The 19th bilunar perigee of the 6th dark season's equinox.
Subjugglator Highblood christening celebration.
= Be the (New) Grand Highblood
Your name is Gamzee Makara. At least, that is the official name you were given after your wriggling day. 'The Grand Highblood' is just a title that you were adorned with once you reached 9.69 sweeps, (21 years to those unfamiliar with the Altrenian calendar). You haven't heard your name, first or last, in almost over two sweeps now, and you're getting up and motherfucking sick of it. Though you have been 'Grand Highblood' for two sweeps, the ceremony wasn't done until today because of the sudden unexpected clearance of said position. You are officially documented as the youngest indigo to take the position of 'Grand HIghblood' in Alternian History. The celebration that you are currently attending confirms this. The moment you settled into your damned predecessor's throne, wild shouts and loud cheers reached practically hysterical tones. Mirthful Messiahs! The motherfuckers all need to shut up. You raise your hand to silence them. They quiet almost immediately.
You take a moment to drink up the silence. Silence. Now that's something you haven't heard in a really long fucking time.
If only it could stay this quiet. But the sooner this shit starts, the sooner you can go to your recuperacoon and a fresh batch of sopor slime. With a wave of your hand, you announce to the flock, "Brothers, and sisters, let's get this Dark motherfuckin' Carnival started." The cheers from the painted faces around you are even louder than before and it takes every fiber of your being not to equip your clubkind in your strife specibus and start crushing some skulls.
As the events get started under the tent, one young sister-in-training (you guess about 6 sweeps) walks carefully up the steps of your throne so tenderly one might think that she was trying to walk on cluckbeast eggs. On a tray that she is holding with both hands is a tall wide-rimmed glass filled with red liquid. Faygo. Finally, something to calm your nerves.
You watch her, your face set in stone-like neutrality; her eyes meet yours for a brief moment and almost immediately she looks away.
She is scared, very scared.
Of what?
Messing up?
Tripping and spilling the contents of the glass?
Of you?
You chuckle humorlessly at the last thought. She should be.
You keep watching with mild amusement as she reaches the last step and moves to your right, quickly bending one knee, nearly causing the glass to tip and the liquid to roll along the lip of the glass. With the direction of the momentum tied with her sudden kneeling motion you already know that if she hadn't immediately corrected herself, the drink would have spilled on you and the throne. If it had spilled on you, she would have gotten away with a severe flogging at least. Unless, of course, you had decided to give her a pardon, but with your volatile temperament, that's one motherfucking miracle she'd never see.
The throne of The Grand Highblood is a national treasure and a holy, sanctified, spiritual artifact of the church, so thoroughly painted in the rainbow blood of past victims the original color of stone had been long forgotten. It was well-preserved, kept away from moist conditions, conserved by the bishops, guarded by the best warriors, and when the annual rain came during the Dark seasons, transported to the driest and most temperate area in the empire.
All that for a motherfuckin' dusty seat?
You personally don't give a shit either way.
To you it is just an big, motherfuckin' uncomfortable stone chair. Still, you must treat it with the upmost respect. Not even you, The NEW Grand Highblood, could disrespect this damn overblown seat and expect impunity. The best you could expect is a private trial by the church, and a quick and easy culling. Any other troll would be automatically sentenced to the intense and amazing miracle of chucklevoodoo torture. By the time the bishops, who administered the torture, would put them out of their misery-if they had any sponge left in their thinkpan, that is –they would be dying, wishing that the culling drones had gotten to them first.
At least that would have been the goddamn scenario if the girl had spilled your drink.
She kneels again, more slowly this time, and holds the tray above her bowed head in offering, beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck, probably realizing at last the consequences of her near-mistake. After a moment she speaks, keeping her tone as respectful as she can. "I have your ceremonial glass of red Faygo, Great One."
As soon as you hear 'Great One,' you are momentarily unable to hide your growing frustration, as a deep but audible rumble builds up in your throat.
She hears the sound of your anger and begins to shiver, not daring to lift her head up.
Good. The bitch needs to be scared. No… Motherfucker needs to be up and panicking that she has angered you.
