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)
thearena2014-12-20 10:11 pm
carnagecarnival) wrote in thearena2014-12-20 10:11 pm
Entry tags:
Can I get an amen? For all the bleeding and the prayin?
Who| Initiate and Open
What| Milling about the arena
Where| spaceport upper levels
When| Week 0 to the end of week 1
WARNINGS| body horror (missing horns), violence against aliens? talk of death. Language.
NOTES| Explanation of how the chucklevoodoo/Fear power works can be found here.
What| Milling about the arena
Where| spaceport upper levels
When| Week 0 to the end of week 1
WARNINGS| body horror (missing horns), violence against aliens? talk of death. Language.
NOTES| Explanation of how the chucklevoodoo/Fear power works can be found here.
Xenomorphs
The doors snap shut ever so fast. He starts each time. Even though it feels long now as though it's been since he was Avoxed, the flinching ain't yet all gone. Especially when Terezi or whoever else gets caught on the other side of where they's meaning to be, and he has to reach on through with the holy chucklevoodoo, tell them to meet him wherever all else, quietly keep the fear up and around both himself and them so they ain't got to face no beasts unexpected.
On the flip side is Terezi, her seer visions showing him them most feared dead ends, allowing him to find by default what's best. They avoid the worst of threats that way. It won't last forever though. Her fear builds and he knows almost before she does that his death is coming swift and there ain't being no ways what to claim avoidance of it.
As though he can somehow prove her visions wrong, when all ever the Xenomorphs come, he wastes no time in dispatching them. It's almost a relief, in the oddest sense. That Alternian part of him is still there, for all it's been broken and buried. That Alternian part of him wants the cull what no other part will give, except for when it ain't being neither tribute, capitolite, or otherwise being a person. When it's the Xenomorphs, he can let his own snarl out and tear the beasts to pieces. There's no holding back because the fuckers is strong. It just so happens, he's stronger, and so he grins at them as they circle, growl rumbling over his breath, proving, that for all he looks it without his horns, in the dark of space, he ain't human.
Star Watching
When all strifes get to end, when he finds himself with all broken bodies around, his eyes turn to the windows. Grand and expansive, he takes in the sight of the stars, the dark abyss of space. This was to be his future, when he was old and damn near ready to plough into the motherfucking rot bliss, to become old and damn near decrepit. The result of total Alternian war, of thousands on thousands of his kind put to waste and the Empress's command that no more would an adult troll grace the gruff of Alternian soil.
He looks at the stars and decides they're beautiful. Beautiful just as they are sad. He can imagine himself growing cold out here. He can imagine it right the motherfuck now.
It's an incredible sight, them all feeling so close and distant at the same time, but... "Ain't worth it."
Chucklevoodoo
His energy leaves him fast with the ache in his skull, rooted up in his missing horns. It has him drifting, either sleeping by the wall, or otherwise losing himself in some sense in the swath of fears, nightmares and daymares, what mill about him. In those latter times, he navigates the world on two planes, eyes all a-flash as he seeks and searches out them what he knows, just seeing if there are things what need be said, or simply to see if they're alive.
Then there were them other times, when he grew too tired to carry on, and too tired to hold the fear in. So used, is he, to simply letting it all roll out of him. And so it does. It creates a miasma thick in the air of voodoo. It infects those motherfucking unfortunates what stumble to near. It digs in, hungry for them dreams, and leaving mares in the wake. It makes every corner one worthy of double-take, every movement worthy of twitch and flinch.
In his presence, paranoia runs high.
Zero Gravity
He was... he was almost dreaming pleasant. He's had a good dream just once before in his life, even as he fretted about, waiting for his voodoo to take over the dreamscape. The crowning of Enjolras. He saw Sigma in the form of his younger self. He'd danced with Terezi and talked of a place after death, a waiting bit before the Carnival where those dead could go into bubbles of dreams.
He felt, on some level, almost certain he'd just about reached past the minefield of endless daymares, horrors unspeakable and terrors unceasing. His finger tips had just grazed the edges, touching upon it, before, suddenly, he was ripped away.
