The Bloodbath

[Deleted]

{*| I'm coming apart at the seams |*}

[/color]

I'm a loose bolt of a complete machine
What a match
I'm half-doomed
And you're semi-sweet[/size][/font]

Sixty…

Where are you, Denver? Where are you? That’s the first thing my mentor told me to process as soon as my plate reached the surface, and at the time it made so much sense. Anybody acclimated with the environment has a fighting chance, and familiarizing myself with my surroundings while some of the others quake in fear and revert into their own minds will give me an advantage. But these things are easier said than done when you’re riding on a tsunami of adrenaline so powerful that it threatens to burst your veins and leave you a helpless pile of broken thoughts, and I find myself struggling to remember my instructions. All I see is white and all I feel is cold, and for a fleeting moment I wonder if I’ve already stepped off to early and been blown to bits, if this is death. But then a gust of wind hits me full in the face, and I realize that I couldn’t get that lucky. Where are you? Where are you? Where are you?!

Fifty…

But no matter how many times I ask myself the same question, the answer remains just as elusive as ever. Maybe I could think if it weren’t so damn cold, the frigid wind blowing away my coherence and setting my teeth chattering. Everything surrounding me is blinding bright save for the faint golden glimmer of the Cornucopia, and I find my eyes squinting as the invasion of too much reflected light as I stare down at me feet, at the white substance surrounding them. And then it hits me. Snow. Ice. things I have only ever heard about, having lived my whole life in Eleven’s perpetual summertime. Despair hits me like a locomotive as I realize that I’m already starting at a disadvantage; some of these kids are from northern Districts and can deal with the cold whereas I have no experience with it whatsoever. Any hope I may have had of actually making it out of this Arena disappears on the next breath of frigid air, but I don’t have time to drown in sorrow when I have other things to do. I’ve established my location… what was the next step, Denver, think, dammit!

Forty…

Where are your allies? Find them. Memorize their locations. Where are they? My eyes dart around, still adjusting to the sudden brightness but managing to trace the outlines of Mace, Aesop, and Alexander, gaze locking briefly with each one of them as I give a brief nod to acknowledge that I’ve seen them. This quick glace really only served to worry me though; Aesop’s looking even more out of it than usual, and while Mace is his typical stoic self, Alexander looks like he’s about ready to throw up. The thought crosses my mind that maybe the Bros aren’t as prepared for this bloody business as we’ve made ourselves out to be, and the prospect of Mace and I being responsible for pulling Aesop and maybe Alexander through this mess is enough to make my blood run colder than it already is. Even though I should be terrified right now, some force in my mind has shoved the fear away, leaving room for only energy and quick analysis. I’ve spent days trying to get myself in the zone for this moment, and thankfully my preparation has paid off, more predisposed to fight than flight as a stress response thanks to mentally walking my way through the last hellish days of my existence step by step. I am going to die. I know this. But one baby step out a time; I’m at least getting away from the Bloodbath with myself and my alliance intact. Little goals make for easier successes.

Thirty…

What can you get that’s useful without putting yourself at risk? Several things, thankfully. I can spot a particularly wicked-looking dagger a few yards away from me, and I decide to make getting my hands on it my first priority. The idea of using it makes my stomach churn, but right now self-defense trumps my qualms about hurting someone, and I know that if someone tries to land a hit on me I won’t hesitate to dish it right back… at least if it’s a guy. I catch my district partner’s eye from a few plates over and get that nasty feeling in my stomach again. Self-defense should trump chivalry as well; most of these girls would probably kill me at the first opportunity without a second thought, but the idea of me doing the same to them… I see Trogon or Lydia or Jess in each one of their faces, and I can only hope that they either leave me alone or I have an alliance member nearby to cover me. There are some things I just can’t do.

