Marsh || Steel Inquisitor (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
myironeyes) wrote2015-03-03 11:48 pm
myironeyes) wrote2015-03-03 11:48 pm
Entry tags:
- actual voodoo doll marsh,
- acupuncture of the damned,
- dance puppet dance,
- full of psychic fishhooks,
- he is the black queen,
- hemalurgy is a bad life choice,
- marsh did not sign up for this,
- mind control is the worst thing,
- no one expects the steel inquisition,
- no that's a lie it is expected,
- open season on the psychicly defenseless,
- skewers sadface mcgee,
- the last inquisitor
debts all come due
[Open spam, basically anywhere]
[He drifts. He expresses the will of the place he is in. If someone tries to interrupt a performance or deviate from the script in the Opera House, he will prevent it with a snapped wrist or an effortless backhand into the wall. Someone upsetting the ghosts in the stables or interfering with the banquet, anyone doing too much damage to the walls, or fighting the inhabitants - he hurts them until they stop. Somewhere, he acquires a broadaxe, heavy and eerily crystalline, not the little obsidian hatchets he knows, but light in his hands. The brief moments of brutality are like scraps of food to a starving hound. But he does not always kill, even though Ruin's chasms in him yearn too. The place is not concerned with how fast the intruders die. And before any of his own concerns, he is its hand.]
[He drifts. He expresses the will of the place he is in. If someone tries to interrupt a performance or deviate from the script in the Opera House, he will prevent it with a snapped wrist or an effortless backhand into the wall. Someone upsetting the ghosts in the stables or interfering with the banquet, anyone doing too much damage to the walls, or fighting the inhabitants - he hurts them until they stop. Somewhere, he acquires a broadaxe, heavy and eerily crystalline, not the little obsidian hatchets he knows, but light in his hands. The brief moments of brutality are like scraps of food to a starving hound. But he does not always kill, even though Ruin's chasms in him yearn too. The place is not concerned with how fast the intruders die. And before any of his own concerns, he is its hand.]
no subject
holler if this isn't okay!
One - wearing a dark blue jump suit that matches the one she still occasionally wears, save for the color along the shoulders and the extra rank pip - gets too close and she breaks her veneer of calm to shove him back. She doesn't have to look for the radiation meter hooked to his chest pocket to know it's meant to be Commander Tucker, and no matter what scene is about to play out, she has no interest in reliving it.
She only notices Marsh after she's gone off book, and that first backhand nearly knocks her over, would have if she hadn't grabbed for the curtain. Her eyes narrow, and she fights the urge to rush him.]
What are you doing? [She struggles not to snarl the words at him, doesn't succeed.]
holler if this isn't okay!
[There's a flatness to his voice that is nothing like his usual gravity. It's a hollow, manufactured sort of noise. His face is twisted, and his hands twitch at his sides. The part of him that is the Opera House wants her damaged, dancing. The part of him that will always belong to ruin wants to cut her to pieces. The shuddering sliver that is himself wants desperately to get both of them out of here, and is terrified to fight the former too hard and unwittingly unleash the latter.]
no subject
But this tower is not logical, and neither are his actions. So she adapts, though in the long run it isn't doing her any good.]
I have no part to play here. [She moves to step around him, giving a wide berth.]
no subject
no subject
Release me.
[She doesn't expect an answer, or a response she'll accept, though, and turns her intention to worming her arm free. She won't need much, she knows, just a moment, a brush, and she can take control. When she wrenches her arm up, her arm shoots for his face, but not as an attack: her fingers find the points at his temple, his cheek, and she reaches out with her telepathy, forcing her will into him.]
My mind to your mind.
no subject
He is terrified, and horrified, sick with revulsion at the acts of his hands and his helplessness before the tendrils of the shadows here. His relief is the only solace, a desperate gratitude that she could stop him, a plea not to let go, even as he knows she suffers to hold him.
Make me run he begs, flinging his understanding at her in urgent clarity while his body holds still: the compulsion is localized, each part of the building pressing him to enforce its own agenda. He is unnaturally strong and unnaturally fast, and if she wants not to be here, he can bear her away in a heartbeat.
He cares about her, warm and smooth-edged and sturdy like a worn stone worry bead tucked amid the spikes, and he wants terrible not to hurt her.]
no subject
He begs, and she slams his thoughts down, makes him heel like a dog in training. His emotions perturb her: if it was only pain, anger, want, anything base and physical and basic, she would understand.
But he cares, he would protect her without her forcing the urge into his head. That baffles her, and she almost withdraws. It's not an emotion she's familiar, not one she recognizes easily, absent as it is of lust and ego.
Before she can get lost in the sea of bizarre emotion, she rallies her thoughts, calms her mind.]
Escort me back to the ship.
[Her voice is mostly calm. She struggles with the edge she feels, instead manipulating everything she finds in his mind.] You will keep my safe. [Even, she adds silently, at risk to himself.]