And when he awoke, he found the ground far as well.
He makes an exclamatory noise, flailing helplessly in the air. No gravity. No motherfucking gravity. This was ridiculous. How was he supposed to get anywhere, he couldn't just swim, there was no traction.
"NO. No. YOU KNOW THE FUCK WHAT? Fuck this. FUCK SPACE. This is stupid." He huffs and tries as best as he can to reach some solid surface-- a wall, a ceiling, a floor even, anything he can propel himself off.
The doors snap shut ever so fast. He starts each time. Even though it feels long now as though it's been since he was Avoxed, the flinching ain't yet all gone. Especially when Terezi or whoever else gets caught on the other side of where they's meaning to be, and he has to reach on through with the holy chucklevoodoo, tell them to meet him wherever all else, quietly keep the fear up and around both himself and them so they ain't got to face no beasts unexpected.
On the flip side is Terezi, her seer visions showing him them most feared dead ends, allowing him to find by default what's best. They avoid the worst of threats that way. It won't last forever though. Her fear builds and he knows almost before she does that his death is coming swift and there ain't being no ways what to claim avoidance of it.
As though he can somehow prove her visions wrong, when all ever the Xenomorphs come, he wastes no time in dispatching them. It's almost a relief, in the oddest sense. That Alternian part of him is still there, for all it's been broken and buried. That Alternian part of him wants the cull what no other part will give, except for when it ain't being neither tribute, capitolite, or otherwise being a person. When it's the Xenomorphs, he can let his own snarl out and tear the beasts to pieces. There's no holding back because the fuckers is strong. It just so happens, he's stronger, and so he grins at them as they circle, growl rumbling over his breath, proving, that for all he looks it without his horns, in the dark of space, he ain't human.
Star Watching
When all strifes get to end, when he finds himself with all broken bodies around, his eyes turn to the windows. Grand and expansive, he takes in the sight of the stars, the dark abyss of space. This was to be his future, when he was old and damn near ready to plough into the motherfucking rot bliss, to become old and damn near decrepit. The result of total Alternian war, of thousands on thousands of his kind put to waste and the Empress's command that no more would an adult troll grace the gruff of Alternian soil.
He looks at the stars and decides they're beautiful. Beautiful just as they are sad. He can imagine himself growing cold out here. He can imagine it right the motherfuck now.
It's an incredible sight, them all feeling so close and distant at the same time, but... "Ain't worth it."
Chucklevoodoo
His energy leaves him fast with the ache in his skull, rooted up in his missing horns. It has him drifting, either sleeping by the wall, or otherwise losing himself in some sense in the swath of fears, nightmares and daymares, what mill about him. In those latter times, he navigates the world on two planes, eyes all a-flash as he seeks and searches out them what he knows, just seeing if there are things what need be said, or simply to see if they're alive.
Then there were them other times, when he grew too tired to carry on, and too tired to hold the fear in. So used, is he, to simply letting it all roll out of him. And so it does. It creates a miasma thick in the air of voodoo. It infects those motherfucking unfortunates what stumble to near. It digs in, hungry for them dreams, and leaving mares in the wake. It makes every corner one worthy of double-take, every movement worthy of twitch and flinch.
In his presence, paranoia runs high.
Zero Gravity
He was... he was almost dreaming pleasant. He's had a good dream just once before in his life, even as he fretted about, waiting for his voodoo to take over the dreamscape. The crowning of Enjolras. He saw Sigma in the form of his younger self. He'd danced with Terezi and talked of a place after death, a waiting bit before the Carnival where those dead could go into bubbles of dreams.
He felt, on some level, almost certain he'd just about reached past the minefield of endless daymares, horrors unspeakable and terrors unceasing. His finger tips had just grazed the edges, touching upon it, before, suddenly, he was ripped away.
And when he awoke, he found the ground far as well.
