thecapitol | [OPEN] Oh, I will sleep when we reach shore

Who| The Initiate & OPEN

What| The Initiate gets inspired and paints something new

Where| The Training Center once more

When| Any time this week

Warnings| Really foul language and the Initiate being a terrible person forever

He's been there since early evening, and seemingly hasn't left even now that it's mid-day. He'd been there long before anyone else had arrived at least, and more than ever before, with almost feverish intensity, he's been focused on painting the wall, using the paints he's nabbed from the camouflage area.

The painting goes high as he can reach and stretches wide across the wall. At the end he now works, four dark poles rise up and curve over the color, with ribbons of all sorts of hues wrapping and falling around each like a maypole, weaving itself into tents that bleed into near inscrutable designs of death and demons below. At each pole end, red and blue lights twist together in union, and on the forth a loose band of wider yellow spreads and breaks off into light yellow bubbles, and as they reach on, into skulls of varying color; greens and blues and purples, reds and browns. Circus imagery is woven in with a priest's reverence. A shoreline of water makes appearance atop the yellow band, a simple handprint smear of white in the sea with a mark of Purple-Indigo atop that, dripping down onto the yellow and making like to rot. In the darkness, the bit of sea, a star of swallowing pink twists. Then, above even that, a looming pair of bright eyed figures with knives for teeth observe the scene below. Beasts and trolls, colors and shapes make up the picture. The entire image is a mess of rainbow that still manages to make itself look unnerving. There isn't a logic or sense to it, it's entirely a painting made from madness.

As he prefers it.

Coming into the Center, it would be hard not to notice it. Perhaps, depending on who you were, it would be just as hard to ignore. Certainly there was much to look at. Even the Initiate himself seemed to be covered in color up to his arms and then some. But rainbows couldn't be that scary. Could they?

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It's strange, but in all the sweeps the Signless had known about the Highblood, he'd never actually seen one of his paintings. He wonders now if that changed, before he died. Maybe he became one of those paintings, a bright red the Highblood couldn't get anywhere else.

Still, he can't help but wander in that direction. He's taking a break from being put through his paces by Karkat (they've been working for hours and he's barely even been allowed to touch the sickles), so he probably looks just a little worse for wear.

He isn't sure what to say, so he just looks, a sickle dangling loosely from one hand.

He waits, stiff and tense, for what feels to him like a long time, for the Signless to either speak up or leave. He stirs one color without really seeing it and splashes it up onto the wall like the spatter of recent cull. His teeth grind and his claws dig into his palms.

"THE FUCK do you WANT, Signless?"

Finally, he concedes to look. He almost laughs when he sees the sickle.

"PLAN IN PAN TO STRIFE?" He sneers.

He shakes his head no, still inspecting the painting. There's something familiar about that yellow band, about those red and blue lights, and it makes him uneasy.

"No. I was just looking. It's beautiful work." He really does mean that, too. Even if the subject matter isn't his cup of tea, the skill and clear love that went into it is impressive, and it's a little less terrible when he knows that the paints the humans use aren't made of blood. That and he knows he couldn't take the Initiate in a fight, not even if the other troll was half-asleep and had a cold.

"Wouldn't get up to expecting such oration spit," He says, and it's clear from his tone he's half certain it's a lie. He's never heard so many people give compliment on his work- or at all, really, save what the Helmsman had said at one point, but he'd written that off as related more to his status and power than anything else.

"WOULD THINK AT HIM TO DIS-FUCKING-APPROVE. Would motherfucking think at it to disgust him," He says. It's bitter, but not exactly awash with rage. Yet.

"It's a particular skill of mine to see beauty in places other people wouldn't," he says in a soft and measured tone, and takes a step closer to inspect the blue and red lights a little more closely. They really are so familiar...

"Do these represent anything?"

He glares and rolls his eyes at the first thing but says nothing. And it's not as if the Signless can see him while he faces the wall. He's apparently too busy looking over the lights.