Twenty…

What is your plan? Remember what you’re doing and don’t deviate from it. Things are going to go crazy and you have to keep your wits about you. Thankfully our plan is a simple one. Get in. Grab as much stuff as we can without diving into the thick of it. Meet up. Get the hell out. But again, it’s easier said than done, standing here freezing our asses off and looking into the Cornucopia to see the huge pile of stuff that could make the remainder of our short lives much easier and even a bit more comfortable. Our alliance is one of the bigger ones, and even if Aesop’s in la-la land like he looks to be, the other three of us could probably hold down the fort long enough to at least snatch a bit of the really good stuff in the massive golden horn. The prospect of blankets, food, better weapons, armor, everything we could ever need in the Arena calls to me in siren song, and I find myself actually considering that having that kind of material on my side could actually make me a contender in this thing… No. No. Don’t think like that. Going that far in means facing down the really dangerous tributes like that monstrosity of a guy from One, and I’m not willing to do that without the full might of my alliance at my back and a stable plan of attack.

Ten…

Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Center yourself. Shit’s about to go down. I’ve never been good under pressure, but I know that I have to try my best to keep my cool (no pun intended) if I want to make it out of this chaos alive. Trying to quell the shaking of my hands – I can’t tell whether it’s from the cold or from my body’s realization that I’m scared even though my mind refuses to register the fear – I gasp in an icy lungful of air, allowing my eyes to drift shut and leave me in frigid, sightless darkness with the mournful whistle of the wind as my only company. And for a second, just the briefest second, I allow myself to go home. Trogon will be sitting on the old sunken-in couch at the community home, maybe alone, maybe with Lauren with her, maybe not even herself if she’s reverted to Alina because of the stress. I like to think that Jessa and Lyd are together somewhere, able to lend each other support as they count the seconds with me. There are people I love watching my every move, and I’ll be damned if I let them watch me roll over and take death like some animal being put down.

Five…

Find your will to fight. If you go in not ready to hurt somebody, you’ll be dead in less than a minute. This is the hardest part for me, realizing that I’m most likely going to have to kill someone in the next few minutes if I want to stay alive myself. But survival instinct is a powerful thing, more powerful than my reservations, and I know with a deep-seated certainty that’s as old as time itself that if I have to take someone else down to preserve my own well-being, I’ll be more than capable. It’s a despicable way to think, and everything in this situation is so sick and wrong (why are they doing this to us, we’re just kids, we’re all just kids and none of us deserve to die this way) that any of us even have to think that way, but fact is fact no matter how ugly it is.

Four…

I try one last time to make eye contact with my alliance members, see if they’re in the same analytical state that I am (with the exception of Aesop, who I already know is in his own little world), but they all seem to be in zones of their own and it wouldn’t be wise for me to interrupt that. For now, I need to focus on me and getting that knife and turning into the monster that I know some feral, visceral part of me has the capability of being, because when reality all boils down to the bare bones of what we want and what we’re willing to do, most would agree when their life on the line that being a monster and alive is better than being a good person and dead. Not like I’ll survive long enough to feel guilty anyway. All I can hope for is to survive as long as I can and to have something quick and painless for an end that won’t scar the people back home any more than it’s already going to.

Three…

Get ready to run, kid. When that gong runs you’d better move your ass so you can stick a knife in someone’s back before they stick one in yours. You got long legs. Use ‘em. That was the last thing my mentor said to me, and all I can think about as I shift my legs into a better position to push off the plate and hit the ground sprinting is how the last time I tried to run anywhere I tripped over my own feet and landed on my face. If that happens here, I’m done for. Dead. Doomed before I can even start to get up. With a gulp, I beg my body to please, please, just for now, be a bit more graceful than it’s been in the past. My clumsy limbs don’t know that their smallest slip could cost me my life.

Two…

Where are you? I’m in the Arena, everything is frozen and it’s going to suck. Where are your allies? Mostly across the circle. I can see them all. I’ve got their backs and I sure as hell hope they’ve got mine. What can I get? Lots of stuff, but the dagger first. The rest I can pick up later after the herd’s been thinned out a bit – Dear God, I’m starting to talk like Mace. What is your plan? Get what I need, find the others, and get out. Being greedy won’t end well for us. Center yourself. I’m as centered as I’m going to get. Find your will to fight. The funny thing is I’ve just discovered that I had it all along. Get ready. I am. Ready to fight, ready to die, more than ready for all of this to just be over.

One…

Oh God this is it I’m not ready for this I lied I’ll never be ready I can’t do this I can’t Trogon Jessa Lyd I love you so much I’m so sorry…

Gong.

