The Bloodbath

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

[ introduction | andal searley 10m ]

 ANDAL SEARLEY  

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His fingers ached. 

He fidgets with his relic, feels around its rough edges, and sighs again, slicking his tuft of hair back. Eyes weary, head numb, it’s certainly the perfect state to be in when he looks up at the clock. Thirty minutes. Time suddenly whips around him: a stream, a river, and finally a whirlpool, a swirling mass, a bottomless depth. Time loses meaning. Sense. 

Andal shakes his head. Get it together. He’s worked steadily up to this moment, careful in each step, and that means he could not let it all go toppling down like a row of ill-fated dominoes. Empires are not built in a day. History does not begin with a single page. If he is to be what he wants to be - mattered - and that means he would be to be what he doesn’t wish to be - cruel. His shoulder tenses at the thought, his heart tautening and his mouth drying. Cruel, for him, is an impossible word. 

But that’s where Katrina and Jack comes in. They’ll be cruel for him, right? All he needs is to keep them out of harm’s reach, and they’ll deal with the ugly. He can hide. He can refuse to see. In the dark, you cannot tell red from black. 

A door opens ahead, and a procession of men in white walks in. He looks up. Is it time yet? No, twenty minutes to, why- 

Gloved hands reach out and hold him down in vice grips. Andal’s eyes widen, his muscles tense, and he is struggling against the bondage already as they cluster around him. ”What- What are you-” Something sharp buries itself within his arm, deep into his veins. He gasps aloud, the pain of the needle frost-cold. And then it feels warm. His blood heats up, not unlike a sudden rush of fever, and his heart beats, beats, beats. ”What did you do?” he husks, and his tone is guttural, full of flesh and teeth. 

They hoist him up, dragging him across the room into the chute as he thrashes and kicks- to no avail. The peacekeepers toss him against  the hard glass, and Andal charges forward to ram face-first against another glass wall. “What did you-” A grinding sound commences, rustic and old, and he’s ascending. 

It’s the scent of metal he picks up on before anything. No, not metal. Blood. Thick and old blood, like he’s breathing in molten pennies and ancient iron that wraps around him in a way some iron maiden would. He tilts his head up, and laughs. Andal pictured some faraway tropical place, or perhaps something whimsical, conjured out of a fairytale. This was fabricated from nightmares. Twisted and sinister, it reminded him of every bonfire story he’d been told by his grandfather, tales far from the light and the good. This was a place of desecration, where things went and became unholy. 

And, with hot and strange blood flowing across his veins, he’s afraid he may have very well become a part of it.

[/div][/div][/span][/p]

[ andal enters the bloodbath ]

[/div][/span][/p]

[Tom]

[Finnagan Davies D12A | Intro]

Every thorn of life pricks at the edges of his seams, bursting through with a rush of adrenaline that'll lead to his own desire to become greater than the body he's in. Twelve wouldn't recognize him as the same man he left as. As a Davies, he's got a name to live up to. A price to make everyone else pay. Burnt by the roses of the world, he'd grow taller and stronger than all of them. Standing in a field of his own ruin. Fingertips taut on the thorny vines of power that'll come his way. Finnagan Davies had prepared as much as he can. Built his own body up once more and kept his skills hidden behind doors, even from his own district partner.

Anika Khan would be there with him. A girl who desperately wanted to be the star of the Games. No one would care if he let her shine while he stood in the background with the thorny control he's always wanted. What more could he ask for? As he's letting the stylists mess with the fancy outfit, he's stuck in his own head. Their hands residing over his skin, his flesh, and the body he has. Feelings of annoyance bubbling forth, but he bites down the snark. Instead, he lets his eyes stay upon the walls. The last rich thing he'll ever get to experience before they throw him into some dump of a place. Anika Khan would be a useful tool there. He's not akin to making friends. That would be made clear no matter what he had to do.

