regroup with friendly faces [the descendants] day 1

[d6a georgie cham 🍓🐢 frankel]

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The crossbow is a dead weight versus the light bag strapped to my back. A success that I am walking away but there is a failure in the lack of trinkets that I carry right now. There will be a time for treasure hunting soon, Ripred will for sure hand me a map to find them. I just needed to tick off the first task in my list: survive the initial bloodbath!

My forearm aches where the Capitol injected me a few hours ago. It is an obscure pain, my muscles around the injection site pulsate and there is an irritating itch that does not shift when I scratch it. Even my fingernails feel harsh through my sleeve. It must be an odd side-effect of the injection, something about inserting a tracker inside of me…

Now what is next on my list?

Number One: Survive the Initial Bloodbath

”Number two, regroup with friendly faces.” I say it out loud, just so it is engraved in my mind. Do I call them allies? Friends? I must make sure I have eyes on every angle of one of them, the Forrester from District Seven is a strange one…I am not being left alone with them, I need to make sure Bellisario is around.

”Number three, ensure any injuries are tended too immediately.” Logically that should have been number two, fortunately I am not missing a limb and my first aid skills go as far as wrapping a bandage.

”Number four, seek water and food supplies.

Number five, seek shelter and warmth.

Number six, seek weapons or items that can become weapons.

Number seven, guard the safety of oneself and allies.

Number eight, stay alive!”

I really ought to write all this down then maybe re-order and extend the list. Except, seeking parchment and pen is not a priority on my list right now.

I linger in view of the chapel, watching as some decrepit and not so battered tributes burst through the doors and flee with a bundle of treasures in their clutches. I can recount two canons sounding before the chaos begins to ease, that must be three gone including Erwin who has already been laid to rest. I wonder if we will all take turns of being the center piece in the chapel, the first departure point before boarding the journey to Ripred.

Something smells so strong right now, my nostril hairs are sprung straight as a peculiarly familiar aroma fills my lungs. It reminds me of the very raw, fresh, and bloody meat that my mother would bring home on special occasions from the butcher. My innards grumble as the scent goes stronger. My stomach has chosen the wrong time to feel starved, being unsuccessful at rationing will be the end of me…

”I have been waiting for some time for you.” I say as the hopefully still friendly face approaches. ”I was sure you were the cause of those canons. Did you see who fell? I need to mark their names off of my list.”

Actions in trib maint.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

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The tribute on the altar drips like a clepsydra. You think of the sacrifice this year, limbs stretched out between the deep green leaves and goblets of sweet wine. Her blood had been spilled in threads over the loom of her bones. Fate weaves. The Gods speak.

You wonder what his death means.

Something cracks in you, stark and shaking, bones burning like a hearth. The girl who slammed into you disappears into the knot of bodies clawing for the wealth.

There is no pause to think. You tear your eyes away from the body, grab Ace and pull them from the altar, from the chapel and into the depths of the arena. The air smells of decay, trees antler-like, their canopies draped as if spring elk shedding their velvet. The din of the Cornucopia grows faint, until you can only hear your footsteps.

Ace drops your hand. The pressure lifts, and suddenly there's a sharp pain shooting up to your chest when you loosen your grip. You flex your fingers. You dig your nails into your palms.

You remember, deep in the woods years ago, how you clawed your way back to the commune over hills and valleys, soaked in blood and water and dirt, radius breaking the skin. The bone feels like an ember now too. You touch the deformity.

The pain intensifies. You grit your teeth, sweat forming at your temples, pushing and pulling, thumb digging against the broken ends of the bone until you feel the fracture align, a soft snapping into place.

Stupid fucking pest.

You don't know her name, the girl who had cracked your arm. With your left, you pick up your axe, turn to the chapel in the distance with an anger that feels infernal. You want to hunt. You're hungry for her pain, so ravenous to slice her head off her shoulders and end it.

But Ace is there, breathless beside you. You cannot be reckless right now.

You swing at a dead tree instead, test your arm, test your anger. It lands with a heavy thunk, the trunk weeping a strange, dark liquid.

"Let's go."

