96th Bloodbath

[umber vivuus 12b 🥀 [dars]]

As the tributes rise into the arena, they will first come to a dark liminal space somewhere between where they got dressed below the arena, and the arena itself. Even when squinting, the tributes cannot make out what exactly is around them, only the faint glimmers of light coming from above. Eventually, their plates will click into place on the first floor of a seemingly abandoned lodge the size of a warehouse. There are staircases leading up in all sorts of directions, twisting corridors and confusing floorplans. There are no lights inside, most of the doors and windows have been smashed open to let what might be years worth of snow inside.

Perhaps the dark space below was some sort of... basement. Or maybe it was something worse and there was a reason they couldn't see. At the very center of the room the tributes all stand in, there is a hearth which glows with a warmth that seems almost unnatural amid its frigid surroundings. Around the fireplace, you see various goods: weapons, armor, warm clothing- things that could mean the difference between life and death in the days to come. All the most important bits are closest to the fire at the center, almost as if like the flames themselves, taunting the tributes and letting them know now: if they want nice things, they'll have to earn them.

---

Happy Bloodbath Day, Tributes, and welcome to the 96th Hunger Games arena! Your Gamemakers are excited to welcome you in! First and foremost, we would like to encourage each and every one of you to read the rules, as it makes life a lot easier for everyone when all parties involved are aware of the rules and expectations. Please note rules.

For smooth operation of the bloodbath, please be aware of the following:

1. You must wait TEN MINUTES between each of your posts. This counts for every post. This means 10 minutes between your intro and your first attack, 10 minutes between each of your attacks, and 10 minutes between your last attack and your flee post.

2. In order to verify this, you must quote your previous post at the beginning of each new post (exception, intro)

2. a. It is possible to edit the timestamp of your quoted post to make it look like you posted earlier than you did. This is considered cheating. This will not be tolerated. Anyone tribute caught doing this will sustain +20 damage and will have their attack/flee invalidated.

2. b. Please start each post (before any tables) with your tribute's name, what attack number this is, and, at the end, whatever the dice code you roll is. For example: [Arbor Halt, attack 3, 2069].

2. c. When you quote your previous post, please delete EVERYTHING besides the tribute's name, attack number, and dice code (as given above)

3. Other rules about bloodbath combat still stand:

- You must wait until at least three other people have posted before you can post again
- If you are in an alliance of four, you must wait until someone outside your alliance has posted before you can post again
- You can only be attacked THREE times between each of your posts
- Your first post must be an intro with no attacks in it
- Your first attack post must be unarmed before you can claim a weapon
- You may not attack in your fleeing post
- If you have a broken or severed leg or leg part, you may not flee without the aid of another tribute, who must also flee. Alternatively, you may flee on your own using three separate flee posts instead of one.
- Once you flee, you may not re-enter the bloodbath
- Fillers are not allowed
- All dice codes must be immediately obvious, even if you are using a table. Either put it beneath the table entirely, or make it easily accessible.
- You must specify who you're attacking
- All items - including weapons - that are picked up by a tribute can be claimed by the tribute’s killer

4. When the bloodbath reaches only eight remaining tributes, a turn order will be instated.

ANY violations of these rules will result in an additional 8 damage dealt to the offending tribute.

Each tribute's damage will be updated on the Hunger Games Engine, so pay attention and don't forget to refresh the page!

To clarify, the Wealth also includes any unclaimed items. In order to be eligible for the Wealth a tribute must post within the first 10 minutes OR be within the first 19 to post.

Turn order will be instituted at the end of the Bloodbath (at the discretion of the Gamemakers, when it's clear only a few alliances are fighting for the Wealth).

Good luck Tributes and may the odds be ever in your favor.

Today's Weather

Drab gray skies, a light misting of snow.

Air: Whistling gales which sting the face
Temperature: 3°F | -16°C
Humidity: 71%

Items Lists
Located here

Good luck tributes, and may the odds be ever in your favor.

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

d3a: carrow, f. | introduction.





felicity carrow,
district three.

As flatteringly put as Felicity could muster, Orland didn’t look a day over like… thirty. And that was being pretty generous. Rationally, she knew that the stylist had decades now of experience under their belt and couldn’t be younger than their early fifties, but they don’t even remotely look the part of someone in menopause. As they adjust the neckline on Felicity’s uniform, the young girl can’t help but examine their pouty lips. She had yet to see them quite so up close, but they looked as sumptuous as those ads for lip gloss Felicity had seen on some of the corner store makeup packaging. Absently, Felicity fidgets with the brim of her lime green beanie, tucking her bangs further behind her ears. She can feel where it itches against her forehead, and for a moment, she wonders if she’ll ever have the wrinkles Orland has successfully hidden on their own features. She wonders if she’s going to get to grow up. “My, my you’ve lost weight this week,” they say, their eyes going a little wide. They tug at the waistband of the denim shorts, only held aloft through friction from the thermals underneath and Felicity’s sheer force of will. Orland attempts to continue fiddling with the wristband, but Felicity pushes her hands away clumsily and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s had enough of this. Orland makes a little tut, as if to signal distress, or maybe disapproval, but Felicity doesn’t care. As long as they stop touching her. “Usually it’s the opposite for you kids.” "Your food all tastes like it belongs in a candle," I frown, stomach grumbling. A timer begins, but Orland continues to behave as though they can escape the clutches of the clock counting down. As if hiding from the indications time likes to leave on their face makes them capable of stopping its passing.  The thrumming countdown makes the electricity in Felicity’s heart begin to thrum, beating harder and harder with every second. She can just catch the barest of her own reflections in the glass, the tailored lines of the zip-up she’d been dressed in. The boots are heavy, with thick, indented soles, which makes her think somewhere cold is looming above, but she wrinkles her nose at the lime green; it’s going to be quite the giveaway against a sheet of ice. She pulls her hood up, which makes Orland click their tongue again, but the glass door is sliding shut no matter what they say. Deja vu curls slender fingers around Felicity’s throat once the door clicks into place, closing her off and leaving her alone in this glass pod. Thumbnail sharp against the pad of her pointer finger, it’s the only way she can keep my breathing even. It’s been months since she sank into the tanks, months since she’s seen through Penny’s eyes, that beautiful machine she worked so hard to build. A tapping, grating sound fills the earspace as she shifts her back teeth against themselves, washing anxiety over her like a great wave. Eyes closed, she fumbles around in the dark for the meditation she spent years perfecting, translating her thoughts into infinite 1's and 0's. Her mind runs the code until there’s nothing left and the floor she’s standing on starts to shift.