You feel your hand idly reaching for your strife specibus, wanting more than anything to work out the torrent of irritation that has been building up over the recent perigees. Yet the miracle of reason somehow manages to work its way into your mind. She is just doing what she was taught. You stifle your growl and do your best to reel in your aggravation. Irritation and frustration ain't far from motherfucking rage. You don't need to get angry. You get angry, you get crazy. You get crazy, someone is going to die. Painfully.
You take a deep breath, count to ten, and gently pick the glass up to take a sip. You motion with your hand to dismiss the quivering girl. She walks down the steps just as gingerly as she had walked up, rubbing the back of her head all the way down as if amazing that it was still intact.
You're just tired of the damn names and titles. You want to hear your own fucking name for once.
'Sir.'
'Highblood.'
'Great One.'
'Majesty.' Amazingly, you didn't kill the troll who had said that one. He might never be able to swallow solid food again, but you didn't kill him. You don't care about respect. You just hate disrespect.
It's a celebration in your honor. No fellow sister or brother needs their think-pan opened. At least not tonight.
The music has already started by now and everyone is dancing and drinking like they won't be alive to see tomorrow.
Everyone except you.
You're still seated in the throne and trying to be as civil as possible. You are surrounded by brothers and sisters wanting to cater to your every need, want, or wish. Your glass of Faygo is refilled after every sip you take. Too many damn voices ask you too many damn questions at the same time, all beginning and ending with the labels you hate to hear. Despite your civil, if slightly forced demeanor, they eventually seem to clue in that you are not in the mood. As much as you want to tell them to just up and leave you the motherfuck alone, you can't. You can't quite remember why, though. Tradition or some shit like that.
You pray silently to the mirthful messiahs that the entertainment starts soon.
The constant attention and unwanted company are just two of the many downsides you slowly discover. Being the strongest indigo on the motherfuckin' planet has more drawbacks and short comings than you had originally thought. If you had fucking figured that out before you were challenged by the previous Grand Highblood you might have reconsidered beating his motherfucking skull in as quickly as you did, but you've never really been one for thinking out your actions.
After a while the music begins to wane, signaling the start of tonight's entertainment. Finally. You don't know how much longer you could have lasted. You raise your hand, giving your overzealous followers a dismissive wave. The servants around you quickly excuse themselves and disperse to their seats. With no one constantly whispering in your ear, you can finally observe the festivities and take a moment to examine the fresh quarry being led in by chains.
= Be one of the fresh quarries.
Your name is Tavros Nitram, more popularly known by the (few) people of your hemocaste as 'The Summoner', and you curse your bad luck. You are currently being led (read: dragged) into the infamous subjugglator rainbow carnival big-top. In all honesty, you can only blame yourself for your current situation. You had heard rumors that the wingbeast-shit crazy indigo church had a celebration coming up, and when the church had a reason to celebrate, the lowbloods usually suffered. You should have left your hive as fast as your wings would have allowed, but you couldn't just leave Tinkerbull. He would have been little more than a training dummy for juggalo clubs and you cared too much for your fairy custodian to let that happen You had stayed even as your lusus begged you to go. Not all the money in the Alternian Royal Treasury could have convinced you to flee.
The church had a favourite pastime that also worked as a way for gathering entertainment for their parties. 'Heme-hunting 'they called it. Translation? Grabbing any unsuspecting troll off the street or dragging them from their homes. The latter is what happened to you. You had set up a protective perimeter of various kinds of beasts around the lawn ring of your hive to act as an early warning system. If any unknown troll approached too close, they would let you know.
It had almost worked, too.
You didn't count on being knocked unconscious as you tried to abscond.
By the time you had gotten your wits about you, you were already shackled by your wrists and ankles, strife specibus empty. Thick metal cuffs so closely welded together that your walk was like a cold-birdbeast's waddle, the chains that bound your legs and arms linked to the chains binding the troll in front of and behind you, and theirs to another toll's, and so on.
Great! A chain gang.