"ALL THINGS GET AT TO BE HAVING REPRESENTATION. There ain't nothing up in that which is of the wicked pictures what don't." It was an offering to the Messiahs, of course it had meaning. But why should Signless care? "YOU FIGURE AT THERE TO BE RECOGNITION? Do tell him."

Edited 2013-06-21 09:01 (UTC)

He wasn't sure. The red and the blue and that particular shade of yellow could be just a coincidence, but nothing was ever a coincidence, not here, not with this indigo of all indigos.

"They remind me of the Helmsman. His eyes, his blood."

He goes dead still. His gut drops out like someone dumped him with voodoo and water both at once. It'd be different if he knew the Signless had just met him, but he can tell by his voice, he can motherfucking tell. He shoots up to his feet, paint spilling all over, hands dripping with color.

"YOU KNOW THE HELMSMAN!? When- HOW MOTHERFUCKING LONG AT TIL NOW DID YOU UP AND KNOW!?"

To his credit, the Signless doesn't flinch.

"I knew him, when he was the Psiioniic." The Initiate might hear the note of pain, there, if he's not too angry to be deaf to it. He might hear what that 'knew' really means: we were close, I cared so deeply for him that just thinking about it now hurts.

Whether he hears it or not, he' not going to be so quick to take to it. He's been fooled once. Not again.

"Do you think it a game?" He asks, and maybe Signless will hear the tiniest shred of hurt awash in his anger. "DO YOU THINK AT IT TO BE A MOTHERFUCKING GAME TO TOY WITH ME!? Send at fuckers all to make a fool of I, IN PLACE OF YOUR OWN SELF?!" He kicks a container of red paint across the Center.

"He said at he had no other title what he could think at for," He growls. "HE TRIED AT TO THINK ON FOR ONE AND CAME UP MOTHERFUCKING EMPTY! That all to be hoofbeast shit also?"

"I'm not toying with you," the Signless says in a level voice. "If he's been talking to you, it's been entirely of his own volition. He wants nothing to do with me, now."

Then it sinks in. The Helmsman's been spending time with the Initiate, enough so that he's been woven into one of the indigo's paintings as tribute to his gods.

"Are you his friend? Do you care about him? Is that why this bothers you?"

"SHUT THE MOTHERFUCK UP!" He snaps. "False tongued infidel, what the fuck would you even up and know? WALK WITH MILENKO, YOU DO. Maybe a Helmsman didn't all up and want to anymore. IF HE AIN'T WANT AT NONE TO DO WITH A SIGNLESS THEN STAY THE FUCK OUT HE OUGHT. Just as he ought at stay away from what is of me and mine!"

It outs him but it's too late to take it back. Fuck yes, it bothers him. For so many reasons it bothers him.

Edited 2013-06-24 12:49 (UTC)

"I know he wants nothing to do with me. I'll respect that."

He squares his shoulders and takes a step closer to the raging indigo beast before him.

"But if you're the one he wants, if you're the one he's chosen--" and oh, he hates that thought, hates it with every fiber of his being, "-- then you had better treat him with all the care and respect he deserves."

He's so, so angry, and he can't even properly sort out why. All of his feelings are a convoluted painful mess all centering on why, why did he leave me, what do you have that I don't, what makes you better than me?

Wants? Chosen? Those aren't words he was prepared to imagine the Helmsman might think of him. Moreover, that he's chosen those words means-

"YOU WERE PALE? The two of you?"

And now he's hurt. Hurt like watching an empty shore. Hurt like waiting for nothing. He's not even sure what exactly over. ~~Who over.~~ Hate rises up and chokes him. He snarls, standing over the other troll.

"I HAVE NOT DONE AT A MOTHERFUCKING ON HIM WHAT TO HARM! Is he to think at you to still be his moirail then!? STILL FUCKING PALE PITEOUS!? Because it would seem at you're still up in his business!"

Edited 2013-06-24 13:41 (UTC)

[OPEN] Oh, I will sleep when we reach shore

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