Run.

So boycott love, detox just to retox
And I'd promise you anything for another shot at life
Imperfect boys with their perfect lies
Noody wants to hear you sing about tragedy

[cameron]

As her knife sliced a shallow cut across the skin of the tribute she had just attacked, Charas saw her last remaining alliance member take off running. Good; they could really get this show on the road now. Picking up another item, she attacked again.

[Ceres, knife]
[dice=200+2000]
[slit throat = x][rand=50574423372745519853394727688283813936490565538405873388727195561]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

for what it's worth, I always aim to please
but I nearly died

It was dark and cool in the waiting chamber, just the way a coffin ought to be. Maybe he’d been wrong to imagine Larae in the ground, coated in dirt and roots. Maybe this was the way things were supposed to be – suspended in darkness, with nothing and no one beside you. It was certainly the way she had died, and probably the way he would go as well. There was nothing anyone could do, not in the arena. He’d be lucky if his death was quick, and merely average if it was not.

This is what he thought about beneath the Arena. Not the strategy his Mentor had hashed out, not the mistakes Larae had made, not the alliance he had formed. Just the short stretch of life that still lay in his grasp. He felt a little better at that thought, if only because it tasted of control. He could decide how he approached his death, even if he could not decide the angle of the blow or the deliverer. At least he knew it would be one of twenty-three others. Knowledge is power, Cygnus had once told him, and while the phrase reeked of cliché, right now it was all Mace had to hold onto. Here is what he knew, sitting in the dark breezy coffin:

- 24:1 odds were not as good as he had made them out to be to Larae.
- He only knew now, this moment, what he should have said to her.
- But there was nothing he could do about that.
- Someone in the arena would kill him, and that would happen faster if he was slow.
- He could trust Denver, Alexander and Aesop. For now.
- There was nothing he wouldn’t do to go home, even as a body in a casket.

And that there, it tugged on him. He would go home, and someone might even find him a gravesite, like he had for Larae. A smile rippled across his face, the first time he had done so in months. It forced his lips upward, no doubt looked maniacal. But to Mace, it was the first hint of spring after a long winter of mourning. He poked at his cheeks, at this chin, feeling the muscles strain in the odd, forgotten formation. It felt oddly good, and even as he inspected his smile, he knew that he was losing his grip again.

He couldn’t go back to that shadowy place, to the earth where he had lain and thought of Larae. That was a sure death. So he let the smile fall, thought of the sense he should’ve knocked into Cygnus, the warning he should’ve given Marcelline. They were both much too serious. He thought of Verronica, and how he ached when he realized he’d never see her wide eyes again. And then he was moving, up up up, into the arena.

Sixty seconds, that’s all he had to assess the situation. This part of the strategy pep talks he’d actually listened to, even though he was still really sure his mentor had won by luck. He needed to figure out the fastest, easiest route to the Cornucopia, and seize it before anyone else knew what was happening. He also needed to be on the lookout for people he could trust. And then, all he had to do was get a weapon and maintain control. Easy steps, made simple for his simple mind.

Except suddenly they all seemed so impossible. Of course he could see the arena, but Mace couldn’t make any sense of it. Something bit at his skin and the elements slowed his thoughts. What was all the blue shiny stuff on the ground? Was it a trap? Could the whole Cornucopia be sitting on a trap? And the cold – yes, it was cold he finally realized – it stole his breath. He wrapped his arms around his chest, forced his eyes shut and counted to three. But it wasn’t any less cold when he opened his eyes, and he still had no idea what he was looking at.

The cornucopia, he told himself. That’s what he could see, and all he had to do was get at it. But would his legs move? Could he traverse the shiny ground? Mace looked wildly around himself for anyone he recognized, and then the gong sounded, and he had no more time at all. He stumbled off the starting block, slipped on the ground, his feet skittering beneath him. “Damn you!” He shouted at himself, at his bumbling legs, at his inability to form a coherent thought. It worked, though, as swearing tended to. His knees steadied, and though his arms shivered, he tucked them against his sides.

And then he looked up at the cornucopia, and knew that there would be something warm buried in there. Mace started towards it, heedless of his enemies, concerned more with the mutinous glass at his feet.

banner credit: jurate
lyrics:placebo for what it's worth

[Solace]

(Ceres has died by insta, death post coming soon.)

