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
It helps nothing of his ability to process. Sufferer? Avoiding him? What does he mean? He never avoided his ancestor, but--no, didn't Initiate do that before, referring to himself in the third person? But then, why Sufferer?
The shout wipes clear his wondering.
"I'm--" God, swallow, squeeze eyes shut but no no don't disrespect by not looking, look at him, oh god. "I'm not the Sufferer. I haven't--he's--He's my ancestor."
His hands are curled tight where they sit against the floor, nails digging pinpricks into palms. He can barely breathe, mind flashing warning at him that he's going to die, he's going to die, it's going to be awful and he'll be less than paint because what does this mutant gutterblood mistake of a husk deserve above a dirty drain? Nothing, nothing, he was stupid to ever think otherwise, and why or how the Grand Highblood would be here to remind him means nothing next to the fact he is.
no subject
"You bear traitor's blood," He says, voice dripping with venom. "YOU WALK IN THE BONES OF THEM WHAT WALKED SWEEPS AND SWEEPS AND SWEEPS PAST YOURS. You are the spit and fucking ilk, the Sufferer's god forsaken ghost.. AIN'T GIVE A SQUEAKBEASTS ASS WHO YOU MOTHERFUCKING YOU MOTHERFUCKING ARE AND ARE NOT!"
His words are in din, echoing out. The deathly quiets that follow his shouts are paralysing. They make the shadows colder, darker, deeper. There is the sense they might reach out for someone and take them down. The Highblood is a shadow given form and life.
"They died for you. YOU CRUEL ASS THING, FOR YOU THEY WENT AND MADE THEMSELVES MOTHERFUCKING DEAD. You do not appreciate. YOU DO NOT FATHOM. You never have..."
The Highblood's eyes narrow.
no subject
That he doesn't care, well, that's his prerogative. He can't really argue.
Whatever is made of the background fades just to that: background, backdrop, scenery, something painted somewhere between for and by the enormity of the Highblood's own presence. He is a nightmare, after all, and nightmares are his realm.
(It would quake him even without the voodoos lodged solid into his mind.)
But it's that certainty, that knowing that even if he won't die slow that he's bound to end up dead still, that takes hold of the last part. Insult, degradation, accusation--they rankle.
"No." His voice bubbles up out of his mouth, barely a full thought before it's spilled out. "No, no, that's not true. You think I don't give a shit about the people who've died for me? You think I don't care that they laid down their lives for a useless fucking gutterblood like me to live? I've seen over half my friends dead in front of my eyes - I've been the reason they died - and I've felt more than anyone how much that weighs!"
And oh, god, what is he saying? Who is he, talking back to this monolith, this force and fortress? It's arrogance upon arrogance and idiocy beside, but it doesn't make a word of what he's said insincere. His face is defiant and terrified, fangs still bared because he knows it's pointless to take it back.
no subject
Niave ass motherfucker. He thought at first that was so, then he assumed all treachery. No. What it being up and is, is both. An answer to obvious he shames himself in the lack of knowing. But that has been rectified. That is the past.
"SWEEP AFTER SWEEP HE'S BEEN ROOTING OUT YOUR LOT AND THEY HAVE LEAPT ON THE BLADES OF THEIR ENEMIES. They've gone motherfucking diving upon his club, were you aware?" Of course he was. "WORE THEIR INSIDES ON THE OUTS AS NEW FLESH TO THEM. But none so bright as you, no, none so motherfucking bright. LIKE THE MOTHERFUCKING DAY YOU ARE. Like a fucking poison. YOU INFECT THEM ALL OVER AND OVER AND OVER, BY GENERATION CONTINUOUS YOU HAVE GONE TO MOTHERFUCKING INFECT! But this was not your sin, oh no..."
He reaches down. With one massive well placed claw, he could rake out this motherfucker's throat. He tilt's Karkat's chin upward to his crouched form.