felicity enters the bloodbath.

[thompson harvard - d2b - arc]

[11b marcellus rhodes, intro]

I’ve never felt so empty. So purposeless. It’s like… being in school growing up. The teacher sends the class to work in groups. There’s no set minimum or maximum for the group sizes. But everyone gravitates towards their friends, or, the smart kid who doesn’t necessarily have the charisma but has the brains to get group-type projects done. That awkward sound of desks groaning against the carpet as they move together. The teacher clarified that it’s a group project, not one that can be done independently. Before a blink, everyone’s squared off. Every back is hunched and turned away. Like a porcupine bearing it’s quills. That feeling of loneliness, emptiness and it’s hard to figure out where to go because you’re not wanted or needed anywhere.

I always hated that feeling. I hated being reminded that I was too dumb for the other kids. It wasn’t needed, and nobody said it. But the isolation did just enough. Going to sleep was hard. In the last week, I’ve hardly met anyone of importance. Which means I’ve kind of failed at the initial goal here. Find someone to die for. Tsiuri isn’t here, or she’d be my first choice. But she’s not, which might be better to know there’s no emotional damage to fail at protecting anyone. I stared up at the ceiling, dark, bleak. Nothing could fill the void. At one point, Harbinger enters the room and tells me that "we might not be the closest, but blood is blood. I don't want you to die."

Thanks.

There’s always been this stigma that people don’t eat when they’re nervous. Poking at food as if one bite would be its’ last. The fact that I knew this meal could be the last made it all the more welcoming. When I get nervous, I eat much of the food I know. It’s comforting. It makes me think of home. Or it reminds me of when my parents weren’t so disapproving of who I was when I was younger. My favorite thing to eat was some eggy-fried-bread thing that mom used to make. Somehow, the Capitol knew this, and plate after plate scarfed down as if my body were an endless pit.

We’re transported to the arena, and I continue to have minimal thoughts. None that matter of course. That’s what I’ve always been told. To just ”shut up” and to ”stop embarrassing yourself.” In the transport, I look around, eyeing the other tributes. It’s hard to decide who to give your life to, especially in the last few moments of it. Not that there’s an expectation to be the first tribute dead. I just want my death to have a purpose. To mean something. Xov was always really nice. She first talked to me when I was trying to look impressive with weights. That was something to remember.

In the loading room, there were many layers to dress in. Orange, which must have been the district color of the year, and layers upon layers. Immediately, the stacked clothing made me feel like I was choking. When I was younger, my mom would always bundle me up in whatever we had. Which, despite not being much, always made me feel stuffy and uncomfortable. Like I was a human pillow. Which was normally nice if it was in the use of T laying her head on my chest. But otherwise… it sucked. It made me feel like I couldn’t put my arms all the way down. Clearly, the climate was colder, which wouldn’t be awful. There’s a lot of body, so it was hard to feel cold.

Not much to be said except their silent sorrow, it was easy to step into the tube and await ascension. T was all I could think about. What she thought, what she was doing. Is she stuck at that bar while I’m on the screens? Maybe she could use that to get more money. That’d be a good ploy for her. That’d be good. I want her to be happy, and if using my demise to promote her benefit is what does it I don’t care.

Maybe that’s my purpose. Do I make myself as puny and love-stricken for her to help her? Is that something she’d be comfortable with? That’s a consideration. I can’t read her mind. She’s the one that always makes the decisions, but now it’s just me. I don’t like it being just me. We rise into a lodge of sorts, not outdoors, but through the broken windows, the chilly air is evident. Animal heads line the walls, which offer little hope for what’s to happen with my own.

There’s still no plan yet, so I’m fucked.

[/div]

[enters]

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

{Hal Rolaxis | Intro}

A frantic heart claws at his chest begging for an escape, but it's something that will never come. Hours tick away as he paces around his room trying to find comfort in the fact that there's a bed, something to sleep in, something to keep him warm and cozy and comfortable, yet in a few hours, it's all going away. Tomorrow is a huge day, and Hal isn't prepared. No, all that he wants is a chance to prove himself, to push through because at the end of the day, all he wants is to make it back to his family, but maybe that makes him selfish. Everyone is fighting for something, right?