[L△LIA]

When there's nowhere else to run
Is there room for one more son
One more son
If you can hold on
Hold on

[/i][/color][/center]

It has been years since reality has held any sway with my mind. Days have passed like nights, half-waking dreams tangling themselves into the daylight until suns and moons became little more than perplexed bystanders to my sleep-walking stumblings. Time and again they watched me trip down the deepest of rabbit holes, tumbling to places hidden by the kind of earth that defies all logic and reason. However, even I never thought I'd find myself falling up a rabbit hole. Yet, here I am, two feet unsteadily balancing the rest of my precarious body on a metal plate rising up up up to an inevitable Wonderland of the waking world. I don't know what awaits me — only that it will be a place where nothing is as it should be — and even the things that brought me to this point are twisting away from my mind's grasp and into the wilds of uncertainty.

I think I woke up this morning, but I can't be positive. When real life feels more fictional than the lucid dreams I so often lose myself in, it becomes more and more difficult to sort out where the boundaries between consciousness lay. The Games still feel like just another hallucination, despite knowing — blood and desperation predate the chemicals of my confusion and I can remember at least that much, even when I start to forget everything else — they're all too real. People often compare death to sleep and the idea that I might trip just as easily into it as I do my dreams and visions... is at once incredibly terrifying and comforting. Maybe I won't even know, but I'm unsure if that would be better or worse than being aware that the only thing left for me is the afterlife.

I wanna stand up, I wanna let go
You know, you know
No, you don't, you don't
I wanna shine on in the hearts of men
I want a meaning from the back of my broken hand

[/i][/color][/center]

I already know the reaper is shadowing me today and I'm not the only one he's after or the only one who knows he's coming to repossess my pathetic, underutilized soul. There are twenty-three others on his list and he's checking it twice — gonna find out who's naughty and nice — not to mention all the bystanders who know too. There's something about the way people look at you when they know you're going to die, as if you're already dead, and I can't help thinking that it's a kind of fate worse than death. To be a living ghost in the eyes of everyone around you, as words slip out their mouths in past tense — it was nice to have known you — and conversations, let alone the consolation of touch, become a divide you're not allowed to cross anymore...

My mentor came to say goodbye, but didn't actually say anything. He knows voices are the first thing the dead lose and maybe that's the real reason we don't speak to each other. It goes both ways. I had been waiting in the prep room, stripped naked and left only with the realization of how little I have left — nothing but a coin that doesn't really mean anything — when he walked in and gave me the same pitiable look from our first meeting: Victors aren't supposed to be reaped twice; you're a fluke, kid. The Games are for taking life. I don't know what you're doing here.

Another head aches, another heart breaks
I am so much older than I can take
And my affection, well it comes and goes
I need direction to perfection
No no no no, help me out

[/i][/color][/center]

Part of me knows I should be thankful, that pity is a lot more than I've ever gotten from most people, but I don't want it. I want more than that. There's only so much people are willing to part with though, only so much emotion they're able to give away without actually letting themselves feel something. No one likes the emptiness left in the wake of that kind of exchange. They're scared the other person won't give them anything back to fill the inner void with and that they'll end up like me — trying to use synthetic substances to patch up the holes, to remind themselves what living feels like at the same time they're trying to forget. Forgetting must be easier when you're not trying so hard, because I'm beginning to realize that what I do is a whole lot like picking at scabs — a habit that keeps you from healing and tends to leave the reminder of a scar if ever you finally are able kick the impulse.

Now isn't the time for me to quit though and my mentor knows that too. There's a countdown clock built into my body and it measures my future in seconds or maybe minutes, hours — even days, if I'm unlucky enough — not years. Despite knowing all this, I was still surprised when his farewell handshake left me with a more tangible type of pity, the kind I can swallow, covertly palmed into my hand with a stealthiness that makes me think we might have even more in common than our diluted veins and yellowed skin. The little white pill would be enough to earn him a death sentence, I know this even though I don't know how it's possible to kill a man twice and maybe that's why he took the risk. So, I took it and hid it deep within me where no one will ever find it again. A secret. It was difficult to choke down, my spit thick with self-loathing, but it was the least I could do for him in return. I can't remember the last time someone put themselves on the line for me — only the last time someone didn't: Napoleon.

