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 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'.
no subject
"I'll be thure to tell it to all the wigglerth I meet, heh."
no subject
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."
no subject
"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."
no subject
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.