He makes an exclamatory noise, flailing helplessly in the air. No gravity. No motherfucking gravity. This was ridiculous. How was he supposed to get anywhere, he couldn't just swim, there was no traction.
"NO. No. YOU KNOW THE FUCK WHAT? Fuck this. FUCK SPACE. This is stupid." He huffs and tries as best as he can to reach some solid surface-- a wall, a ceiling, a floor even, anything he can propel himself off.
chucklevoodoo, cw: gore. Lemme know if you need more to work with
He has the last one a lot, these days, as much as he ever dreams. It sets him sitting up gasping, choking on his own rage, disgust, and abject terror. Sinew swaying gently from between Kevin's needle teeth, dripping to the ground...
It's harder to keep such things at bay in the Arena, but with Jet beside him it's doable. Curled around his partner protectively with his nose against the other cyborg's neck, he can almost believe he can keep the other man safe, that none of the evils of the world will be allowed to touch him again so long as Albert is there. He rarely has nightmares when Jet is there to shine his light to scatter the shadows.
But there are times...
Times like now, with the fetor of Initiate's uncontrolled power curling unseen through the hallways and air ducts, seeping into Albert's stressed psyche and sending it into overdrive even at rest, letting the shadows turn loose to play their wicked games.
no subject
But to get in there in the first place is to start just like this. He slips in quiet through them backdoors, a little jimmying of a loose fit lock, and he's in as easily as if he had the keys. Sometimes, motherfuckers just forget to get it on lock, and upon the waiting wings of horror and carnage, his true homes, he falls right on in without even fully meaning.
He ain't a troll here. Now without crafting that form deliberate off of one what would fear that all. Instead, he's shadow, he's feeling. A wisp of wraith is he, black, pink, indigo. The only proper consistency is the mask like shape of his painted face.
He swims the blood, sifts through the viscera and static of screen. His wispy claws are the teeth of Kevin's jaws. His dark is the swallowing void Jet descends into. It swirls around Jet, gains itself a fearsome maw, lining it all the way down, a thousand little razors ready to shred. The rockets of Jet's boots sound like the shriek of crashing planes. All before Albert me might see his own reaching hand, the way the metal creeps higher and higher, from fingertips and up. All up his legs, higher and higher until it makes to swallow, ripping through flesh as it goes. The sound is drowned only by Kevin's laughter, from void what winks.
And then quickly shifts and becomes a singular form. The Initiate's shadow. It writhes and churns, like a licking flame, but the form is still all simultaneous. He knows clear who this mind is now, and if the visions are sharp enough to rouse him, perhaps he can rouse Albert also.
ALBERT... Comes the sounding voodoo, a thousand echoing layered voices all demonic in their sweet chorus. ALBERT, WAKE UP.
no subject
He turns left, right, eyes darting everywhere at once as he raises his right arm to aim ineffectually at the unseen threat, the scrabbling in the dark and the dissonant chorus of voices that rise and fall at random with the swirling deep color.
And then the Troll appears.
Only Albert doesn't recognize him, not as a hulking bulk with sky-scraping horns and wicked teeth. The facepaint echoes the dead, a mane of untamed black framing death's head smeared in places with a myriad of colors, flickering like sinister bacchanalian light.
WAKE UP
He can't. It's a command but he can't and instead he turns his right arm in a wavering arc and... doesn't fire. Something keeps him from firing despite the monstrous form before him, dripping entrails from disproportionate claws.
ALBERT
It knows his name. He can't fire. He knows one of the voices, hard to pick out in the riot of sound, but he knows it and so he cannot fire.
"W...who...?" His voice is different too, lilting and afraid. Childish, despite his appearance of 30 or more.
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And what consoling could any motherfucker take of Death's personification, as of a dream? And in truths, who still would take it from Death's left hand, however severed it was to be?
He knows what Albert sees. He does not correct it. It is not being motherfucking wrong. No matter how it wounds, it's not wrong.
A FRIEND, says Death. A FRIEND WHAT AIN'T WISH ON YOU THIS.
