96th Bloodbath

[k!ah]

[lionel estrada d5 | intro ]

I bet Wren slept like a long last night, dreams of my throat being slips or my skull bashed in.

I bet my father also slept like his bed was made out fucking clouds. His dreams absent of his disappointing son.

I bet my mother dreamed of Wren wining some sort of trophy for being so damned perfect at everything he does.

I wish I could say that the jokes on them... but I was pretty sure that in a matter of days Wrens and Fathers dreams would come true. Mothers however... The woman was a little delusional if she thought that Wren would get his shit together enough to enter a fucking contest-

"Mr Estrada, can you please remove your clothes-"

"Excuse me what? I mean you are a handsome fella, but I am more into the ladies-"

"And don your uniform," the stylist finishes pointing towards the curtained off section of the room and the bright, eyesore, yellow of the uniform that had been allocated for me.

I frown, crossing my arms as I flick my gaze from the uniform to my stylist. "Thats what you want me to wear? It's as ugly as my friend Lidia's uncles saggy ass that I saw one day when he was waaaaay to drunk at a work conference gathering."

This time my stylist frowns, a look of annoyance and disgust causing their lips to thin and their eyes to flicker. "Mr Estrada, please just go and get changed," they sigh, gesturing towards the changing area.

"Okay okay, not need to get your knickers in a knot."

Dressed I am ushered onto the platform that shudders before it begins its accession. The first thing I notice is it is fucking cold. And I fucking hated the cold. "Kill me now," I mutter, my face the perfect picture of annoyance as I big to scan the frozen hell hole that would be the death of me.

[enters BB]

[napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ.]

[gunner azarova d9 intro]

You do not sleep the night before.

And the fatigue is an ache you remember. It brings along with it scabbed over memories of the nights nested up on shingles and roofs with the other Longbarrels, scooping out the sinewy roads and veining alleys of District Nine for where a bullet could pierce through and puncture.

Your hands, too, ache in recollection.

Slender and spidery, you have been always been prized for these hands - steady, staunch, and lethal. Your hands bear the stains of countless crimes, your nailbeds are full of blood you cannot wash off. Your body is nothing but a muscle memory of violence, of ruin, of rot. And you know terribly well how to deliver all three with a sniper’s precision.

But even as you do not sleep, you dream.

In that brief flash, you are seven and warm and nothing bad has ever happened to you. The sheets beneath you are feathered soft, not the tattered rags of the orphanage’s, and the walls around you do not rattle with every rogue gust of wind. You are safe, you are safe, you are safe.

That is how you know it is a dream. Eighteen years old, and you cannot remember the last day you ever felt safe, much less the actual feeling itself. To be safe is to open yourself to attack. There were many people who thought themselves safe that way behind their glass panes, behind their carriage doors, behind their dry walls, all until you shot each and every one of them down.

You drink rice wine before the final hours, swish the liquor around your mouth in memento of home. The stuff’s stronger in Nine though, and richer, too. You could say the same thing about a lot of crap here.

By the time they herald you to be dressed like a paper effigy, you are on the knife’s edge between focused and fanatical. Your eyes linger for a moment, flit about the next, and your hands have fallen eerily still - gloved in intent, stiff with anticipation, lying in wait, all until someone touches it. The hands snake out in a blur, ruthlessly snaring the other’s fingers between a taut fist.

The stylist yelps. You eye the pair of cotton gloves in their hands, resembling fuzzy mitts, and loosen your vice grip to say, “I don’t need them.”

You step onto your pedestal, one boot at a time, and tip your head skyward as you close your eyes.

You exhale in a breath of air.

You stretch your fingers, crack each knuckle with a thumb - click, click, click - before your eyes open towards the aperture at the top.

And then you rise, tall and imposing.

Cold is your first thought, and it is not the sort one could seek from under a thick quilt. A far cry from it, really. This cold is squall, blizzard, and hypothermia. This cold has taken lives back home, blue and black bodies piled high along the back alleys, and this cold has teeth, fangs even, judging from the way it sinks under your skin. This cold sends shivers down your spine, stretch it longer even as you meticulously begin making a sweep of the room before you.

