make me your villain | needle vs softbois vs volkra

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

The night unfolds like wings unfurling.

Three nights have passed — a single blood sacrifice, three Gamemakers staring furiously down at pure white snow, twenty-three tributes who are trying so desperately to delay the inevitable. As a fourth dawn rises, no sun comes with it. Something must be done. The Volkra can feel this in their biological coding, a bubbling rage and hunger that washes over what has already existed. It is not that they need the command to be ravenous, to be terrible, but they heed the call.

Darkness pours across the world, a single swipe of Hades Lochlan's hand is mighty enough to block out the sun. The Fold ripples, and then begins to stretch outwards. It does not stop traveling across the arena until all areas are consumed in the pitch black. Sight is robbed from the living, left alone with only their fear and the awful sounds coming from the void. The chittering, the squelching, the preparation for a grand feast.

Wings flapping will be your first sign to run, but by the time you hear them, it is far too late. All at once, the Volkra's singular prison cell becomes everything. No longer are they limited to a single stretch of land, and no longer do they have to wait for their prey to come to them. They are on the move, listening to the urgency within them that tells them that on this day there must be slaughter. They are so hungry, and they are as empty as the dark.

  

They shriek and chitter in glee as they spot their bounty wandering aimlessly beneath them. Tributes, fresh and terrified, not at all prepared for the torture they will soon endure. They have sinister grins that drip scarlet, awful fangs and long claws, leathery wings folding behind them as they begin to dive quickly. There is nothing that can be done to avoid this, there is no path that can be taken to escape. If this is the night where all the beasts come out to play, then the Volkra are king. This is their domain.

And they will not stop until the night is bloodied and torn asunder.

Volkra attacks!

Hal
34ZGcEUmiEknife
[3.5]

Jericho
knife
[8]

Marceline
knife
[3.5]

Vali
knife
[4.5]

Rhys
knife
[4.0]

Garnet
knife
[3.5]

knife·knife·knife·knife·knife·knife

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

It's not as bad as it seems, yet his mind races even more frantically and nothing makes any sense at all. One step after another until he collapses onto the ground. Thankful for the water, it's given him a bit of hope, but it's still nothing compared to the water that's needed. A heavy sigh leaves his chest as Hal looks through his belongings and tries to make the best out of everything he has. At least the garments are keeping him warm.

But it's still too cold to lay on the ground.

I just want to go home.

It's selfish, hard to focus on anything else other than himself, but his mind is racing, and all he can think about is his family starving at home as he tries keeping himself alive. They're probably going through the same battle, yet they have a bed to sleep in, a place to cook warm meals while it takes every ounce of strength not to freeze to death in the middle of the night here.

At least he has some friends.

Marceline and Vali, they keep him company, they give him someone to lean on when everything seems so far away, and right now, the only thing on his mind is keeping them alive as long as he can. Even the thought of that makes him wince. For now, none of it matters.

"Y'all get some sleep. I'm going to be awake for a while."

It's up to them, but right now, his heart is heavy, and sorting through his own thoughts and feelings is far more important than anything else right now. Life is funny. So many times, back in district seven, Hal never thought about living or dying, but now that he's here, the only thing he can think about is how to prevent the grim reaper from snagging him. Sometimes it's welcoming, but other times, it's terrifying, and maybe that's what makes him human. Death is final, it's like going to sleep for all eternity, and Hal isn't prepared for the eternal slumber.

Is anyone?

He curls up against Titan. Having a mount has helped him, it makes walking easier, it makes getting places easier, and Titan always offers some warmth when the breeze feels so cold. Nox sits on his chest, resting peacefully, and it makes Hal smile. At least these two friends will never leave him for as long as he's alive, yet his heart breaks for them the moment he passes away.

And at some point, he manages to drift away.

He's unsure how long he's been asleep when he wakes up, but his teeth are chattering. Nox sits on his chest, this time holding a pair of goggles. "Oh, thank you. " A smile spreads across his face, but it soon goes away as he turns to the sky. He watches the clouds forming in the sky. But they're different. Something is happening, and he's terrified. The gamemakers have to be up to something, they have to be bored, why else would they do this?

"Marceline. Vali. We have to go." He walks close by so they can hear him, and then he hops onto Titan hoping he can lead the way, "I'm not sure what's happening, but we need to move."

Haunting shrieks echo across the arena, and things feel as though they alternate between hot and cold. His eyes are wide, and he holds his spear close hoping that nothing stands in his way. Nothing is as it seems, and he wants nothing more than to run away, but running is impossible. It's hard to see, and every now and then a flash of lightning lights up the sky long enough to see something.

And then he feels it. Something slashes against his cheek, and he takes a step back.

"We're not alone." He whispers as he tries figuring everything out, and he steers Titan away from wherever they're going. His heart races, every breath catches in the back of his throat as he digs through his bag drawing out the bundle of poisonous plants. These are supposed to help him, to give him something to keep him alive when all hope seems lost, but right now, hope is gone. It's dark, and as Titan tries galloping away, everything comes to a screeching halt sending Hal tumbling to the ground.

"Shit."

He raises his spear and tries running on foot, but when another flash of lightning lights up the sky, he sees others, and the first person he actually sees is Jericho from ten.

"I'm sorry, man, but you're standing in my way."