The clowns thought ahead. It was impossible to run, much less fly, away. You certainly weren't going to even try to summon your wings; you wouldn't put it past these clown-faced bastards to rip them from your back before beating you into the ground. Can't fly. No lance. No beasts for miles, though you doubt they had planned that last one. They're psycho, not psychic. Just had to keep the proverbial ace up your sleeve and wait for you chance to play it.
So here you are, one long painful forced march later, being dragged into the den of the prowlbeasts, so to speak. As soon as you enter the tent, your hearing ducts are bombarded with boos, insults, and death threats. You pay them no mind. Your blood may be brown, but you don't give a shit what these nooksniffers say. They are idiots to you.
You and the other captives are lined up just outside the center ring of the tent. You take a moment to look at your fellow prisoners. You don't recognize anyone here. It's a small consolation, but you'd rather not see a familiar face in a place like this.
Beneath the swell of voices, you hear a rapid gasping sound. You glance over to your right. The troll next to you is panicking. His yellow eyes wide, dark maroon droplets of sweat beading on his forehead, his hands grip at the symbol on his chest in the same fashion a starving barkbeast would hold a large cut of meat between its nudge him with your elbow.
"Hey, are you okay?" you whisper. His eyes snap to your face, and his demeanor changes from absolute fear to immediate recognition. He gasps, and then quickly looks away to keep from attracting any unnecessary attention to you or him. You understand his surprise.
By all accounts, you are not supposed to exist, thus you have been made into the most widely kept secret among the copper, brown, maroon, and orange castes.
No troll in the history of Alternia with blood lower than blue had ever grown wings. and it had been expected to stay that way. Until you had come along. Only daring to practice flying in the most rural and isolated areas, you had been forced to hide your gift. It had taken so long to learn how to make your wings more spiritual than physical so you didn't have to wrap them in itchy bandages at uncomfortable angles. Few trolls in your own caste know about you, but word gets around. By lips loosened by drink or slip of the tongue, it does get around.
This must be someone who had heard your story.
"Just calm down. You'll be okay," you whisper.
"No, we won't. We're going to die." As soon as the words leave his lips he begins to panic again. His breathing becomes more erratic, coming out in choked, uneven gasps. "I a-am t-t-the smallest one here. T-They will c-c-c-cull m-me-f-f-f-f-f…" He can't seem to bring himself to say it through his stuttering. He grips his shirt even tighter, his grey knuckles turning white. He is less than a step away from a full on panic attack. "I want m-m-my moirail."
You pap him on the back. "Shooosh." You hum, attempting to calm him. It works. His breathing becomes more even and he releases his grip on his shirt. "No one's dying tonight," you murmur, managing to distract him from the situation. He turns his head further away from you.
"H-H-H-H-H-How d-d-d-do y-y-y-you k-k-know?" he stammers. The question makes you pause, anxiety twisting in your mind. You don't. Everyone you came in with, yourself included, have little chance of seeing the next night. But you can't go telling him that.
"What's your name?" you ask. The troll's shoulders relax very slightly as you change the subject. He doesn't seem to notice that you had ignored his question as he turns his head slightly to look at you again. "M-m-my n-name is D-Dyvinra Sani-"
Suddenly and without warning, a juggalo you hadn't seen stalks up from your left and arcs his club down on the troll's head in a vicious swing.
CRACK! The sound is loud and acid-sack churning.
Dyvinra's eyes roll up and his legs bend slightly as if he is trying to regain his balance against the gravity that pulls him down, like he wants to keep standing for a few more seconds. He moans. It's a soft dry sound that rattles in his chest for a moment before he crumples face down in the dirt.
His body doesn't even twitch.
The indigo cackles at the unmoving body, beginning to chant 'Rustblood,' as Dyvinra's blood begins to flow out of the large split in his skull. The spectators, who had witnessed the whole thing with great delight waste no time in joining the chant.
You don't hear any of it. You stare at the body frozen between shock and fury. You were just talking to him. You didn't even get to hear his full name. Your vascular pump clenches. You had lied right to Dyvinra's face, told him it was okay, and then he had been killed. Just gone in an act of mindless highblood brutality.