A little further away you see a figure in the shadows. Nicoli paces on the path, unscathed, greeting you half-cautious, half expectant. "I was sure you were the cause of those canons. Did you see who fell? I need to mark their names off of my list."

"No," you spit out the word. It tastes bitter. Your arm aches. "But I should've killed her."

He stands there, boy without the wilderness you know of Seven, boy of routine and metal and concrete, who had balked at the blood of a bird you painted with over vegvísir. And you'd laughed then, amused at the way he'd recoiled but stayed. You tap your axe into the dirt a few times, watching him, eyes traveling down to his neck.

He's funny. Like something to toy with. Something to shake in boredom and watch it react.

"Their names don't matter," You finally say. "Just count the cannons, Eight."

acts in maint

[Cait]

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We flee like thieves in the night, the echoes of fighting deafening as we run. The distance between us grows but the sounds of battle only seem to grow louder with it. Like a child, I want to rest. I want to hide in the bushes and squeeze my eyes shut and clamp my hands over my ears – to be as far away as possible from the Career I’m supposed to be.

But Fenrir holds me together, his hand heavy in mine, right in left. It’s becoming a habit, I realise, thinking back to last night on the rooftop. A scary thought – I’ve never been good at routine. But it feels nice. I’m happy to hold onto this moment of calm amidst the warring storm around us.

Eventually, Fenrir drops my hand as we slow to a light jog, not ready yet to rest with danger still close by. It’s then that I realise his grimace as he flexes his fingers, testing the movement in them. His arm bends at an impossible angle. I should be grateful I’m not the injured one, but all I feel is concern for this boy I hardly know.

“You need a sling, or a splint, or something…” Obviously. But between us we have two weapons and two bags and absolutely nothing useful for mending a broken limb.

The frustration builds in the air between us. I see it on his face and feel it reflected on my own.

I turn my back to Fenrir, ready to spring into action – somewhat hesitantly, but without a doubt of what I need to do for him. “I’ll go back in and get some bandages, we’re gonna fix this…”

Crunch!

In succession, he snaps the fragile bone back into place as a makeshift ailment, followed by an outburst of strength taken out on a nearby tree trunk. Right, left, from hand to hand. Feral and grotesque, but I don’t blink twice as his tantrum dissipates. There will be worse to face in the coming days, provided we make it that long.

The axe sinks to his side, and I take the chance to grab his hand again, gently turning it over in my own and willing peace into his tired, angry bones. Now is not the time for being foolish. We both know it.

“Well, we’re still going to have to fix it,” I deadpan, looking him straight in the eyes, challenging him to say something otherwise.

He doesn’t. Smart boy.

“Let’s go.”

A dark sap leeks from the damaged bark, reminiscent of spilled blood. Looking back, I can just make out the faint outline of the hanging corpse that greeted us moments before the world imploded. The shudder that runs down my spine chills me from the inside, out.

So I look forward instead.

Nicoli’s form comes into focus next, so similar in stature to the body hung on the Cornucopia. But he is alive, breathing, here, albeit slightly breathless from the fighting. I scan over his body quickly, instinctively, searching for any signs of damage, but he appears relatively unscathed. Shaken and delirious, perhaps, but for now, okay.

“I was sure you were the cause of those cannons. Did you see who fell? I need to mark their names off of my list.”

“Do you really have such little faith in us?” I scoff, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. It would be foolish to brandish my namesake in his face – especially now, when I’m almost certain one of the first deaths was a Fray girl – but for all my shortcomings, I’m a survivor at my core.

“I should’ve killed her.”

The bloodthirst in Fenrir’s eyes isn’t something I’ve seen before. And whilst his harsh words should probably repulse me, I find instead that they resonate with some small, waking part of my subconscious.

My fingers trace the puncture mark on my neck absently, curiously. All the while, Fenrir and Nicoli stare each other down. I roll my eyes at their stand-off.

“There’ll be plenty of time for killing later. We need to fix that arm first, though,” I say, trying to lighten the rapidly darkening mood. “So, where do you think we can find a sling around here?”

does some things in trib maint