Hal tries to run forward unsure of where he's going, but it dawns on him that there isn't a way out. He raises the spear and backs away ever so slightly, but the screeching of the monsters around get under his skin, and he can't help the movements.

"Apparently, it's the only way."

Credit to Pogue <3

Hal coats his spear with poison plants
Hal attacks Jericho with poison spear 1/3
uh3y9_54xXspear
spear

[andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy]

Marceline is still registering that it’s morning; the sky above suggests otherwise; when Hal rouses her and Vali. He’s right. It’s time to go. Their plan was to go to the Wintry Forest today, to find sanctuary beneath the snow capped branches, but as far as Marceline can tell, there’s no way to go that seems right, that seems familiar. Damn Gamemakers. Not even their landmarks and signs, left by others traversing the arena, for each other intentionally or not, are safe from their meddling.

Well, she doesn’t know why she’s surprised. They had access to her eyeballs somehow, after all. She still hasn’t wrapped her head around it. How? And why? Blue, for the ice, for the snow? Or blue for Azure Delphine? Vali’s curse on Xov flashes across her mind. Something like that. A Capitolite curse.

As she clambers to her feet, tingly little steps March up her leg, up to her shoulder. It’s her little guy. She wants to name him, and her owl too, but is standing by her decision not to. But she’s incredibly soft on them, especially now that they’ve given her gifts — iodine tablets. She pets it gently on its head, smiling a thank you.

Marceline is happy to allow Hal to lead the way. After being in front during the whole mines debacle yesterday, she’s eager to try and spend today recuperating, even if she has to do it under the cover of cold, artificial night. An evening person her whole life, Marceline never thought she’d find herself longing for the sun.

But there’s no time to relax. The swish of wind, something riding it — mutts. The muscular, skeletal, impossible things that swoop down on them already have blood in their teeth. One of them scratches Marceline, making her gasp, barely hearing Hal over the onslaught descending on them. She rips her knife out of its sheath, immediately searching for a way out. She doesn’t see any; the next thing she sees is a spurt of blood and a retracting spear. Hal? No. It’s Hal’s spear. The guy… Garnet’s ally, he crumples nearly immediately. Is Garnet nearby? Marceline doesn’t want to know.

She looks around wildly, around but never down, heart in her mouth. The cannon that goes off disorients her further. Marceline stumbles, nearly falls into… the guy from Nine. It runs through her head, again and again — if he’d made it past reaping age, maybe he would’ve been sent to Eight. Maybe he would’ve caught her stealing. Who knows? She steadies herself, the leather boots on her feet doing wonders for her weak ankles.

marceline attacks rhys

6GXGTvzgdKknife

miss!! accuracy re-roll

knife

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

knife·knife

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

❦

The evening is quiet; a sunsetting silence as the blackened skies rise up and up in the distance. Water having quenched the thirst at the back of her lips. A taste that only the gods could understand as pleasure fills her lips. Who knew water could be so sweet to taste. Her body drips down into the silence of night, eyes focused on the sky somewhere else. Her mind wanders to the Twelves and Eleven who'd ran away from the mines with them. Vali could only hope that they'd end up in snowy graves of their own, except the sky glitters with no one. Hal's voice reaches her ears as she curls in tighter. "Y'all get some sleep. I'm going to be awake for a while."

Only, she's unable to sleep when the stars glitter the way they've been glittering. The empty skies fill her with a soft ease as a breeze blows in, but the chill's started to ease into a quiet calm. Even with wounds still bleeding, she can only softly smile to herself. Her voice barely a whisper as she looks around for the nearest camera. "Gods. That's what they call you here." A scoff on her lips as the amusement bleeds like venom. "Maryn. Ivan. Hades. You're nothing more than mortals playing god. Enjoy it." There's a twinge of a laugh before she curls into herself. "You'll only be able to play god for so long." Closing her eyes, she drifts into the empty silence of sleep. Dreams settling in as she gets flashes of blood from her own arm. Only, the blood glimmers golden bright. Dreams of white hair frozen on all edges as it stands out a hand caresses her cheek. It's a mixture of the holy and unholy; a dream that lingers.

"Marceline. Vali. We have to go."

She's warm as she awakens; Hvítabiôrn curling around her form protectively. She pats his cheek gently before looking up to see íssmús on her chest. Pocket knife dangling a bit too threateningly. She's soft as she whispers to the creature. "Sacrificing me now? Interesting little thing you are." She pulls the knife off of her chest, moving it to her pocket as she gets up, stretching for a moment. It's only after her stretch does she notice the sky beginning to darken, the sound of shrieks and electricity humming through the arena. A hum on her lips filters through as she hops onto Hvítabiôrn's back.

"Lead the way. Mother Nature will guide you." A quick nod to Hal's mount before there's a pause. The darkness spreads and spreads. Sword in hand, she can't see anything when the darkness engulfs them into nothing. The empty silence of the night seeming to have taken ahold of everything. A sort of sorrow filled energy settling in. Quickly, Vali's other hand wraps around the onyx necklace around her neck. "I don't like this. Something's off." It's not enough as she feels the chittering behind her. The sound of squelching and wings; her mind filters back to the book she carries. Volkra. She'd read about these creatures trapped by this darkness. Not enough to know anything unusual, but she'd taken notice of them in Hade's book on muttations.