It presents a ghost of a space, reminiscent of several safe houses you’d oft take sanctuary in after a mission. From beyond the broken glass, you pick up snowy treetops, twisting branches, and darkness. You do not linger on it. Your eyes spider along, crawling up every route, every hall, every face, until it lands on the horn of plenty at the middle. You set your jaw. You steel your hands.

You have not slept, but you have never felt so wholly awake, so utterly real, so impossibly alive. The lips of your mouth curl up an inch on their own with each passing second, jagged like shrapnel, and your eyes are gleaming wild the moment they find Lucky’s across the room.

You promised the gamemakers death.

When the gong sounds, you leap off the pedestal to deliver, to take, to ruin.

「 gunner enters the bloodbath」

[D8A Garnet Beauford TribSitter]

[Garnet Beauford - Introduction]

Garnet had not awoken himself that morning. Instead the task fell to an avox who at first gently, and then more violently, roused him. He had not woken because there was no point; he’d been dreaming a nightmare and now he was living in one.

The water he’d used to brush his teeth sloshed around in his stomach. The nausea crept slowly outward as he was guided, pushed and maneuvered towards the arena. The sickly feeling that had once only resided in his core now somehow touched the end of every finger, slid slimily over each fold of his brain. He felt awash in it, in the vomit-inducing knowing that he was moving towards his death.

Beneath the arena, just outside the cage that would propel him into the games, he finally truly was sick. Vomit splattered on his shoes. Just the smell made him dry heave several more times before a Keeper shoved him unceremoniously inside. Garnet noticed - but felt nothing - that some of his sick had gotten on those infamous shiny black boots, too.

There’s nothing to rinse or wipe his mouth with, other than his uniform. He can’t quite bring himself to do it and soon enough the cage rumbles. He’s moving now, not of his own accord, just as he didn’t wake himself. This is all happening, happening to him, and there’s nothing at all left in him to vomit –

Hands clawing at his throat Garnet debuts into the arena looking half gone already.

[Python]

[juno brimstone, intro]

j u n o
b r i m s t o n e.

It could be worse.

That's what he told himself as he tackled rock bottom. This was considered the worst possible thing to happen to any citizen in the districts. He was expected to comfort himself in the reaper's shadow, as capitolites in all colors fawned over him like they would ever bother remembering him. It was an elaborate game of flattery and pretend. Juno didn't know how to conduct himself around such people. The disingenuous wealthy folks in Twelve were more appreciative and empathetic than the workers here. Everything they did was an act, a way to boost their reputation in Juno's name. He went along with it, but chose the humble path of keeping to himself otherwise, and spoke to only few.

It could be worse because he could be alone. He had his district partner, Xov, and the bracelet she threaded around his wrist to keep his soul intact. He had Marcellus Rhodes, an unexpected but welcome help. It was a small circle of trust, but it was something. He needed something to grasp in such a color-spattered, daunting world, where folks lied to him about his chances. He didn't see himself having a chance. Everyone knew the odds, talked about it behind his back. Malicious whispers. Juno knew the truth and prepared for it, but there was comfort in finding friends and holding out for a miracle. The chances weren't zero. Just intimidating.

His game plan was simple - find his buddies, grab a few things, and dip. If the danger was too close for comfort, or someone was hurt, they would dip early and find a way to survive without free supplies. Juno was inventive, he was confident he could figure something out with the help of his friends. He wasn't a dummy either - nerves or not, he stuffed himself with a filling and nutritious breakfast, taking any advantage he could. A final parting meal, and man did the food here taste amazing.

He said his goodbyes to Marik, who was a big and supportive help in this dizzying journey. It was bizarre to remember how many people that boy killed, and Juno was expected to do that? And miss Xov? What a twisted world. Once an isolated man with his cats, now a sparkling celebrity led to the noose. It didn't make a lick of sense.

When the first breath of winter touched his skin, it reminded him of home. Shoveling snow away from his little cabin in the woods, cats warmed up by a fireplace he built himself. It was almost uncanny how familiar it was until he noticed the size of the building itself, and how ominous the forest around them looked. It creaked and yawned like it was hungry, expecting visitors. Juno took a deep breath and watched it curl in front of him, frosted. Climate like this was harsh without a flame.

It could be worse, he thought. But not by much.

