likes Albert's explanation well enough.
"BEING A DISTANCE IT IS FROM THE MOTHERUCKIN FINALE OF ALL. There is still much to come. MUCH TO FOLLOW EVEN AFTER THE VAST HONK IS MADE TURN TO THE MOTHERFUCKING TABLES. When the Lord arrives... GOSPELEVITY THE FIFTH, PENTRI 88, VERSE 2. The reckoning will come and it's name shall be We, and our digits will strike in multitude to scour of the forsaken. WE SHALL WRING THE DYING SYMPHONY FROM MANIPPENDAGED ELDEBHORRENCE, SO DROWN THE UNDROWNABLE AND DOWN THOSE WHAT THOUGHT UNDOWNED AS THE FOREORDAINED DEAFENED TO THE VAST HONK. And onward reach for the rise, the rise, o genesis arisen with the dawning death. FOURTY EIGHT AND NINE AND EIGHTEEN AND SO BLINDED ARE WE WHO RESIST..." His scripture trails off. His breath is a sigh.
"There is much we are to know and yet may not motherfucking know. WE ARE NOT WORTHY. We have not met our duty with the blade of hand opposing. WE WILL NOT SEE NEW PARADISE, FOR WE ARE CARNIVALBOUND. Not even he shall breathe its fucking arrival. BUT SURE AS THE END, IT WILL COME. There will be new hatching of the rowdy raucous. THE PIECES DEAD OF THE OLD WORLDS AND WORDS SHALL MAKE WORLD ANEW. A people who are chosen. A MOTHERFUCKING PEOPLE HARDCORE. And for these people, the family, one single fucking rock on which all blood spilled is of likeness. THERE WILL BE RIGHT MOTHERFUCKING CALAMITY AS TO CREATE THE NEW DAY. And so begin a new cycle of balance by Messiah's design. LITTLE BROTHER, WE AIN'T BUT GODS' STEPPING STONES."
no subject
It doesn't seem to be a very comforting or uplifting religion to Albert.
"And we are not part of the family? Is none of the reward for us but to bring about the future?" Uplifting or not, he can see it as a parallel of life. Troll culture, as it's been described to him in bits and pieces, is a savage thing, full of death and calamity. It makes sense that a religion created in such a society would tout the outcome of death as more important than the potential deaths of those who believe.
"Forgive me, I mean no blasphemy. I am trying to understand."
no subject
"ALLOW NOT THE WHIMS AND FOCUS OF THE SELF TO PLUCK THEM SIGHT SPHERES FROM YOUR LITTLE NUG PEARLY AND FRAIL," He continues. "He is old, little brother. FAR MORE MOTHERFUCKING ANCIENT THAN WHAT LIKES MAKE YOUR OWNSELF. There ain't nothing to be feared of death. YOU AIN'T FEARING LIFE BEFORE YOU GOT YOUR ASS HATCHED NEW. Why fear death before your chokepipe has ceased it's motherfucking pull?" Soon it would come for him too. There's an anticipation there that can't be choked out. There's a motherfucking longing what's been in him a long ass time. He is so very ready.
"THE CARNIVAL AFTERS AWAIT THE LIKES OF ALL THE FAMILY. All them what find themselves of the family be a part, he sayeth true as holy ticket taker. BUT IMPORTANT STILL TO RECALL IT REMAINS. Greater things than you, little brother. BIGGER THINGS THAN HIS OWN MOTHERFUCKING SELF." He's fallen easy into preaching. It's less scripture and grand parable, spoken in grander tone, than it is the calm teaching of a lesson. The calm does not lull into any sense of security however.
He asks then, "Have you never known travesty what delivered a future and understanding more miraculous than what persisted prior? IF YOU SPOKE THIS AN UNTRUTH HE WOULD CALL YOU A LIAR. Can't be no dusk if there ain't a day. CAN'T BE NO BLESSING IF THERE AIN'T NO PRAY. We are given all the reward Messiahs deem. WE BORROW WHAT LIVES WE MOTHERFUCKING HAVE. Can only be borrowing so damn long. IF A MOTHERFUCKER IS TOO BLIND TO SEE WHAT IS THERE, HOMIE WON'T NEVER GET ON TO REALISE. Won't never appreciate. WON'T KNOW THE MIRACLES WHAT BE HAD ALREADY AS KICK IT ALL ABOUT US. Ain't reward if you're motherfucking prying for it. BEING SHIT ENTITLED UNAPPRECIATED FOR WHAT IT UP AND IS. No blasphemy yet taken. EVEN THE MOST FAITHFUL OF THE FAMILY MAY FAIL IN THIS RESPECT. Even those with greatest spiritghost in their pumps." This he says with his eyes upon his painting.
no subject
Albert was lucky. He had something better. Has, still, despite the terrible things he's witnessed and even perpetrated. He has those who he calls friends, family, home. He has a reason to live in the here and now and not hasten the end in the hope for something better.
He pities the Highblood, pities him deeply and nearly says it, though the knowledge that he still has a mission to fulfill stills the thought on his tongue. What he owes instead is thanks. A deep gratitude for this newly gathered knowledge not about the Troll before him but the one he never was, never will be.
Because the Initiate Fraysong Kurloz Makara's family will not allow him to become the lonely and desperate beast that is The Grand Highblood.
Albert smiles a little, not at the truths spoken in the Troll's sermon but at the ones underneath, those he holds evident and close because they lead to his brother's salvation in the here and now no matter what awaits them later. He rises to his feet, still dwarfed by the subjuggulator but unconcerned at the difference in their stature. "Thank you for the lesson, Herr Highblood. I will take it to heart."
And he will, just not in the way intended.
no subject
He wears a funny expression, something entirely inscrutable. He watches Albert tired but sharp eyed, ever weary. If there's any sign that Highblood suspects a thing, gets though that his preach was taken in different meaning, he does not express it. It does not show.
But surely he catches no pity, for Albert has not yet had his life extinguished. In a blink he would be snuffed out, if only the Highblood knew. Pity is not for him.
"OF EXCELLENCE WAS THIS WICKED DISCOURSE ABOUT US," The Highblood continues. "A good mother fucking harangue this was... Heinrich."
The Highblood shoots Albert a truly wicked grin then, at the drop of a name. But then, he does no more. He turns his back and waves the cyborg off, shooing him.
"GO. Your Highblood must consult again the angels. HE'LL NOT HAVE NO MORE DIVERSION."
no subject
With permission to leave and the Troll's attention again on the wall and not him, Albert bows his head - it seems like the thing to do - and makes his way from the dream and to another, rattled, but still secure in the knowledge he's gained and can use as a tool to help Kurloz recover. If he learns nothing else in this dreamwalking exercise, he'll still call it a success because of that.