Pain burns from her head as she rolls off of Hvítabiôrn with surprise. Pain burns from her head as she sputters into the snow below. "We're not alone." She wants to be sarcastic, but her voice can't escape as she starts to turn around looking for Hal. Unable to really see him, she grimaces at the feeling. "Shit." She doesn't like the sound of that. Her heart beats ever so slowly before she looks around to try and find Marceline and Hal. If there were others there, they'd stand their ground. Blood would be spilled once more. This arena was nothing more than a sacrifice to the gods. Warriors born in the chill of death.

Hal's speaking to someone; she doesn't see the strike, but the sound is enough to tell her everything. The flash of lightning scatters the vision before her as she notices the guy from Ten. Spear ripped out of flesh, Vali can feel herself looking around. Voice loud enough for anyone around to hear as she smiles. "Gods, old and new, we give to you an offering. May his blood satisfy you enough for more of your guidance." Gently, she approaches the body. Fingers barely dipped into the pooling blood. She smears a bit onto her neck with a laugh.

It's the flash of light that provides her with more of the scene. Marceline jumps into action somewhere, Vali could feel their stares from yesterday still. A judgment she'd always been given since she'd trusted in the gods to guide her back to her own godhood. A goddess wanting to find her way. None of these mortals would ever understand what she's done in order to find her ascension once more. Their fate have all been weaved together; knitted along the cloth of their story. It's why she couldn't let Marceline grow weak. Garnet of Eight was there. Someone she'd considered for a moment, but the gods guided her away.

"Garnet." It's barely a whisper as she feels for the plants in her pocket; dripping them onto her blade as she stares towards him with a smile on her lips. Poison dripping from her words as she continues. "I am sorry for your loss." Pulling back the sword, she stares into his eyes with a focus that others have found unnerving from before. "He'll be in the hall of warriors. Let me guide you back to him." Metal glistens with poison from the plants as she swings with a heavy laugh.

Vali Forrester would ascend once more.

Sacrifices needed to be made; it'll come soon enough.

(Vali uses her bundle of poisonous plants to coat her greatsword with poison)
(Vali Forrester attacks Garnet Beauford with Poisoned Greatsword [sword])
WQFUorer0dsword
(Shallow Cut on Right Shoulder 3.5 +1 poison damage)

sword

[parsnip]

[attr="class","promise01"]

Rhys smiled briefly down at his allies, their peaceful slumber providing him with the spirit to continue his watch. A quick glance assured him they were safe, at least for now. The impending threat loomed, palpable in the Mines, where the other group (whom he remembers no name of) were just as clueless as to why any of them were alive as he was. While he didn't understand what was happening, all he'd known before the Games was to blindly follow orders. He was a meatbag in a white uniform. Viligant against the rebel. Terrified of the consequences. Here, now, he feels as though he is everything he was taught to hate. But what of the consequences? He still hasn't so much as attacked anyone, except for defending himself, Garnet and Jericho in the Bloodbath. His hands are still clean. Cold, frozen even, but pristine.

For now.

As he stood watch, Malygos, his familiar, offered a fleeting comfort in the wilderness. Rhys hadn't fully embraced the presence yet; it lacked temperature, energy, almost as if it were a figment of his imagination. Gallantly, mirroring the dragonlet, he surveyed the area from the cliff's edge, keeping an eye out for the next Gamemaker trap. that everyone knew was coming.

In the distance, the unfortunately familiar purple hue emanated from the dark chasm they had intentionally avoided. The Fold, a balanced fog with whispers that could reach any distance, filled Rhys with an ominous feeling. It was the moment when death took hold and refused to let go, bells tolling in his mind like a funeral pyre awaiting its flames. He knew it wasn't real. It couldn't be - obviously, it's another one of those made up fantasies that these arenas (no, the Gamemakers) contain within them. But the voices, the cacophony of spirits, haunted him, especially when he gazed into the royal hue. He'd sat awake for a couple of hours thinking about it. It possessed his mind like an invasion. His besieged mind knew little else other than this echoing torment that brought with it the choral whimpering of passed spirits.

Not even Malygos accompanied him through these dark thoughts. The horrors dangled in his mind like a pendant, and The Fold, with its choral whimpering of lost souls, was no place for a human, let alone a tribute. Rhys had made it clear; he would never go to The Fold. He heard the calls of unrecognizable victims, some girl named Penelope, perhaps. Who the hell is Penelope?

The Fold's swirling darkness erupted, and he felt it moments before the miasma swept through the treeline. The fog, not toxic but unnervingly warm, expanded, enveloping the arena. It brought with it an uneasy warmth that he'd, at first, recalled as the same warmth Jericho offered in the Mines. Sombre, knowing, but there despite all odds. It was an otherworldly battlefield now, the dark smoke reducing visibility to mere feet. Sinister shapes moved within the shadows, casting ominous silhouettes that danced in and out of the smoke.

Rhys realized that he wouldn't go to The Fold—it was coming to him.

The charge was lead by whailing banshees - at least that's how Rhys would describe them. Screaming as though the thick ebon gas was squeezing through every particle on the way through the world. It was taking hold across all he could see, and he knew immediately to wake the others, to get them away from there.

