Paul Atreides (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
terriblepurpose) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
deernet2023-01-24 05:29 pm
terriblepurpose) wrote in deernet2023-01-24 05:29 pm
un: mouse | video
[ The feed opens on a young man seated cross-legged on an expanse of black scales, framed between two spiralling white horns against a backdrop of more black scales interspersed with charcoal dark feathers. His Hunter's armour is nearly of a shade to match, covering all of him but his vaguely familiar face.
He smiles warmly as he runs a soft cloth over a plain knife to clean it of the black blood all over its flat metal grey. ]
Good evening, fellow Sleepers.
[ The last light of the day catches in his dark curls and his blue-green eyes, on the pale mist of his breath in the cool winter air. ]
For those of you I haven't met, let me reintroduce myself. Paul Atreides, of House Atreides, also known as Paul Muad'Dib, which sounds more impressive than it is.
[ A tiny, smoke dark mouse appears on his shoulder, and he inclines his head towards her fondly. ]
It's been some time since I was here, at least from my perspective. I've certainly changed much more than anything else has. It's a peculiar position to be in, and I've been at all kinds of ends with myself, waiting for the reversion.
But while I am here, for however long that is - I've never been very good at being idle.
[ The knife cleaned, Paul flicks it deftly upward in a flashing spin, a gesture made for the joy of making it. He catches it and flips it on its side, balancing it on two fingers at precisely the axis of its gravity. His gaze focuses on it, still and tranquil. ]
Someone once told me that with great power comes great responsibility. [ The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement brushed through with nostalgia. ] It was a joke, of course, although I didn't know that at the time.
Still. There's something to the principle, if taken seriously, or so I'd like to think.
[ He furrows his brow slightly, all of his intent honed in on his knife. In a mild, everyday sort of voice, he says: ]
This knife is as light as a feather.
[ He flicks it upward again, but this time, the blade that acted as metal before drifts as lightly as he's told it that it would. It floats gently down towards his opened palm, where he smiles at it with a faint sheen of accomplishment. ]
Which brings me to my purpose here.
As long as this is a stop along my path, I want to exercise my responsibility to my power - and my responsibility to you, as my friends and as my people.
I want to know what you want in this world, whatever it might be. I can't promise that I'll be able to grant your request, but I give you my word I'll do all that I am capable of to see your wishes manifested, so long as you don't ask me to be an agent of harm.
Be creative. Be selfish. No wish too small or too large. Let me see what I can do for you.
[ He flashes a bright grin, a trace of rueful self-deprecation turned inward on himself. ]
You'll be keeping me out of trouble.
[ ooc: replies will come fromunchoose ]
He smiles warmly as he runs a soft cloth over a plain knife to clean it of the black blood all over its flat metal grey. ]
Good evening, fellow Sleepers.
[ The last light of the day catches in his dark curls and his blue-green eyes, on the pale mist of his breath in the cool winter air. ]
For those of you I haven't met, let me reintroduce myself. Paul Atreides, of House Atreides, also known as Paul Muad'Dib, which sounds more impressive than it is.
[ A tiny, smoke dark mouse appears on his shoulder, and he inclines his head towards her fondly. ]
It's been some time since I was here, at least from my perspective. I've certainly changed much more than anything else has. It's a peculiar position to be in, and I've been at all kinds of ends with myself, waiting for the reversion.
But while I am here, for however long that is - I've never been very good at being idle.
[ The knife cleaned, Paul flicks it deftly upward in a flashing spin, a gesture made for the joy of making it. He catches it and flips it on its side, balancing it on two fingers at precisely the axis of its gravity. His gaze focuses on it, still and tranquil. ]
Someone once told me that with great power comes great responsibility. [ The corner of his mouth quirks up, amusement brushed through with nostalgia. ] It was a joke, of course, although I didn't know that at the time.
Still. There's something to the principle, if taken seriously, or so I'd like to think.
[ He furrows his brow slightly, all of his intent honed in on his knife. In a mild, everyday sort of voice, he says: ]
This knife is as light as a feather.
[ He flicks it upward again, but this time, the blade that acted as metal before drifts as lightly as he's told it that it would. It floats gently down towards his opened palm, where he smiles at it with a faint sheen of accomplishment. ]
Which brings me to my purpose here.
As long as this is a stop along my path, I want to exercise my responsibility to my power - and my responsibility to you, as my friends and as my people.
I want to know what you want in this world, whatever it might be. I can't promise that I'll be able to grant your request, but I give you my word I'll do all that I am capable of to see your wishes manifested, so long as you don't ask me to be an agent of harm.
Be creative. Be selfish. No wish too small or too large. Let me see what I can do for you.
[ He flashes a bright grin, a trace of rueful self-deprecation turned inward on himself. ]
You'll be keeping me out of trouble.
[ ooc: replies will come from
unchoose ]
text, username: aweful
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Unless you want me to start calling you "Anna."
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At least the names I use are real.
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I'm a Saint. The only Saint. Anything you used to have means absolutely fuck all.
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I am the Saint of Fealty, and you will never replace me even given a myriad of myriads.
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You're just the delusional bimbo who let him manipulate you into sacrificing your own cavalier and you thanked him for it for millennia, you just happened to be so unlovable that he still couldn't stand you.
I mean, not that I can blame him, have you met yourself?
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There is one person who knows to properly fear my name and respect my Sainthood.
I'm certain you know Hecate Triphosphera.
She's a good cavalier.
It's a shame that she's still so depressingly mortal.
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For the record she fears and respects me more. As she should. I'm hotter than you. And smarter. By a lot.
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Or have you excised everything which causes you pain in your pursuit of being the perfect Saint?
cw for nsfw, misogynistic insults and slutshaming, ianthe tridentarius
I had all those targeted jabs and insults directed at you, and you still can't even throw me one other than "I'll kill someone I think is associated with you!!! Will you respect and fear me then???? 🥺🥺🥺🥺" I'm soooo quivering in my boots at your mighty power.
The answer's still no. By all means, kill her. See what good it does you. The list of people who respect you or remember you as anything other than God's least favorite whore will go from 0.5 to 0. Big win for the dead slut community.
[She hasn't heard any examples of Sleepers staying dead. And it's a fraught connection causing her nothing but doubt. A beyond useless emotion she can't afford. So no. She can't afford to care.
Especially if she won't even stay dead.]
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I have the better part of a myriad's worth of experience tearing myself to pieces.
What makes you think you're any better?
Your sister is already out of reach to you.
Your Harrowhark is conscripted to another.
Patience and Joy and Duty have left you.
God will only love you until the moment it becomes inconvenient.
Who remains to distract you from the gnashing void within yourself?
You are alone, o Saint.
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I'm not a gullible moron who bought a lie for the better part of a myriad and pined after the attention of that same liar even after the façade had gone away. You're all idiots. You, my other more competent and memorable elder siblings, Harry, Kiriona.
What makes me know that I'm better than you is that I don't need his love and I don't want it.
Honestly, based on the sheer fatality rate, I'd say getting near his dick is the slowest and most pathetic way to die ever seen in human history. Congrats to all of you.
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Our sad and broken God has no use for things that do not love him.
And my only regret will be not getting to experience you being torn asunder by your own atomic bonds.
I hope you feel nothing, o Saint of Awe, o only Saint, o final Saint.
I hope he does not even give you the satisfaction of pain.
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If it makes my darling dead sister feel better, I might die before all this is over, but I can promise it won't be at his hand. Harry's, probably. Maybe my sister's.
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