The precarious outfit they've given him is a mix of ruffles and fancy seam work. He's never felt as out of place than in the outfit. None of it was quite his style, but he's not opposed to the style. Normally, he'd be in just a fancy soft button up with far too many buttons undone. Baseball bat or switchblade in hand, but in here, he's got nothing more than ruffles and an outfit that'll get uncomfortable within a couple of hours. Especially when he's going to be kicking ass. Except, he's also a conniving motherfucker. Bloodbath was not the time to be cocky. Finnagan Davies knew the way those usually went and he wasn't going to play pretend as if he didn't.

Surviving the bloodbath was the goal. As the outfit is fully fitted with all the works, he nods to the stylist for a second. The tube behind him is a warning of what's to come, but as he steps towards it. There's a prick in his neck. Vision swirling for just a second as pain blisters through him. A roar from his throat as he can feel his nails growing sharper and sharper. Eyes burning in pain. His voice echoes in a roar of pain through the room. Hair growing from multiple places that normally he wouldn't have hair growing from. Fuck, he truly was in pain, until he wasn't. The room smelled strong when he comes back to a standstill. The fragrant of Capitol perfume permeating from his stylist. Eyes focused on them as he smiles with a knowing look.

Fucking Elysium. The only thought that burns through his head. As the tube starts moving up, he notices the arena itself. Darker and much more moodier than expected. The large building in front of him takes a second to make out, but it's there crystal clear. One of those fancy church buildings he's heard about, but never quite seen. Stained glass, rubble of stone, and a smell of what had to be blood in his nostrils. There's a flash of something as the time starts to count down. The desire to howl as it reaches it's end is stuffed down as he prepares himself to run.

"Let the games begin."

The hunt was starting.

(Finnagan Davies Enters)

[kap]

[D12 Anika Khan | Intro | No Attack]

Anika Khan

You make harsh eye contact with the individual holding a syringe as a needle plunges into your arm. What the hell was that for? Before you could even question them, though, you were in the clear glass tube, being lifted into the arena. Was that something they did every Games? You'd already had your tracker shoved into your arm, but this was something else, and it caught you a bit off-guard.

You tried not to think about it too much, though. You needed to focus on being ready for the bloodbath that was about to start. Rising into the arena, you didn't expect to be met with darkness. Situated before you is an old, run-down chapel of sorts. The whole place looks like it's rotting and falling apart, and at the moment at least, it's overflowing with supplies. This is the cornucopia this time around. Seems the Gamemakers have gotten quite creative this year.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. You look at your surroundings, locate Finnagan as he's the one person you've decided to team up with, and then return your attention to what's in front of you.

"Smile for the camera, Anika!" you tell yourself quietly. A confident smirk graces your face and you almost let yourself wave to the other tributes, but decide that might be seen as a taunt, and decide against it.

You hope you look good. The rest of your time in this arena is going to be broadcast to the world, after all. You suppose you'll just have to watch back the footage later, when you come home as a victor.

Another deep breath in, another deep breath out. You're ready, and the countdown is almost over. When the timer ends and the gong sounds, you charge toward the nearest patch of supplies, ready to get into the fray and grab what you need to survive in this place.

[Anika Khan enters the bloodbath]

[charlotte fel d11 [Tribsit]]

[Charlotte Fel | Intro]

You had this faith in yourself, or at least that's the mask you wore. As painted faces and foreign figured fawned around you, a flame is what you claimed being akin to. Hellfire knew no boundaries outside the barriers of your flesh and it was your's to release. Hatred, envy, deceit, and blood; you left nothing to chance dripping from your hands. All for what? Some perilous plight for attention? Some surge towards the same light that eviscerated your brother in some kind of familial pursuit? No, spawn of Icarus, you probably flew out of hate born hubris.

No one is saying the flight wasn't special, but it was doomed from the start.

You, Charlotte Fel, were made to rage against the world that tasted bitter against your tongue. You could not find fairness no matter where you looked, so you chose to try and create your own. You could not see any sense of justice, so you ventured to find it in-between blood and blades. You, for all extent and purpose, were made so that you could scream out above the waves that crashed around you. You were not perfect, but you were pristine to the point of the story even if it wasn't truly your own.

