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
He pauses, for dramatic effect. He really wants to reveal this right, really wants to make the best impression possible.
"I deal with the dead," he finally says. "Ah. To be precise, with corpses. Ever seen a freshly dead man rise to his feet and walk? I have! It's really quite marvellous."
no subject
At Jay's confession, he raises a brow. Of all things, he can't wholly say he was expecting that. He'd heard rumours of the Empress's power over life, many in the church had, but even if she could truly bring back the dead- he doubted it- that power would be no one's but a Tyrian Queen's. Or it would've been. His eyes narrow.
"You speak at of day walkers? PULLING AT A TICKET FREE FROM A FUCKER WHAT'S ALREADY ENTERED THE TENT? ...He is listening," he prompts.
no subject
"Well ... in a manner of speaking," he says, carefully. He's not sure he's interpreted the Initiate's metaphor correctly. "I'm nowhere near skilled enough to return someone intact. No one I'm aware of is."
Raimut had certainly tried. Jay has some very vivid and unpleasant memories of trying to determine how sentient freshly risen corpses were. God, but that was a mess.
"I'm afraid I'm not in a state to teach others how to do it, darling," he adds, hurriedly. "I am but an apprentice."
no subject
Mostly, the Initiate wonders if they are truly controlled by him. He'd encountered one once; left a corpse outside his hive in the night, with easy route for a daywalker arisen to enter in the day. He'd managed to kill it of course, but never motherfucking again did he intend to face that experience. However, they'd make for a good guard if only they could be controlled, he thinks.
"SO. What can he tell to sate a curiosity?"
no subject
"What would you like to know, my dove?"
no subject
Returning the smile and exposing fang, he adds, "YOU RAISE THEM, and they are yours? NO JAW SNAP FOR FRESH MOTHERFUCKING FLESH. And if motherfucking so, WHAT ALL would a blue one do with the rotted rest-cleaved? HIS OWN PERSONAL MOTHERFUCKING DAYWALKING CLOT."
no subject
"Oh, darling, they don't need to eat! And yes, they're ... ours. In a way. They're awfully dull, however. We were looking for ways to make them ... brighter. More capable. More ... useful as ... ah. Servants."
A grin. A predatory one.
"As guards. And really, there's a lot of prestige in being able to maintain a small band of living dead. It takes one's own power, after all. They don't run themselves and it's not like you can plug them into an electric socket."
no subject
"The way many a motherfucking troll would use up lowbloods but without concern at for the escape or attack by the audacious and defiant," he muses, more to himself. "NOT EVEN SLIMMEST NEED FOR CONCERN OVER THEIR LIFE PRESERVED. That correct? AND WOULD HE THEN, consider his own self powerful?"
no subject
He grins widely, showing off the dorky gap between his two front teeth.
"Powerful in many ways."
no subject
"Do not take leave and no return upon this. TELL AT A NAME. And make unto your own motherfucking recurrence in presence unto he. WISH AT TO SEE WHAT IDEAS SPIN THEMSELVES, I DO. Can blue one do so much?"
no subject
He's flattered enough by the Initiate to blush, just like a schoolgirl. Someone so dangerous and so exciting (and not too bad-looking either, if definitely wild) thinks he's worth allying with!
"You propose an alliance, darling?" he says, grinning up at the Initiate. "That I can do. I do have to know who I'm working with, however -- my name is Jay, not Blue."
He bows, from the waist, low enough that the ends of his dreadlocks touch the floor. He hopes that even if the Initiate is not familiar with Tulun customs, he'll recognise the gesture as respectful.
"But really, I'd be honoured to ally with one such as you!"
Ally and perhaps more. But Jay doesn't want to get too ahead of himself just yet. He doesn't even know the other man's name!
no subject
"ALLIANCE. Motherfucking cahoots. UNDERSTAND AT HOW TO CONTROL THE LIVING, BUT THE DEAD? The dead are motherfucking beyond him. ONES OF ROT AND MESSIAHS. But you can. ON ASSUMPTION THAT TRUTH IS TOLD. Brother Jay,” he says. He could almost purr the words, but he’s not so ready to discard pride. And should Jay prove a liar, he will have to deal with that accordingly.
“TITLE IS THAT OF THE INITIATE, FRAYSONG. Novitiate laughassassin, Subjugglator for Her Condescencion’s conquering empire, and most devoted motherfucking follower of the Mirthful Messiahs. IF BROTHER WANTS FOR FURTHER UNDERSTANDING, HE WILL WANT AT TO LINGER LONGER.”