Oh Brynn, she sees through the haze

[cinder]

Brynn wields a sword. Her hair is brown, a copper-color, if you will, but she prefers being labeled as a red-head because it makes her seem more exotic. Her eyes are a deep, rich brown. She's slightly hung over at the moment, because at fifteen when you're still young and fresh you get hungover. Tolerance usually follows after awhile of steady drinking.

Usually, a bad attitude and wicked sense of slurred, vindictive humor also follows after awhile, but in Brynn's case, maybe all those mimosas her rich-kid mother had been downing at luncheons and brunches and evening soirees led to a predisposition for the bratty syndrome of the young teen. She guessed at it, that her clueless mother hadn't even realized she was preggers until those handy comprimes the Capitol had been shoving down the throats of all those average bulimia-infested psychos had stopped working. In fact, Brynns mom probably found out about her from the same doctor who saw her about those other antibiotics for hungover headaches and pains.

This is why she fights. This is why Brynn wields an old-fashioned sword in a new-age war. Her competitors seldom have much better items than from the bronze age, or the iron age or whenever the hell those knights in shining armor are from. One could say she's like an actor, going out onto the battlefield and fighting her competitors, one after another, but that's just silly. Actors are cast in a role, Brynn had created one all on her own, and all by herself she was lopping off the heads of her victims, all by herself she was creating a lucrative business that involved fighting death-doomed and worthy opponents who usually went under the guise of "athletes" interested in challenging physical activity. That's what the Careers these days call themselves. Ridiculous. I know.

Anyways, the scene unfolding was rather strange and complicated, confusing to even the sharpest among the people milling about Brynn's home-turf. Her thoughts confused her and the muddled haze of a hangover did not help a bit. She cleared her mind and focused. Tournaments like these tended to lead to the death of her opponents but today, she had to be very careful.

Opponent walks in.

Very careful indeed.

ooc- I have not roleplayed in far too long. I'm looking for a fast-paced partner willing to deal with me while I re-acclimate to writing with a fellow human being.

Oh yes, short posts are a must, please and thank you (:

[chaseee]

A Rondel dagger in hand, Marcuss was unsure why today of all days he had decided to weild such an unsatisfactory weapon, though he sensed today would not be an ordinary day of training. For one, instead of the same grim-faced constructor standing before him, carrying a foam sword, there was instead a girl. And the weapons were very real indeed.

Unsurprisingly, he could feel Voice lingering in the back of his head, near the dartkest corners, as he always did when he saw a fight in the making. And, as always, Marc was sure Voice was there to guide him through it. Reflecting on his past comatants, he realized they had all been exceptionally strong, exceptionally hardened. Glancing over the girl, he was sure this would be an easy defeat, because... well, she was girl!

Go ahead Marcuss, underestimate her because of her feminine state. But do not forget it is not only males whom are crowned Victor. Do you not realize women make up for their size, for their lack of brute strength, with their cunning? Though this particular girl looks a little shady in that stage.... Just don't screw this up, Marc. It could very well kill you.

Though usually accepting, and taking to heart, Voice's advice, he merely shrugged his shoulders this time. And honestly, if he had wanted the higher being's advice, he would have asked.

Annoyance was replaced with an emotion he knew too well as he stood his ground, his fingers tightening around the dagger's hilt. Bloodlust. For reasons unknown to even him, he wanted to see this girl's blood on his blade, wanted to taste the very life running from her neck, as he delivered the fatal blow, slicing flesh, stabbing vital organs. And, for reasons he was much more familiar with, he wanted her dead.


ooc-I haven't RPed with this one in a while, so sorry for the suck-ish post. Also dreadfully sorry for the blinding colors. It's what I used to use as a n00b and haven't gotten the time to change it.

[cinder]

ooc- don't worry about not having used your char much, Brynn is a completely new character without a bio an old character with a new name

She snorts. It's a cocky sound, it doesn't fit her elevated face either, but after a few years of watching athletes practically write her off for being short, mildly impressive in the pretty-girl looks department, and also carrying a sword, how could Brynn have ever avoided snorting? The athletes did it all the time and she was around the athletes all the time. Simple. Made sense.