When you finally rose into the ruination of that new world, you had no tears as always. The air there somehow smelt sweeter to you. You thought, perhaps in that place, where the cathedral had crumbled and the fountain forged itself out of blood, you could create something new of yourself. Yet, were you ever really there to change as you stood upon that pedestal poised in a circle around inevitability? As the wolf howled and the bat flew against and upon the breath of destiny's wind; were you ever not pulled by its bands of fate? Of course not, you were always meant to be there even if you never knew it.

As the final seconds ticked away, where some may have muttered prayers, where some may have dreamt of glory, and where some may have cried silently to themselves you stood there with an empty smirk and eyes on some scythe like a rose death had given to you as a gift. People always said you were cold aside from the fire of your rage. That was actually the last thing you thought about before it all began. How cold or hot would your blames burn against the darkness?

Charlotte Fel enters the Bloodbath

[sidney]

JACK PRICE | 9A | INTRO

It is with much resistance that you swallow the unfamiliar, dark liquid shoved into your hand. You're stared at expectantly once you take it, made to drink it in full view before pushed into the tube in the center of the room. It will take you up. Into the arena. To your death. The only solace you find is knowing as soon as that timer runs out, you can run for Katrina and Andal. But you know that the day won't end without some blood getting on your hands, or a body falling at your feet, you just aren't sure which will come first.

Drink up, the escort says coldly, impatiently. She taps her foot on the marble floor, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed. With haste, please, she sighs and looks up at the clock on the far wall. It ticks ever slowly, yet somehow faster than normal, you swear. Counting down the seconds until your inevitable demise, shortening the few moments of stifled freedom you have left.

A few more seconds pass, a few fleeting thoughts about snapping the neck of the girl before you and making a run for it. But you know there's four times as many Keepers on the other side of the door, and that you won't make it any farther than the end of the hall. So, you down the serum in one go and swallow hard.

"What's it for anyway?"

There's no answer, just a smirk as a hand is placed on your back and pushes you hard forward. Your heart doesn't race or skip a beat, only hardens. As if the muscle squeezes out any weakness that remains, refusing to be a source of vulnerability. It sears away all love and affection, worry and doubt, reinforcing its walls with stone and iron. To make you strong.

You step in, turn around to look back, but the tube closes down around you. Sealing your fate. There's only a few seconds before the platform you stand on starts to move. It raises up and pushes your point of view up despite how desperate you are to still be in that room instead. There it's relatively safe, at least. Up here lies only death.

The clock begins as your eyes land on Katrina across the way, then Andal even further down. Fuck, you think to yourself, I'll have to fight my way to them. It's nothing you haven't done before - carving your way through a crowd. You just hope you can make it before someone else cuts you down first.

[ jack enters the bloodbath ]

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

[fenrir forrester intro]

► ► ►

In the morning, you still think of Hela’s song. It has not left you since two nights ago, laid in the recesses of your mind. And now you think of Ace on the beam of the roof, flesh and feather, looking down at death and the city like a bluebird on a branch. The wind was in their hair, chest tipped forward to the fall in something dream-like.

You turn to the white heart’s antler, touch vegvísir, still stained with the blood of the sparrow stunned on your balcony.

It is a distraction. You close your eyes.

They passed down Hávamál year after year. The orators, endowed with the power of Óðr, stood at the helm of each ceremony and burned with the mead of poetry. You know Fáfnismál by heart now, as you know all the heroic lays of your childhood. You can remember the exact cadence of their voices, the rise and fall of the words, the harshness that grew as the fervor devoured them during recitation. And sometime, after the death of Vargen, they began to speak of him, as if he were a myth too.

The Gods will be watching.

You think of the boy who they had called Tyr-like, who had been chosen, who had stood in the midst of the commune like a sigil. You remember the look on his face when you stared at him, the ravens circling above you.

He will be watching too.

