thecapitol | [OPEN]

Entry tags:

[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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He waves a dismissive hand, moving the knives to the side. It's probably better to appear harmless and pitiful then like someone who actually poses a threat. He's spent time around many, many highbloods, and if they feel like you're not a challenge then you're probable more likely to survive your encounter. If there's one thing all highbloods like, it's feeling that everyone below them is in their proper place.

"I thimply believe you are the very firtht preacher thith plathe hath." He arches a brow. "You will find only faithleth, becauthe your faith hathn't eckthithted here at all, yet. I guess thith would make you a mithhionary, even if the people he don't want to hear what you have to thay."

He may have been better off keeping the weapons, at least with this particular highblood. The Initiate has no doubt in his ability to kill the Psiioniic- or anyone- but he appears to him less harmless and more like he's overconfident. He bristles and itches for clubs. But then, being called preacher, when he was not yet, assuages the unease a little.

"IN-MOTHERFUCKING-CORRECT ONCE AGAIN," he says. "Not surprising. YOU ARE NOT THE FIRST FUCKING DISSENTER NOR WILL YOU BE THE MOTHERFUCKING LAST. And the unmirthful always think they know the holier working, ALWAYS KNOW THE HOLIEST MOTHERFUCKING WORKINGS THEY THINK THEY DO."

He weighs whether or not he cares enough to impart to this one, the greater believings. His abnormally large hands clench and unclench in want for a weapon or something to hold. Paint even, the shows always went better with paint, but he has nothing. That's why he's here.

He says, "The faith, the Messiahs, do not need for motherfuckers what to give them voices. THE MESSIAHS SPEAK ALWAYS, AND MOTHERFUCKING SERVE WHAT NEEDS BE DONE THAT THEY WANT AND WISH AND MOTHERFUCKING FIND. And find they always do. And from the broods they will choose WHO IS WORTHY TO HEAR THEIR WORD SHOULD THE MOTHERFUCKERS SEEK THEIR SALVATIONS. Or let it slip. It will not be my problem if they remain deaf. CAN STILL FIND BEAUTY IN THE DEATH OF ALL WHO DENY CHANCE FOR PASSAGE, for ticket to seat."

Edited 2013-05-06 07:37 (UTC)

He places is hands on his lap, bowing his head. It's a small thing, and it might not even be noticed by the Initiate, but sometimes the subtlety of body posture makes you seem just submissive enough and can save your life.

He closes his eyes, briefly, before he turns to face the Initiate directly. (Too many highbloods disliked his eyes, found their inability to tell where he was looking infuriating.)

"I mean only that there are no other trollth here who have been blethhed to hear about mirth, preacher." He smiles, hoping it looks more sad then condescending. "You are the very firtht highblood that'th come here. The only otherth of any thtanding are mythelf, and I am but a thlave."

He's remarkably full of shit.

He is, and The Initiate is starting to be able to tell. He narrows his eyes and he says as much, "A SLAVE WHAT AIN'T FUCKING RIGGED, AIN'T A MOTHERFUCKING SLAVE, ANY TROLL WITH FUNCTIONING PAN AND WHOLE SET MAW CAN UP AND ATTEST ON THAT. 'Less you wish on implication of that troll NOT fucking being you. UNLESS FOR THOUGHT THAT A TROLL SEEKS MASTERS, YOU UP AND WISH. Am I meant to assume that's all to be this motherfucker's case? IF YES, HE CAN FUCK OFF. Got no interest in lugging a carcass what ain't giving his life colors for paint."

He gives pause, his expression sceptical, then says, "IF NOT, SPEAK YOUR TITLE SO IT MAY BE UP AND KNOWN BY A NINJA. Unless on it's stripping within your slavery you went and motherfucking FORGOT."

His lips twitch down, but just for a moment. He straightens up, eyes narrowing as his smile returns. "I wath rigged for quite thome time. I wath the Helmthman for Her Imperial Condethenthion, pulled from my potht before my time by thothe running thith plathe."

The Psiioniic leans back. He's not sure what to expect from the Initiate, and he doesn't want to die quite so soon after being brought back. "That would happen to be my title ath well. Being a Helmthman ith all I'm wrth, now."

