Marsh || Steel Inquisitor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
myironeyes) wrote2014-10-06 06:11 pm
myironeyes) wrote2014-10-06 06:11 pm
Entry tags:
- acupuncture of the damned,
- brighteyes bros,
- brood brood cluck cluck,
- dolorous von shishkabob,
- friendly neighborhood angel of death,
- full of psychic fishhooks,
- hemalurgy is a bad life choice,
- king of the sadpandas,
- no one expects the steel inquisition,
- no that's a lie it is expected,
- people live in terror,
- this is not his baby,
- water torture on the brain,
- where is his lizard baby
(no subject)
[Public Video]
The kitchen is, as usual, understaffed. We were understaffed before this latest shake-up and now we are more understaffed. We require at least one temporary warden supervisor for the lunch shift and four or five new inmates.
Those interested should speak to Riddick or myself.
[Open spam, backdated throughout the last few days]
[Marsh can be found in odd times at odd places - late and night on the deck or early morning in the greenhouse, hunched over, making soft, choking noises, his little cockatiel crooning worriedly and attempting to preen his short hair. Folded in a corner of the ice-damaged stairwell, a hand splayed over his spikes, breathing hitched, shoulders shaking, looking like nothing so much as a man desperately trying to sob and unable to manage it.
The crying from Iris's room - it's psychic, he doesn't just hear it. It gets in when he is too tired to fend it off from ripped-open places, and then it becomes him, the loneliness and fear and grief, the confusion of the very young. He remembers himself - it is not overwhelming, not like Ruin at its worst, nothing like that - but he cannot stop feeling it. And the feeling is not entirely unfamiliar.]
[Private spam for Bianca]
[He decides, eventually, that it cannot be a trick, that something is real, must be suffering. Or perhaps he doesn't care anymore, as long as it stops. He arrives at her door with his jaw clenched from the effort of holding the lost, abandoned feeling back, and it still drips through his cracks, stings like salt in his punctures. He knocks.]
[Private spam forC'Rizz the Dalek Emperor, backdated to shortly after the arena]
[It's not a pleasant return, but he falls to the necessary housekeeping with a grim sort of gratitude. He asks the admiral for a resurrection, then swallows a truly foul amount of powdered pewter and a small sliver of feruchemy-laced gold. Then cooks until he stops seeing Iris on every blank nonmetallic surface, and brings the egg soup to C'Rizz's room. He knocks, then lets himself in.]
It's me.
The kitchen is, as usual, understaffed. We were understaffed before this latest shake-up and now we are more understaffed. We require at least one temporary warden supervisor for the lunch shift and four or five new inmates.
Those interested should speak to Riddick or myself.
[Open spam, backdated throughout the last few days]
[Marsh can be found in odd times at odd places - late and night on the deck or early morning in the greenhouse, hunched over, making soft, choking noises, his little cockatiel crooning worriedly and attempting to preen his short hair. Folded in a corner of the ice-damaged stairwell, a hand splayed over his spikes, breathing hitched, shoulders shaking, looking like nothing so much as a man desperately trying to sob and unable to manage it.
The crying from Iris's room - it's psychic, he doesn't just hear it. It gets in when he is too tired to fend it off from ripped-open places, and then it becomes him, the loneliness and fear and grief, the confusion of the very young. He remembers himself - it is not overwhelming, not like Ruin at its worst, nothing like that - but he cannot stop feeling it. And the feeling is not entirely unfamiliar.]
[Private spam for Bianca]
[He decides, eventually, that it cannot be a trick, that something is real, must be suffering. Or perhaps he doesn't care anymore, as long as it stops. He arrives at her door with his jaw clenched from the effort of holding the lost, abandoned feeling back, and it still drips through his cracks, stings like salt in his punctures. He knocks.]
[Private spam for
[It's not a pleasant return, but he falls to the necessary housekeeping with a grim sort of gratitude. He asks the admiral for a resurrection, then swallows a truly foul amount of powdered pewter and a small sliver of feruchemy-laced gold. Then cooks until he stops seeing Iris on every blank nonmetallic surface, and brings the egg soup to C'Rizz's room. He knocks, then lets himself in.]
It's me.
[private]
[He hesitates, and then sighs in a markedly open and wearied fashion.]
If at all possible could you...not let him? He's already taking on every last piece of work that he can. He's made himself my unoffical warden, he's still watching over this other version of his own inmate, he's sitting on Bianca and he's playing second banana to Lehnsherr; that and he's responsible still for anything left to do with that nanite project.
He doesn't know how to say 'no', Marsh. It's his weakness.
[private]
[He's right; they really aren't in a position to turn him away.]
[private]
[private]
[private]
[private]
[He will try to be clearer in the future.]
[private]
Oh, never mind. It really wasn't that funny to begin with. I shouldn't have bothered.