Before you reach the rising podium, two men arrive in the room with a white medical case. The skin on your neck prickles at the sound of the clasp opening.

Death is balance. Death devours. The Capitol always carries the scent of death, you’ve noticed, but there is never anything like you know. They dress you up. They make you sit in front of a silly man with ruby hair. There is a religion here too, maybe. There is an impious ritual for someone you don’t know..

You take a step away, but they come in like hounds to blood. One restrains you, wrangles a pair of magnetic cuffs over your hands. The other, forces your head down. You smell alcohol. You shiver from the sudden coolness of antiseptic on the back of your neck, the metal constraints pulling at your wrists.

The needle enters, a hot, sharp pain that goes all the way down to the tips of your fingers. You grit your teeth, but then the moment is gone. Your bones feel like embers still crackling.

The cuffs fall off with a click.

The podium rises.

[fenrir forrester d7 enters the bb]

[D5 Cantara Kanansis [sitter]]

Introduction

Cantara felt oddly at ease in the cocoon of her pod beneath the arena. A light draught whispered through the canister which made her wonder how quickly and shoddily the arena had been built. She turned her head slowly, identifying the direction of the breeze. She leaned just a little into it, careful not to put a single hair beyond the sight line of her podium. After her private training session she felt these Gamemakers might follow the rules as literally as she.

The podium rattled to life, twisting as it spun her upwards. She bent her knees to absorb the impact. A little sweat blossomed along her cheekbones. If she could not muster actual fear of what was coming, she could at least try for some excitement – something to get the adrenaline pumping. She swayed knee to knee, a macabre dance.

And suddenly she was no longer in the bowels but… in a castle? She frowned. It was not at all what she had been expecting, what she had been training for. It was not orderly or rational and even very clean.

If she’d misjudged the Gamemakers’ tastes that badly, she might really be in trouble.

She no longer had to pretend. Adrenaline flooded every vein, made her hands cold, made her head light. The countdown timer had begun and she had no idea where her allies were. The small child within longed to call out for Coyote, to demand his insights, his explanation. Instead she bent further into her knees and readied her fists.

Surprised or not, she would be fighting.

[Cantara Kanasis, District 5 Tribute, enters the 92nd Bloodbath.]

[gamemaker kelsier]

akira uchis | intro

He leans against the back of the small elevator, gaze fixed on Storm Adroxis.

A tech in a lab coat swabs his neck with a wet cotton ball as one of the stylist lackeys sprays his face with some sort of sealant for the look they spent near his whole morning carefully constructing. Black lines his eyes, fading into a maroon shadow and carefully placed contouring to highlight his cheekbones. There's a ruffled noose around his neck, so tight that it presses against his adam's apple but he doesn't mind the jewel that comes with it.

And the outfit is still better than some of the other bullshit they've put tributes in before. He knows he should count himself lucky it's only this.

"You know it's still not gonna last, yeah?" he grumbles and tries to pull away slightly.

"Neither will you," the stylist quips back under their breath.

Akira pretends not to hear it but the corner of his mouth does rise the littlest bit. He probably could have been less of an asshole this week, but he prefers coldness to warmth anyway and the last thing he needs is to feel guilty about burdening a stranger with his impending death. Better for them to hate him than to mourn him.

The tech leans in, syringe positioned over his neck. Akira had the whole tracker injection explained to him but he still doesn't like it. The idea of being looked after has always been foreign to him.

Speaking of, "Isn't this the part where you tell me good odds?" he asks Storm.

The just victor looks at him for a long moment, gaze too solemn for a child. For the first time in a while, Akira's eyes slide away. It's uncomfortable to see worry like that in Storm's eyes. "Come on kid," he mutters, shields up, "We don't have all day here."

Then Storm steps forward, and places a hand on his shoulder, "Hey, you got this. You've got a good pts score, and you've got good fighting instincts. I'll see ya on the other side." He smiles at Akira, as if to comfort him but all it does is make his skin crawl.

"I don't need your pity, Adroxis," he says, biting the inside of his lip, "Just your sponsorship."