And when there's nowhere else to run
Is there room for one more son
These changes ain't changing me
The gold-hearted boy
I used to be

[/i][/color][/center]

Thoughts of my brother's silence during my Reaping are tugged away by the tide of the drug, replaced by the onset of a less-than-familiar brand of numbness. This isn't morphling and I'm not sure what it is, only that it's a different kind of high than I'm used to — all sharpened edges and rapid pacing, with none of the slowly undulating haze of snowy static that I know so well. I can't remember my stylist dressing me, only that her voice was chipper with excitement and how she flitted around the room as quick as the forest-birds in fairy tales while they're prepping princesses, acting as if a bit of cloth were enough to transform girls into goddesses. A smile springs onto my face with the type of painful suddenness that usually follows the snap of an elastic band against skin — do I look pretty now, ready for the ball? I don't know the right moves for this macabre dance of doomed children I'm about to attend, but my fairy godmother didn't seem concerned.

Still, I've got my mentor's magic in me and maybe that will be enough until my countdown clock tolls out the end of this spell. If nothing else, it keeps the shakes and cold sweats at bay that have been wracking my body these past couple days with increasing violence. After the escapade of my interview — a messy display of withdrawal and panic that must have dispelled any misguided faith people had in me following my unexpectedly high (since when did the idea of me being high become such a surprise?) training score — this is a welcome relief, despite the way the unfamiliarity of the pill's effects are setting me on edge. Over-saturated colors warp my perspective, despite the muted tones of the room the metal plate is hurrying to carry me away from, and there's an insistent pullpushtug scratching contradictions into the surface of my bones. Standing still is becoming torture, but it's not optional, at least not for the sixty seconds following the gong once I finish tumbling up up up the rabbit hole and into —

You know you got to help me out
Oh, don't you put me on the backburner
You know you got to help me out
You're gonna bring yourself down
Yeah, you're gonna bring yourself down

[/i][/color][/center]

I had always heard there was a light at the end of the tunnel, but I never thought it would be this literal or blinding. Everything is so white that for a moment I think I really have died, that a flock of confused angels lost in unholy madness have come for me. It's only when my eyes start to refocus, cringing against the overwhelming brightness as my dilated pupils contract painfully against their widened instinct, that I begin to notice the other tributes, jutting figures ringed around the golden altar of sacrifice affectionately named the Cornucopia. While an undeniable cold assaults my vision, it's unable to penetrate the protective shield of warmth buzzing in my blood. The wind hitting my face may be the exhalation of Jack Frost himself, but I am being reborn as Summer's sun son, radiating with a thousand contradictions of temperature, emotion, and movement. It's as if I'm being summoned, redrawn and transformed from the inside out, called by a higher power to —

— to kill? No. Not me. I can't. The tingling in my veins isn't enough to make me forget that I've just entered the Seventh Circle of Hell. Maybe it isn't enough at all, because I am a child with weak hands and while I've done a lot of things wrong in life, I've never done anything like this. I am no warrior of heathen violence, even in my lowest moments. Although my touch has turned magic into mischief and mischief into misdemeanors, I have no confidence in my ability to push the boundaries any further, to make misdemeanors into murder. To become that now, to be capable of —

I got soul, but I'm not a soldier
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier
I got soul, but I'm not a soldier

[/i][/color][/center]

A quiet, but insistent voice interrupts me, a seductive whisper singing out from the deep recesses of my blood: Don't worry so much, Aesop. I'll show you what you're capable of. Never underestimate the tenacity of a Bloom brother. Survival isn't so much a skill as it is a lifestyle. It sways me both mentally and physically, leaning me forward with its determination to lure my body to new places. Forward. Impatience snakes into my hands, fingers repeatedly splaying and clenching in a cheating effort to go somewhere before the gong rings out to free me from this prison of stillness. I know it can't be too much longer now, but time is playing tricks on me, rewinding and replaying seconds into cruel loops of infinity. I just want to go. Can I please go away from here? Everything is unavoidable and I am indestructible no different, so all things might as well come to pass now.