[lucius branwen / 10 — fox]

[izzy owens | intro]

🌱

i'm thinking of Figgy this morning.

should've cleaned my room before the Reaping. there were clothes strewn all over the bed. couldn't decide what to wear. the movie was paused on the tv, something a little undead just born out of the grave before it learned of humanity, and i hadn't watered the plants yet that week.

Sera'll have to pack up my things. should've apologized for the disaster of the closet.

the stylists brush through my hair.

my nails are bright pink now. stole a little pot of polish when the stylist wasn't looking, slipped down my sleeve, into the ruffles of the dress, and i was holding it all through the interview until the glass was warm on my skin. they were staring at the colour real hard the day after, moving to grab the acetone, and i talked them out of it.

let a girl live. i've only got a few days.

call it the rituals of the living.

i always thought the funniest thing was that even the dead had socks on.

guess most people hate the thought of not being dressed properly. even for a corpse.

the uniform goes on, layer by layer, denim heavy over the flannel. the stylist slips gloves over my hands and the pink disappears. would be a total pain for the funeral home. i stare at the lining of the cotton. would be a total pain for me.

on the podium now. it rises slow, and the air gets colder. the outside is frozen. the outside is biting wind. snow for miles through the window of this cabin we're in. evergreens on the horizon. a deer head stares at me, glass-eyed, stuffed with wood wool. bear pelt on the floor, fur glossy in the blue light of winter. the taxidermy looks funny. seen some at school in the bio labs, but these have the shine of newness, draped with spiderwebs to look artificially old.

should've just taken them from the underfunded schools of Six. crumbling bunny model from five decades ago, the ear rotting.

i did think i'd be more scared.

guess the worst part is the suddenness of death. but i've had days to prepare. had time to say goodbye.

that's more than what most people get.

[izzy owens d6 enters the bb]

[maverick hale 🌧️ d5 [nyte]]

[sage deville d10 | intro]

Well, it's all a bit ridiculous isn't it?

They put me in white, I think they'll like the way it stains. Slept like a fucking baby the night before they loaded me into the elevator, but for some reason I'm still exhausted. Shouldn't I be savoring these last breaths? They shouldn't be this damn heavy. Like I can't even muster up the effort to be scared for my damn life.

I ascend, or descent or whatever. I close my eyes so I don't have to watch it either way. Guess this is why Fable was lost in their fairy tales, real life kind of fucking sucks. I've always kind of wanted to crawl out of my own skin, but never more than this moment.

Can I kill someone? Guess I was too busy imagining myself being killed over the last few days to ponder that question. Should at least give it a shot. It'd be a little sad to just lay down and die.

That's not who I want to be.

Faceless girl, maybe I can find a knife and start carving.

Here's the thing - I have no interest in being cliche. This story isn't going to end with a grand realization that my life was worth something. I wasn't going to survive Hilda DeVille, and I'm not surviving Hades or Maryn or Ivan either.

This story's already got an ending, so lets spill ink on the pages that matter.

We're in a cottage? Great, that means a lot of places to hide. I'm small enough I can grab some shit and slip away. It's not a good plan by any means, but it's good enough for something I've stitched together in the span of a minute's count down.

Wind bellows through the walls, cold air bites the tip of my nose raw and red. Never did take wells to winters.

After I'm out of the bloodbath, I'll try to find Isolde. She seemed the type to play with her food.

She won't kill me right away.

Probably.

The gong sounds.

Fuck.

Here goes nothing.

[sage enters the bloodbath]

[azure d5b tribsitter]

[Azure Delphine | intro]

► ► ►

a seven.

i am not surprised that they thought my training station was average, i was not giving it everything i probably could have gave.  

though i probably could have showed off more important skills, i went with my gut.  i trusted myself just enough to do what i thought was best.  what they wanted to see.  that is what amrin would have done.  a show of anything else might not have been impressive.  at least, that is what i think. 

i still am not used to anything here.  the buttons do far to much for me to keep up with, i think i have come to realize that i just prefer books.  i wonder if it was simpler back then?

did that really matter?

no it did not.  because now they are whisking me away to another room, with people saying things to me that dont make too much sense.  however, i can suss out most of it.  i wish i had more time to understand what is going on.  

and then i realize that today is the day.

they are getting us ready for the slaughter.