He shrugs Storm's hand off and then the tech injects him then and Akira flinches away despite himself. The burning sensation is immediate, he can almost pinpoint the tracker as it travels through his body, he curls his hands into fists and furrows his brow, brain trying to come to terms with the pain of it.

He knows pain, he knows hurt.

It's fine.

The stylist steps back with the tech, who both stare at him dead-eyed or with some form of contempt in their eyes. It's how it should be, how it was designed to be. Akira isn't anything to them, just another body from the districts. He smiles back at them, shows too many teeth.

Always too many teeth.

"I made it through this on my own so you can too," Storm yells at him stubbornly as the platform rises.

Akira doesn't answer, there's no point, he's moving up too fast and the burning sensation hasn't ended yet, actually, it only seems to deepen, thick like syrup, it burns and fills his head from the inside out, his vision darkens for a moment, then brightens, he has to clench his teeth to keep from crying out in the darkness of the tube.

Then he's rising above ground, undo a foggy sky, eyes on the scene in front of him.

Through the discomfort it's hard to come to terms with what's in front of him. A dilapidated chapel, sits under a dark sky, bricks scorched and crumbling from age, haunting in it's beauty but strikingly sad without even a word on what it once was.

Life was there once.

There's counting above his head, there isn't enough time to understand everything at once.

He catches the scent of iron in the air and his body reacts sharply, almost pushing him off the platform before the timer goes. Something in him switches.

And he remembers the blood pooling on the training room floor.

And it's hard to think.

So he doesn't.

[akira enters bb and picks up serum]

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

Oct 15, 2022 14:00:16 GMT -5 umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars] said:

^{Chiara de Soto, 11a | Post One | Intro}

^{Chiara de Soto, 11a | Post Two | 5007}

I think they drugged me when they put in my tracker. Nah, I'm being serious dude. Like, the light in the arena hurts my eyes, I'm like hungry but nothing really sounds good in my head, I'm achey... Literally if they didn't drug me I'm about to start my period and that would be just fucking great on day one in a god damn hunger games arena, wouldn't it?

But like, lowkey, I also feel like. Different. Physically speaking. That's why I really think something must be up because I've never felt like this. A little... shaky? Could be mixed with the adrenaline but, whatever. Then I see a fucking literal syringe labelled "antidote" and I'm like Yup, they fucking drugged me? I guess my grandma was right- you can't trust nobody these days. The nurse who gave me my tracker was hella cute and talking about his dog Lucy and he really fuckin played me. Man that's fucked up.

[chichi attacks anika, unarmed]
PUQHJEfYP8unarmed
[5007 - .5]

^{(chichi picks up Crossbow + 10 bolts)}

unarmed

[D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza]]

Oct 15, 2022 14:00:16 GMT -5 D6f Carmen Cantelou [aza] said:

terra casimir d3 : intro

terra casimir d3 : attack one : 5081

I regret ever keeping the peace at home. My own instincts are what kept me thriving in Three and that is what I fall back on here, too. There's no room for anything else - it's a fight for survival and I'll be fucked if I'm not getting out of this pandemonium alive. I keep my breath slow and steady and keep my eyes on my first target, desperate to pick something up that will turn this pink to an inescapable red. I can't let anyone or anything get in my way of vengeance, so when someone threatens my right to survive, I remind them of the danger that lurks in these games.

terra attacks fenrir ; 5081 -- Broken Right Arm -- 6.5 damage

UkyTvrCiL_unarmed

terra picks up morningstar [flail]

unarmed

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

Oct 15, 2022 14:00:14 GMT -5 gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕ said:

( mereddyd fawkes | d7a | intro )

( mereddyd fawkes | d7a | attack 1 | 5048 )

Run.

It was the only thing I could think to do. Surprisingly I ran forward, towards the scary building. There was no point in sticky around long, I simply needed a few things to survive. A bag, a weapon, anything else would just be a luxury.

I close my eyes and run, praying I don’t trip and fall.