What confused her about today, besides the fog previously described, was that this was no ordinary fight to the death. This boys parents, trainers, or interested sponsors had paid to arrange this battle, which usually ended in a new scar for Brynn, or the death of a once-thought-of-highly athlete but today... today she had been paid more money to leave her opponent - no matter how unworthy - unharmed. Apparently there was a girl interested in keeping him. That's all Brynn knew of the situation, but she respected it. Hardly were the women of Panem allowed such valuables as owning men, truly being the dominant to their other half. If some silly rich girl decided she wanted to possess him, at least Brynn was being paid, but if this was a rich, war-lordess than she would willingly celebrate in this battle, for it was a battle of the sexes. She had been informed that the way things played out was crucial. If she won, one thing would happen, and if he won, something else would. Once again, her paycheck-donning friend had declined to offer up much more on the subject but if it were Brynn she would be testing his willingness to live, and if he won, he would win the right to be owned by her. If he lost, then he was not worthy.

Now it was time to offer up the mental part of this challenge.

"Dear boy, what is twenty three divided by sixteen? What was the name of the scribe who originally wrote the treaty of the warring estates of the former North America, establishing the initial rule over a Panemic society?" she asked and eagerly awaited his response. Such questions as these were the keys to unlocking his multi-chambered, complex heart. Personality played a large part in how things would go today. Not to mention, attacking an opponent was so much easier when a stubborn boy was attempting to do supposedly complicated math while stabbing at her.

Hey, her war-lordess, money-paying idol had never specified if 'cheating' was banned from this game, or discouraged. Cleverness and cunning were the tools with which women had learned to live in a world fraught with the dangers of masculinity. Its not sexist, just a fact. Still Brynn gave him a moment in order to work out the answer of her second inquiry. His fighting style depended on his answer, for willingness to learn plays a huge part in how you fight. And what you learn would tell Brynn how exactly you stand.

[chaseee]

The girl snorts, leaving Marcuss at a loss for words, and, better yet for the girl, actions. Having been intent on attacking the living daylights out of the fiend, he stopped short at the sound, oblivious to the thoughts swirling around her head. Had she meant that in an offensive gesture? As in, he wasn't big enough to take her down, wasn't brave enough to drive the dagger through her heart, wasn't good enough to be fighting her even? Even so, it unfurled a curious rage withing him. No one had ever sized him up, and come to the conclusion that they would live to tell of the confrontation, and the fact that someone was doing it now, let alone a girl, penetrated his iron mask of toughness.

"Dear boy, what is twenty three divided by sixteen? What was the name of the scribe who originally wrote the treaty of the warring estates of the former North America, establishing the initial rule over a Panemic society?" He shook his head, perplexed. Sputtering nonsense before death was common for some, but math problems? It was unheard of, at least in his book. Normal human beings would have begged for mercy, would have pleaded for their life, with him, of course, denying the requests.

"I am not here to solve your arithmatics and riddles, woman. Now swing your sword or wave your flag." Smirking, he took a step forward, waving the dagger in front of him, the wooden handle leaving a splinter in the soft flesh of his palm. "Seeing as it is unlikely you will make the first move, it seems I must do so myself. Such a shame, ruining such a pretty face." Shaking his head in mock greif, Marcuss brought the Rondel up, and lashed out.

[Attacks Brynn w/ Rondel Dagger(Knife)]
[dice=200+2000]
2180 - Shallow Cut on Left Forearm; 3.5

The blade cuts into her left forearm ever so gently, leaving a slight cut, though it hurts all the worse, he imagines. The circular blade comes away bloodied, bright crimson staining the steel edge. 'Delicious,' he thinks, and brings it to his lips, lightly running his tongue across it. The blood has the tang of metal, yet leaves a sweetness in the back of his throat that reminds him greatly of honey. Glancing back up at the girl the life fluid had come from, he grinned. The show of disarrayed teeth spoke when his voice didn't, unwhispered promises still lingering in the air around the two. I am stronger than you. I am bigger than you. I have killed before. You're next. And, with a malicious glint in his eyes, he stepped back, the dagger back at his side, his pupils focused solely on her, the rest of the world melting from his peripheral vision. The beat of her heart, and the pump of her blood were the only things he could think of, the very image filling his mind alone, his mouth watering as he envisioned her gruesome death. Oh yes, it would be a good one.


ooc-sorry for lateness. i hope it's okay he attacked first? if not i'll edit it out

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[cinder]

Brynn could tell several things from the way he answered her questions. He was a clever boy, but stupid. People generally thought of him as being a dumb brute, so to get back at his judge & jurors, he acted more or less... like a dumb brute. The kid was 'misunderestimated' but should indeed be taken as a threat. He also had the fatal flaw of arrogance - this had led to an even more fatal move.

