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.
no subject
[So there. Marsh is not impressed at all. He sits next to the shriveled thing that was C'Rizz and runs a hand over his head gently, feeling the difference in texture compared to healthy scale, burns brass and soothes away some of the distress. Not the voices, though he can only guess whether they are the cause, when C'Rizz didn't have them under inmate limits, but the emotion they cause, that's beneath the shouting. It's alright, hearing them.]
no subject
(Eat, beloved, you must eat, doesn't it smell like winter soup, don't you remember home?)
So much stimulus. Strange stimulus. Marsh's hand feels sandpaper-rough and hot.]
Do not touch us, human! Do not! We will eat!
no subject
You should go slowly, if it's been so long.
[Don't make yourself sick.]
no subject
(You always had a weak stomach. Shh.)
He/they regroup and try again, grimly. They will survive.]
You preserve us. Because of your code of warden behavior. Correct?
no subject
[Gently, or at least unworried, with a slightly far-away tint to the words, and he isn't sure if it's melancholy or just that he doesn't have the energy for too much bitterness against one more mortal sadist. He has the energy for petty grudges, though.]
If it were Ryan - warden-from-there Ryan, that he had before you - I'd probably let him suffer.
I like you, you know. Even though you're terrible.
no subject
[it is sullen. They/He forces down another bite of soup. Old cravings are reawakening. Nausea fights with starvation.
There is a memory: that changing is what he does. He adapts.]
no subject
And you're already in pain. All the time, and I - me too. I don't want to make you hurt more.
no subject
[It's stubborn and... a bit defeated already. This universe is tiring and too familiar to be dismissed. There are soft voices at his ear and his body is maleable. The clatter of silverware against bowl is alarming and too present. Everything is so close and not at a constant arm's length.
He cannot hear his people. He had a sense of connection to them, even in the un-universe of his barge, but none are here.]
The pain is a feature of the casing. It is not as you know native to us. But it is steadying.
[Sulk. Sulk. Blame.]
no subject
He feels the same.
[It's not 'no one deserves that'. Deserving has little to do with it.]
There are other ways to find steadiness.