That gets some surprise. Not only to see a helmsman in the flesh, but the Empress's own. One heard stories of course, rumors flitting about like greater squeakbeasts on board a ship, like flies over a corpse, but, never having left the planet-side, seeing the real thing was entirely different. Personally, he would've imagined the Helmsman to lack limbs with his grafting.

There is a long moment left to him merely re-evaluating the Helmsman, before he says, in a somewhat rehearsed tone, "O GLORY FOR THE HELMSTROLL, that he shouts with his captains, mayday. O GLORY FOR THE STAR SCRAPED, that he sings in his rig for the slay." He chants it dully, cynical perhaps if one squinted, and it's clear that the poem is meant to be sold very differently; a flawed, weak attempt to garner the wonder of the young and stupid of psionic trolls.

"SEEMS A FALSE FUCKING SHOW," He says. "A Helmsman ain't a helmsman now. CLEARLY THOSE RUNNING THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLACE THINK HIM WORTH ENTERTAINMENT."

He bares his teeth briefly at the poem. He's heard it before, of course he's heard it before, psionics of his caliber had been so rare that it was always assumed he would find his way to a helm after he'd gotten old enough. Everyone had been right, but nobody could have predicted how long he would be a Helmsman.

"Every thhow needth thomeone to perform poorly. Every court needth a jethter, and not all jethterth have to have fathe paint and clubth to be amuthing." He reaches over for a knife, turning it over in his hands and turning his head to look down to it. (He's always, always conscious of his eyes and how he appears.) "But it doeth leave me with an innaccurate title, true."

His expression stays blank now, as he listens, then, he reaches out for the knife in the helmsman's hands and takes it from him. The Initiate looks the knife over then back at the Helmsman. He brings the dagger's tip to his palm and drags it steadily across, bringing forth small indigo beads. With a bleeding palm and indigo tipped knife he sits himself down, cross legged on the floor before the Helmsman. Fraysong dips his fingers in the color, and on the floor smears an image; two dots together, a circle below, and a curving arch underneath.

:o)

The Initiate, continues to draw abstract swirls around it, and says, "A CARNIVAL PLAYER WHAT PREFORMS SHIT GETS TO KICK THE MOTHERFUCKING WICKED OF IT. A true carnival player what preforms shit don't up and motherfucking exist. WHEN THE GRAND AUDIENCE SEEKS FOR COMEDY THERE IS REASON WHY THEY TURN THEIR LOOKSTUBS TO THE CLOWN. A clown seeks for relief of the sin of boredom doing in that what he motherfucking may choose. A JOLLY MOTHERFUCKING JESTER KNOWS AT WHAT THEY DO. A fucker what preforms poor in the show? IS THE MOTHERFUCKING VOLUNTEER. Naive. UNWILLING FOR THE FULL EXPERIENCE IN SHOW, JUST A SOLITARY TASTE, TO TURN TAIL LIKE A COWARD." He looks at the Helmsman again. "You ain't a motherfucking volunteer, Helmsman. YOU WERE MOTHERFUCKING HANDPICKED. Therefore, he should find reason TRUE FOR THE MESSIAHS HAVE ALREADY."

He pauses, thinks again on the Helmsman's title, then adds, "If it feels of unfitting skin, THEN SHED IT. There are enough here what could give him title anew."

He feels his bloodpusher stop when the Initiate grabs the knife, and for a moment he feels afraid. He can't deny how curious he feels as the highblood cuts himself, or the way he can't hide the fascinated look on his face as he watches him paint. Something about this feels familiar in a way that's uncomfortable, and he's not sure why that is, and he's even less sure if he wants to know the reasons for this familiarity.

The Psiioniic is quiet as he speaks, staring at the indigo blood staining at the floor. He...he's not really sure what this means. It's not how he would have expected the other troll to act, but maybe he's not as good at reading highbloods as he had once been. Or maybe he was just too concerned with surviving this encounter he hadn't been paying good enough attention. "Are you offering to give me a new title, thir?"

Sir. It's a slip of the tongue, and he can't help but feel ashamed and disgusted by himself. He had once prided himself on being resilient and free, a time so long ago it feels more like a dream, but after so many sweeps it seems like subservience was becoming his nature. As soon as his betters showed up he would bow to them.

He doesn't blink nor give pause to the "sir".

