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.
no subject
His laughter breaks out again at the thought. "He could even have been subject in painting, he could. GO THEN WRIGGLER. The carnival will wait." The Initiate winks and bares his many fangs in a smile. If Volanz were to go, now would certainly be an opportune time.
no subject
"Okay! Have... fun with that I guess!"
And it takes all the force of will he has to walk away and wait until he is out of sight and earshot to start running.
And boy does he run. He runs all the way to the elevators, figures out elevators suck for being timely, lunges toward the stairwell, charges rampantly up six flights of steps to D6's level, knocks a stranger over in the hall, and flies into his room with a doorslam.
He crashes onto his bed, panting and feeling half sure his pump biscuit is about to explode all over this... this thing that is not a recuperacoon. The mattress skids a bit at the impact but he ain't even give a fuck.
He just kind of lays there for a few minutes before the realization that he is a total failure and an idiot and a coward reoccurs to him.
This has been enough excitement for Volanz for one day. Or however long he's been awake. That works.
He'll just kind of lay here for a while.