Yet it doesn't offer him any peace of mind, and instead of resting, the entire night into the morning is spent walking back and forth as his mind refused to turn off. It's only when someone knocks on the door, he realizes the time. It's time to go, time to change into something that will make him look a fool, something that will make the entire arena feel unreal.

It all seems like a dream as he makes his way from his room to the roof where he's taken away.

I wish this was just a dream.

Rubbing his eyes, he leaves the hovercraft and stands in the catacombs. Muscle fibers quiver and shake, and yet Hal isn't sure how to make them stop. Everyone here is just a character, a part in a show. Ivan reminded him of that, and to tell him he's an extra, to imply that he's a puppet - I am nobody's pawn, and I refuse to act like one.

But his heart is racing as he steps onto the metal plate, and he watches the clock countdown.

Every fiber of his being screams to run.

But I can't.

And now, he's trapped, unsure of where to go, and while dying seems like the better option, truth is, Hal isn't sure he welcomes it.

Once he's in the air, he's unsure of what to even think. He looks at the other tributes, and he looks at the pile of items stacked in the center of the cornucopia. It's always meant to draw them in, to make them feel like there's something more than meets the eye. He wants to run, to get away from the madness, yet his eyes continue darting back and forth unsure of what to do.

I don't want to die.

Cowards run from the midst of it all, and in his effort to prove he's more than just a coward, he wants to fight, to prove his worth, to do something right for once.

But I am a coward.

He watches the countdown. Every hair stands on end, and maybe that's the point of it.

I am not an extra.

He takes a deep breath, rubbing his hands together. Now it is time to prove himself. To show what he's made of, and maybe, he'll have his chance to prove Ivan wrong. That would make everything feel better.

I am not a pawn.

Credit to Pogue <3

Hal enters the bloodbath

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

D2A Marguerite Harvard | Intro | - - - -

m a r g u e r i t e

Ready or not (Uh-huh), here I come, you can't hide
Gonna find you and make you want me

She’d convinced her stylist to go with box braids. They’d be easier to maintain over the course of her time in the arena, and if the worst came to pass, she’d at least still feel beautiful being buried in them.

For someone that had spent the better part of her young life trained as a killing machine, Marguerite should’ve felt a rush of confidence waiting for the timer to run down and for her to be lifted into the arena. Whatever that feeling was supposed to be never materialized. She’d been left with the lingering tendrils of self-doubt and worse, dread.

Maggie still hadn’t decided what she would be fighting for, after all. Her mother had abandoned her many years ago, and her father, too, though his could be forgiven having died. He’d worked his whole life so that she could do better than he would. Now she wondered if it would all be in vain. She pulled on a hoodie over her head and tried to think of any words of wisdom he might’ve given her.

But maybe, standing with the last possible seconds of her life ticking down, it was time for her to take in her own wisdom.

Maggie was old enough to know better. She had survived three long years without him. She had turned over good days and bad days in the Harvard house. She had kissed and even made love - well, lust, more like it - and stayed up to watch the sun rise. She’d felt the first kiss of winter on her lips and had swam to break the heat of summer.

As she steadied in the tube, she listened to it hum. It preceded the rhythm of her heart, now beating fast, as the hole above her opened and she was met with a crush of cold air.

She’d anticipated some sort of cold, but now, as her breath came out in clouds and she stood on her pedestal, Maggie narrowed her eyes. Of course, they’d be stuck in the frigid cold for the last few days of their lives. Why couldn’t she have at least gotten a sunshiney beach?

Her first mission was to get her hands on a weapon. Either one of the swords or spears that glittered in the distance. Then, she’d find the girls that had made a quiet promise to keep her and each other safe.

The timer ticked down, and Maggie crouched into herself.

Life, she’d live to see what would come. Death - she’d meet with as much courage as she could muster.

ELEGANT

[gamemaker sloane ♕ kaяi ♕]

( xylia fray 1b | intro )

She was supposed to feel something.

Anything.

But there was nothing.

As the sun began to peak through the curtains of her temporary bedroom, Xylia felt nothing. There wasn’t an ounce of fear, or nerves, or even confidence. She was empty, numb. Utterly and completely numb.

She was certain she should feel something on the day that may be her last.

Mindlessly, she got dressed, knowing that they would paint her to perfection the moment she got off the air ship and walked through the tunnels. She’s seen the lower districts on TV before, there was no way they dolled themselves up that much before marching to their death.

It wasn’t long before the knocking started. And silently, still empty, she strutted out of her room prepared to take on whatever the Gamemakers might throw at them.

Prepared to take whatever breath may be her last.

They ushered her silently through the halls and Xylia didn’t dare to speak, afraid to disturb the quiet, this emptiness that filled her. Afraid that once she did, there would be no coming back. Today. Tomorrow. Ever.

It was easier to kill people when you felt nothing at all.

She was dressed in warm clothing including layers upon layers, a wool hat, and even gloves. She held back her complaints knowing that the Arena was going to be freezing. At least she was dressed in pink, one of the colors that look best on her. Her hair was meticulously braided away from her face, light makeup added including a slightly red tinted gloss, still managing to keep her signature look. The voice sounded out and with a final wink, Xylia walked into the glass tube.

Still without a word.

A broken down cabin appeared before her, dead animal heads on the wall and all. The wind bit at her exposed cheeks and sent a shiver down her spine. It appeared to be this year’s Gamemaker’s idea of a Cornucopia. There seem to be no lights. The windows shattered, the furniture destroyed. Plenty of rooms to choose from, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to find out what horrors they held. The first order of business was to locate her allies and make sure they didn’t die. Not yet at least. The voice counted down as she searched for them. It was difficult as snowflakes landed in her lashes, as the chill air made her nose run. Run.