"THE GREATEST INJUSTICE OF THE INFIDEL!" He begins in a Preacher's tone. "Considered by the rabble you were called a sort kind." He laughs. All bitter does he laugh. "THE CULL IS THE CULL IS THE CULL. Trolls are trolls are trolls. ALWAYS SAID SUCH. Always made proposition that the fight was right. ANY AND ALL COULD MAKE TO MOTHERFUCKING TRY. But you... you thieved it. YOU MADE BARKBEASTS OF THE LOT AND LET BE SLICED THEIR UPTURNED BELLIES. You played them like a bunch of fucking suckers. DID YOU REALLY THINK THERE WAS ANY HOPE FOR YOU THAT WOULDN'T MEAN AN END?!"
He lets go of Karkat and just about croons. "You are disease wrought upon us all... a curse."
no subject
He's breathing hard again, breath a gasping sound for fear as the story is laid into him. Were times different, were it someone else and not him, were not sense and the fear wrought by voodoos there to hold him from anything greater, he might protest. He's not his ancestor, not the preacher and revolutionary--but that's not solely what this is about, is it? He gets it, or gets it as much as he can here in the dream: the reason conforms to mind as any logic a dream ever has. He's a mutant who's made followers, a heretic leader, cullbait gone recruiting others who would surely die for daring to show loyalty to one such as him. He didn't grow up on Alternia to never think of that. Aiding and abetting isn't let off easy when the main figure is someone like him.
When the Highblood reaches down to touch him, he's a paradox. He sits still as stone, but the tilt of his head comes easy, body pliant as a doll to a puppetmaster. His eyes are held wide and open; he dares not to blink, even as terror-tears slip past the lids to roll down his cheeks. He scarce dares to breathe, perhaps doesn't deserve it with the truths he's being told. His fault, all of it, disease and curse indeed.
When he lets go, Karkat makes but a whine. The sound is as thin and weak as he is next to him. He gets it now. Like always, his past self of even a moment ago is ever infinitely stupid.
"I..."
But now what? He can't say he's sorry; he knows it would do no good and have no point. For all his momentary defiance, he finds himself now at a loss.
His gaze drops down to the floor.
no subject
"They don't listen to a preacher's preach. TO THE KNOWINGS SPEECH." He chuckles. "Consider a Highblood just some chump, don't you know? THINKPAN SPUN AS YOU TO BE OH SO KIND, A MOTHERFUCKER CAN'T DAMN. Cannot motherfucking betray as like any other troll." He laughs. What a marvellous joke. What a fucking calamity.
His eyes light up, pink and purple in quick concession. He breathes images into the air, monsters, the screaming victimry. "THEY CALL HIM A BOOGIE MAN. They say he can feel fear from the other side of the planet what he is on," He begins, an unearthly echo upon his voice. "BUT YOU'VE GOT AT YOUR OWNSELF A BESTOWING ALL A SORTS SPECIAL, AIN'T YOU?" The imagery fades away into one of the sufferer with eyes rage red, as the Highblood turns his gaze onto Karkat. "You keep... coming... BACK." The image of the sufferer dissipates like smoke. "You claim different calling. YOU GIVE ALTERANCE UNTO YOUR FORM. But a Vantas is a Vantas is a fucking Vantas. A HEATHEN TRAITOR IS ONE WHAT IS ALL THE FUCKING SAME AND NO SWAY SHALL COME ABOUT HIM!"
And then the Highblood goes silent. He goes perfect still. He observes Karkat from on high, with disdain and resignation both. He observes like a tumor exposed, one that will surely kill but what the fuck is he to do about it when already come this far?
"He is getting tired of seeing your ghost. AT LEAST THE PREACH IS NEW."
no subject
Oh god, oh god, he whimpers to himself. His breath is caught in a hitch halfway to hyperventilating, set off by the tone now hitting his ears: that sound, too, holds memory, holds fear stitched in. There's his ancestor for a moment, and when it dissipates the words strike harder.