As two teal bloods carry the body away, a strong anger washes over you. You want more than anything to break free of these shackles and strangle the juggalo who had struck down Dyvinra. It must have shown on your face, because the taller troll stops laughing as your eyes meet his. The indigo's expression darkens and he advances toward you.
"What the fuck are you looking at, shitblood?" he spits through sharp, crooked teeth. You don't respond, matching him glare for glare. He gets closer until your face is practically touching his. "You want to try something?" he hisses. You don't feel the need to answer him.
For a moment the two of you stare each other down like there is nothing else in the world, until he suddenly bursts into laughter. You cringe inwardly; his breath smells worse than the fresh hoofbeast patties you had to clean up in the stable back home. "Don't worry. You and the rest of these rustblooded motherfuckers will be joining him soon. It's all for the Great One's entertainment." He saunters away, resuming his chanting and twirling his clubs, much to the delight of the gathered audience.
You can't help but assume that the 'Great One' has to be on the huge stone seat directly in front of you
You stare up at the troll on the throne. The tall thin bastard is looking right back at you. And he is smiling.
= Gamzee: Be the Tall Thin Bastard
Your eyes are drawn to a rather small rustblood. You have a talent for recognizing fear and it's practically rolling off of the little shit in waves. All of the lowbloods spread out below you are clearly afraid, but this one is practically shitting his pants. All up and clutching at his shirt, he looks about ready to pass out. You smirk in mild amusement as he glances at the troll next to him. Your gaze follows his, and the smirk drops from your features as you recognize him as a Taurus. The symbol on his chest reflects the shape in which his horns sprout from his head. He seems to be whispering frantically to the terrified little shit next to him.
Trying to plan an escape? No, it looks like something else.
You narrow your eyes, examining the Taurus closer. The motherfucker isn't scared. His face is a mask of composition. The way he's standing, the way he's holding his head up, his posture conveys the utmost confidence. Never in all your sweeps have you seen a shitblood hold itself as proudly as this one does. The rustbloods are usually such pathetic creatures, all bowing their heads and begging for mercy and such. But not this one. He's different. You hate different.
When you glance back at that first little shit, you can't believe what you are seeing. The little fucker seems calmer, getting his wicked chill on. He's up and holding a motherfucking conversation with the Taurus like he's completely forgotten where he is! You quickly scan the rest of the line. Motherfuckers are watching the pair, getting all up and calmed down just by the sight of them so serenely chatting away.
This simply won't fly, bro. You need to remind the little shits just where the fuck they are and who the fuck they're dealing with.
You nod to the one of the Masters of Ceremony, pointing at the originally terrified lowblood. Starting the games off with a little show of force is always a crowd pleaser, and you're not one to disappoint. The Master of Ceremony you nodded to signals one of the subjugglators in the arena. Wasting no time, he saunters over to crack the little shit's skull wide open. Stupid fucker hadn't even seen it coming. The blank dumbass look on his face was hilarious. You can't help but smile, but again the expression is wiped from your face. Instead of curling in fear like the rest, the Taurus stares straight up at you. There is a flame in his eyes. A motherfucking challenge.
You smile back.
This shit just got a little more interesting.
= Tavros: Strife!
A loud HONK echoes through the tent and the roar of the crowd fades into silence. An indigo dressed in a rainbow-splashed hooded robe descends from the high stone table in the stands. The hood high is enough to cover her horns, but not so deep that you can't make out the feminine features of her face. She approaches the group and addresses you all. She speaks in a clear voice, her tone pleasant if slightly condescending.
"You will be fighting to the death for our entertainment," she says bluntly. "But you need not worry about harming your friends; you won't be fighting each other." You feel the links of your chains rattle as several of the trolls in line behind you being to tremble. "You will be practice for our young trainees, because if they can't fight for shit they ain't worth our spit." Peals of laughter fills the big top.
A joke. You are less than amused.