As Rhys, Jericho, and Garnet moved cautiously through the thick, swirling darkness of The Fold, the air became dense with an otherworldly aura, and the frozen wasteland stretched out in eerie shadows around them. The ominous chill in the air seemed to seep into their bones as they pressed forward, aware that danger lurked in every direction.

The haunting echoes of distant roars and guttural growls hinted at the colossal presence of the monstrous entity they were about to face. The three allies tightened their grips on their weapons, each step accompanied by the unsettling crunch of frozen snow beneath their boots.

As they approached the heart of The Fold, the trio caught sight of the colossal monster awaiting them. Its grotesque form emerged from the shadows, a nightmarish combination of twisted limbs and fangs. The monster's breath formed icy clouds in the frigid air as it roared, revealing jagged teeth and glowing eyes that glinted malevolently in the obsidian haze.

The frozen wasteland, now bathed in the surreal darkness of The Fold, became the stage for a fight where alliances were tested, and survival meant outwitting both monstrous adversaries and human foes. With weapons drawn and hearts pounding, Rhys and his allies prepared to confront the nightmarish creature and the shadowy figures, knowing that only one would emerge victorious from this deadly dance in the heart of The Fold.


Rhys gripped his glaive tightly, the cold metal providing a sense of familiarity and reassurance in the enveloping darkness. The Fold's thick smoke created an impenetrable veil, rendering visibility to absolute zero. As he moved cautiously through the shadows, he sensed a subtle shift in the air, a presence looming nearby.

Without a clear target, Rhys swung his glaive with calculated precision, aiming for the perceived threat. The blade sliced through the frigid air, accompanied by the whooshing sound as it cleaved through the darkness. The unsettling silence that followed was broken only by the distant growls of the monstrous creature and the muffled sounds of the frozen wasteland.

In the void of sight, Rhys strained his senses, hoping for any indication of his strike connecting. A brief shuffling of footsteps and a muffled grunt hinted that he had hit something, but the identity of his target remained shrouded in uncertainty.

As the seconds ticked by, the enigmatic nature of the encounter added an extra layer of tension. Rhys, still on guard, awaited any movement or sound that might reveal the outcome of his attack. The smoke continued to billow around him, concealing the unfolding drama within The Fold.

In the haze and darkness, Rhys heard his familiar's precious voice which cut through the darkness with the precision of well-trained blade. It guarded him from time, a moment where all became clear, and in the midnight fog he heard Malygos hum and dance, his jolly face as clear as snow on the brightest day. Then, his humming became true voice heard by none but only the boy from District Nine.

Beneath the silver moonlight's glow,
In shadows deep where cold winds blow,
Through trials fierce and battles wild,
My heart echoes for you, my dearest child.

In the tapestry of the starry night,
A love that's bound, an eternal light,
Through the trials that darkness weaves,
A promise kept, our bond it cleaves.

Oh, Rhys, my soul, in the night so black,
Against the odds, we'll find our track,
Through the tempest, through the cold,
Your name, a story forever told.

Though fate may twist and shadows play,
Our love endures, a guiding ray,
In the silence, hear my song,
In the darkest hour, you belong.

With every step, with every breath,
Remember, love conquers even death,
In The Fold's grip, hold onto the tune,
My melody, a lifeline in the gloom.

And he hoped to Ripred he struck the beast.

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[newclass=".promise01:hover "]height:3950px; -webkit-transition-duration:1s;transition-duration:2s; -moz-transition-duration:2s; [/newclass]

[Rhys Peace attacks Váli Forrester with glaive]

O7QtkEa|vkglaive

13036 -- Deep Gash on Left Forearm -- 8.0 damage
(Glaive)glaive

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

The storm didn't begin slowly as most storms do. No, this was more akin to a cluster of bombs, the pulsing heart of the arena giving way to the monsters lurkign within. The wings guided them, chased them, scared them into submission. Where Rhys and Jerich went, Garnet followed, clutching his bag to his chest, shaking more than a little.

When they crossed from snow into darkness he almost said something. He'd been there before, when he'd been lost after the bloodbath. He'd found things there, in the fragmented crease of the arena. Important things. But he'd been stalked, too, and it seemed to him the shadows came alive...

But he found between the cold and fatigue and fear he could not longer work his jaw as he once had. So he only scrambled onward as the Volkra pecked at his bare skull.

A human voice intoned from the shadows: "apparently, it's the only way..."

There's something after, something the Volkra's noxious chittering covered for a moment. For a split second the Volkra's pale bodies flashed in the Fold's ripplings and Garnet could see.

And he nearly wept at the sight of her. "Marce--" he started.

"May his blood satisfy you enough for more of your guidance."

It took his sluggish brain far too long to understand what the other girl was doing. To whom she was doing it. And why. Blood, so much blood. "Garnet," and like a good schoolboy, he looked up just in time for Váli's sword to push him towards Jericho's body.

He wanted to say his name, the name of the fallen boy. But instead what came out of his strangled throat as he pawed through his bag of treasures before Váli could bring the weapon around once more was something like: "Rhys!! We went the wrong way!!!"

[Garnet uses Jar of Tar to ignite his Hunter's Spear]

[Garnet attacks Váli; flaming spear]

O8w|5UBp0wspear

[Shallow Cut on Right Bicep -- 3.5 damage]

1-50

[extinguished I'm fairly certain!]
[results]

spear·1-50

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

The Volkra need not play with their meal, not when their prey is so keen to play amongst themselves.