He hadn't anticipated Brynn's great skill.

About a year ago, Brynn had picked up a weapon, a wooden kitchen spoon to be precise, and never had she ever set a weapon down since. From then on, Brynn traveled with a variety of 'cutters on her person. Her big butchers knife. A tiny, poison-coated dagger. A short, wooden spear. Things that drew blood, beautiful, red blood. She found it both wicked lovely and sickeningly gruesome all at once. Red was passion and it was her death - she had dyed her previously fire-licked ringlets a more homely shade of auburn to escape the constant reminders of her destiny, her fate.

Those wisps of red that had clouded both her physical and spiritual vision were tucked away now, tucked in the back of her head where memories of that past life lie half-dead. She had stained her soul when she first whacked her brother into his place in Hell, but need Brynn be reminded of this every second of every hour of ever day?

The answer was no. And true to her nature, Brynn had come to this conclusion approximately three minute before she went out and did something about it. She hurried down to a far-off place, a store that was at least an hour away from her families business, and a world apart from the fancy neighborhood all true Shopkeepers called home. There Brynn bought some scented, stinging color meant to be used in clothing, if memory served. She paid a young girl, just about eleven or so, to wash it into her snarling, tangled locks of hair. She stopped by her house, packed up her things, stole some money and became a professional fighter. The best part was that her father would never know it was her, that half-witted Peacekeeper...

Once again Brynn went through the steps of her go-to process. In this battle, there was an initial fifteen seconds of composing herself after the boy licked her sweet, precious acrid blood from his blade, then another three moments to move before Brynn did the same as she had, so many months ago. She came to a conclusion. I know who this boy is, deep in his core. Realizing this, was the first step, then Brynn acted upon in - the second of these two very important tasks of war.

Dear sweet boy," she cooed, "For you."

And Brynn brought her lips to her cut, she pressed the blood to her smirking mouth, then brought the flat of her blade to her lips and thrust it out like a lover blowing kisses. This was of course a more deadly sort of game than that of love. Then she lunged.

Knife: [dice=200+2000]
Shallow Cut on Neck.

Alls fair in love and war.

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[chaseee]

A mutual respect grew in the boy as he watched her press the bloodied wound to her lips, than her sword to her lips, and blew a bloody kiss in his direction. Nodding in satisfaction, he almost didn't care that her blade swung at him almost immediately after, that the sword's edge left a crimson line along his neck, leaving the longest stream of blood he had seen in his life. With the back of his hand, he gently rubbed the fluid off, and instantly his flesh was dyed so as to look the same color.

"Though it would disgrace me, and my dead father, to lose to a girl, I haven't faced such a fine opponent, I can tell this already. And, though it saddens me to do so, I must kill you now, to salvage the meager shreds of dignity that remain." Fingering the dagger's hilt, he places the tip above his palm, and lightly trace a shape along the flesh. As the outline becomes clear, he presses down more firmly, more blood seeping from the thin cuts, smearing the picture he had drawn.

The heart wasn't perfect, but the meaning was there all the same. Though he figured this relationship between him and her was only a partner fling, he could feel his heart throb for the girl, the pain of the wounds she had inflicted only igniting the flames.

What do you think are you doing, Marcuss?! You truly are mad aren't you? No, not mad, you're just a blithering idiot! She's trying to kill you, and you stand here and proclaim love to the woman? This will not do, Marcuss! I will not die because your brain decides not to function right. You will go over there, and you will kill the bitch before she can do it for you! You here?

Nodding, Marcuss retains a firmer grip on the wooden hilt, and takes a few tentative steps toward the girl. As the target comes within reach, he lifts the blade high, and swings, all the while screaming. "For Voice!"