A body to my left, I lash out before they have a chance to strike. Unsure if I make contact, but I keep moving.

( meredydd attacks d11b charlotte fel; )

lyItVpBvJNunarmed
( 5048 -- Block -- 0.0 damage )
( picks up morningstar )

unarmed

[rook]

Oct 15, 2022 14:00:17 GMT -5 rook said:

[izzy rodríguez d6b - intro]

[izzy rodríguez d6b - flee]

izzy rodríguez

The dark fades, and light seeps in milks. The world is rotten and stinking and the smell of iron in the air brings me to my senses. The sounds of shouting, fist on bone, and blood curdling screams have me scrambling to my feet, up off the podium and away.

Fuck.

Was I supposed to stay and fight for items? Are there resources there that can save my life? I can barely see. A crimson stain of crusted blood is painted on my face, my nose now clotting, but the adrenaline still pulses angrily inside me, and my fingernails in the dirt drag me away instictively from the danger.

Don't die. Don't die yet.

I've stared down cartel wielding sawed off shotguns pressed against my chest before, talked down Peacekeepers with a thirst for street rat blood, but this? This feels wrong. In my core, deep down, I am cold here. There is no warmth, no shelter. This is a place where we have been brought to die.

In fear, and confusion, I retreat and allow the darkness to swallow me whole.

[izzy flees the bloodbath]

[✨ zozo.]

Oct 15, 2022 14:00:20 GMT -5 ✨ zozo. said:

kiko verte d6 | intro

kiko verte d6 | attack 1 unarmed | 5088

Not a lot of familiar faces, but then again I kept mostly to myself back there. Stupid, I know, but I only trust five people on this planet and one of them's my sister. The rest are back home. There's Izzy across the way - gotta stay away from her. As much as I like her and hope she gets far, I'm not stupid. Us gang kids are ruthless - and the end of the day, we're in it for ourselves. Hope she doesn't take it personally. I know she doesn't. Won't. Still, gotta avoid her at all costs.

Hey, an axe! "Mine!" - pounce, shove away the boy at my side.

"My axe!"

kiko attacks nicoli unarmed
|RMKDlSyshunarmed
picks up axe

unarmed

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

Oct 15, 2022 14:00:15 GMT -5 eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris said:

( 1b elvena fray / introduction )

( 1b elvena fray / attack 1 — 5105 )

"I'm a lot better for you when I'm on your side. Follow me."

She's tucking the syringe in her back pocket when she walks up to Chichi, smiling in Elvena's face as if it's not the same as grinning at a shark. But she'll give her laurels where they are due, an Eleven receiving the highest score since the 75th. Maybe she's right that this situation is better, but all the Fray girl really cares about is tearing someone's spine out. Something gruesome to set the tone.

The tributes would do well to remember the cameras are always rolling.

"I'll be watching your back, then. Whoever you can't finish, just throw them to me." Someone takes a step too close to their conversation, and she thrusts with the full force of her shoulder, swooping down to snatch up the closest weapon. "Piss off. This is private business."

^{(elvena attacks katrina, unarmed)}
c5Pp4q5MHeunarmed
<sub>(block)


( picks up a crossbow )</sub>

unarmed

[revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay]

Oct 15, 2022 14:00:20 GMT -5 revel latimer, 11b 🔍 jay said:

silver strauss | intro

silver strauss | flee

silver strauss

you run.

it's not the cowards way out. no, not in this moment, it isn't. fear does settle itself in your stomach, but your mind tells you to run too. it's supposed to pull you in, the cornucopia, to have you play your cards right into their hands. it never fails, year after year. the temptation for weapons and rations is too much that they risk the most important thing they need to protect - their life.

you know the risks, you've weighed them in your head. countless nights were spent thinking about this very second, this flight or fight decision, but it was made up before you even touched the podium. you're only here for one thing and you're going to shield that with everything you can give.

so you run.

you don't turn your head back as you put your feet to the ground and sprint off, leaving the fading sound of clashing steel behind you.

silver strauss flees