The gong sounded.

But silence still filled the air.


(Xylia Fray enters the Blood bath)

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

[Vali Forrester D7A | Intro]

Underneath her heart, she awakens with a chill. Body drenched in sheets with a thread count higher than any other; she rises like the undead. Slow and unsteady, she lingers among the room she'd called hers for a period of time. Bare feet to wooden floorboards, she whispers to the air. "Thank you for the rest; provide for the next to come." Fingers caress the bedframe, a smile with a heavy poison lingers before she wraps a robe around her body. Breakfast is simple enough as she comes down; eyes focused on the meats she'd found delectable. There's a tension in the air; an unspoken knowledge of what's to come, but she doesn't react. Instead Vali Forrester greets everyone all the same. Voice filled with pleasantries as she spends the breakfast giving herself enough food to survive for the first few days. A taste that'll linger until death comes for them all; she can hear the halls of heroes cheering in time with her.

It's a simple enough meal before she looks to Torian and Mackenzie with a smile. Excusing herself for one last trip to the roof before her time becomes someone else's. It's surrounded by the sky, the early rising sun that she prays for the gods to accept her with open arms. The birds flocking over the sky; she shouts to the sky for Mother Nature, the Allfather, and the Weavers of Fate. Her voice heavy with all the emotions she's been carrying for a very long time. She's a goddess among mortals, but soon she'll rise once again whether she's a god among mortals or a god among the gods once more. None of them understand what is to come, but Vali can see it before her. The cityscape of mortals who believe themselves to be gods. Soon enough, ruin will come to them. The gods do not care for heresy. Even Ivan, Maryn, and Hades will come to fear her.

A deep breath as she looks to the sky once more; the fresh air trapped in her lungs as she steps back into the building. Soon enough, she's back to Floor Seven, where her stylists find her. Hands pushing her along to a place where they'll prepare her. Fingers poke and prod at her, taking in the expanse of flesh. They prick every single hair of hers off; piece by piece as she stays there quietly accepting it. There's no sudden feeling in her chest as she looks to the room. Someone comes to her with a comb through her hair. They begin to make her look ready. A warrior ready to fight to the death; valor to her name. She isn't scared. No, she's prepared for something akin to this for years. Spent days in the forests alone with creatures of her own, ready to be sacrificed to see the future of Vali Forrester.

The first hint at what's to come is the outfit itself. Layers upon layers. She feels too warm. Born to freeze; she can't exactly feel the cold of life at her fingertips. The outfit is nothing she would wear, but she's seen other girls back home in outfits similar to these in the winter. Normally, she'd have worn something longer and flowing with warmer clothes underneath, but this was not home. If she was to fight in this, she would, but she was not like the other mortals. She is a goddess and she'll always be seen as such. The green is a pleasant addition; her smile bleeds with poison as she looks to the stylists. There's a nod of approval as one of them makes the final touch.

Being led down, she follows Mackenzie and Torian down. There's a pause as she looks around to see a peacekeeper plant the tracker in her arm. A glistening feeling sets in as she rolls her head with a sickening crack before she shakes her hands out. There's a pause before she steps forward looking to the two victors. A smile on her lips as she speaks for the last time to them. "We were destined to meet." The gods had written it in the stars for them. Mackenzie's words lingering as she watches him for a moment. "Don't think too much about being a Forrester in there. No disrespect, but it wasn't enough for any of the others to do that. Focus more on what makes you Vali. That's what's important." A simple enough of a nod. She's not like the other Forresters, she's always been different from them. Above them in many ways, but she was still one of them. Mackenzie is right. She needed to be herself. She smiles up to them for a moment before continuing as she steps towards the hovercraft. "Thank you. Goodbye, Torian and Mackenzie." With a simple enough goodbye, she closes her eyes. The hovercraft rises. It's a simple walk to where their tubes are waiting with final touches to them. The last vision being Torian and Mackenzie there as she rises upwards into the sound of howling wind; a chill setting in as she opens her eyes.

Home.

She feels at home when she opens them. The chilling wind is a welcome feeling against her skin. Born to freeze, she can feel the chattering of her teeth start to set in. A laugh almost leaves her lips, but she bites down on the feeling looking around her for a moment. A fireplace of dead coals residing in her vision. There's antlers along the wall where she could remember watching Torian's own grow in. The stuffed heads of animals lingering on the walls. Cobwebs in every corner of the room; she can see how empty this place truly was meant to be. Except, they made it seem lived in for the purpose of fear; she beams at the sight for a moment. There's glass on the floor; a breeze sets in as she mumbles out loud.

"May the Allfather bless us; take these sacrifices for you. I wish to seek my divinity once more. Mother Nature's kindness become upon me and my allies. We seek retribution. We seek justice. We seek the wrath of chaos. May you bless out hands and weapons here on this day. The day of reckoning. May these souls rest with you in Valhalla for we are warriors by your design." Setting her head up, she hears the sound of a gong somewhere. The ringing of the timer setting off. Vali takes a breath; eyes sunken as she watches everyone rush forward. Instead, she decides to not rush. There's no need for her to. The gods were watching.

Step by step, she walks towards the bloodbath.

The day of reckoning is upon them.

