(no subject)
WHO: Trollhouse
WHAT: come poke the drugged up clown in the basement
WHERE: Trollhouse
WHEN: ...anytime after he got shoved down there.
WARNINGS: more swearing, more awfulness, more drug abuse, more depressed trolls
Most of the time, Gamzee had been a pretty chill motherfucker. Someone who'd never lay a hand on the people he cared about, who just wanted to help out even if all he could do was pray for miracles. This syrup stuff finally managed to calm the screaming, laughing voices in his head that couldn't have been his thoughts and yet somehow were. The overwhelming cocaphony was reduced to a dull buzz in the back of his hazy mind.
While he was confused about a lot of things going on, he remembered enough to understand why he was stuck in a dark hole, and it made his stomach churn to think about. Ironically enough, it wasn't the fight with Vriska that was bothering him. For the first time in his life he felt actual hatred towards another troll and deep down, even he had to admit that he still wanted to see her dead. No, it was the simple fact that he'd been so hellbent on slaughtering his friends.
To him, the Dark Carnival -while horrifying- was a place where souls are judged on the merits of their deeds, put through trials and given a chance at redemption. In his own way he was trying to save them. At least that's what he hoped he was doing, but it was hard to rationalize a mentality that was buried under a thick layer of drug induced listlessness. Everything he ever believed in was crashing down around him all at once and he couldn't even begin to know where to start picking up the pieces.
So he just stayed silent for the time being in his makeshift cell, leaning into a corner. Without the rage he was finally had to deal with the weight of Tavros' death. Though the drugs in his system kept his mood fluctuating. It was harder near the end of the day, when the effects of the syrup were wearing off. He could think more clearly.
Which wasn't something he was all that keen doing on at the moment.
WHAT: come poke the drugged up clown in the basement
WHERE: Trollhouse
WHEN: ...anytime after he got shoved down there.
WARNINGS: more swearing, more awfulness, more drug abuse, more depressed trolls
Most of the time, Gamzee had been a pretty chill motherfucker. Someone who'd never lay a hand on the people he cared about, who just wanted to help out even if all he could do was pray for miracles. This syrup stuff finally managed to calm the screaming, laughing voices in his head that couldn't have been his thoughts and yet somehow were. The overwhelming cocaphony was reduced to a dull buzz in the back of his hazy mind.
While he was confused about a lot of things going on, he remembered enough to understand why he was stuck in a dark hole, and it made his stomach churn to think about. Ironically enough, it wasn't the fight with Vriska that was bothering him. For the first time in his life he felt actual hatred towards another troll and deep down, even he had to admit that he still wanted to see her dead. No, it was the simple fact that he'd been so hellbent on slaughtering his friends.
To him, the Dark Carnival -while horrifying- was a place where souls are judged on the merits of their deeds, put through trials and given a chance at redemption. In his own way he was trying to save them. At least that's what he hoped he was doing, but it was hard to rationalize a mentality that was buried under a thick layer of drug induced listlessness. Everything he ever believed in was crashing down around him all at once and he couldn't even begin to know where to start picking up the pieces.
So he just stayed silent for the time being in his makeshift cell, leaning into a corner. Without the rage he was finally had to deal with the weight of Tavros' death. Though the drugs in his system kept his mood fluctuating. It was harder near the end of the day, when the effects of the syrup were wearing off. He could think more clearly.
Which wasn't something he was all that keen doing on at the moment.