"SAID THERE WERE OTHERS. Not I. NOT MOTHERFUCKING I WOULD PICK TITLE TRUE FOR ANOTHER," he snaps, quickly. He shifts uneasily. "Unless the motherfucker wishes to spread out OPTIONS, could hardly guess of a troll what I just motherfucking met."

Calmer, he says, "GATHER THE MOTHERFUCKERS UP. Ask for trial on a name SO IT RINGS CLEAR. It's what he did." He, being the Probably-too-young-for-his-lacklustre-title Initiate.

He snorts, raising an eyebrow at the Initiate. "You don't want the pleathure?"

He unfolds his legs from underneath himself, brows furrowing with the far off memory of another name. "I can't thay I know enough motherfuckerth to have a dethent poll, tho I'll get back to on that." He smiles, distant and sad. There is one troll there who knows him, but that doesn't mean he remembers them. He'd probably know what his old title is, but he's not sure if he really wants to know. "Until then you can call me Helmthman. It'th the betht thing I have."

"HELMSMAN THEN," he says. He goes back to painting, incorporating a little more imagery on the unnerving side. "And her deathly ships go on, TO CONQUERING WORLD AND STAR; But O hear the howl of empty helm, OVER THE EMPIRE'S HAIL OF WAR. Tore asunder the motherfucker did, AND STEERED ALL TO SWALLOWING DARK." He pauses for a moment then and explains, "Motherfuckers don't ever say at how it ends. WASTE OF A GOOD TALE. A tale gone to waste it is. A GHOST STORY OVER RABBLE IT WAS MEANT." A smirk appears again on his face. "Illegal what to read in full."

His brow furrows. That's a poem he doesn't know, and he's not sure why that leaves him so unnerved. "Where did that come from...?" He pauses, pulling his sleeves down. His clothing is more then loose enough for them to drape over his hands, but he can't help but feel a chill and the need to cover his scars as best he can. "I've never heard of a poem that wath illegal."

"SAME AS A FIRST SAID. A motherfucking extension and continuance of what is preached. THE END HIDDEN THE FUCK AWAY. Made to erase from the ganderings. NOT MOTHERFUCKING WELL ENOUGH. Found illicit word only barely kept from the sightspheres," He says. "A HELMSMAN SHOULDN'T HAVE HEARD TALE OF FURTIVE POEM. That's what it's MOTHERFUCKING ILLEGAL FOR." He pauses to look at the Psiioniic, daring him to mock. "Like at the motherfucking word and writ, so look and found I up and did. DON'T FORGET I AM A HIGHBLOOD. Clearance would come to my own self easier."

Edited 2013-05-09 08:06 (UTC)

He watches the initiate, and he doesn't quite notice how tense he is, the way his claws dig into the bench he's sitting on, the tension in his shoulder or the holes his teeth are threatening to punch through his lips. If he realized, he would hate himself for reacting like this to a poem.

"I don't think your thtatuth ith one to forget." He takes a deep breath, grimacing. "I don't think they'd care if highbloodth hear of it, becauthe they're not at rithk of ending up in a helm."

"Would be surprised, you would. YOU WOULD BE MOTHERFUCKING SURPRISED. Was first penned in violet, it was. MOTHERFUCKER WAS CULLED. Had digits removed and prong pulled so he would write no more. IT IS NOT NECESSARILY THE LOWBLOODED WHAT BREED DISSENT. And wouldn't he fucking know, has a higherblooded not just shared with he of a helm?" He says, smirking.

He keeps painting idly, swirling a loop around the clown face, then carrying it up further still in a hill, a drop, then another dash up. His sign- capricorn- in Indigo surrounds the smile now. He hasn't been able to wear it since coming here but at least he's managed to keep his face painted.

"Violet, huh? I thuppothe I had thothe fithh all wrong." He manages to force himself to react, plasters a smile on his face, and turns his attention to the designs the preacher is still painting on the ground. He hopes they'll be able to clean that up. (He can't help but feel twitchy at the mess, his first post was as a glorified lusus cleaning after an indigo who liked to pamper his psychics with "easy" jobs but who would lash out violently if things weren't done properly. It left him with the overwhelming need to organize and clean.)

But then, but then he notices the shape the swirls are taking. He knows those loops and curls. Any troll of any rank in the fleet would know that symbol. It belongs to the Grand Highblood, after all. The right hand of the Empire. The head subjugglator. The most powerful troll after the Empress, the troll with the strongest chucklevoodoos. He stares at the Initiate for a long, long moment, and he feels foolish. How could he not have noticed earlier? Those horns, while not as long as the Grand Highblood's, clearly have the same curling nature.