[Vali Forrester Enters]

[mat]

[lucky nachtnebel d4 | introduction]

It took two weeks of training, chatting, wandering, and causing mischief for Lucky to have his first restless night. When he lay on one side, his heart would race, and when he turned to the other, his heart suddenly wasn't beating enough. His body compressed underneath three blankets and the bed sheets. Lucky wanted to sweat off the pressure that he allowed to be mounted up at his bedside like a monster towering over its charge at night.

Like a meddling god, Lucky felt strongest when the problems at the forefront of his mind were someone else's, and the consequences for whether they succeeded or failed were moot.

Overcompensation. His vocabulary faltered at times: impervious, anthropologist. But it was what he claimed in the darkness that he was unmistakenly sure of. In his opinion, anyway.

Lucky wished that the Gamemakers would rip them out of bed at dawn as they did last year. Perhaps that was what he hated most: the waiting. If he was afraid of the Games, he would not have volunteered to try and win them. Ghosts haunted these rooms, traveling from the old training center when the new one was erected. Wisps danced all around him in the form of splashing light, asking if he was sure and if he was really confident.

One burst through his head in paranoid thought: are you going to steal lives like Mom and Dad stole yours?

A delicately made bed was destructed in seconds. Letting the intrusive wisps follow him all the way here and wreck his plans? No, Lucky refused it. Wherever the ghosts were hidden, he revealed them. Every plant, vase, picture frame, and loose clothing was shoved into desk drawers or thrown face-down in the ground.

Tonight was not the night to test him.

Morning came, and one of the handlers opened the door and gasped. The room was disastrous. Not much damage, aside from a cracked frame or plant pot, but nothing was where it should have been. Even Lucky, whose left side dangled off the untidy bed.

"Did you, uh, have a good night, Lucky?"

He woke up to the clicking of the handler's heels. "Just perfect." Lucky's eye scanned the room, not at all embarrassed by the destruction. "Sorry for the mess. The room was… upsetting me." He turned a potted plant upright. "I did not want to be upset for the big day."

---

Whoever selected this year's uniforms had Lucky's gratitude. It wasn't busy, and it wasn't suffocating, and it wasn't performative. In fact, it was incredibly in line with what he would wear back home. The layers were a bit obnoxious, but it led Lucky to talk with Sailor about how the arena may be cold. Limited water, probably. He sighed at the thought, especially knowing how few of the tributes knew how to swim.

Lucky flashed a pose in the mirror. "I like it, mostly. The hat's a little dense, though. Don't you think?" Over and over, he tried his outfit on with and without the wool hat. It messed with his hair, which was an aesthetic eye sore, but it also messed with his hearing, which was something he relied on, especially for the right side of his body. Lucky rolled it up and tucked it in the back of his jeans. If he needed to wear it, he would, but not in the beginning with the chaos of the bloodbath. Sensory overload on top of overstimulation was not a promising combination for the arena.

Entering the pod, Lucky already felt the cold on the glass. The door closed behind him. Within one breath, wisps of vapor escaped through his mouth. "Dang," he said, losing the hope that he'd have a lake or river to play drowner in.

He rose into the dimly lit darkness of a room. It reminded him instantly of the spooky cottage core aesthetic of Muffy's house back in New Horizons. Except larger, much larger, in fact, with promise of danger. The floors below them creaked with eeriness as the pedestals stopped their ascension and the clock began to tick.

Lucky looked for Xylia and Gunner. His allies. Rita, too, more so to avoid her than to team up with her. She had her own thing going on, fighting from the other side.

He situated himself on the podium, ensuring that every inch of his body was prepared to fight. His patch tightened, his sleeves pulled down, and his gloves stretched to ensure that his grip on a blade or a spear would be comfortable.

Lucky was a career, after all. And the bloodbath was his first chance to display the promise a 9 gave him.

[ lucky enters the bloodbath. ]

[parsnip]

Rhys Peace - Intro - | |

R H Y S
P E A C E

      Menacing bass knocks sent Rhys livid with a cycle of pounding in his head. The tube was waiting with a thumping clock-tick beckoning him onward unto the last portion of the journey that had taken so long to come around. Doom didn’t seem to wait for anyone, yet he glanced at his stylist with a positive-yet-shaky smirk and told them “I won’t be long, either way” with a shrug. “See you when I see you.”

The glass tube door slid across his vision and the intrusive countdown had stopped, replaced by nothing. It left Rhys counting screws in the contraption that held him, wondering spontaneously if the screws had a part to play in the grand design at work, or if they were just simple screws. I’ve been watching far too many re-runs…

The tube rose which meant the hatch above must have opened. Brisk cold descended down like an encroaching villain’s claws, laying their hands upon his hair before his shoulders. Rhys had the chill. It reached his toes and it took seconds for him to realise that he’d already arisen to the ground. The arena seemed… like a frozen nightmare.
This was no place of Peace.

But the scenery was exactly that. The peaceful setting of snow mixed with the idyllic decaying of abandoned wood and brick, some kind of lodge of sorts – but not like those on the outer portions of the District. This was somewhere he didn’t want to be at all.

Rhys was the ninth paired-calamity to enter the area. His red visage stood out like blood on snow. He felt it was a target, where others might see it as an excuse to get drenched in others’ blood – in the sense that a brown uniform would mean getting muddy was a viable option. That’s all it seemed like after so much thought in the previous days; Blood is just mud, and mud is easily washed – if you make it home.