The scent of blood is metallic and rich on the wind, a hot gush of air that carries the sound of weapons clashing and beasts shrieking. With each clap of thunder, a flash of white hot lightning piercing the dark, the Volkra gaze down to see the tributes locked in a power struggle. Man against man, so caught up in their petty grapple for survival that they are near blind to the true threat flapping their leathery wings overhead. The Volkra are not strangers to blending into chaos.

They are one in the same.

And beneath their instincts, their desperate hunger for flesh and blood, there is another command that stays their hand. It isn't that the Capitol wants to see these tributes devoured, it's that they want to see them hurting. No more makeshift peace, no more skirting around the purpose of a death games. The only thing required of these children is to be maimed on national television. And if they do this to one another in favor of being torn apart by mutts?

All the better.

  

From their vantage point, and through the guidance of their masters, the Volkra are aware of which tributes have managed to weave themselves through the mayhem mostly unscathed. Hal pulls his spear from the throat of Jericho as a cannon booms like thunder, and Marceline cowers before the towering hologram of a Gamemaker pointing down at her in shame. Lightning crackles, a looping melody plays on repeat, the melodic voice of Paris Vanburen has never sounded better with the harmony of chittering monsters.

"You ain't no diva." And this is true, not just for the girl from Eight but for all of them. If they don't want to be picked apart by terrible beasts, then they will do well to learn to throw themselves in front of the blades of their human rivals. This is what the nation wants to see, after all. No amount of annual bloodshed could ever be enough for their appetite, and the Volkra shriek in agreement as they begin to swoop down with their claws extended.

Make your choice, tributes.

Death is standing at your shoulder, either way. Be it by man or beast.

the volkra do not attack

knife·knifeCtVpHCoUF1

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

Everything stands still, and for a moment, Hal doesn't know what's happening. Thunder echoes through the air, lightning flashes brightly in the sky. The gamemakers wanted a storm, something to shake things up.

He feels his spear wedge into something, and instantly his eyes widen as he tires taking a step away, but as the spear breaks free, something splatters across his face, and it isn't until another flash of lightning strikes that he realizes what it is. Blood spews, covering him, and it's hard to breathe especially when he hears Jericho land lifeless on the ground. The cannon is lost in the midst of the thunder.

No.

No.

No.

He turn trying to ignore the frantic thoughts running through his mind. Jericho introduced himself back in the training center. He was one of the nice ones, and now he's lying on the ground dead because of Hal, and he's unsure what to do with himself. Everything is falling apart around him, and he turns to see if his allies are running, yet it's impossible to know what's even happening, and based on the sounds, they're still gathered around fighting with the others.

No.

No.

This can't be happening.

Everything is chaos, and Hal wants nothing more than to run away and pretend like everything is okay, but it's not okay.

I killed him.

It's a selfish game, and he's always been playing for himself, but right now he's trying not to vomit and cry. Everyone is watching, and maybe this is what Ivan was talking about. They're all characters in the game.

Why did Lucky teach me?

It's stupid to blame it on someone. It's stupid to think that others are crumbling. It's stupid to think training wouldn't have made a difference.

But maybe he saved me in a way.

No. This can't be happening.

It's hard to focus on anything else, and all he wants is a chance to make things right, but killing a person isn't easy to right. It's wrong in so many ways despite his desire to live.

Maybe I am a pawn.

He takes another step back and tightens his grip on his spear before running towards the others.

"We need to get out of here." His voice shakes as he raises the spear ever so slightly.

"Just leave us alone. Nobody else has to die." This time his words are directed towards Jericho's allies hoping they'll flee. Maybe a gentle nudge will help, but Hal doesn't trust himself anymore. "Just go!"

It might be enough, or maybe it's not. Nothing else seems to matter anyway.

Credit to Pogue <3

Hal attacks Garnet with poisoned spear 2/3
hTkV0jzkKespear
3129 -- 3.5 damage + 1 poison
spear

[andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy]

Marceline stumbles after her double miss on Rhys — breathing hard, she steadies herself, looks up to the sweeping and soaring mutts, squints her eyes to try to see the stars and…

Oh. So now she’s seeing things. A giant Maryn Hale phases into the arena — her aghast eyes and shaky outstretched finger are both zoning in on Marceline… you ain’t no diva, sings a voice. She recognises it, somewhere in the back of her mind, but can’t pinpoint a name. You ain’t no diva; oh. Marceline grits her teeth. Are they making fun of her? They are, aren’t they? She barks a laugh. Wings beat angrily on the inside of her chest. How dare they? Do they think they’re funny?

Azure Delphine, the blue in Marceline’s eyes, might still be in the Cornucopia for all Marceline knows, her beautiful brains breaking down, little grey worms on the cabin floor. The boy from Ten, just a few feet away, is here in front of them too. The Gamemakers have no respect for their sacrifices, their bodies, and no respect for those of them who’ve given in and killed either.

Maryn Hale looms above them all now, but she eggs on Marceline specifically. All of this attention is the opposite to what Marceline wants. All of this is antithetical to her nature. She tightens her grip on the knife, twisting it around in search of the impossible — a comfortable hold. Nothing feels right in these hands of hers anymore. Maybe she should drop it. Why should she bother with a weapon when her bare hands have already proven themselves to be more than enough?