Lines about preach, though, mean little. It is not the Grand Highblood's time with his ancestor that quite gets him. Rather, voice a rattle almost unintelligible, he says, "It's my fault. My fault, all of it, he wouldn't--Iwouldn't--if I hadn't made us. I made us both, I pressed the buttons like a chump and made every one of us, me, my team, him. The--The Dolorosa, Psiioniic, Disciple." He swallows so hard he would swear he could feel every edge of the lump. "Paradox Space wouldn't let me not."
no subject
There's not so much surprise over the names of the Dolorosa, Psiioniic, Disciple. Of course this one should know them. If that damned culled managed nothing the fuck else it was the carrying on like illness and keeping shit known where it ought not to be. The source of the infection should know though. Can't hardly keep up otherwise.
"Paradox space," He echoes, the word a joke from his maw. "AND I SUPPOSE THAT TRUE FOR HE? For they and we and fucking all? WHO ELSE? What such makings? GOING AT FROM FAULTS YOURS TO THE WHOLE OF MOTHERFUCKING SPACE! Think a boy to ramble. THINK AS YOUR PONDER'S GONE TO WANDER."
He squints at Karkat, as though a puzzle sits there he ain't proper worked out. "...You got something in your pan, boy. GOT BITS JAMMED IN LIKE REVELATION"
GHB you are not stemming the self-blame parade at all
"Twelve trolls," he utters out, taking what he does get. "Eleven others and me, one from--from each caste. Their ancestors. You, the Empress, others." And for a second he holds, surety piercing through him that daring to claim he made Her Imperious Condescension will get him dead. But there's more, still, and when death doesn't yet come...
"A universe. A whole fucked up universe, with a friend, but I messed it up and gave is cancer and, and now it's, it's gone. And--" He swallows, hard, gaze skittering around for somewhere safe to look but unable to escape the mass of the troll before him. "I started the game that brought the Reckoning, the Vast Glub--and everyone--everyone left, who escaped, we're dying because we--I fucked up. It's me, I'm the one who couldn't do anything right."
Pointlessly he rubs tears away from an eye, and chokes out quiet, "I should have been culled from the start."
why would he EVER want to stem a right motherfuckin FLOW
He doesn't believe the blasphemy. Of course motherfucking not. He'd never accept such unbelievable sin. It couldn't be held no more than water. But the boy illustrates. Oh, does he paint real motherfucking clear and true for every and all. He shows as which could be done, should the diseased limb not be cut the fuck off.
He watches with harsh breath, the bright red bleed down from the ocular. It is a wrongness all too blatant before his eyes. He will paint it everywhere motherfuckers ought know fear for the extent of what unholy shit got committed brash.
"ON ONE MOTHERFUCKING ELEMENT DO YOU HOST A PREACH OF TRUTH UNDENIABLE. One thing alone. THAT THING BOY, TO MAKE IT WRIT DONE WROTE. You should never have existed for the need of culling." His eyes light again. Seemingly from the air, he brings out a club.
"HOWEVER, IT IS ON THIS MOTHER FUCKING EVE, WE SHALL MAKE RIGHTEOUS OF WHAT CALAMITY HAS COME UPON US. We will purge all existence from sin. COME CLOSE, SUFFERER. And you need suffer no motherfucking more." The club raises high.
no subject
In this moment, it doesn't matter that the Grand Highblood should be long since dead, or confined to the harmless, quiet youth of a teen Avox. It doesn't matter that he shouldn't be here, that nothing makes sense. He feels guilt on him. He deserves what comes to him now for being what he is, for doing what he's done, for daring to exist in the first place.
He prays, as close to a cultist's faith as he'll ever come, please, let it be quick.
no subject
He starts to laugh, high and manic. It goes in symphonic contrast with the fear spurred sobbing, a song for all and motherfucking every ain't it just motherfucking just? Ain't it all a right in the first place? The Vantas should never have dared existed, but he did. He did and he burned him throw and now... now it was over.
He steps closer, tilting that jaw up all sickening sweet, his face all teeth. "BY WILL OF THE MESSIAHS. All shall meet the ticket taker as all will face their terminus true. THIS HAUNT WILL END. Both his ownself's. AND THE SHIT WHAT'S BEEN DONE PLACED IN YOUR MOTHERFUCKING PAN TWIST-TURNED."
There's a sickening crunch as the club swings down through the small one's skull, the sinner's blood smeared all upon his floor. Red as a holy thing.