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)
thecapitol2013-05-05 05:02 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thecapitol2013-05-05 05:02 pm
[OPEN]
Who| The Initiate and YOU
What| An aspiring preacher goes to make some noise
Where| The Training Center
When| Before the party
Warnings/Notes| Swearing all over. General awfulness.
Already he is weary of their pomp and pride, all these aliens swilling about him like they own him, like a bunch of sea-dwellers thinking injudiciously that he is not well above them in all sense of the greater workings. He snarls at the pecking and plucking, snapping his jaws at any who try to touch the paint of his face. He hopes he makes it very clear that if they remove his paint he will replace it's lack through leak of their veins. He has a feeling that they're just a bit too thick to understand. He mourns for his voodoo again and again, feeling somewhat stifled and lost without it in his reach. At least, he thinks upon hearing of the upcoming death-match, there are ways to keep himself busy.
He heads for the Center, leaving shredded bits of clothing and shoes behind in a bread crumb trail for the sorry fucks to find. By the time he gets there, his new tunic is bare of sleeves, the bottoms of his pants are torn, used to create a makeshift armband at each wrist, and his large clawed feet are bare. He's voodoo-less, weapon-less, and though he's just recently grown taller than even true adults, there may always be someone bigger and even a small troll--alien-- could be dangerous. He weighs entering the center with quiet subtlety but decides that, no, he is annoyed, antsy, and teetering on the high wire line of boredom, and that will not motherfucking do.
Cliche or motherfucking not, nothing quite feels like kicking a door open and walking in with your head held high. He gives a grin and offers his best ring-master's bow.
He says, loud enough for those nearby him to hear, "Mirthful believers, FAITHLESS FUCKS; Who can lead a Messiah blessed to find holiest armament? OR SHALL CARNIVAL COME WITHOUT A CLUB'S BLESSINGS?"
Always good to weed out the worthy from heretics early on, he thinks, already amused. He doesn't actually expect help. He heads for the weapons without waiting for response.
Already he is weary of their pomp and pride, all these aliens swilling about him like they own him, like a bunch of sea-dwellers thinking injudiciously that he is not well above them in all sense of the greater workings. He snarls at the pecking and plucking, snapping his jaws at any who try to touch the paint of his face. He hopes he makes it very clear that if they remove his paint he will replace it's lack through leak of their veins. He has a feeling that they're just a bit too thick to understand. He mourns for his voodoo again and again, feeling somewhat stifled and lost without it in his reach. At least, he thinks upon hearing of the upcoming death-match, there are ways to keep himself busy.
He heads for the Center, leaving shredded bits of clothing and shoes behind in a bread crumb trail for the sorry fucks to find. By the time he gets there, his new tunic is bare of sleeves, the bottoms of his pants are torn, used to create a makeshift armband at each wrist, and his large clawed feet are bare. He's voodoo-less, weapon-less, and though he's just recently grown taller than even true adults, there may always be someone bigger and even a small troll--alien-- could be dangerous. He weighs entering the center with quiet subtlety but decides that, no, he is annoyed, antsy, and teetering on the high wire line of boredom, and that will not motherfucking do.
Cliche or motherfucking not, nothing quite feels like kicking a door open and walking in with your head held high. He gives a grin and offers his best ring-master's bow.
He says, loud enough for those nearby him to hear, "Mirthful believers, FAITHLESS FUCKS; Who can lead a Messiah blessed to find holiest armament? OR SHALL CARNIVAL COME WITHOUT A CLUB'S BLESSINGS?"
Always good to weed out the worthy from heretics early on, he thinks, already amused. He doesn't actually expect help. He heads for the weapons without waiting for response.
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He wants to celebrate. But, with no corpse to stand over, to take apart, to create art with, he's not sure how. His eyes dart back to the blood dripping down the Helmsman's arms. A good gold. The Initiate holds his hands out to the him- still covered in indigo himself- and gestures with a nod of head.
"MAY WHAT YOU'VE SPILLED BE USED?" He asks, seriously. Sure he could just take it but this feels more like a rite, to ask for it, an exchange of motherfucking color, even if both remain alive.
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So he stays.
He holds his arms out, feeling shaky. For all he knows, the Initiate could rip his arms from his sockets.
Finish him off.
Let him find some form of peace.