[Attacks Brynn w/ Rondel Dagger(Knife)]
[dice=100+2000]
2055 - Two Severed Fingers on Right Hand; 9.0

Joy. Anger Pain. Hate. Love. Joy. Anger. Pain. Hate. Love. Joy. Anger. Pain. Hate. Love. Joy. Anger Pain. Hate. Love. Joy. Anger Pain. Hate. Love. Joy. Anger Pain. Hate. Love.

The words repeat in his mind a million times over, untill the letters are smudged and he can no longer comprehend his train of thought. To say he was mentally unstable was an understatement, for he had gone literally over the edge.


ooc-i must apologize. the post has been modified so the finger eating is gone. so sorry for any harm done D:

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[cinder]

Oh, you are embarrassed of me / ‘Cos I use my tongue freely / Bet you wish I couldn't speak / ‘Cos when I do, you know / I tell you why you're being weak

A few moments before a fight-altering event. Her heart beats strong and the rush of blood to her cheeks shows the only sign of Brynn's pleasure. She had cut him, his neck bled. At least he did that - just like any other human boy. For a moment he had given her quite the fright. Imagine a boy who licked the blood of his enemy, unprovoked. These aren't the Games, this wasn't a fight to the death (or so Brynn knew) This was a match of skills. And she was winning...

...Brynn is glad he's such an idiot.

The sentimental fool had just cut up his own hand. Blood dripped from the presumably shallow cut, Brynn imagined that it was a weighty thing, having unneeded blood dripping from a self-inflicted cut. Back when she was young[er] she would have labeled him a cutter and sneered cruelly in his direction, knowing that he was weak, fearing his infectious attitude. Or perhaps, when she was even younger she would have cared for the boy and sought out a reason to speak to him with kind, gentle words only a mother or a girlfriend has a true right to use. Now, she simply thought of pain as an inconvenience, knives as her only friends, and those childhood tall-trees were no longer for climbing, they were for hiding and whittling down branches into simple stakes. She was a machine, a frowning one at that, and she imagined that the wound would pain him much.

And she also imagined that cutting off that hand would feel even better.

And it was the irony of that statement that led to a howling cackle as moments blurred past her and a few slices later Brynn had lost a few fingers and enough blood to answer her idle thoughts. Yes, every drop of blood that spills is a waste. This boy is a mentally unstable idiot.

Her coyote-cackle died down to a simple wolf howl of absolute horror. Her fingers, the beautiful colors of her crimson nails, detached from her body. So strange. Brynn had never had any part of her cut off, save for the formerly golden locks of hair, dead skin or something of the like, if Brynn remembered her lessons correctly. Nothing living, no flesh that had been so full of strength and life and ability. Her fingers would pain her for the rest of eternity, this fool... this lovesick puppy should not live to regret it. Only Brynn and the telltale scars along her patched up hands would reveal her loss. He would not.

I'll cut those lips right off his bloody face. Her mind darkly commented. And she would.

Just wait, and watch carefully.

Knife: [dice=200+2000]
Deep Gash on Forehead

Hey! Lets imagine his scar is a jagged line that looks like lightening!

Her knife twists up at the last second, petite Brynn had aimed for the jugular, or well, truth be told she had aimed for the general direction of his fleshy, thin neck and hoped for the best (in her case) or the worse (if you go by his case) Her knife twisted up and landed a jagged mark across his forehead. Blood mingled with blood. Brynn's fingular cuts and her target, Marcuss', (if memory served) head wound had made contact for a moment before the fleet fox dashed back, her banner of red hair streaming behind her, a beautiful victory flag being raised and blown about by a brisk wind. She supposed the drama of the moment had gotten to her head, for Brynn spoke then, to her attacker.

"You see? You see me, you understand that you can't win, no, not now. Forfeit," the girl demanded in a queenly way, her chin pushing up in a deliberately flashy move. I'm not afraid, her body sang, I cut your neck but you won't do the same to be.