But who must use it anyway, for it is the only way he is able to be.
YOU KNOW, DON'T YOU? YOU WOULD HAVE TRIED TO SLAY ME. AND YOU WOULD HAVE FAILED, FOR I WOULD DEVOUR YOU AS DAYMARES IS WONT TO DO. BUT I AIN'T YET DONE AND GOT NO INTENT TO.
He moves to Albert, less walking and more all drifting to him. Those dripping claws rise, going up to grasp and click upon the artificial arms. Those colors smear and distract, but he commands focus with flashing eyes in the shadow.
He pulls at the form, forcing it to become flesh and bone, turning shadow to a settling face. Color is shimmering gems and clothes. Royalty, still threatening, but someone mortal and tangible. Those claws don't drip so much on the unfamiliar of Albert's old cybernetics.
LEAVE THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLACE. AN INITIATE WILL SPEAK THERE WHEN YOU WAKE, BROTHER.
no subject
God of Death.
He's never tried to slay Death in his dreams, with a voice like marble slabs and crackling funeral pyres, and so now Albert understands why he did not act. Death. His friend. The unkillable. The inescapable.
But there's the other voice there, distracting and belonging somehow to the hulking beast of Death that approaches, that takes his arm and coalesces into softness. It's jarring to see the beast of swirling void and color that remains so threatening be so gentle to him, claws barely scraping the metal of his arms, the dripping blood - does he know its blood when it's swirled in various hues? He does, somehow - not touching his limbs despite it coating the claws of his nightmare.
LEAVE THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLACE.
The nightmare speaks with familiar words. Unclean words, the type that would have required his mother to have him sit with a bar of soap in his mouth for ten minutes. A word of an innocent nightmare long conquered when he'd found there are worse things.
Albert awakes with a start.
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When Albert jerked awake, it startled Jet into full alert as well. He turned and wrapped an arm around Albert's torso, pulling him close protectively all in the span of a second or two, even as he looked around for any sign of danger, but there wasn't any. At least, none he could find. He turned his eyes to his husband, concern heavy in them as he tried to figure out what had made Albert jump.
He knew a certain possibility that wouldn't be unheard of, but he wanted to hear it from Albert himself. "Al, what's wrong?"
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"It was just a dream. Initiate was trying to contact me psychically." As if that's the most normal thing in the world. Granted, as far as weirdness goes, this is a low rung for them. So he tells himself, trying to steady his breathing and holding onto Jet still despite his voice being steady.
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Of course, even once he's got an answer, it doesn't really make him less confused. One question answered, another asked. "His talking to you made you jump like that?" Ivan had drifted into Jet's dreams before or even caused Jet to dream and it had never woken him up so violently before.
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"Have you ever had a dream where the phone or your alarm ringing was incorporated into the narrative despite that being a real sound outside of it? It was like that." Only with Initiate's consciousness. In his nightmares. That was rather unpleasant, and he's not sure if it triggered the dream or if he was having the dream regardless and Initiate's presence warped it. After all, what little he knows about the Troll bleeds fear around the edges, a history he's never asked about and a future they've both only seen in a book but both dripping with it.
It's unsettling, and worries him for his friend.
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He wasn't a hundred percent sure he did 'get' it. He got the concept, but there was something else going on with it too he wasn't getting and whatever that was he wasn't getting was causing the look on Albert's face. He'd calmed down some, but there was still fear in it.
Nightmares weren't a new thing for his partner and, often times, the cause wasn't the same twice in a row, but Jet had enough practice to know what to do no matter the cause. Unfortunately, he couldn't get him any water right this second, so he settled with step two. Gently, his arms curled around broad shoulders as he drew his husband close to his chest and curled around him, one hand coming to rest on the back of Albert's head protectively. Just as he did when Albert first had a nightmare with Jet around.
"Get to sleep. And, if you're still talking to Initiate, tell him to get to sleep too."