We are all rabbits with bursting hearts of panic when the gong rings out and, although I've chased plenty of white rabbits before, it has never felt quite like this. I am running. I am running. I am flying. Gliding on silk, as if my soul knows no bounds, my limbs are liquid that evaporates into the air to hitchhike on the breeze. There is no more waiting, no more motionless moments for the still and statuesque to bide away their worries in. Kismet has come for us with savage palms and a brutal shove toward the inevitable. This is no Game for children of Mercy, but I am no one's son anymore; another sun has risen and he belongs only to a brotherhood. I'm Aesop, the better fourth of the brothers Blood.

Over and in, last call for sin
While everyone's lost, the battle is won
With all these things that I've done
All these things that I've done
If you can hold on, hold on

[/i][/color][/center]

[/color][/justify][/size][/blockquote][/blockquote]

[charade]

I think people have already died at the bloodbath. I have got to get whatever looks useful and grab it quick; the area around the cornucopia is already filling up with heavily breathing tributes. I know that the pristine snow that covers the ground has been stained red. It is not a comforting thought. But, situations like this do not leave you much time to think. You can only react. My erstwhile companions... Oh God I think one of thems dead. There is already three tributes on the ground and two of them are brunette girls... I don't particularly think it's a good idea to stand around like this. So I do the only thing I can. I react, punching the first person that comes within striking distance.

[Attacks : Dysis ]
Unarmed: [dice=200+5000]
Bruised Left Calf -- 2.0 damage
It is only after that, that I scoop up what appears to be a crowbar. Looks like I can do some damage with this.

[Obtained Crowbar]

[/blockquote][rand=92059639422222972060334994457662866681379731744524758045305497944]

[Nofo]

Arden watched as Charas got her second kill in Ceres. No! That was supposed to be his kill. That's not fair. Ceres should have been his! He saw another girl, Dysis. She'd be good to kill. That is if Charas didn't kill her first. Arden picked up a pair of pliers and threw it in his bag.

[Attack Dysis; Switchblade]
[dice=200+2000]
[2066 -- Shallow Cut on Right Forearm -- 3.5 damage
(Knife)]

body
dialogue
thoughts
lyrics
out of character

[/size][rand=3281600654590875853303214069455938045921432785696242502545937896]

[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

[/size][rand=1300461671780794911154276947490871168933949200436475414454992860556]

[aya]

Alexander, older brother
Set out for a great adventure
He tore our images out of his pictures
He scratched our names out of all his letters

Alexander Hood —


Rather than being bothered by the cold, Alexander was very grateful for the concealing nature of her fur coat. What she did not like, however, was the lack of trees — or lack of foliage at all — in the arena. Trees were familiar, trees were a comfort. All around her was white, even the sky; it was extraordinarily difficult to place where the snow-covered ground met the cloud-laden sky. Pineless grave, pine coffin. That was her fate.

The gong sounded.

[ignore the shortness of this post, Aya will edit later]

[charade]

Noise. So much noise. The chill in the air feels like it might be radiating off of my fellow tributes, but I remind myself that that is a silly thought. Just keep moving. What else can I grab? Well, the smart thing to do, I suppose would be to find something to stick my items in. Just as I think that I spot what appears to simply be a bag. That'll do just nicely, the only problem is that someone is in front off it. I frown, before whacking them with my crowbar and grabbing the bag. If I had the time, I'd apologize to them in a sarcastic yet meaningful way. But now is not the time for words. Like I said, I have to keep moving. I don't think I even have the frame of mind to manage a snarky comment. I wonder what's going through the heads of everyone around me?

[Attacks:Dysis]
Club/Blunt: [dice=200+7000]
[Bruised Right Femur -- 3.0 damage]




[obtained bag]

[/blockquote][rand=257558976765722040307177719660103320654591689817607411731317196972668]

[Nofo]

His attack on Dysis wasn't the greatest, but it would do. He grabbed a blanket and swung again. He hoped the hit an artery and she'd die quickly. But he knew it wouldn't be that easy. She was getting ganged up on, and once again, he might not get the kill.