i am just trying to focus on everything else right now.  what would my parents say?  my brothers?  amrin?  all of the would probably say the same thing.

live.

they shove me into a plane.

they tell me that i need to hold out my arm.

it hurts only for a moment.

i wonder if amrin felt any pain.

i am sick for a moment, and then when the plane lands, i am scared.  

they dress me in the ugliest fucking color i have ever seen.

if i had half a mind, i would have started fighting then.  

they push me towards the pods, i walk in.

i am raised up and i can see everyone else being raised up as well.  i am thinking about things that i dont think i need to be thinking about.  why the sky refracts blue, how snow is made, why this ugly fucking color?  

i look at the countdown.

i blink, its going faster than expected.

and then before i know it.

its time to go.

[/font][/font][/div]

[/div][/div][/div][/div]

[azure delphine enters the bb]

[/font][/font][/div][/div]

[tick 12a / calla]

inga vanas d4 | intro

In the morning, she rolls her eyes at Lucky, she tries not to stare at Nixie and the baby, she nods at Beck. All the little mundanities that people expect. She’s shuffled into the prep room for finishing touches and tries to go over every moment of training she’s ever had.

This is what it’s all led to - the family, the island, all of it.

They’ll all be watching her soon.

Maybe it should've been Lieke. At least she would've had allies by now. She would have the entire arena charmed by day one - the crowd too.

Inga's passed layer after layer, soft flannel, rough denim, gloves, her stomach starts to sink lower and lower with every addition. Four is coastal, and temperate, and not exactly somewhere to grow up cold. They turn her blue, and at least she can say the uniform is practice for once.

Inga touches the glass of the chamber, temperature-controlled and cool against her palm. She tries to picture Willem standing here, seeing his own reflection distorted against the lights.

Did he feel like this? Did he have something to prove?

inga enters the bb

[sidney]

[ rita jakov | district one | introduction ]

R I T A

i don't think people love me
they love versions of me i have spun for them

I’m cold. That’s the first thought I have, and a shiver runs up my spine shortly after. A breeze from somewhere? I look next to me and see a window, but it’s frosted and impossible to look past. Frosted. White. Snow. Fuck. Surviving would be that much harder outside if it’s freezing! I need to find shelter first, fortify it, and hold- Shit, where’s Harley? The countdown slices through the air loudly, and I look around for my ally. I swear to god if she picks a fight like I told her not to, I’ll leave her ass here. I’m not helping. My eyes scan around the room, looking and looking and—there you are. Our eyes lock for a moment, but I flick them away to find an easy exit. I glance past Xylia, try not to roll my eyes as she croons to Lucky, who I also try to avoid eye-contact with. Not now. I can’t think about him now. There! I spy double doors and know Harley and I need to make a break for them immediately. Before it gets ugly or we get pinned down. I pull my focus back to the girl from three as the voice booms out and even louder four, three, two… And try to mouth to my ally: go for the doors. To run. I point behind her, hoping she understands. We can’t stay here. It’s two against twenty-two, and I don’t like our odds. One. Showtime.

[ rita enteres the bloodbath ]

[andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy]

Marceline Jeon. 8B. Intro.

Oh. She’s here. Marceline is really here, really about to go into some specially crafted arena, headfirst to her own death. Every time she thought she’d processed the reality of her situation, something new hits her, forces her to reevaluate, and demands that she asks herself if she can kill. She knows now how it feels to strike at someone now, thanks to the simulation they’d been tossed into. She knows that getting struck with a blade hurts a hell of a lot more than pricking a finger on a needle, and she knows that dodging a hit can embue with confidence. Landing a hit, even more so. But with all of that said, with all of that stowed at the very front of her mind, is Marceline Jeon capable of killing?

She wants to say yes and she wants to say no, but she settles on yes – Marceline wants to live. There’s no other way out, that much is eye rolling levels of obvious, but there’s also no point to doing anything else. She could kick up a fuss, protest, and scream at the top of her lungs, but the Capitol will just edit around her, let her go forgotten until something takes her out, at which point her final breaths would be immortalised. At the same time, she would be lost to time, existing only in the memories of her family and friends back home, just one more of the ever growing number of children sent to slaughter.