No, the blade makes her feel safer. All of a sudden, she misses her fabric scissors. She’d do anything to hold them again. Would she? Really? Anything?

“I’m really sorry about this,” she mumbles, inaudible over the chaos. This time, Marceline swipes her knife with purpose. She never thought she’d be this desperate to go back to District Eight. Fuck seeing the rest of Panem — if she makes it out of here alive, 90% of the country is gonna want her dead anyways. If she gets back, she’s never leaving her house again.

marceline attacks rhys

t36jN5LNaUknife

3.5 - shallow cut on left forearm

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

knife

[Kingston Cesaire D3A [Tom]]

❦

"Rhys!! We went the wrong way!!!"

The cries were the best part. The desperation in the air; almost as if the crackle of Thor's own bolts of lightning could soothe their very souls. Vali stands quietly upon the hilt of her sword; blood dripping from Garnet's body down the sharpened edge of the sword. The hum of the divine in the air; almost as if the false gods themselves tried to simulate Thor's own strikes down to the mortal realm itself. There is no escape from here. Only sacrifice and ascension could guide a soul away from the arena's hell. The chill settles into her skin as she looks around as flashes of light give to the brief scene. Maryn's own annoying voice ringing from near Marceline's back; taunting in a way that's grating to the senses.

She's about to comment on the scene, but that's when blood starts to pour from her arm; a vision of Peace from Nine. A larger blade with her own blood dripping from it. Ichor against the darkened floor, mixing with the piles of bone and rot already there. A heavy gasp fills her lips as she can feel the mixture of something primal escape her throat. A laugh filled with pain as she holds the sword up now, her voice cutting through the laugh as she stares at Peace from Nine. "Ichor spilt. Aren't you interesting? Will it be enough to save yourselves, Peace?" Another laugh leaves her lips as she moves forward as the predator. Eyes staying ever so present despite only getting flashes of light here and there. The sword mirroring the scene of battle before them as she holds it up carefully.

"We need to get out of here." Hal's stopped her preening almost instantly. The shakiness of his voice makes her stop for a second as she can hear him. "Just leave us alone. Nobody else has to die." Is he trying to stop them from attacking? Is it a ploy? Vali lets herself smile almost with a cockiness for a moment before she hears him once more. "Just go!" Yet, he strikes out with the spear. A move that's not as strong as before. Emotions seeming to catch up to him. Death always effects others differently. The first kill is always the hardest on the soul; tears spilled for those who were meant to further your own guidance. Vali could see the pain, except she knew they couldn't hold onto this.

"Hal. It's okay." It's the gentlest voice she can make despite looking as if she's on the hunt; ready to rip her sword through whoever got in their way. "Make peace with what's been done." It's not the kindest way to say what's happened, but she's trying to smile towards him without it being as venomous as usual. A hum in the air as she can see Marceline from the corner of her eyes striking out towards Peace. It's not enough. They're not doing enough. The battle rages on. A suddenness of light and dark fighting through the sky above while each of them prepares to spill the blood of one another.

"Now, where was I?" There's venom on her words as she looks back to Garnet. Marceline's district partner. The connection could weaken her hold over her. A hum in the back of her mind as Vali moves with a lightness as she feels the ichor dripping down her arm; there's pain where the wound is, bright and hot. Vali Forrester had always been on top of everything. Always risen above others in the name of her ascension. She'd done more than most to get to where she was now. Volunteering for death in the name of becoming a goddess once more. She could feel her hands tighten on the hilt of her blade. Poison dripping from it's glistening edge.

"Right." Almost an affirmation to Garnet's comment before he'd tried to slash out at her. "The weavers of fate lead you to us." Her eyes brighten with a bit of amusement as she holds the sword out now, her eyes never leaving her prey. Never flinching from the pain nor the storm around them; she smiles. "May the gods allow your soul to be let into the grand halls. Sorry, Garnet." Swinging the sword, she feels her heart thrum with ichor; an exciting glance as she fumbles into the years of bringing blades down upon the creatures of the forest.

"You'll just be another sacrifice."

(Vali Forrester attacks Garnet Beauford with Poisoned Greatsword [sword] 2/3 attacks)
zlnxg0I7pjsword
(miss)

accuracy!
sword
(Shallow Cut on Forehead 4.5 +1 poison!)

sword·sword

[parsnip]

[attr="class","promise01"]

Rhys staggered back, the weight of loss heavy in the air as his ally fell victim to Hal's deadly strike. He'd seen it only through the flickering abyssal storm, purple hues, set against the horrific backdrop of tortured Volkra screams. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the cold tension of the frozen wasteland, and Marceline approached with a remorseful expression.

"I'm really sorry about this," she whispered, her weapon poised for another strike.

Rhys, his eyes still reflecting the pain of losing a friend, met Marceline's gaze. The apology hung in the frigid air, but determination hardened in his eyes. "We all have our roles to play," he replied, his voice steady despite the emotional turmoil. "Sorry won't change a thing."

In that moment, Marceline lunged at him, weapon gleaming in the dim light. Rhys tried to parry her attack, the clash of metal resonating through the desolate landscape. His mind raced, torn between grief and survival instincts. Torn similarly to the swipes it made against him.

