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come_sailaway2024-02-02 06:03 pm
blindwatchersees) wrote in come_sailaway2024-02-02 06:03 pm
Second of Sun's Dawn (OTA)
Who: Sheogorath and YOU?
What: Celebrating Sheogorath's Summoning Day
When: Februrary 2nd
Where: Not sure yet
Warnings: Probably some mentions of violence and blood, more to be added as they occur
What is unusual, when Sheogorath is involved? With him, there's very little that could be considered unheard-of behavior. That being said, sometimes he does things that seem more meant to draw attention than others. For example, right now, he's sitting in the middle of the atrium, cross-legged, with a plate sitting in front of him. Sitting on the plate, in turn, is a picture of a cupcake, scribbled with ballpoint pen on the back of a receipt from a Bric-a-Brac. He's muttering to himself, frequently shifting into different voices, as if he's trying to fill the role of an entire room.
What: Celebrating Sheogorath's Summoning Day
When: Februrary 2nd
Where: Not sure yet
Warnings: Probably some mentions of violence and blood, more to be added as they occur
What is unusual, when Sheogorath is involved? With him, there's very little that could be considered unheard-of behavior. That being said, sometimes he does things that seem more meant to draw attention than others. For example, right now, he's sitting in the middle of the atrium, cross-legged, with a plate sitting in front of him. Sitting on the plate, in turn, is a picture of a cupcake, scribbled with ballpoint pen on the back of a receipt from a Bric-a-Brac. He's muttering to himself, frequently shifting into different voices, as if he's trying to fill the role of an entire room.
no subject
"Sheogorath. Prince of Madness."
no subject
"Sheogorath?" she tries the name on for size, just making sure she's got the pronunciation right across her tongue. Maybe quirks an eyebrow a bit at the subsequent title, because boy does that sound a bit intimidating but —
Ultimately does not change her next step. She settles back loosely in the sofa cushions, folds her hands over each other in the confines of her lap, bows her head and closes her eyes. A beat of absolute stillness as she works to shake off the rust, but eventually settles on staying silent and just thinking as hard as she can around the words:
Sheogorath, Prince of Madness. On this day that would be your well-celebrated Summoning Day, I pray for us both to get what we ultimately want. May you find a real cupcake aboard this ship, or if not — at least some cookies from the cafe with ice cream sandwiched between them. Best thing you'll ever taste, I promise. May you make your own festival with friends; sing karaoke, dance in the Rainbow Renly, watch a movie on the pool deck and eat way too many crab legs...
(A little peek here, one eye cracked and looking through her lashes to see if any of this is registering. It's how it'd worked for Venti, but Yato and Jenny had been different so who even knows.)
no subject
"Mortal, mortal, mortal. I appreciate the well-wishes. It's a nice little bowl of words. A tasty treat for a lonely Madgod. But... if you want to pray for something, I'm going to need you to speak, and I'm going to need you to hear. I've told you already, it's not the cake I'm looking for, it's what it symbolizes. All the talking about eating paper is just incidental. If you're going to pray pretty little words to cheer me up, then that's fine, but it's another paper cupcake. Praying for something, now that requires substance. Are you willing to offer me substance, Clarke? Are you willing to offer me thoughts?"
no subject
"Sorry." That sure didn't sound all that apologetic, but gift her one more positive interpretation of surface level emotion. "I'm still learning how to do this."
And she could tap out here. There are some thoughts too precious to share, and those all currently live at the very frontal lobe of her brain; all she's thinking about day and night, ideas she chews more thoroughly than any bite of food. But curiosity had dragged her over here in the first place; had hooked claws into her ribcage and now refused to let go, had killed the cat just to bring it back to kill it and bring it back again. So for once, she doesn't make a swift and graceless exit, even though the little voice in the back of her head urges escape.
"I guess I don't know what constitutes substance anymore. What sort of thoughts do you want to hear?"
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"You wish for us both to have what we ultimately want, you said. That could mean so very, very much, mortal, and there's not a single bit of intention behind those oh-so-carefully-crafted words. Oh, I could feel their meanings on their own, of course, definitions and syllables and phonics and all those little booky things that old Mora keeps in the deep dark sea. But chained together, they mean nothing without intention. Like I said, piece of paper scrawled with a cupcake. Edible, without a doubt, but not actually cake. If you really want something, you have to want me to know what you want, or else you can tell me plainly, if we're going to pretend that I'm a mortal and I can only understand the words as you say them."
"Oh and I should mention, the word wish is a dangerous one to throw around when you're uncertain about how to pray. Best you hope my dear unbrother Clavicus isn't listening, as he likes to tangle wishes like I like to tangle a good ball of yarn."
"So, would you like to try again, little mortal Clarke, or are you going to leave me with a plate full of pretty words, gladly accepted of course?"
no subject
The very first words the Captain ever spoke to her on board this ship had been you are so far out of your league, Wanheda. Time had passed and for the most part, Clarke had felt acclimated. Then every so often there's moments like this that really and truly threaten her grasp on the situation...
And she just doesn't really know how to back down.
"...I guess I'll try again."
This time there's no bothering with the pretense of lowering her head or closing her eyes. And those hands in her lap twist and tangle over each other, eventually finding hold enough for nails to bite crescent grooves into her own flesh.
I want to get my people off this ship. And I don't really care about what it takes to achieve that anymore.
It's a safe sentiment, one she's confident others share. But the depth of this want gushes out of every pore like caustic radiation. If Sheogorath wants to dig in a little, there's no resistance in regards to this topic. Feel how easy it would be to kill for this; to lie, to cheat, to deceive, to break promises. Feel the intention to reach her goal, previously wishy-washy but now thoroughly cemented. Grasp the familiarity she has with this route, preemptively tired but set in her way like a bulldog that just got its teeth around a bone. Listen to the rage kept under close lock and key thus far, but beating in time with her heart and indistinguishable from the blood rushing through her veins; it is dark and tacky and cloying. Hand in hand with it all comes the frustration of not knowing what to do yet, the mental equivalent of a beast in captivity gnawing on the bars of the cage and ripping all its hair out. It wants out, she wants an out, and where divine intervention has failed every time before it doesn't feel like it hurts to ask —
Can you help me with that?
cw: blood mention, implied mention of self harm
Then the rising tide sinks back, and he's sitting there across from her, eyes a little deeper in hue but otherwise still a a dapper but ordinary old man.
"The Spinner watched every corner, and thought nothing could sneak past her webs. But as she tacked up thread after thread, the vibrations left her nest shaking, day and night, to the point that she couldn't sleep," he mutters, sounding almost as if he's reminding himself of a story. "She became so fixated on every tremor, that when a great howling wind passed by her, she paid it no mind. For surely, her foes would know to be more subtle than that."
carrying those cw's forward
The begging crescendos. The wave crashes.
The atrium blinks back into stark, well-lit view and Clarke is left reeling in a terrified cold sweat. And wondering — if this is godly, do I really want to believe?
But in his own seat across from her, Sheogorath, Prince of Madness sits as if nothing happened. He mumbles, mostly to himself it seems, unbothered and at ease. And while Clarke can parse the words coming from his mouth, she can't quite grasp the concept. "I — what?" she splutters, rattled discomfort folding over on itself to sound downright affronted.
no subject