None of that matters to her stylist, who fusses about her, running in circles so fast that Marceline starts to get dizzy. The clothes tell her one thing about where they’re sending her; somewhere cold. She twirls her mother’s ring behind her back as her stylist messes with her layers, uselessly repositioning them. When – if, she corrects herself, hearing her escort’s peppy voice in her head – she dies, will they even bother to send it back to her? Has anyone at home picked up her projects? Are they all there now, crowded around the television in her house? They probably are, all at the home house despite having places of their own to go to. They probably have been since the Reaping Day, propping each other up as they beat their own emotions down. The Jeon propensity for optimism in the face of near certain disaster has infected her finally now, at the precipice of doom – doom if she lives, for what she’ll have to live with, doom if she dies. Have they been able to keep it up? Are they still smiling now?

She hopes they are. Marceline wants them to smile so badly. She wants them to see her smile too, before the end. Before weapons start flying, hers or otherwise. Bad teeth and all, dull and out of order, Marceline wants to smile, just the way they were always nagging her to.
All too soon, Marceline is being shuffled into the claustrophobic tube for a one way journey. She briefly casts her mind’s eye back to the train she took to the Capitol. It reminds her of that, kind of. What a little, enclosed life she’s had. How little she’s gotten to see. Marceline stands with her arms bone straight by her sides, face forward. She doesn’t smile for her stylist, who continues to scrutinize her even now, two fingers tapping their lilac goateed chin. Marceline can’t forget how excited they’d been to have such a tall and slender girl, how happy they’d been to commodify her. Capricious King, too. She isn’t smiling but, surprising herself, Marceline doesn’t feel tears pricking at her eyes. She’d cried so much over the last few years at the idea of being here, but her eyes are almost uncomfortably dry now. Is it adrenaline? Has reality actually, finally settled in?

The little disc under her feet, which feels too flimsy to lift even Marceline’s meagre weight, starts to slide up. When her stylist waves, finally dropping their scowl, Marceline submits and offers them one in return. The last face she’s seeing on the outside has wet eyes and a wistful smile, and is clearly already focused on the Games to come – with how pretty Marceline looked, maybe they’ll shoot all the way up to being assigned to District Four. That’s what she thinks they’re thinking.

She emerges inside of a… cabin? Like something from a book, something she’d never seen before in District Eight. Marceline looks around, looks at the faces that surround her, and despite herself, laughs. She holds her face, the resulting smile, in place, just in case the camera deems her important enough to latch onto. Sorry, Mom, but this is the last time Marceline thinks she’ll have the chance to smile.

table credit to napoleon, d2m ₊⊹ 🐁 ɢʀɪғғɪɴ. !

Marceline has entered the Bloodbath.

[marguerite harvard d2a (zori)]

Feb 17, 2024 17:00:12 GMT -5 marguerite harvard d2a (zori) said:

D2A Marguerite Harvard | Intro | - - - -

D2A Marguerite Harvard | Attack 1 | - - - -

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

“Damn.” Maggie couldn’t help but take in a sharp breath of the cold. She gritted her teeth as she pulsed forward, doing her best to try and weave her way around the bigger tributes. She didn’t want to dry in any unnecessary fire as it were. Better to lay low the first few moments, until all hell broke loose. She hadn’t quite made herself well known, but then, that could also be a sore strategy. Dog pile the unlucky, if she was able, and then pull back from the breech. She eyed something shiny out of the corner of her eye, and moved to pounce. “Excuse me,” She offered, because she had been raised right.

[Maggie Harvard attacks Garnet Beauford D8a unarmed]

KoquBWfePsunarmed

[collects duffle bag]

result: 5005 -- Bruised Right Femur -- 3 damage (Unarmed)

ELEGANT

unarmed

[gamemaker tallis 🧚🏽‍♂️kaitlin.]

d3a: carrow, f. | attack 1, 5033.





felicity carrow,
district three.