As the skirmish unfolded, Váli seized the opportunity to attack Garnet again, Rhys' last remaining ally. Rhys, his focus sharpened by the urgency of the situation, made a split-second decision. He disengaged from Marceline, creating a brief distance between them. "I'm sorry too, Marceline," Rhys said, his expression hardened. "But I'm not losing another friend today." Without waiting for a response, he turned and charged toward Váli, determined to protect Garnet at all costs.

The frozen battlefield became a chaotic dance of blades and survival instincts, alliances shifting and breaking under the weight of the Games. Rhys fought not only for his own survival but also for the memory of fallen friend. The clashing of steel and the echoes of pain were drowned out by the relentless pursuit of victory in this deadly arena.

The haunting melody (that only Rhys could hear from his familiar) echoed through the frozen wasteland, intertwining with the clashes of steel and the cries of tributes locked in a dance of death. The song's ethereal notes cut through the frigid air as Rhys fought against Váli, the eerie lyrics resonating with the grim reality of the Hunger Games.

"Through the trials, through the storm," the song whispered, its haunting cadence a grim backdrop to the chaos. Rhys pressed forward, his glaive a weapon against both the physical and the spectral. "Through the Fold's embrace, where fears are born," The abyss of the arena seemed to respond to the song's call, nightmares swirling in the dance of shadows.

"In the dance of shadows, where sins begin," the lyrics continued, a chilling harmony to the unfolding brutality. Rhys moved with purpose, driven by the relentless pursuit of survival and the desire to protect those still standing by his side.

"Make me your villain, let the darkness win," the haunting refrain repeated, each note a reminder of the choices forced upon them in this macabre stage. The moonlit maze of the arena became a battleground where shadows themselves seemed to be the puppeteers of fate.

"With every heartbeat, with every breath," the song continued, weaving its way through. "In the symphony of life and death," Rhys fought against the tide, a lone figure in a macabre ballet where the stakes were measured in blood and sacrifice.

"In the tapestry of the silent pen," the song murmured, casting an eerie enchantment over the battlefield. Rhys felt the weight of each moment, the pen of destiny scrawling a story written in the ink of survival and despair.

"Make me your villain, again, again," the haunting plea echoed, the relentless cycle of violence and choices repeating like a cursed mantra. Rhys pushed forward, caught in the grip of a song that seemed to be a requiem for lost innocence.

"You'll just be another sacrifice."

Rhys locked eyes with Váli, a steely resolve cutting through the chaos surrounding them. Váli's words hung in the frigid air, a venomous taunt that sought to sow doubt and fear. But Rhys, undeterred, spoke with a determination that echoed through the darkened battlefield.

"Sacrifice or survivor, it's a choice we all have to make," Rhys retorted, his voice steady despite the turmoil. "Garnet won't be just another casualty. We're not here to be pawns in their twisted games."

With those words, Rhys renewed his assault, his glaive cutting through the shadows as he fought not only for his own survival but for the defiance of the oppressive rules that sought to define their fate. The dance of blades continued, each clash a testament to the indomitable spirit that refused to be just another sacrifice in the Hunger Games.

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[Rhys Peace attacks Váli Forrester with glaive]

R8mMWFYvXIglaive

13186 -- Shallow Cut on Chest -- 4.0 damage
(Glaive)glaive

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

The brittle jar nearly cracked in his hands. It was all he could do to let it shatter over the end of his spear, the friction igniting his weapon for one brief, glorious moment. The Fold illuminated, blazing bright, shadows and mist reduced to ash. And then the Volkra chittered and the arena's natural order came into balance in the dark.

Garnet lowered his weapon in defeat even before Hal struck.

His weapon had the now familiar yearning tingling sensation. Where it touched he would be sure not to forget; it was a signature of sorts. He twisted away, extinguishing the last embers of the tar. Now he spear felt heavy, ladden by the viscous substance. He tried to bring it around, to protect himself, but much too slow.

"Just leave us alone. Nobody else has to die."

His voice pitched an octave higher than he thought possible. "I don't want to die!"

Not at all, not ever, but especially not stalked in the dark. And the worst of it was: Marceline seemed not to know him at all. "Marceline, please," he whispered before Váli declared him another sacrifice and marked him as such. This time the stinging illicited a shiver that rattled his spine and radiated along his nerves.

Poison, some echo of a manual he'd read echoed. They were using poison. Had it affected Marceline? Had it blinded her?

He tried to dance back to safety at Rhys' side. There was something else -- someone he should care about, some important ritual he ought to be performing. But he couldn't think too hard about that, couldn't get too lost in the gloom.

"Friends," he promised Rhys, holding the spear high!

[WIP for dice]

[Garnet attacks Váli; spear]

aJn6DK2RJospear

[Deep Gash on Forehead -- 9.0 damage]

spear

[eulalie blake 1a 🍒 tris]

The tributes watch in terror as four Volkra fight over the remains of Jericho Caleb.

Glancing up at the stormy sky, it would seem the creatures are more than willing to gorge themselves on the fallen as they stall their next attack. Patience is a virtue, and it is also a command the Volkra cannot deny. Blood sprays into the void, red fading into black. The massacre could almost be ignored if not for the flashes of lightning that illuminate the space. No one can hide from the carnage.