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A link he could rip wide and spread out just as well as dreaming, but not one he needs or wants to. He can channel through that tiny feed. There's enough leftover fear of the comedown of nightmares, it's easy as breathing.
ALBERT, he greets, with his mental voice like a motherfucking vortex. IT'S THE INITIATE.
Perhaps he ought to get at a chill. Motherfucking just had a daymare. Needs his time all to find his breath and push racing on away. He needs time to find thought to settle.
And then it might be right to ask; YOU BEING ALRIGHT?
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Yes, I'm alright. Whether he means that for the physical or the mental is open to interpretation. Are you?
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WAS LOOKING ABOUT WAYS OF TEREZI. WONDERED IF SHE MIGHT BE AROUND. But that's not all. Of course it's not. He could've just reached out for Terezi, or someone he knew certain she was being with.
... ALSO THOUGHT AS TO GET US ACCLIMATING. IN CASE THIS BROTHER EVER NEEDED OF REACHING A MOTHERFUCKER ONE DAY. EASY TO FIND THOSE WHAT ALL BEEN FOUND.
It's hard to tell, in the distortion, but there's an apologetic note up in there.
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Then he promptly hopes to high Heaven that Initiate can't read his thoughts in addition to communicating with him mentally.
I haven't seen Terezi. If I find her, I will keep her safe and try to find you. He feels that goes without saying but the saying of it will put Initiate a bit more at ease, or at least that's the hope. Albert cares dearly for Terezi, practically adopted her, and the fact that he's been less than useful to her in most Arenas is a fairly large thorn in his side.
Can you only do this with powers active? And can you reach anyone outside of the Arena? The apologetic tone is accepted without comment, Albert instead getting to brass tacks and seeing if they can maybe use this ability to their advantage. Telepathic communication between those in 13 and the Rebellion members in the Capitol would be an overwhelming strategic advantage.
no subject
THANKS BRO, Is all what's given regarding Terezi. He'd be down to ask it Albert likewise needs anything, but Albert seems as to have it covered.
ONLY WHEN ABILITIES IS BEING GIFTED ON BACK, YEAH. Which was a pain. But one he'd well and motherfucking established at with Albert already.
MY VOODOO SPANS FAR. I TOOK OUT A COUPLE MOTHERFUCKING BLOCKS OUT AROUND THE TRIBUTE TOWER ONCELIKE. JUST SUBTLE. MAKE ALL THE MOTHERFUCKING FEAR OF CAPITOL IN THEIR NAPHAPPY PANS. GET A STIRRING OF THE GUTS UP IN THIS BITCH AT TO RILE. THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO THOUGH AND WOULD ALL HAVE FADED THE FUCK OUT BY NOW. HARDER TO MAKE PRECISE ON IT THE FURTHER THEY IS. WHAT'RE YOU THINKING AT? WRAP IT UP IN AS MUCH FEAR ALL AS YOU CAN THAT I CAN BE TO SEE IT.
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I didn't know you were causing the fear, I just meant the telepathy. It's unnerving, that ability. It's one thing to have weapons or armor or even psychic ability, but to force someone to feel something artificially or potentially control their mind gives Albert unwelcome chills.
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SAME MOTHERFUCKING THING, BRO. IT'S ALL FEAR. THESE WORDS YOU'RE 'HEARING'? FEAR. ALL THE WORDS YOU GET BACK AT TO ME? GOTTA BE WRAPPED IN IT TOO. EVERY DAYMARE, EVERY PANIC, EVERY CRY AND FUCKING PROTEST. IT'S ME AND MOTHERFUCKING MINE. IF IT'S NOT FEAR, I CAN'T SEE IT. BUT EVERYONE'S GOT FEAR AND I CAN ALWAYS PUT MORE UP IN. CAN DO SO JUST AS MUCH AS ALL YOU'RE FEARING RIGHT NOW, THAT I TAKE OVER. IF THIS WERE A DREAM I COULD MAKE AT OF ANYTHING. WHEN I FUCKIN' SAY AS I SWIM IN THE HOLY FEAR CONSTANT, I DO MAKE FOR MEANING IT.