When I open my eyes, the thoughts don’t matter anymore. It’s not the same as opening them in Penny’s mind, my body safe in a tank breathing pure O2 off a tube. The stakes here are different, and the changeable parts of tomorrow feel so much more precarious than they ever did before. In a room alone, I glance around furtively, checking the corners. There’s a canvas bag hung on a coat rack in the corner and I realize I’m in some sort of a mudroom, I think. I snatched it up quickly, then made to step through the door, only realizing with hindsight someone was standing on the other side of it. “Oh, shit, my bad,” I said considering putting palms up, but I don’t think they’re going to believe it was an accident. One hand still on the knob, I pull it closed again. “I’ll go another way!”

d3a felicity attacks d2 hugo w door
(she is really very sorry but also sort of not)

mGr4|lE1|Ounarmed

3 dmg

[canvas rucksack]

unarmed

[pogue]

Feb 17, 2024 17:00:18 GMT -5 pogue said:

[ d6 axyl willoughby | intro ]

[ d6 axyl willoughby | attack #1 ]

He runs along with the screams of the Bloodbath, gaze narrowed and muscles tensing in anticipation as his eyes dart from target to target. The echoes of his fellow tributes carve themselves into the back of his mind, static cutting through the screams in a futile effort to protect whatever life he has left to live. he has seen all these people before, in passing shadows and screaming nights. Now his fist curls with anticipation, bloodlust prickling at the seams.

His eyes dart left, then right, teeth grinding into each other before he turns to the nearest target. He imagines a knife to his throat and a sword in his stomach and opts to do anything to make sure that doesn't happen, launching a right hook at the tribute nearest to him with all of the force that he can muster.

✧ axyl attacks ❛ marcellus ❜ ✧

✧ axyl takes White Drawstring Bag ✧


jlTjUwDRMMunarmed

[2.0]

*unarmed

[Izzabel Bennet D8A (Jorg)]

Feb 17, 2024 17:00:17 GMT -5 Izzabel Bennet D8A (Jorg) said:

[Jericho Caleb | Intro]

[Jericho Caleb | Attack 1 | 5011]

I make it to the pile of items in a few strides, using the length of my limbs to my advantage.Being one of the first here has its advantages as it’s making it easier to find things, like a drawstring bag that matches my outfit. Maybe once we leave the building, the white outfit will prove to be useful, but right now, I am in stark contrast with the lodge. I’m praying to whatever gods may listen that this doesn’t make me more of a target than it already has. More tributes make their way towards the center as I open the bag, looking for more items to put in it. Or a weapon to fight if we really want to control the wealth.

It’s a madhouse, people calling out to their allies, tributes already throwing punches and trying to side step around each other. I don’t think anyone has tried their luck going outside of the building, and I can’t say that I blame them. I don’t want to risk getting hypothermia this soon in the Games. Being one of the tallest has proven helpful though because I’m able to find Rhys and Garnet with relative ease as it is to find people in a giant conglomeration of limbs and items flying around. Rhys is in red, and Garnet in an icy blue tone that somehow compliments his complexion so well.

“Jer get it together, stop gawking at the cute boy.” I remind myself as I notice other tributes starting to encroach on my territory. I throw my first punch down towards the closest tribute, not bothering to see who it is. I can’t think about the relationships I made right now, only ensuring my safety.

“Garnet! Rhys! Over here!” I call out, hoping that I’m tall enough for them to see.

[Jericho attacks Gunner Azarova | Unarmed]
o26CpXWKQKunarmed

[Picks up White Drawstring Bag]

unarmed

[parsnip]

Feb 17, 2024 17:00:17 GMT -5 parsnip said:

Rhys Peace - Intro - | |

Rhys Peace - Attack 1 - Unarmed (3.0)

R H Y S
P E A C E

      Like mercury might stretch to fill a space, Rhys covered ground like he was born to run from the platform. Years of boot camp training finally paid off, and he wondered if his commanding officer might be watching in that very moment. Of course she was, their eyes were never off the recruits, even in imminent death.

The scatter of tributes to each direction only took milliseconds. The brutality that commenced only took half as long. Rhys thought on the best advice that stood out from his mentor; Focus all around, but care about only ahead.

Rhys' focus seems to be on somebody in particular. A rival of types. What started on the train should probably end on the battlefield, right? Now that it's time to make things happen, Rhys tried to go for Gunner, so prove that he's the one that will come home from Nine, not him.

[Rhys Peace attacks Gunner Azarova; Unarmed]

RBVh6TYXDpunarmed

5025 -- Gash/Bruised Left Foot -- 3 damage
(Unarmed)

[Rhys picks up Olive Green Standard Issue Duffle Bag]unarmed