But he holds his arms out anyways, awkwardly rolling up his sleeves and revealing his arms that are more like sticks then anything else. "Go ahead."
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He touches his hands to the Helsmans arms, just beneath the sleeves, but rather than dig in, he marks them both with indigo right down to the wrists. Then he places each palm end to the Helmsman's, and takes from him the yellow already bleeding there and leaves more indigo in it's place. It's not much in terms of painting, but it will do.
With golden fingers he kneels back down and goes back to work with painting, smiling, pleased. He spends a long time in silence, working away, before asking, idly, "I imagine at him to know little else of I; that to be incorrect, Helmsman?"
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"You want to know what you're like ath an adult?" He glances over at the human warily, then back to the Initiate. "I thuppothe I could tell you a thtory."
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"Onthe, and thith ith thomething I only heard of through reportth and thecondhand, but onthe there wath thith gambligant who wath quickly becoming a petht. There wath another troll, her kithmethith or thomething, who wath angry at how the gambligant carried herthelf. Tho he went to you, the Grand Highblood, with whithperth of where thhe wath. He wanted revenge in a way that wathn't black at all.
"The Grand Highblood, you, didn't care about the location of the gambligant. You gave the location to thomeone who did, but what you were more contherned about wath the troll who had brought the information to your hive. You were interethted in thith thtuffy, boring troll - you wanted to thee if there wath more to him then hith hatred. You wanted to thee if he had a thenthe of humor, becauthe what'th the point of being tho highranking if you can't enjoy yourthelf? Tho you gave him a tetht. If he could make you laugh, he could go free. If he couldn't, he would be culled.
"The troll protethted, finding your tetht thupid and meaningleth. When prethed, he couldn't come up with anything to even make you crack a thmile. Tho you raithed your club, and added royal violet to the paint on your wallth."
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"GOOD. Let the mirthless motherfucker choke on his own unchuckling tongue," he says. "YOU TELL A GOOD TALE, HELMSMAN. Got the motherfucking approval high for it. PERHAPS IN DEATH THE WADER TOO PROVES SOMETHING OF USE WITH VIOLET OF HIS SPLIT MOTHERFUCKING VEINS." He laughs aloud at the thought.
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"Thank you, preacher." He chews on his bottom lip. "Of courthe you would have painted your wallth when him. I can't thay how amathing your mathterpiethe wath, though, but you were known for your art."
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In any case, the blood is drying.
He stands up, walks toward the Helmsman's bench, and seats himself beside him, crossing his legs atop it.
"And what of you, Helmsman?" he asks. "HAVE AT STORY WHAT TO SHARE OF THINE OWN MOTHERFUCKING SELF?"
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Maybe he's finally completely lost it.
"My life wath nowhere near ath imprethive ath yourth will be." Which isn't really that true, but...He can't remember most things that have happened to him. Everything is so fuzzy.
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He doesn't think that the Helmsman might've forgotten. Lowblood's don't live long enough for that, he fairly certain. Niether though, does he believe for a second that the Helmsman has nothing.
He snorts, "Well, he apparently met a Grand Highblood and lived. THERE'S A MOTHERFUCKING STORY FOR YOUR SORRY CHUTE." Implied is a very hefty, 'oh c'mon'.
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"I'll be thure to tell it to all the wigglerth I meet, heh."
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He looks the Helmsman over and gives particular note to the drying color on each of their hands.
"CONSIDER IT CHANCE THEN. Let it never be said one of the church knew no mercies. LET SUCH NOISE NEVER BE SPOKE OF. Said at you wove good tale, I did. STILL HAVE AT CHANCE TO MAKE ONE WITH DEATH AND LIFE, SHOULD A HELMSMAN SO CHOOSE. As Messiahs intended."
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"I thank you for your merthy," he murmurs softly, staring at the Initiate's painting. It'll be gone by tomorrow, but for now... "I will try my betht to make my new life a life worth talking about. Thank you."
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He grins and hops off the bench. "LOOK FORWARD TO THE TALE, HELMSMAN. A Grand Highblood," the roll of the name from his tongue delights him still, "must see to the clubs of this motherfucking place, AND BRING ABOUT RIGHTEOUS CACOPHONY OF TRAINING FOR THE DEATH SONGS TO BE." As he says this he gives a half-bow. And then, he turns to leave the Helmsman to his thoughts, and a view of yellow and indigo blood dried on the floor.