And yet he passes all this ever so careful. Because fear can break and bleed a motherfucker.
IF YOU WAS THINKING ON INFORMATIONALS PASSED, IT WOULD COME WITH SENSE MOST ILL. JUST HOW IT UP AND GOES, YO.
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Or does that say something about Albert? Is he so steeped in fear regularly that this seems such in the commonplace that it defies his wrapping his head around it? That while Initiate speaks to him through terror, he's calm as ever and still in control of his mental faculties? Does that mean he is untouched by it, or that he's simply so used to it he doesn't recognize fear for what it is any longer?
It's a harrowing thought, but could also be useful.
I think it's something worth looking into later. Some means may be necessary. If he doesn't fall apart at Initiate's speaking to him this way, perhaps a share of information could be had were they able to control their powers again. It's a big if, but something to keep in the back of their minds.
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Instead, he says, EVERYONE'S GOT FEAR. IT'S CONSTANT. SURVIVAL INSTINCT, ESPECIALLY UP IN PLACES LIKE THIS OR BACK UP ON ALTERNIA. EVEN IF IT AIN'T SURFACED, IT'S BEING PART. AND VITAL PART UP IN TOO.
He knew too many niave motherfuckers what thought they could (and should) cut out fear. Including his ownself.
I GOT MY HOPE AT FOR IT. LOT WHAT COULD BE MAKING USE. IF ONLY I GOT CHANCE AS TO UTILIZE.
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He takes the explanation, rolling it around in his head. Fear is vital, it's true. It's the primal instinct that teaches mortals when discretion is to be followed, when a choice is unwise. It can be wrong, and it can be overpowering and sinister, but ultimately it can also be a help and even a boon. He's a little surprised to come to that realization this way but mostly simply proud that Initiate is the one to be able to bring him to it. The pride is from somewhere paternal, and he doesn't comment on it, but he knows Initiate can feel it just the same.
If we can find a way to activate our powers outside of the Arenas, it would be a help to communicate instantaneously over distance like this. Powers outside are the first step, however. I suppose we can't rely on it until that's achieved.
no subject
That, and there isn't anyone in the world who understands fear like he does. A being what all is made from it. Messiahs bestowed vision of his true face, the one he wears now. He and fear were one and the same. He's okay with that.
He can't read clear every little thought, but he can feel the outline and impression. He feels the churn of worry and wonder. Every bit of fear a small press in his pan. He feeds into words lacking fear with little nudges of worry-- what if we don't find a way, what if something goes wrong at with that-- and it's the difference in blurred vision and clear to the words.
WE WILL. ONE WAY OR MOTHERFUCKING OTHER, I GOT MY INTENTION AT TO GET THIS ABOUT US. THERE ARE MANY HERE WHAT GOT PROMISE UP IN THEM, HELD. ONE WAY OR OTHER WE'LL FIND AT A MEANS.
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That thought is all wound up in fear and worry. Hope too, but Albert was always the down to earth one. Not so much as Pyunma, but still a planner, a tactician, and Initiate being the same, Albert knows how he can help. They think alike on some level, or so the cyborg has come to notice. Where the Rebellion is concerned, it's a great help in that Albert can work with Initiate and know that they have the same end goal - especially by the same means.
And moreover, he's come to see Initiate as family, like a brother or son. Son in law, really, considering Trolls don't marry and being Terezi's matesprit is as close as they'll get. It's not something he's told the Troll exactly, but whether he's reading Albert's mind or not, the German believes he's more than shown his care.
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The only needed the means. Soon enough, he was sure. He can feel a coming strom like he could feel the distant end of times back upon Alternian.
THANK YOU, BROTHER. BELIEVE I'VE CAST ENOUGH VOODOO UPON YOUR PAN. BE ALL MOTHERFUCKING NAPHAPPY WITH YOU.
The Initiate does not have concept of a thing as a son in law. But he can understand an ally. A friend.
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And you, my fiend.