He scanned the space for the familiar faces of Garnet and Jericho. They weren’t hard to find, but the numerous different colours made it all too difficult nonetheless. He still barely knew them, truly, but what is knowledge when your own aim is survival?

The countdown recommences, and the thunderous pounding in Rhys’ head reaches a crescendo. It was time to face the symphony. Twenty-four tributes vying for a singular title and crown, with a trio of conductors holding their strings.

When it reached one, the Peacekeeper trainee was no more. He was only a tribute.

[Rhys Peace enters the bloodbath]

[Izzabel Bennet D8A (Jorg)]

[Jericho Caleb | Intro]

Mace urged me to sleep last night, but how was I supposed to sleep knowing it could be my last night. I stared outside the window and watched the Capitol replay highlights of our interviews and commentary from Flickerman and his hosting partner. The emotions that I didn't realize I was suppressing, the realization that everything could end, all of that came crashing down on me last night, and when I wasn't crying or struggling to breathe, I was numbly staring at the city, the faces of all of the tributes blared back at me.

"They're going to die. I'm going to have to kill them to survive. I talked about convictions and mental fortitude in my interview. Why can't I rely on that now?" I asked myself as I sat on the window sill, staring into the city as if it were the abyss. Mace came to join me and held me as I started to cry again. Honestly, having him there made it easier to let everything go. I knew at least one other person outside my parents wanted me to come home. I ended up crying myself to sleep in his arms.

(Insert cute little break here)

When I wake up, it wasn't Mace who I first see, but one of the Peacekeepers. They are surprisingly gentle in their manner, quietly telling me that it's time to get ready and that I have 30 minutes before they'll escort me out. Given how much I cried last night, I'm exceptionally calm this morning, showering and getting ready as if it wasn't my last free day. There's no escaping it, and I already processed as much as I could; now, it's only a matter of how well I can hold myself together in the Arena. How well can I use what I learned to keep myself and my allies alive long enough and kill the others quickly enough?

Mace, Saffron, and Andal join Sage and me as the peacekeepers walk us towards the hovercraft on the rooftop. There are only two floors between us and the roof, so I don't have time to think before the doors of the elevator slide open, and I get to see my last natural sunrise. It's the same here as back home; too many buildings are in the way, and the mountains surrounding the Capital obscure the shadows, but the warm hues remain. The warm oranges break against the cool blue of the last remaining dredges of night. We make our way out of the elevator for a few steps before I feel a firm hand grab my shoulder, holding me in place. I'm tugged down as someone brings me down to their level, and I hear Mace's rough voice whisper in my ear.

"Be brave, be yourself, do your best." Simple and straight to the point. I can't imagine what he's going through, not being able to have genuine and honest last words with his grandchild, let alone the highly young ex-boyfriend of his wayward son. My breathe shudders before I get my following words out

"I will; what else can I do?" I ask with a bitter chuckle. "I promise I'll do my best to make it home."

"You better." He responds, letting go of my shoulder and allowing me to stand straight up.

The Peacekeepers put the tracker in my arm as I board the hovercraft, and the flight to the Arena is gratefully silent. No last attempts to make pleasant, to make oneself less of a target. We're all targets; it only matters who can survive the best.

Once we make it into the staging area under the Arena, I'm greeted by my stylist, who has been at least nothing but kind to me. They give me a quick hug before having me get changed.

"I think it might be a cold arena this year." He states as he pulls out layer after layer of clothing. "If it's a snowy arena, either you got lucky, or they're giving everyone equal footing." All clothing except a brown leather belt is white: white thermals, white denim, white long-sleeve shirt, and a white hoodie and beanie. Even the snow boots and gloves are white.

"Are we sure this wasn't meant for Rhys and Gunner? This reminds me more of a peacekeeper's uniform than anything else." As I start to put on

ELEGANT

[✨ zozo.]

charlotte royce ; intro

If Maxen had been reaped with me, he'd stay by my side. (Right?) Or would we be Nessa and Jimmy Garner, bickering until the very end? (Probably.) I've not felt a lot of regret in my life but the way I'd spoken to Max the past few weeks before I left might be the closest thing to guilt I know. He brings it on himself and someone has to be the responsible one around here; orphaned little Harley forced to grow up and parent her baby brother - but still. I could have been nicer. (Should have.) Would have, if I'd known. (Should have known.)

If I die I'm gonna think of him smiling, sober and younger and crinkling eyes in our backyard as we climbed a tree. Good days on my mind; back to when we were just kids being kids and the world was our oyster. A clean house and two parents, shiny shoes and laughter. No drugs, no Keepers, no juvenile detention. Tongues in all four mouths, bullets in guns instead of brains. And Maxen, laughing all the while as we climb up and up and up and up and touch the clouds in the sky.

[pogue]

[ d6 axyl willoughby | intro ]

Axyl Willoughby spends his last night in the training center battling with his own ghosts, halfway between the bottle and broken, amber liquid staining his throat in the common area of the District Six suite.

These were his final moments, running in delirium from something that was inevitable. Even his own district mentors seemed to have given up on the both of them, shadowy figures of a distant past shuffling absently through these cruel spaces.

A dead boy walking, running, sprinting. He falls asleep there, in the living room, and wakes up to men in white grabbing him by the collar and escorting him towards his final coffin.

They pull and drag his soul into an arena of snow and forest, cold nipping at his skin as the pedestal introduces him and the rest of his fellow tributes to their final resting place. He expects to be blinded by the sun, an open space and deadly clearing but instead is met only with the harsh smell of must and mold, wooden cabin spanning out around him. Sunlight creeps in through the windows above him, god rays flashing on the cornucopia and its items.

