thecapitol | [OPEN]

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[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 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."

He watches the Helmsman roll up his sleeves, curiously, then walks closer, face cleared and refocused, like it truly is a rite he's preforming.

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?"

There's something strangely intimate, uncomfortably intimate, about the mixed blood on his arms. He can't help but be relief when he notices one of the odd humans - they were supposed to keep things in order, or something - drifting closer, and he uses their presence as an excuse to tug his sleeves back down. He's embarrassed by his arms, which are so thin you can see his veins clearly, and they're absolutely covered with scars from the wires of his helm.

"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."

The Initiate ignores the presence of the humans, stubbornly pretending they don't exist. He looks up at the Helmsman and waits for just that; a story.

Huffing, he crosses his arms over his chest. It takes him a while to think of a story, to think of something that won't give too much away, but he thinks he has a good story.

"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."

Perhaps it is now, that the Helmsman will see the Highblood-to-be within him. The Initiate's face grows only more gratified, thrilled, and slaughterous with the tale. If he still seems a child, he will not seem a kind one.

"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.

He nods, slowly, too scared of doing anything sudden when the Initiate reacts like that. For a moment, despite the story he told, he had forgotten that highbloods were vicious and more then a little insane.

"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."

He rolls his eyes. He doesn't need voodoos to tell the Helmsman's scared, and he sure as shit doesn't need it to know that 'masterpiece' is not what he'd call the Initiate's paintings otherwise. He knew full fucking well they scared trolls off, that's what he originally started doing them for.

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?"

He doesn't know if he should move. He's frightened, but for some strange, twisted reason, he doesn't feel threatened.

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.

[OPEN]

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