[Attack Dysis; Switchblade]
[dice=200+2000]
[2080 -- Shallow Cut on Left Bicep -- 3.5 damage
(Knife)]

body
dialogue
thoughts
lyrics
out of character

[/size][rand=398093031486496332333507104776799739743119291961193364078966435045]

[Deleted]

Get your hands on a weapon. It’s the only thought running through my head as my legs carry me over the frozen ground with all the speed they can muster, slipping over the icy surface but thankfully not sending me to the ground. And I try to stay focused, I really do, but there’s already so much blood and screaming and in the carnage I realize that I’ve lost sight of Mace and Aesop and Alexander. Cursing, I realize that I’ve already failed part of the plan, which was to stick together.
“Guys! Aesop, Mace, Alexander, get your asses over here, move!”

They probably don’t hear me over the din of the chaos surrounding us, but right now it’s all I can do until I get a weapon so I’m not entirely defenseless. My focus is pulled back to the dagger, but someone gets in my way before my fingers close around it. Looking up with an irritated snarl, I realize it’s the girl from Seven, and I lash out without a weapon even though I’ve never been in a successful fistfight in my life and I’d always sworn to myself that I’d never hit a girl, using the opportunity to dodge around her and wrap my hand around the cold metal of the dagger’s handle. All right. Go time.

[[attacks Dysis, unarmed]]

[dice=200+5000]

[[bruised back, 2.5]]

[/justify][/size]
[rand=95203025685623293047053923364728794279624172486366060884729959071]

[Stare]

Made by the wonderful and amazing Shrimp<3

My eyes widen as I feel the pain in my leg- while I may be numb, my body is not, and I spin around, eyes full of a sudden fire. My eyes land on a face (there are too many faces, faces, faces, strings...) and I take a short breath, hesitating. I don't know this boy, but I have never been a killer. Never even been an attacker- sure, one has to know their way on the streets, but I always run if someone attacks me. But I can't leave this place without a weapon. Taking a huge breath, I take an unsteady step forward. If this isn't for me, than it's for my parents. My friends. My district. My escort. Anyone. All I know is that my mind is screaming, and taking a final shaky breath, I leap at my attacker, tears spilling down my cheeks but eyes determined.

(Attacks Sawyer, unarmed)
[dice=200+5000]

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[L△LIA]

( A E S O P M Y K O N O S B L O O M )




With your feet in the air and your head on the ground
Try this trick and spin it, yeah
Your head will collapse when there's nothing in it
And you'll ask yourself:
Where is my mind?

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The sun shines out my mouth with each exhalation, rays of light stretching out past my smokey white breaths to tether me to the Cornucopia, tugging me toward it as if I have embarked on a sudden pilgrimage. I am headed home, into the arms of my new caretaker who will give my brothers and I everything we need to survive this journey. The horn's shimmering golden smile glints out from the snowdrifts gathering at its feet, all promise and frozen icicle teeth. It is a beautiful beast. There. I am going there. The thought grows from a mantra into a hymnal and I would sing it out if I still had the memory of words within me, but all the syllables and consonants I used to know have flown away like birds greedy for the sky and I can't blame them. Today I also learned to fly and I won't go back to the days before. No. No, I won't be going back to those days ever again.

My arms raise up from my sides, spread wingspan-wide, wind rushing up against my palms and braiding its invisible, possessive tendrils between my fingers. We are claiming one another. I am lifted into midair in exhilarating bursts, footfalls morphing into stuttered moments of unfeathered flight until I feel a distantly forgotten limb collide with someone in the Great Beyond and the world — everything, all of it, the whole ground and each of its useless notions about gravity — slips away. Airborne and fully free, I am suspended on refracted sunbeams. However, inevitability is a jealous mistress and soon enough I feel her cocoon me in her fingers and pull me back to the earth, my body skidding ironically across the ice-glided surface that taught me to soar in the first place. Like a consolation prize for the crash, my hand wraps around something buried in the snow, gripping it so tightly that it merges with my bones and becomes a part of me.

[Aesop attacks Dysis unarmed]

[dice=200+5000]
[Gash/Bruised Right Shin — 3 damage]

[Aesop picks up a switchblade]

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[Baby Wessex d9b [earthling]]

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