The voice calls to them, mockingly and threatening with the sound of 10.... counting down into an eternity. Muscles tense, heart beat in hollow chest, a boy stands on the precipice of his own death.

One foot in the grave, the other begging to join it. He sprints, just like he's always known.

✧ axyl enters the BB ✧

[alex 🐺]

[d2b hugo basterd | intro]

I'm in love with the concept of who I can be in the Capitol, even if it was never a life that was meant for me.

Dear boy, you were born to burst into flames. Dear boy, you were born to die. I trained to die. I - Hugo Basterd - a walking corpse have days to live. Hours if Ripred seeks my soul faster than expected. A false god, I don't carry the world on my shoulders like Atlas. I am not wrought in anyone’s image. Vanity and arrogance hang around my head like a halo. Pops said the world was never meant for us. We had to take it and take back what was ours. I never stopped to ask him what actually belonged to us. 

And yet, I am in love with the Capitol - with this place and its people, as messed up as they are. I don’t want to leave. Leaving means leaving the opulence, the decadence, the delicate dance that borders on barbarism and savagery in the name of a few pieces of gold tossed my way in sponsorship. Selling my body and selling my name for a chance at infamy.

I love it all. I don’t want to leave.

The morning of the Bloodbath, my eyes spring open, burning and blinking rapidly from the lights that are far too bright. Thank Ripred I'm not hungover. If I had been, my tombstone would no doubt read “Hugo Basterd - District Two. Killed in the Bloodbath because his blood was 99% vodka.”

In my dreams, when I am able to grab a few precious hours of sleep after leaving the Training Center, knuckles bloody and bruised (the training center is my temple), I see the forest. The sun burning against the late afternoon sky - pinks, oranges, reds. The sky has yet to fall victim to ichor. The sky has yet to burn red, like blood. My dreams take me through landscapes but they always end at the forest - stretching far past the horizon and out of my line of sight. A boy with his soul aflame wishing for the breeze and a damn good scotch to quench his thirst in a place where to drink means certain death. Never quenched. Never redeemed.

The days here have started to blur together for me. The nights an endless parade of bodies, the days an endless march towards something. Death, obviously. But something more. Something not quite love and probably only lust with the boy from District Six. It would be easy to kill him though. It would be easy to kill all of them. The lies I tell myself fall into my stomach like ashes, the devil inside of me grasping around my vocal cords and leaving me short of breath.

Addicted to damage, I destroy my body and soul, tarnished and remade into the image of a false god. Infamy, victory, pain, immortality. That is all that matters. I know my demons and my angels, compartmentalized and packaged and gift-wrapped for myself. Icarus, the boy who burned up, his veins filled with fire and the sacred breath of life swallowing him whole. I am willing to die for that redemption. To fly that close to the sun only to burn up. Destiny disrupted, but destiny all the same.

An alliance was forged - a death pact, if you will. The boy from Six with a silver tongue and eyes like a corpse. Do I desire the fate of the betrayer? The soldier of fortune? I'm not sure and know that it will be a split-second decision. He would kill me if he could. That goes both ways. 

The walk to the tubes is silence, the halo of hesitation hanging around all of our heads like crowns of broken glass. One wrong step and you’re killed. The melodies of our footsteps are slow and intoxicating. The uniform given to me is all brown - a brown trench shirt, layers of brown thermals, brown pants, brown boots. So much fucking brown.

With a raised eyebrow, I strip before the stylist, eyeing the uniform with a bemused expression, my clothes in a heap around me. I turn in front of the mirror, not caring that my stylist and Marguerite's were in the room - I am not ashamed of my body. And if I have minutes to live, well, at least I am a good-looking corpse. Ripred knows what kind of shit the GMs pull when it comes to playing god and changing weather patterns means that we could be in for some cold. 

"Is this some kind of butch cowboy fantasy the Gamemakers are having? Yeehaw, partner." No one laughs at my joke.


The gun that administers the piercing is loud and ringing in my ears. A look at Marguerite and I can see the number ‘2’ embossed on the worn golden earring.

Never forget where you came from, kid.

Straightening the hat on my head after the stylist has fussed with my hair for long enough, I step up into the glass tube, the only sound my heartbeat echoing in my ears.

Ten
(You asked for this, asshole)

Nine
(You wanted this)

Eight
(You’re such a piece of shit)

Seven
(Kill them)

Six
(Kill them all or don’t bother coming home)

Five Four Three
(Become a weapon)

Two One

My tube comes to a stop in the clearing - a snowy wasteland with only twenty-three other souls for miles. The glass tube is gone and my breath curls around me like smoke. My destination - a derelict cabin. The sun is a bright promise in the sky, a promise that burns all that it touches, even as thick white snow swirls in the air. A frozen wasteland with the hope of redemption for one soul.

The world spins on its axis, a vicious cycle, and all assembled are idols, mortals, monsters, and gods. I see only myself.

[hugo basterd enters the bloodbath]

[august vance d7b [Bella]]

[xov thao, intro]


⤜ x o v - ♥ - t h a o ⟶

The night before the arena, she prayed for a sleep that would give her strength and ease the pain from her training aches and bruises. Her ancestors answered with a slumber that covered her like a wave of dark silk, so heavy it silenced all chances of dreaming, nightmare or otherwise. She woke a little disoriented but grateful, and lit three small cones of the incense that she had requested for her suite, kneeling before the wooden dresser that was her temporary altar.