The Gamemakers watch with wicked grins as blade clashes against blade, a ragtag band of tributes all turning against one another. This is the most fascinating part of the whole experience, and it is not at all lessened by the amount of time it took to get here. As expected, these kids are revealing their true colors right on schedule. There are only so many days they can go on pretending the inevitable isn't just around the corner.

It's flying in the sky. Right above you.

  

No one is going to miss out on the fun.

People are fighting for their lives, one boy has already died. If the tributes are quick enough to dodge their foes, they will learn just how slow and helpless they are as the Volkra begin to swoop downwards, their talons extended. There will always be a more terrifying monster. It doesn't matter how they play this game, how they sharpen their words and how they aim for the underbelly. Until twenty-two more souls have been snuffed out, no one person in this arena can truly think that they are safe. Civility falls apart so quickly.

The abyss howls with wind and booms with thunder, and it begs for more slaughter. Raining down from the night sky, slicing into skin like acid rain, the Volkra lunge at two tributes who have made it through the last few minutes relatively unscathed.

Volkra attacks!

Hal
LTdWCY9WjLknife
miss, 0.0

Marceline
knife
3.5

knife·knife

[d9 kristof parks {ems}]

"Make peace with what's been done."

Vali's words echo through his mind, and they offer a moment of peace, yet it isn't enough. How can it be? I killed someone. It's hard to stand, hard to focus, and the screeching of the mutts with the thunder bellowing above makes it even more difficult. Nothing will make it better. Nothing will change, and even now, his eyes are wide as Hal turns from person to person wondering what's even going on. It's the worst possible feeling in the world, and no amount of training would've trained and prepared him for this.

Yeah, Lucky taught him how to hold a weapon, but Lucky didn't explain how it would feel when the very weapon placed in his hands would end the life of someone who didn't deserve it.

None of us deserve this.

His stomach rolls, and he tries to prevent the liquid from entering his mouth, but it becomes increasingly more difficult. Every hair stands on end as the creatures fly above him.

I'm so sorry.

Apologizing in this place means nothing, and it's equivalent to throwing a brick at someone and saying it was an accident. Maybe the spear was aimed too high, maybe the force he pushed forward was too much - I don't know. - but it doesn't matter because Jericho died by his hands.

"I don't want to die!"

Then why stay here? Why continue fighting? Why not go away when a gentle nudge is given?

This place, nothing about it makes sense, and the monsters are growing stronger.

What would mom and dad think? What would everyone think?

I killed a man. I'm a murderer.

But is this really murder? Is killing a tribute the same as taking the life of someone on the outside? Killing is killing, and his parents always told him killing is wrong, so why is this any different? Not killing would get him killed, and it's amazing what someone does when they're placed in a life and death situation.

I want to run.

Vali is in trouble though.

"Vali, just hold on. Please."

She's been a light in the darkness even though he doesn't understand anything about her. Maybe the gods will save her and give her a chance to live another day. Maybe they'll help her. Can they do that?

I have to find the strength. I have to be strong.

A heavy heart reminds him he's human, but at the end of the day, everyone here is playing for an outcome that ends badly for him which is why Hal pushes himself forward.

I want to go home.

Which means, he has to kill.

Credit to Pogue <3

Hal attacks Garnet with poisoned spear 3/3
lqDD|dTozdspear
Block

Accuracy reroll
spear
3126 -- 4.0 damage + 1 poison
spear·spear

[andromache s. ⚔️ [d1b] sucy]

The monsters are cruel, as cruel as their creators. Sinew stuck in their teeth, blood smeared across their faces, a young man half eaten in front of them — but still, they want to see more. They want to add the rest of them to their menu. They take a break from scrapping over Jericho’s body to attack them again. When they ascend, Marceline dares herself to look at what remains; sprawled out on the ground, strips and chunks taken out of him. Marceline stares. Whether she gets out of here or not, she’ll join him in the end either way.

A sharp swipe against her skin breaks Marceline out of her stupor. She screams, scrambles backwards, face to face with the muttation’s gory teeth. She whips around from the thing, feels the air behind her being shoved by its wings as it takes off again. Evidently, Marceline has bored it somehow. If they take down the others… maybe they’ll be satisfied with their options.

Turning around brings her face to face with Garnet. His lips move, and though she can’t hear him, she’s able to read them well enough.

“Marceline, please.”

But what is she supposed to do? Vali and Hal are already on him before she can even finish asking herself. She squeezes her eyes shut. Garnet isn’t in great shape, but Vali is just as bad — maybe worse? It’s been days, and she’s moving around okay, but Marceline still can’t get the image of Vali’s tentatively tethered foot out of her mind. She doesn’t want to hurt Garnet. She won’t hurt Garnet; not in any meaningful, physical way anyways. He side steps back over to Rhys and holds up his spear in a declaration of friendship. Her heart cracks. What a display.

Three days ago, they met in the woods and they smiled at each other. She hates it, but she’ll have to be a part of wiping that smile off his face.

“I’m really sorry,” Marceline chokes out. She tastes salt on her tongue — salt and sickly sweet snot. Oh, she’s crying.

marceline attacks rhys

y20kIuzxOZknife

0.0 - block!

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

knife