I'm winning.


ooc- sooorry, I just wanted to give you a post though (:

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[chaseee]

Her blade cuts into his forehead, and his hand comes to the wound, blood covering his fingers and running down his arm. "Bitch!" Needless to say, Marcuss is furious. "I thought you loved me? We were going to live happily together, you know, but you just ruined it!" He held up the heart-shaped scar as proof. "And I will not forfeit. But you will, when this is all over. You will pay." With that said, he raised his dagger, for what seemed to be the hundredth time, and lashed at the idiot girl.

Brynn w/ Dagger: [dice=200+2000]
Miss

The boy gives a cry of exasperation as the dagger's blade sails over her head, leaving nothing but a whistle of the wind. Internally, he curses. She was getting to him. She would kill him, if he did not step up his game and deliver the death she so deserved, for confronting him and hurting him both. And she had hurt him bad, not only physically, but emotionally. Her rejection had left a scar across his heart, that he knew, if he were to survive, would never heal.

It was too much. The weight of the fight on his shoulders, the guilt that would altogether consume him if he actually did kill the girl. He sank to his knees, sobbing. What had become of him? Of his life? Minutes ago, he had been badass, chopping at her left and right, and he would have bet the world he could win, he could pull himself together long enough to take her life and be done with it. And here he was, having an emotional breakdown, where really he should be manning up and striking back.

Marcuss, what the hell is your problem? Your a disgrace to your district. To your mother. To your father. To the entirety of Panem! Look at yourself! Crying because you can't handle killing a girl that you love. She doesn't love you back, idiot. Why can't you see that? You don't love her either, for Heaven's sake. It's just the fear that you might lose this battle, manifesting in a more vulnerable emotion. Now stand up and get a move on, you ignorant asshole!

Pep-talks like these usually ignited Marcuss' anger, usually drove him forward. He would have been happy to say it had done it for him this time, as well, but he would have been lying. Though he did find himself stumbling to his feet, wiping the moisture from his cheeks, and readying his dagger. All the previous adrenaline had fled his system. All the hate, love, anger. It was all gone. Nothing empowered him to step forward and make a move. He knew he would die, but he found he didn't care much.

I hope they have water in Hell.

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[cinder]

Apparently he had multiple personalities, one wanted her dead, the other appeared to be attracted to her, and the third had seemed awfully normal, to begin with. Oh well, perhaps he was in love with her - love was crazy like that. It could drive you wild, if you let it. Naturally Brynn didn't have the capacity for true love, because she was a monstrous creation of Cinder of circumstance. When she had been younger, Brynn had been mad with lust for all sorts of boys, she had always wanted them, always possessed them, then dumped them like hot potatoes. Very cute, usually bad-boy, swoopy-haired potatoes.

No matter his apparent lust or even more for her, Brynn had a task in mind, and a reward just waiting for her. She needed to prove his disworth to the female he was being gifted to, or be severely wounded trying. It was a pitiful situation for the fighters to be caught in. While they brandished their noble weapons and met each other in battle, some prissy girl was paying Brynn, and this honorable warrior was being sold into a life of possession, or a "life" of (fill in the blank with a very nasty adjective) Hell.

This was the state of the world, where freedom was a fake notion that the President had planted in his unwilling subjects minds, unending Hell was thinly disguised as life, and all things good had been forgotten. Only the pure joy of destruction brought any semblance of contentment to Brynn now. There was nothing worth living for, except the greatest weapon the President dangled before her very eyes, the thing that kept all creatures dragging through life instead of throwing themselves off sea-cliffs.

Hope.

What did she hope for? Brynn hoped that when she brought down her knife, this time it would decide this boys fate, she hoped to go home and sew her broken body back together, and she hoped that one day things would get better for her, if not the whole entire world. Suffering, chains, forgotten.

Knife: [dice=200+2000]
Deep Gash On Thigh

So she dived down, thrashing as her knife ripped skin and blood shockingly splattered her. Brynn hoped she'd hit bone, she wished he would collapse to the floor in agony. "Die, die, DIE now -please!!!" she told him, incoherently. Because what she hoped for the most was a small piece of the distorted, shattered mirror. The reflective piece still in the sun that held the key to everything she had ever wanted. Rest, happiness.



ooc- the last word of this post is how I wrote it. incoherently.

TBE.

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