She waits for the noise to quiet before continuing: "If any of you should survive, that troll will walk free as our thanks for helping us weed out the weak." You scarcely dare to believe what you are hearing. A chance put your hands on a highblood? Not only that, but the chance to kill one and be allowed to see the next perigee? You immediately suspect that this is just some joke the clowns have made up for entertainment, but as she stands before you stony-faced, and as the crowd remains silent, you being to hope.
Holy shit! She's serious!
The chains stop rattling as your fellow captives, one by one, arrive at the same conclusion.
"You will be released one by one. We don't want you motherfuckers up and gettin' any smart ideas." She chuckles a little to herself. As if you could. Even if all of you managed escape your bonds, you would still be outnumbered by more than 100 to 1. You would all be dead before you made it half way out. "The arena platform is a little unstable, so take care not to fall into the pit. The spikes down there will fucking hurt," She finishes matter-of-factly with a coy wink. You don't know which is worse, what she is saying or the bright, sunny way in which she says it. "One last rule: touch your opponent's horns and be culled on the spot. That is way far off limits, brothers." You can't help but notice that she didn't say anything about them touching yours.
Two bluebloods approach you and unlock the chains. As the metal links drop away, you momentarily contemplate making a break for the exit. If you could get outside, it would take only one strong beat of your wings to take off. Glancing toward the exit, however, your hopes wither; two Sagittarius archers flank the only exit, arrows held at the ready. There's no hope there; that clan is known for their deadly accuracy.
You are escorted into the center ring by the indigo priestess. A walkway is lowered to lead you up onto the arena platform. It feels sturdy under your feet, at least for now.
A walkway on the other side is lowered and the only indigo that had crushed Dyvinra swaggers on to the platform. twirling his clubs between his long fingers. Your friend's still-wet blood spatters several tears of red on the arena stage each time the clubs complete a rotation.
The indigo sneers at you. "Now to pay you back for that look, shitblood," he hisses, and the fight begins. The platform shakes violently with each step he takes, nearly throwing you off balance. You manage to right yourself and prepare for his onslaught. He swings toward you in a wide arc, aiming for your head. You block with your right forearm, chopping him in his protein-chute with your left hand as you do. He stumbles back, wide-eyed and stunned. Clearly he hadn't been expecting any resistance.
You don't allow him to recover. You rain blow after blow down on him, pushing forward as you to do drive him back toward the edge of the stage. He tries to jump forward, swinging his club wildly. You dance half a step back, moving just out of his reach. You advance again, sliding your left foot behind his, grabbing the collar of his shirt with both hands and pushing, slamming him backward, head-first into the stage.
He hisses and kicks you violently in the abdomen, knocking you back a few steps. Bent double and gasping from the blow, you retreat to the centre of the platform. He tries to club your horns but you advance, getting too close for him to swing. You swing upward to connect your fist with his jaw and then, grabbing his arm, whirl him around and around to throw him toward the outer edge once again.
He gets to his feet and tries to charge you again roaring at the top of his lungs. With his mouth open, you can see that some of his teeth have been knocked out. With his face paint smeared awkwardly against his skin, he looks almost comical. You would laugh in any other situation, but right now you're a little too focussed on staying alive. You leap directly at him, closing the distance between you in the blink of an eye. He swings again, aiming for your horns once more. You duck then bury your elbow in the center of his chest. You hear an oddly satisfying crack as one his ribs breaks before he stumbles off the edge of the arena. He doesn't scream, just like Dyvinra.
The big top is silent as, breathing hard, you slowly look up and around. One beat, two beats pass, then the place erupts into a riot.
= Gamzee: Start Round 2.
You have just witnessed a motherfuckin' miracle.
The shitblood just culled a highblood brother-in-training without any hesitation. And it was over so motherfucking fast. The fight couldn't have lasted more than a minute. Your brothers and sisters have exploded into screaming and shouting, all for the Taurus' immediate culling. You don't care. You have to experience this miracle for yourself. You stand up and descend the steps of your throne.
The shouts in the stands trickle away as all attention is directed to you. By the time you get to the center ring, the audience has fallen silent once more. You smile, ejecting your juggling clubs from your strife specibus. You are only going to use your fists. The rush of an even death match is just the thing you need to work out the boredom.