It felt strange to speak to them from so far away. She doubted even the dead could hear this far, but maybe the Capitol’s incense, being the expensive stuff, would carry her voice all the way back to Twelve. ”Hello,” she muttered timidly, then remembered her mother’s scolding when she didn’t enunciate well enough, and cleared her throat.

”Ancestors, I ask for protection. Watch over you granddaughter. Lend me your wisdom, that I may make the right decisions. Lend me your strength, that my blows will strike true. Lend me your foresight, that I will not be caught off guard. Please,” she added for good measure. She waited for her thoughts to catch up, not wanting to forget anything.

”Oh. Lend me some luck. Maybe I was born unlucky for a reason. But please. I really don’t want to die unlucky too.” Closing her eyes, she soaked in the familiar smell of the incense, trying to fool herself into thinking she was home for a moment, seated with her family around the central pillar of their home. It didn’t work.

Back in reality, she had to go through the motions of pageantry. Eating breakfast, getting dressed. Then meeting her stylists to get undressed and dressed one final time.

There were layers. Heavy denim, fur-lined boots, wool hat, cotton gloves. Winter, she thought as the stylists finished adding the last of her clothing.

It figured that Xov, small-framed and unable to hold onto fat as her body was, would end up in a cold arena. It was consistent with the streak of bad luck she’d had her entire life. In the training center, she had been a good little student, better than in school even—trying to visit all of the stations she could, making more acquaintances than enemies. She could proudly say, like her parents had ordered her, that she’d made some friends she could trust. But her gut felt heavy as she imagined that none of that preparation could keep out a cold wind when it wanted to seep into your bones.

As she was ushered towards the sealed tube, that portal between the worlds of the living and the quickly dying, she tried to discern the positives.

Maybe it would be early March cold, and not January cold. Maybe there would be a nice warm cave somewhere, and it would be like camping. At least she had learned how to make a decent fire. At least her uniform was an unassuming gray, and not neon orange. And she had J and Marcellus, who were both kind, capable, and strong. She chose to trust that they were the friends her gods had sent her.

The tube sent her tunneling through a dark artery, then spit her out on a circular platform. She was struck by the same sensation of standing on the edge of a bridge with no intention of jumping, but with every muscle in her body tingling with the forbidden desire to cross those few inches. She exhaled, grounded herself through the soles of her feet.

This is it, she thought. The culmination of her week in the Training Center, learning all she could, and surprisingly, making some friends. Even going to a birthday party.

The sound of the gong reminded her the fun was over.

[xov thao enters the bloodbath]

[Cait]

ines izar - intro

“Here’s the plan.”

I’m good at following instructions. Doing what I’m told. Just ask Nekane. She told me to pretend I didn’t exist for the best part of seven years and I did exactly that, no questions asked.

So when Azure and Marguerite – “you can call me Maggie, though,” – round me up, I don’t think twice about following them to the furthest corner of the room and listening to their proposition. I’m not so stupid as to think I mean anything to them. You spend seventeen years of your life existing as a side character in your own storyline, and you come to realise some people are never meant to be the centrepiece. And whilst they’re both only a year older than me, they tower over me like it’s the largest age gap in the world. I wonder if I’ve ever felt so small as I do right then and there.

I have no prospects. Tomorrow, I’m as good as dead as soon as they launch us into the Arena and I’m forced to step off my plate. The two girls who have taken pity on me emerge like a lifeline, and I clutch to it desperately, no time to wonder if it would be the best or worst decision I’d ever make.

“As soon as that timer goes off, you run. Grab a knife. Then find one of us. Stay out of our way, but keep us covered. Be on the lookout – you’re small, and fast. You’ll see things we can’t. We grab a few things, in and out. Then we run.”

They talk like it’s the easiest thing in the world, to wield a knife as an extension of yourself with the possibility of having to use it for evil. And I don’t know how I’m supposed to be what they want me to be, but I find myself nodding along anyway, trying to convince myself as much as them that I’m perfectly capable of these simple tasks.

Run. Get a knife. Find the girls. Watch their back. Run. Run. Run.

For the sixth night in a row, I don’t sleep.

---

“Hope you’ve got someone to keep you warm in there. Looks like it’s gonna be a cold one.”

It’s the first and last thing the stylist says to me as they dress me in the brightest woollen jacket I’ve ever seen in my life. I shiver inwardly at the thought of the cold, looking down at my slim figure worryingly. Winter had never been my friend. In a house with no heating, I would always freeze through the nights, wrapping blanket after blanket around my huddled frame to no avail.

I think of Azure and Maggie – their tall frames wrapping protectively around me. Then scold myself almost immediately for fantasising about a reality where we all get to be friends, where I’m more than just a pawn in their plan for greatness.

The stylist leaves. Can’t get out fast enough, they don’t want to linger for the downward spiral I’m about to embark on. I try to focus on my breathing, but the hurried sounds of my failing lungs only makes me panic more.

In the moments before the end of the world, with nothing but orange reflections to keep me company, I think of Nekane. Wonder if she’ll still think of me when I come on the screen. Wonder if she’ll pray for my safety despite never lighting a candle for anyone outside of her bloodline. I think of Nekane as the world changes around me, but not for long. I force myself not to dwell on her fading face for too long, knowing the only thing I’ll see in her eyes is an everlasting disappointment.

ines enters the bloodbath