Oh, he's fucked.

"While we're thtill...Thtill vaguely on the topic of titleth," he speaks softly and hesitantly, curling in on himself. He's not sure if he should flee, but now he's terrified. "What did you thay yourth wath, preacher?"

He frowns at the Helmsman. He usually savours the fear in others but he also generally likes to know where it's coming from. He glances behind him quick, just to see if perhaps they were snuck up on or something, and seeing nothing, turns back with an expression that very clearly speaks a loud 'motherfucking what?'

Hearing the Helmsman say "Preacher" in the same breath he asks for his title though... He takes pride in having a title but when the nickname is better that the truth. Well.

"THE INITIATE. Fraysong," he answers. If the Helmsman mocks it then he can easily set him right, but considering the look on his face, he's not sure the Helmsman will.

There's blood dripping down his arms. He hasn't realized yet that he's digging his fingers hard enough to break the skin, hasn't even noticed the pain because he's terrified. Nervous laughter bubbles up out of him, and he can feel his bloodpusher stopping. This is...

This is impossible.

"That'th not your title." His words are highpitched and thready, and interrupted by his laughter. "Not the one I know you by."

He's starting to really wonder if his rig left the Helmsman pan damaged. The Initiate raises a brow at him, frowning.

"You know of me?" he asks, disbelieving.

They told him not to cull anyone until the games but at this point the Helmsman is oozing "mercy cull". And yellow. That too.

"Of courthe I do," he mutters defensively. He knows this is insane, but...

But the Sufferer was from a time before his execution, wasn't he? The Capitol was playing a game with all of them outside of the Arenas, so it stands to reason that bringing the Initiate here is all part of that. Right?

"The Capitol ith playing with uth, making a mockery of our thothiety and playing with time." He slowly straightens up, raising a bloody hand to point at the Initiate. "You're from a time before you grew into who you're meant to be. The troll I know you ath ith the Grand Highblood." He pauses to let that sink in. "You become much more then jutht an initiate, thir.

Kankri- The Signless was older than he, it was true. Time was not in line here. And realising that, there may never be another moment where The Initiate will seem more of a child, than quite right then. His jaw hangs and his eyes are wide with a thousand things; Shock, awe, disbelief, confusion, excitement. A long bout of silence breaks, with increasingly loud laughter of his own, before, carried off by his excitement, he throws his arms high and screams, "MOTHERFUCK YES!!!"

His laughter continues, echoing through the center, and he shoots up, pacing from the energy. "The Messiahs looked kindly upon him, he knew. COULD ALWAYS HEAR THEIR MOTHERFUCKING CALL. He knew, he knew at the priests to judge him false. LET THEM MOTHERFUCKING ROT WITH THEIR FALLACY! Let their flesh decay from their living bones as they kneel before me! I AM THE GRAND MOTHERFUCKING HIGHBLOOD!"

He pauses, and remembers that the Helmsman is there, turning back to him sharply. He snaps, "You are not lying to me?"

Well he. Was not expecting that. On a list of these he was expecting a reaction like that wouldn't even be close. It would be written on a paper left on Alternia, millions of miles away from the list.

He blinks once, twice, mouth hanging open because he just...doesn't know what to say. It's like the few times when the ship's network had to be updated and he would be momentarily offline, lost and confused.

He starts when the Initiate turns back to him, before nodding slowly. "I don't have a reathon to lie, and even leth of a reathon to not tell you your adult title. It'th who you are, after all."

He is alight with triumph. His breathing is punctured by pleased growls that are absolutely not clicking purrs. Like he's pulled off a particularly difficult cull. Which he has, hasn't he? A troll doesn't become Grand Highblood without taking down the previous one and many others beneath the high rank. Even if he hadn't done so from his standpoint, it still counted surely.

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.

They are purrs to the Psiioniic's ears, and it. It just makes the situation more bizarre, but he finds himself relaxing. He's not in danger here, even if half of him is screaming that he needs to leave, and rightnowrightaway because of what has happened, but if he tries to remember everything comes up blank.

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."

[OPEN]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

GH: fail at comforting people

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)